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Tales of the Meridian Society! (TheCorsair, Madame Mim)

“Perhaps we should go on the offense, instead?” Colin remarked.

“Indeed?” questioned the Professor.

“Yes.” Colin sipped his drink. “All of these plans require us to wait, leaping at shadows as we wonder if there will even be another attack. We simply do not know enough about their numbers to know how many will come.”

“Yes,” The Professor agreed. “We must find a way to learn more about them.”

“Maybe we kin grab that Rose gal?” Sam suggested. “Squeeze her a little, an’ git some info?”

“That would be... impractical,” the Professor remarked, glancing briefly at Anne Marie. “But the idea is sound in general. Have you any ideas, my dear, about how we might track one of them down?”
 
She had forgotten that they did not know she had killed the girl. It was a valuable reminder, and only the latest "pregnancy brain" incident. Madame LaMonte realized with a sinking dread that she was becoming a liability much sooner than anticipated. With the smallest of sighs, she shook her head.

"We have the letter still," she suggested. "We could each take our turns in examining it for clues in the same vein as Monsieur Holmes..."

"Perhaps if one of us had been stationed outside," Kieran groused, "he could've followed her when she left."

Erik shrugged and shook his head. The tiresome pirate was still on about the working class, or more likely having to work with Captain Drake. "As it is, no one was and they didn't. We're in a doldrums I'm afraid. Unless..." He adjusted his glasses and crooked his jaw to the side. A faint, whispery thread of a thought had occurred and he held up a finger, shushing anyone who spoke as he tried to grab at it. Finally he looked up at their hostess. "Madame LaMonte, how good are you at gossip?" The only answer he received was thin-pressed lips, raised eyebrows, and a lowered chin, a play at outrage that he should even question her skill. "And trend-setting?" She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows even more. "Then we start a fashion trend. Or rather, kill one before it's started. Mention how you've seen young women lately wearing pins with paste-and-glass flowers. Disparage it as American, or--worse--Australian. And middle class."

Anne Marie sat up a little straighter. "If these women are young ladies of society, gossip will get back to us that they have been wearing these dreadful accessories. We shall be able to compile a list."

"Precisely." Erik smiled and looked at the others. "What do you think?"
 
Sam laughed and clapped her hands. “Why Ah do declare that Ah have never in my life seen such a, a gauche spectacle!”

“Exactly,” Colin remarked, sitting up and paying attention. “A masterful stroke, Erik. Although...” he glanced sidelong at Sam, “Perhaps a bit more subtlety?”

“Which is why Anne Marie will be planting the idea,” Sam agreed cheerfully. “Ah ain’t quite th’ right choice.”

“And this would be the perfect time to organize an entertainment here,” Colin added. “Everyone would be expecting it, after all.”

“Hm?” Algernon looked up from the cigar he had started to light. “The President was just murdered here.”

“Exactly!” Colin laughed. “My dear Professor, your pedigree is showing!” He laughed again, not unkindly, at the baffles expressions on the faces of Algernon and Sam. “Notoriety and scandal? The ne plus ultra of Society will eat it up like cream! And then, with a few words in the right ears, all of Paris will become our field agents!”
 
"Don't let everyone in." Kieran had been content to let them make their plans, but all eyes turned to him at his unusual input. He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. "What? Just...don't invite everyone under the sun."

Erik pushed his glasses a little further up his nose. "And why not?"

"Because the president was just murdered here." He held up a hand to stop the questions as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Back in my village there was this big old house, almost as old as the village itself. Everyone called it The Big House, and everyone knew that The Big House was haunted as shit. Age, sickness, suicide, probably a murder or two; lots of ways for people to die in a house almost a thousand years old. So a while ago, maybe fifty or so years back, about the time your lot decided to have a grand ol' Civil War," he nodded at Sam, "there was a murder up at The Big House. Word was the husband went crazy, driven mad by spirits in the house. So he tied up the wife and a family friend who was stayin with them, tied em back-to-back. Pressed the pistol against the wife's head..." He closed one eye and pantomimed shooting a gun. "Two bodies, one shot. They said he was raving when they took him away. Died in Bedlam."

"Is this story going anywhere?" Erik pressed his lips into a line of impatience.

