Genevieve smiled, a cool, terrifying expression. "She is a temporary fixture, Henri. Pay her no mind."
"Dinner is served," the butler announced, his voice cracking, thoroughly terrified by the lethal tension in the room.
The procession to the dining room was a funeral march for Arlo's pride. Protocol dictated that Arlo lead, but the Marquis offered his arm to Genevieve, escorting her to the table as if she were a reigning queen. Count Orlov, his curiosity ablaze, flanked her other side. Arlo was left to trail behind with a seething Sue and a remarkably amused Lord Fitzroy.
Once seated, the power dynamic of the Somerset household was irreversibly shattered. The dinner, meticulously planned by Arlo to showcase his own diplomatic brilliance, became the Duchess's court. When the first course of consommé was served, Count Orlov leaned forward.
"Your Grace," he said to Genevieve, his heavy Russian accent rolling through the English words, "the Marquis claims you are a scholar of statecraft. Tell me, what is your view on the Tsar's current positioning at the Congress of Châtillon?"
Arlo opened his mouth to interject. This was his moment, the very topic he had spent days studying. "I believe the Tsar is—"
Genevieve did not even look at her husband. She smoothly cut across him, shifting effortlessly into pristine, rapid-fire Russian. She spoke of Tsar Alexander's fragile alliance with Metternich, the logistical nightmares of the Prussian supply lines, and the economic vulnerabilities of the Austrian Empire. Count Orlov's jaw dropped. He slammed his hand on the table in delight, abandoning English entirely, and engaged her in a fierce, passionate geopolitical debate in his native tongue.
Arlo sat in agonizing silence. He didn't speak a word of Russian. He looked to Sue for support, but she was staring at Genevieve with naked terror. The country mouse was currently dominating a table of international heavyweights, casually dissecting the map of Europe over a plate of roasted duck.
"It is a matter of maritime law," Genevieve pivoted back to French, pulling the Marquis into the fray. "The British blockade starves the French coast — yes, but it forces domestic agricultural innovation. You do not need Somerset to tell you this, Henri. You need only look at the sugar beet production in the Loire Valley."
"Brilliant," the Marquis murmured, raising his wine glass to her. "Always brilliant."
Arlo was drowning. He was the host, the Duke, the man who was supposed to be the center of this diplomatic triumph. Yet he had been entirely marginalized at his own table — a spectator in his own dining room, utterly incapable of keeping up with the dizzying intellect of the woman he had treated like a dog for months.
As the dessert plates, a towering confection of spun sugar and poached pears, were cleared away, Lord Fitzroy, the Prime Minister's secretary, finally steered the conversation toward its intended purpose. He cleared his throat, adjusting his monocle.
"Well, Marquis," Fitzroy began, aiming for a jovial tone, "we are soon to finalize the appointment of the new ambassador to Paris. The Prime Minister values your insight. Duke Somerset has expressed a profound interest in the post. He is, as you can see, a man of great nobility."
The dining room fell deathly silent. Arlo sat up straighter, adjusting his cravat. He shot a desperate warning glare at Genevieve, silently commanding her to stay quiet. This was his future. His fortune.
The Marquis de la Tour swirled the dark red wine in his crystal glass. He did not look at Arlo. He looked directly at Lord Fitzroy.
"Lord Fitzroy," the Marquis said softly, his voice echoing in the quiet room, "diplomacy requires vision. It requires a man who can read the hidden motives of his enemies and recognize the value of his allies. It requires intuition, intellect, and above all, respect."
Arlo smiled thinly, ready to accept the compliment. The Marquis finally turned his icy gaze to Arlo.
"The Duke of Somerset possesses none of these qualities. He is a fool."
Arlo flinched as if he had been struck across the face. "Excellency—"
"Silence," the Marquis snapped, the word cracking like a whip. He stood up slowly, leaning on his silver-tipped cane, his presence commanding the entire room. "You invited me to your home to beg for my endorsement, Somerset. Yet you sat me at a table where you flagrantly display your mistress to insult your wife. You paraded your pathetic arrogance while completely ignorant of the fact that you are married to one of the finest political minds in England."
Sue gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. Arlo was completely pale, his hands trembling violently on the linen tablecloth.
"If the British government were wise enough to appoint the Duchess of Somerset as their ambassador, King Louis would sign any treaty she placed before him," the Marquis continued, his voice dripping with venom. "But to send this — this boy playing with titles — France would eat him alive in a week. Tell the Prime Minister, Lord Fitzroy: if Arlo Pendleton is sent to Paris, the French court will refuse to receive him."