Prologue

It took approximately nine months for the scandal to fade away.

From the most gilded aristocrat to the humblest shopkeeper, everyone knew that there was only one reason for a man of his station to marry a girl of hers, particularly with it being such a rush job. In all the finest salons in Paris, each mention of the young couple was inevitably accompanied by nods and winks.

A particular source of amusement was the affair of the "Opera Ghost", for clearly, there had been no such thing. The "abducted" soprano had turned up safe and sound, and no culprit was ever found, only a mask and a few discarded stage props. When the police threw up their hands, it was decided that it had all been an elaborate smokescreen capitalizing on a few unfortunate accidents, doing double duty drumming up ticket sales and drawing attention from the young vicomte's illicit trysts with the falsely virtuous chorus girl. As confirmation, all paranormal activity at the Opera had of course ceased after the budding diva simultaneously announced her early retirement and impending nuptials.

It was practically required that members of the upper class take a chorus girl or ballerina as a mistress, but it ended there, child or no. Everyone was at a loss as to how the girl, pretty though she was, had managed to convince a vicomte to make an honest woman of her.

When the blessed day finally arrived, the groom, misty-eyed and nearly swooning, could not have appeared more like a love-sick puppy. "Ah, see?" they whispered. "Look how that little actress has him charmed!" When the last of the champagne was drunk and the newlyweds were sent on their way, guests turned to one another, saying, "Well, wasn't that lovely. Have you ever seen so many flowers?" before adding in a too-loud whisper, "But can you believe she had the nerve to blush? Who does she think she's fooling?"

From that point on, surveillance of the young couple became necessary. Obviously the whole thing would be hushed up and hidden as much as possible, so servants were bribed to be on the look-out for any bouts of indisposition or unusual changes of appetite in the new bride.

But the months dragged on without a single sign, and finally a dressmaker's assistant plied with brandy admitted that Madame had been skinny as a twig when she'd been measured for new dresses some six months after the wedding. Of course, as is common with this sort of thing, when all evidence began to point to public opinion being wrong, no one ever bothered admitting it. Gradually, the raised eyebrows lowered and tongues ceased to wag...about this particular couple, anyway. The sooner a new target was found, the sooner everyone could pretend they'd never been wrong. Thankfully, the French nobility is nothing if not filled with victims ripe for slander, and in short order, the whole affair was forgotten.