The pirate held up a hand. "Keep your hair on, I'm getting there!" He stretched his neck. "After the whole thing died down, the wife's family didn't move in or anything, but the didn't close up The Big House either. Maybe ten years after the murder, probably after having difficulty selling it, they reopened it as a hotel. Not just any hotel though: a haunted hotel. Getting up close and personal with the ghosts was an actual feature. Thing was though it cost two week's wages just to stay a night, for a normal fellow anyway, and staying in the grand bedroom? The one where the wife and the guest were offed? That was half-over." Kieran sniffed and paused for dramatic effect. "Well, I know a guy who knows a guy who actually knew the wife and the wife's family. Turns out, they were playing up the haunted part to hide her indiscretions." He smirked. "The family friend was her lover, who'd gotten her pregnant. The husband wasn't driven mad by spirits, he didn't even tie them up back to back; he shot them in a jealous rage. But it was in everyone's best interest--husband, wife's family, lover's family--if they blamed the ghosts and sent the husband off quiet somewhere to live out the rest of his life where the coppers thought he was just some poor mad soul grieving over what the spirits of the house had forced him to do to his beautiful young wife and good friend."

After he sat back and let the silence settle, Erik shook his head. "So what's that got to do with anything?"

"Well they all got together, settled on a story, and only let a few people at a time see the scene of the crime, didn't they?" He shrugged. "And it's not like they held a press conference, told everyone 'it was the ghosts.' They let it get out slow, through whispers and rumors they started themselves, so that nobody every second-guessed the husband's motives."

Anne Marie nodded slowly, beginning to understand. "We create an air of exclusivity," she said. "Only invite a few people in, people we know to be gossips and busy-bodies. The ones who are going to have the most burning curiosity about poor Paul. We give them some story when they ask, but oh it's too horrible to talk about, let's change the subject, have you heard..." She nodded again, gaining traction on the idea. "They will hang onto my every word, hoping for more about what happened, but I carefully avoid that in favor of fashion. So only a few people are invited to one of the more exclusive homes in Paris. We control the story, we even further elevate my status as someone fashionable, someone to listen to, we kill the fad that isn't happening, and the gossips are more likely to give us names. So instead of another grand ball, we invite them for tea."
 
“Ah ain’t much fer tea” Sam laughed, “unless it’s th’ sweet tea type. But th’ idea sure sounds good ta me. Folks get an awful thrill outta spooky shit, after all.”

Colin nodded agreement. “It is an excellent idea, Kieran. Exclusivity makes everything desirable.”

“Then we are agreed?” asked the Professor. Everyone nodded. “Then I shall leave the arrangements to you, Madame LaMonte. You are better acquainted with the niceties of these affairs, after all.”

Sam covered her mouth and made a coughing sound. The Professor glared at her for a moment, then dipped his drink. “However, I recommend that we all retire for the night. Today has been eventful, after all, and a good night’s sleep will benefit us all.”
 
Anne Marie sat at her vanity, carefully removing her jewelry, then her makeup. Only Algie had ever seen her without makeup. It was a strange sort of vulnerability, but it felt like physically removing the mask he had helped her construct all those years ago. By the time he came in, the mask was completely off. Contrition and disappointment in herself were plain on her face and though she looked in his direction, she avoided his gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I...I do not know what I was thinking. She taunted me, tried my patience, and I just...I lost my temper." She swallowed back the tears that threatened to come to her eyes, and suddenly she was eight years old again.

Tears will not help you out of trouble, Anne Marie. Crying is nothing but another form of manipulation, and crying because you're in trouble is simply weakness. And we do not tolerate weakness in this house, do we?

The memory of his voice was as clear in her ear as Algernon standing before her now. No, they did not tolerate weakness. That was what made this all the worse; she had been weak. She had given in to vanity, to pride, to anger. There was only so much she could blame on the hormones surging through her body, the life growing inside her. She had to take responsibility for herself at some point.

"She called me a common murderer," she explained quietly to the floor. "As if I were no better than a thief or a common cutthroat. She and her little gang imposed their ideals onto my work, ascribed it to some suffragette-like ideal of misandry. And I just...lost it." Anne Marie swallowed hard, fruitlessly against the impending tears, and dragged her eyes to finally meet Algernons. "I know I have put us in danger, that my actions might lead the team to the truth, and for that I am sorry. Can you ever forgive me for being so...so sloppy?"
 
By sheer reflex, Algernon found himself folding his arms and scowling as Anne Marie worked through her explanation of her utterly careless behavior. No, not careless. Amateurish. Thoughtless and needless and utterly dangerous behavior. For herself, and for their entire team. Because she had started a war with an unknown number of enemies, for the sake of her pride.

