Murderous Endeavour

CHAPTER THREE

Stéphane.

Stéphane de Fonblanque.

That was his name.

Actually, it was Stéphane de Vallier de Fonblanque, duc de Beauville, if you wanted to get technical about it. He never had been; in fact, the whole nobility thing embarrassed him. He used to roll his eyes every time she’d mock bow before him and ask if he had a ring he wanted her to kiss.

Funny how she remembered that long, unwieldy name, even after all those years.

She sighed with wistfulness at the thought. Talk about a Sliding Doors moment—one of those small, seemingly insignificant moments in time that completely changed the trajectory of one’s life. For Gwyneth Paltrow, missing a subway train had completely altered her life’s direction.

Maybe missing that trip to France when Diana was twenty-two had been her moment. The moment when everything veered away from the path she was meant to be on, the one of ultimate happiness and satisfaction. Maybe she’d made a mistake.

After far too much wine, Diana tottered off to bed, lost in her memories. She pulled down the fluffy comforter of the much-too-big king she’d shared with Evan for twenty-eight years and nestled under the covers. Though she knew she could stretch out in the bed any way she liked, she still maintained her small sliver of the right side: her part.

There was that time, when she was a student at NYU working hard to graduate honorably with a dual major in Marketing and Business, when every part of her had been free. Completely unencumbered. Diana had had so many bright and exciting goals for her future, but number one on her list? Travel. Anywhere, really.

Enter Stéphane, who had shaped that dream, given it wings, made the goal more than just a goal. He’d transformed it into a passion.

It was his fault she became some enamored with idea of spending an indefinite amount of time meandering about the world, especially Europe. He’d shown up in her Microeconomics class, senior year, on a year-long exchange program. From Nantes, he was descendant of French nobility—his ancestors had served in the court of Louis XIV—and he had that lovely, melodic French accent.

Not to mention, he was brilliant, kind, and adorable with his horn-rimmed glasses and the forever misbehaving cowlick at the very top of his head. He also had the sexiest sideburns, which worked on him. He was used to doing that—going his own way.

She’d been paired with him for the final project but quickly found out that while he was majoring in business, he had the heart of a romantic. They’d spend mere moments on the project, and forever, just talking. He’d tell her, day after day, about different little-known spots around his home—the Palais de Tokyo, Sainte-Chapelle, Le Marché de Belleville. He said his favorite thing to do on a rainy afternoon was walk around the many museums, especially Musée Picasso. He brought every bit of Paris—the museums, the culture, the architecture—alive for her. But even better than that, he’d read her French poetry—Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine, and Hugo—and oh, how beautiful it sounded.

She was, for the first time in her life, in love. How could one not hear a beautiful man speak the words Ne te verrai-je plus que dans l’éternité?, Shall I see you again, only in eternity? by Baudelaire, and not be in love?

“Promise me,” he’d said before he left, right at the end of her senior year, a day when she thought she’d die from misery. “Promise me you will come to the ball with me. The Versailles masquerade ball. It is next month, and my family has never missed a ball at the palace since they began having them. These days it is silly. You dress in a period costume and parade around like a peacock for show, but it will be fun. Especially with you there, on my arm. You will make me the proudest peacock of them all.”