Anne Marie swallowed hard, then dragged her eyes to finally meet his. "I know I have put us in danger,” she managed, tears glistening in her dark eyes, “that my actions might lead the team to the truth, and for that I am sorry. Can you ever forgive me for being so...so sloppy?"

The answer was no, clearly. She’d violated his training, and the safety of the team, for pride. “Yes,” he heard himself say, somewhat to his surprise. Then he rose, crossing the bedroom to take her hands in his. “Oh, don’t get me wrong my dear. I am quite cross. But it is, as Samantha might say, water under the bridge. What is fine is done, and we must face it.” He managed a half smile. “Together.”

A heartbeat passed. “To be honest,” he continued, “I am unconcerned about our team discovering the truth. Captain Drake and Captain Shane are men of action, not intellect. And Herr Schmitt is a keen observer of mechanical and electrical processes, not of people.”

His gaze shifted, glancing at the door. “Samantha May be a problem, of course. If she learns the truth, we shall have to persuade her to understand the necessity of the actions you took - then and now.” He looked back, his expression calm as he met her eyes. “I should hate to ave to dispose of such a promising young protege.”
 
Anne Marie closed her eyes and shook her head. "If she learns the truth, that is the end of it," she insisted. "The end of this mission and the end of the team. Certainly she has learned some discretion over the past few years but this?" She shook her head. "She will be angry that we have hidden the truth, and she will not understand my reasons for doing what I do. If she deduces the truth, I fear she would tell them before talking to us. Captain Drake may understand, perhaps even Erik, but Kieran..." She shook her head. "Liam Donahue, the man they believe was the first victim...he and Captain Shane were friends. The best of friends, in fact, since childhood. He followed Donahue into piracy, and Donahue was his captain before I killed him. I do believe he likely even loved him." After a pause she added, "as a brother." The captains' affair, and their individual sexual proclivities, was still something Algernon hadn't figured out and she would not be the one to out them. She was certain it was out of lack of interest more than anything, but that Professor Swift was the only one on the team not to know was still baffling to her.

Of course, if Sam hadn't blabbed, Erik wouldn't have known either.

"He would try to kill me," she insisted, fixing him with a serious gaze. "And whether he was successful or not--and I do believe he would force my hand and leave it as a mortal choice between him or myself--it would divide the team. I am not concerned about the gentlemen discovering the truth so much as I am that Samantha will and, thinking me dangerous, will tell the others before confronting me." Anne Marie sighed and shook her head, leaning her forehead on her hand. "I've risked everything, Algie. All of our work, our careers, our lives, our child's life, for my stupid pride." After a few long moments of silent self-pity she looked up at him, the tiniest smirk playing at the corner of her lip. "I suppose that shows you for taking on a new protegee," she teased with a sniff.
 
“Bah,” Algernon replies, releasing her hands to wave off the words. “I know you to well for that, Anne Marie. It was hardly an act of jealousy over Samantha. In many ways
she is as much your student as mine, and she stands to be a credit to the Great Game.”

He smiled, bleak and cold. “Which is why we may have to kill her. But again, I do not believe your claim of jealousy. Pride is ample motivation enough.” A shrug. “But it is all water under the bridge now, and of course I forgive you.”

Smiling for real now, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently. “You are the mother of my child, and one of the two women I love most in this world. Could I do anything else?”
 
"Oh no, killing that insolent little girl was certainly not jealousy over Samantha. More anger that they would appropriate my good name for their own childish purposes." She shook her head. "No I admit to...twinges of jealousy. The way you teach her...it was the way you taught me once." A smile played at the corner of her lip. "You can see the rabbit holes I might go down, in the darkest and bleakest hours of the night. But I suppose if you forgive me, that is all that matters."

Anne Marie smiled as he kissed her hands, but the smile faltered at the corners when he mentioned being one of the two women he loved most. Certainly he should still love Maggie; it was only right. But she felt guilty for wishing in the darkest parts of her heart that she were gone. That the living ghost of Margaret Swift weren't between them and she could have this one man to herself. Neither of them would ever marry again, Algernon because of his love for Maggie and Anne Marie because of her fierce insistence on independence. She knew that. But was it so much to ask just to have the option available to her?

"It has been a long day, my love," she sighed, opening her eyes when he dropped his hands from her face. "And your child is positively exhausting."

~*~

"My dear Madame LaMonte, as usual everything is divine!"

"Well, I cannot take all the credit. Jean Claude is a genius in the kitchen." Anne Marie smiled and sipped her tea primly.

Tea wasn't a ball. There hadn't been weeks of preparation or thousands of francs spent on the occasion or even the copious amount of shouting, swearing, or clattering pots and pans from the basement kitchens which usually accompanied preparation for big to-dos, as Sam called them. Less than a week after the president had been assassinated in her home, Madame LaMonte invited in half a dozen of the most fashionable gossips in Paris. It was something of a joke among the aristocracy that the assembled women each had their own municipal district which she kept an eye on, and these women would convene two or three times a week to ensure the gossip was evenly spread and standardized. While legally and, for the most part, socially Anne Marie outranked them all, she knew better than to believe herself in any sort of position of control or influence over them. The vipères parisiennes oversaw all gossip in the city; if Madame LaMonte could get their tongues wagging, it was more and more likely they might identify their fleurs de la Jardin le Vicomte by the week was out.

"Oh I'm sure," Madame Bouchard rejoined. "I attended your delightful soire last weekend and everything was positively exquisite!" Ah yes. Here it came. Anne Marie made a token effort to thank her, but the expected interruption came almost immediately. "Speaking of such a splendid evening...?"

To her credit, Madame Bouchard left the tactless question unspoken. She could practically hear the entire assembly lean in conspiratorially, anxious for the dish. Anne Marie nodded.

"Ah yes. That awful business with poor Paul..." Madame La Fleuriste sniffed and her chin trembled. "I...I was talking to him not ten minutes before. He swept off with some woman and then..." She sniffed again and withdrew her handkerchief, dabbing gently at her eyes in the most ladylike manner. "It doesn't bear thinking, the poor man. As you know we were such good friends, and then his funeral the other day it just...That he...in my home...Well of course I cannot help but feel at least partly responsible." Another careful quiver of the lip. "I'm so sorry, I just...I couldn't possibly..."

"Of course not, you poor dear." Madame de Lanier, who was just as nosey but among the somewhat more sympathetic of the matrons, reached out a thick, bejeweled hand and patted Anne Marie's softly. "Of course you wouldn't want to talk about it, poor thing. Let us think of something more pleasant to talk about.

Anne Marie sniffed pitiably and nodded. "Merci." She made a show of dabbing at her eyes and peering in the mirror at the end of the room to fix the small amount of mascara she'd allowed to run before sniffing and putting away the handkerchief. "I've noticed a peculiar fashion trend among the young ladies these days." She had been married. She was, of all horrors, thirty; she no longer qualified as a young lady.

"Oh?" They were always on the lookout for who was wearing what, and peculiar fashion trend was a phrase which in these circles was tantamount to implying that the young ladies were going about with shoes on their heads and hats upon their feet.

"Indeed." Madame LaMonte took a conspiratorial sip of her tea. "Hair pins, almost in an Oriental style but not quite so...dangly. And cheap-looking too! That's the fashion; cheap-looking hair pins!" She crinkled her nose with kids-these-days distaste. "All glass beads and paste flowers. It's horribly American of them, don't you think? Intentionally cheap-looking jewelry? As though a lack of class is something to be proud of..."
 
"Oh, yes," Madame Bouchard sniffed before sipping her tea. "I've seen a few of those, now that you mention it."

"Indeed?" Madame de Lanier shifted slightly, turning her attention to the other woman. "Do tell us, my dear."

"I shall indeed," Madame Bouchard assured her, selecting a cucumber sandwich from the tray before her. "It was a few days ago, at a salon I hosted. There was a young woman there, I believe an American. And she wore a pin much like you describe."

"An American?" Madame de Lanier gave a knowing nod. "Of course it would be an American making such a fashion choice. Who was she?"

"Iris Aster," Madame Bouchard replied. "Of the New York Asters. She's just now finished her education, and is making a tour of the continent." A brief chuckle. "Hoping to land herself an impoverished nobleman, I suspect."

"No doubt," de Lanier agreed with a sniff. "The Americans are so infatuated with titles. You must tell us about her, my dear. Whatever is her infatuation with such a vulgar pin?"
 
Anne Marie raised her eyebrows and sipped her tea with a significant look over the rim of the cup. "And tell me, was the flower pin an iris or an aster, by any chance? Or does she not know the floral traditions? So many don't these days, you know." The barb was met with laughter; she knew, after all, how to be nasty with the best of them.

"The Americans are so infatuated with titles," Madame de Lanier agreed with a sniff. "You must tell us about her, my dear. Whatever is her infatuation with such a vulgar pin?"

"She thinks it's European." Mademoiselle Lascelles was the youngest of the viperes, but had been very well trained by her late mother. Often she was the nastiest and most sharp-tongued of them all. At least, she was among company such as the viperes; boys seemed to like her well enough, and come next season she wouldn't be able to move for proposals, they were all sure of it. All eyes turned to her, and she nodded with neither flush nor hesitation. "She had heard that floral decorations were all the rage this season, so I suppose she hadn't bothered with the particulars of quality. The pins are quite pretty to look at from afar, but up close you can see how cheap and common they are. The hideous thing is that there are other ladies, French ladies, following her example."

"Of course it would be an American leading our girls astray," Anne Marie rejoined with a sniff. "Who has she gotten her claws into so far? We must rescue them at once from poor influences, or else turn Miss Aster's head to better fashion icons? I hear Mademoiselle Chanel is beginning to make quite a name for herself."

"Mais non, it is too late for Gabrielle," Mademoiselle Lascelles said firmly. "Just last week I saw her with a pin just as you describe. An orchid, of all things."

"Indeed?" She frowned. This was a caliber of woman she had not been suspecting to be among the ranks of the would-be assassins. "Well, that is unfortunate. Americanism is like a fungus, is it not? Catch it and stop it before it spreads and destroys the culture. We can only hope the pin was a gift from Miss Aster, worn out of obligation."
 
“One can only hope,” Madame Bouchard agreed in a dry tone. “But one wonders. You have, of course, seen the... clothes she designs.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Madame de Lanier countered. “I find her fashions to be quite charming. If I were twenty years younger, perhaps I would give them a try.”

“Perhaps,” Mademoiselle Lascelles said with a skeptical tone. “They hardly seem fitting for... well...”. She frowned, considering her words. “They would suit Madame LaMonte’s young friend from Tejas, or perhaps some young debutante from America. But not for a properly bred woman of Society.”

“Ah! That reminds me!” Madame Bouchard leaned in. “Have you heard? A young woman was found dead just two days ago, in the Jardin le Vicomte.” She paused for effect. “She perished of poison, the gendarmerie reports, possibly suicide.”

“What a romantic place to die,” Mademoiselle Lascelles sighed wistfully. “No doubt spurned by a lover, she sought to surround herself with beauty as she slew herself.”

“Indeed.” The elderly Madame Bouchard sounded less impressed. “But, the reason I bring it up? The poor young woman wore one of the same pins we are discussing.”
 
Anne Marie waved a hand dismissively at Madame Bouchard and Mademoiselle Lascelles's appraisal of Mademoiselle Chanel's designs, particularly when they mentioned Sam as her young friend, as though she were any more than two years older!

"We must move with the times," she asserted, "or else risk looking and sounding like fussy old women. Mademoiselle Chanel's patterns do nothing for me, but I do like her designs. And besides, Frau Heinz-Schmidt is hardly a debutante herself. Chanel's clothes are of good quality, and drawing praise from all the best fashion houses. These pins, on the other hand, are cheap and vulgar."

Finally came the gossip surrounding Mademoiselle "Rose," who had perished in the gardens the other day. Madame la Fleuriste put a hand delicately over her mouth as Madame Bouchard revealed the information.

"Mais non!" she gasped. "How horrid! Chelene is right, she must have wished to surround herself with beauty in her last moments. Do you think she was spurned?"

"Who could say?" Madame Bouchard shrugged and sipped her tea delicately. "But I find it ominous in the very least, don't you?"

Madame LaMonte nodded in agreement. "It makes one wonder about the morality of the young women who wear such pins. Or, at the very least, the sort of lives they lead that they would be pushed to such desperate measures. It seems to be as they say: in these modern times, skirts are getting shorter and nights are getting longer."

There was a general murmur of approval around the table at the hypocritical moralizing.

"What was her name?" Madame de Lanier saved Anne Marie the trouble of appearing too nosy.

"Lenoir Michaud," Madame Bouchard responded promptly. "Society girl, certainly, but new money. Very new," she added with a significant look over the rim of her cup. "Her father made his fortune in the steel business a decade or so ago. Paris has been--and reasonably, I think--rather frosty in their reception, but London absolutely cannot get enough of the Michauds. Or, should I say, couldn't. Poor man died of sudden heart attack some year or so ago. Barely 50! Around the same age as your Professor Swift, Madame." She favored Anne Marie with a cajoling smile.

She had the grace to return it instead of rolling her eyes. "As I have said, we are very good friends. A woman may be close friends with a man, non?" For nearly a decade, the longer she remained unmarried the more the vipères ribbed her about Professor Swift. He was good-looking, and wealthy, and yes certainly older but she must be remarried. It wasn't right for such a beautiful young woman, widowed so young, to pass her life alone! It was all mostly well-meaning, mostly bred of want for something to gossip about among their own number. Sometimes she played along, more often she didn't.

What concerned Anne Marie more was that their emissary from the Garden had ties, however vague or thin, to three members of their team.
 
“Oh? Lenoir Michaud, you say?” Mademoiselle Lascelles leaned forward, drawing the attention back to herself. “I know her - although, well, it would be more accurate to say that my Celeste knows her.”

“Perhaps that should be in the past tense?” Madame de Lanier chuckled darkly.

“Perhaps,” Mademoiselle Lascalles agreed, before sipping at her tea. “The tense is of no importance, however.”

“Indeed not,” Madame Bouchard agreed. “This poor girl and her tragic death is what is important.” She eyed Anne Marie mischeviously. “Do you suppose your Professor Swift knew her? Or her parents, at least? An eligible young heiress on the London scene must have attracted his eye.” She smiled, clearly enjoying herself. “Or is it possible he prefers the company of his good friends?”
 
"Tense is of no importance, however," Mademoiselle Lascelles insisted over the rim of her cup.

"Oh I think it is very much of importance," Anne Marie countered gently. "Her poor mother! Husband and daughter all in a year, she must be beside herself." She cared not one whit for Madame Michaud or her grief, but it was the appropriate thing to say. "Do ask Celeste to give her my condolences." Celeste was Chelene's sister, younger only by a year and very much poised to take a similar place in society as the elder Mademoiselle Lascelles, but Anne Marie found the younger to be of a generally more agreeable disposition; not quite so mercenary as her sister.

"This poor girl and her tragic death is what is important," Madame Bouchard agreed before eyeing Anne Marie Mischeviously. "Do you suppose your Professor Swift knew her? Or her parents at least? An eligible young heiress on the London scene must have attracted his eye." She smiled, clearly enjoying herself. "Or is it possible he prefers the company of his good friends?"

"My Professor Swift," Madame la Fleuriste said with an air of forced patience as she poured more tea for the group, "prefers the company of books, brandy, and Wagner. I'm not sure I have ever seen him turn his eye to anyone, woman or otherwise. And I doubt that he would have much patience for the company of a flighty twenty-something apparently so consumed by her emotions as to take her own life." She stirred gently as she added milk to her own cup. The viperes would have an absolute field day when the baby came. Perhaps she would go to America when she started to show...Heavens knew enough Americans went on holiday to Europe for the same reason. "But I shall ask if he knows Madame Michaud. I really would like to pass on my condolences and see if there is anything I can do. It is always a tragedy to lose life so young. My dear Eleanor is anything the matter?" She tilted her head slightly as Madame Bouchard quickly tried to hide a sour face as she sipped her tea, then smiled when she made some polite excuse and spooned sugar to try and counteract the vinegar.

~*~

"Does anyone here know the Michauds?"

The team was in one of the less-formal dining rooms. The table was smaller but no less well-dressed, and supper was a simple three-course meal comprising of salad, entree, and dessert. Anne Marie was picking at her plate, hungry but put off by the smell. With a sigh, loath to waste such a finely prepared meal, she took a small bite. She immediately took a sip of water and picked at some of the garnishes.

Kieran shrugged, unaware of her apparent discomfort as he tucked into his own meal. "Never heard of them."

"Competition," Erik answered at the same time. "French steel magnates. Aloysius died of a massive heart attack a year or two ago, but his son has since taken over. He's kept the boat afloat, but doesn't exactly seem to be an innovator. I've met him twice; nice enough fellow but he seems to have only stepped into his father's shoes because it was expected of him. No business sense at all, wouldn't know a good deal if it slapped him in the face. New money to be sure, but generally accepted in society. At least...in London and Berlin. I hear Paris doesn't think much of them." He smirked a little. "There was some to-do about a scandal involving Louis, the son, and the youngest daughter of the Vicomte de Chagny. It ended in the young lady taking a long holiday to Spain and becoming engaged to a Belgian diplomat shortly after her return, and the Michauds moving to London." At Madame LaMonte's teasingly arched eyebrow, he cleared his throat. "Is what I have heard at parties," he added hastily, "from circles of gossipy young women. I'm not surprised Captain Shane's never heard of them, but Captain Drake I imagine you must run in similar circles. Why?"

"Lenoir Michaud was Mademoiselle Rose," she revealed. "The presumptive little sprit who I was forced to neutralize. One of the so-called flowers of the Jardin de Vicomte."

Erik raised his eyebrows slightly. "How tragic," he murmured before touching Sam's shoulder. "We ought to send flowers to Louis and his mother. Being competitors does not mean we oughtn't be gentlemen."

"Indeed." Anne Marie nodded, taking another slow sip of water. "Tea revealed two more names: Iris Aster, of the New York Asters, and Gabrielle Chanel. This organization posing as Madame la Fleuriste is not a gaggle of working-class women making a point, but rather a gaggle of disaffected society women angry at the men in their lives."
 
“Cain’t say as Ah know any of them,” Sam remarked, “but it outta be easy ta ferret ‘‘em out.”

“Really?” Professor Swuft asked, voice dry. “And how, pray tell, do we do that?”

Sam cut off a slice of beef, and chewed with a slight smile. “Simple. We jes’ rind up every woman in Paris who ain’t happy wit’ her man.” Carefully keeping her expression neutral, she sliced herself another bite.

“Really.” The disapproval in Professor Swift’s voice was palpable.

“Yep. Shouldn’t take mire’s, what?” Sam shrugged. “Four or five decades?”

With a sigh of infinite patience, Professor Swift shook his head. “No. And do we have any sensible suggestions?”

“Introduce Sam to Iris Aster or Gabrielle Chanel,” Colin suggested. “Or, rather, Doña Samantha Heinz-Schmitt, née Cavendish, of the Dallas Cavendishes.”

Algernon’s eyes swept the gathered members of the Society. “Socially it would make sense,” he allowed. “But what then?”

“Well,” Sam began, “they’s wantin’ ta hurt men what uses their power ta hurt women, right?”

“Yes,” the Professor agreed, watching her carefully.

She sipped her wine, and dabbed at he lips with a napkin. “Got a bit o’ experience wit’ that, Ah reckon.” She caught Anne-Marie’s eye, and squeezed Erik’s hand. “An’ Ah kin use some o’ my other experiences - wit’ other Rangers an’ wit’ some o’ mah cases - ta talk up having’ a problem wit’ men like that.”

“What of the fact that you’re happily married?” Algernon asked.

Sam shrugged. “Reckon’ Ah don’t gotta have me a bad man ta wanna do something’ ‘bout bad men.” Then she smiled. “An’ well, Ah kin always drop hints ‘bout mah first husband.”

She paused, and nobody took the bait. With a sigh, she continued. “Y’all ain’t no damn fun tonight. An’ he was mah fiancée, really. Conde de Ameca-Cocula Carlos Arturo González de Betolaza.” Altering her posture slightly, she changed her speech patterns. “A brute of a man, who felt it his right to beat his servants as if they were slaves. But he always acted the gentleman with me, until one night when he drank one glass of tequila too many and felt he was entitled to demand I warm his bed before we were married. I refused, naturally, and he attempted to take by force what I would not grant freely.” She smiled impishly. “It was quite a scandal, because I chose to raise a poker to him in return. He took to his ancestral home to heal his pride and his bones, and the family Cavendish elected to send me abroad.”

“You came up with that quickly,” Colin remarked.

“Cause it’s ‘bout two-thirds true. ‘Cept Ah was one o’ three Rangers guardin’ him at th’ time instead o’ bein’ his fiancée. An’ Ah used mah fists, instead o’ a poker. An’ it was th’ Rangers what sent me abroad.” She grinned and picked up her glass. “Ain’t y’all never wondered how Ah came ta be selected ta join th’ Society?”
 
Anne Marie snickered at Sams' flippant suggestion. "Four or five decades?" She smirked and shook her head. "Every young woman in Paris disgruntled with her paramour, I think it would only take four or five hours if we promised each one a chance at a swift kick to the manhood."

Professor Swift sighed and shook his head, while under the table Erik and Kieran crossed their legs protectively. "No," he said firmly. "And do we have any sensible suggestions?"

It was suggested that Dona Samantha be introduced to these society women. It was generally agreed upon by the table, with the details to be ironed out.

"What of the fact that you're happily married?" Algernon asked.

Erik frowned and turned to his wife. "Yes, what of that?" Sam caught Anne Marie's eye when she mentioned that a woman didn't have to have a bad man to want to do something about bad men and she nodded slightly. Erik didn't miss the exchange of glances but said nothing, instead raising his eyebrows slightly. Sam spun a yarn about an ex-fiance who tried to take advantage of her and his eyebrows slowly crept further toward his hairline. When Colin remarked that Sam came up with her story quickly Erik nodded. "Yes, very quickly. You had another fiance?"

"Cause it's 'bout two-thirds true," Sam said without concern. "'Cept Ah was one o' three Rangers guardin' him at th' time instead o' bein' his fiancee. An' Ah used mah fists, instead o' a poker. An' it was th' Rangers what sent me abroad." She grinned and picked up her glass. "Ain't y'all never wondered how Ah came ta be selected ta join th' Society?"

Her husband inclined his head. "Every now and then," he admitted. "But so much the more fortunate for me." He smiled and took a sip of his drink.

"I figured it was something to do with your fists," Kieran said with a shrug. "But you also always struck me as a bit smarter than other Rangers I've...tangled with."

"Mmm," Anne Marie agreed, "I remember one of your entanglements with the Tejas Rangers, after the incident with the sea captain. Samantha truly is among their brightest. I don't know who put in the recommendation but it was a good call. So...does anyone have any invitations to upcoming engagements where we might arrange this introduction?"
 
“My fiancée,” Colin began, “has informed me that Madame Chanel will be opening her maison de couture with a grand showing.” He chuckled. “She wishes to go, in part because any number of the Right People will be there. Particularly the younger crowd.”

“Is it open to the public?” Algernon asked.

Colin snorted. “She’d hardly want to go if it was. But, we’ll…”. He smiled. “Doña Samantha would be a coup for Madame Chanel, particularly if joined by Madame LaMonte.” He sipped his drink. “As I understand it, the murder of Monsuier President under your roof has added a thrilling note to your sterling reputation.”

Algernon frowned. “And how would they acquire these invitations?

“Seems simple ta me,” Sam interjected. “Ah jes’ stop by her shop, wit’ or wit’out Anne-Marie, an’ Ah jes’ ask.”
 
Madame LaMonte quirked an eyebrow. "Murder? Affecting my reputation? I would have never guessed..." She sipped her tonic water with a look of irony.

Erik shrugged. "People do love a good intrigue. Although from chatter Madame la Fleuriste hasn't yet been tied back to Mademoiselle Michaud."

"And how would they acquire these invitations?" Algernon asked with a frown.

Erik opened his mouth, but Sam beat him to the punch. "Seems simple ta me," she said. "Ah jes' stop by her shop, wit' or wit'out Anne Marie, an' Ah jes' ask."

Anne Marie hid her reaction in her drink and Erik rolled his lower lip over his teeth. Even Kieran knew it wasn't so simple, but he also knew not to say anything. After a beat, Anne Marie cleared her throat.

"It is not...quite that simple," she said, choosing her words with tact. "You were the belle of the ball in Berlin, my dear, but the fact is that since you are not..." She searched for the words. Sam felt like an outsider and she knew that, and God help her she actually cared about that, and she wanted to avoid if she could further alienating her.

"You've have a formal coming out," Erik supplied. He noticed Madame LaMonte let out a breath and returned her nod of gratitude. "European Society is very exclusive, Schatze; Madame Chanel would certainly have an interest in making your acquaintance, but so far with only a handful of appearances and a handful of friends--"

"Influential, respected friends," Anne Marie put in.

"--regardless, you would need a formal introduction. And for an event like Mademoiselle Chanel's showing...well..."

Kieran sighed. Rick was never going to find a polite way to say it. "It doesn't work if you ask to go," he said frankly. Kieran rolled his shoulders back and focused on not focusing on Collin. "Them high society types are all about pretending they don't care when really they do. If you have to ask to go, then you're not important enough to be invited. You'll look desperate."

Anne Marie considered the pirate with a blink. "That was...surprisingly insightful, Captain."

He shrugged. "What? I pay attention."

She nodded. "Nevertheless, he is correct Samantha. We must carefully arrange a meeting; running into her at some other woman's salon or something of that nature. I make introductions, we inquire as to how her business is, et cetera. The topic comes up, and I have never been denied an invitation. Then she knows that we are interested in her, and we know she is interested in us, et voila." She gestured with an open hand. "An invitation and an in into the Jardin. Wouldn't you say, Professor?"
 
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