Fire

"Lord Maximilien's mistress."
"Yes, that is - his mistress in the eyes of society only. For a ruse. For a short while," Uncle Mortimor's voice was tight and tired: worried.
"Ah." replied Lupin calmly. "I see." She did not really think, only knew it was a good ruse. "It won't be expected."
"Yes. It will not be expected." Agreed Uncle Mortimor precisely. They both stared out the window from their respective vantage points.
"Thank you." Said Lupin simply.
Uncle Mortimor started a little, and then looked at her curiously.

Tap, tap, tap TAP! Lord Maximilien's cane made a sharp and echoing sound on the marble fo the salon's floor. Lupin stood in her man's cloack, allowing herself to be circled. She was silent, but she watched him steadily when he came in view, and all her nerves tensed when he was out of it.
"Hem," was the only pronouncement after at least two full minutes of surveillance. Lupin looked at the gentelman oddly, but he was busy shaking out a fine varens-lace handkerchief and holding it gently to each of his powdered nostrils.
Lupin was fairly certain she knew the verdict of the inspection without a word being uttered. Lord Maximileien - he of obviously unnerring good taste in all the finest things - would not be seen fora moment with such a sad piece as herself. Lupin was not surprised. The days of cold hours alone in the townhouse were not days of joyous self-celebration. Every day the same forgotten daughter, forgotten niece. She raised her chin and her eyes flashed. She wasn't a lady anymore. Conventional ideas of her talents, or lack thereof, were of little import. Odd that she could feel nought from Lord Maximilien but a sort of numb buzzing. There was no judgment in the room - good or bad, save for the constant disapproval of Uncle Mortimor, but even that had lessened.
Lupin realized suddenly that Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien were gazine at her. She looked them back straightly, with a slightly raised eyebrow. If he had been there perhaps Lord Grefham would have recognized the expression as one of his own. Uncle Mortimor frowned, and Lord Maximilien looked startled. Then Lupin's eyes flashed.
"Ah!" exclaimed Lord Maximilien, "there is her - " he lowered his chin and shook his head as he uttered it, as if defining some great work of art, "treasure."
Lupin simply continued to look at him, a small frown between her brows, her eyes cold. Uncle Mortimor turned to his friend, curious and a little derisive, "Her gaze?"
Lord Maximilien nodded quickly, his eyes bright, "And her - fire. Her contemplative fire!"
"I don't have any fire," stated Lupin flatly, cruelly. And she turned away. The fire was far away across the gray seas with a tall, stately gentleman. It had left her long ago.
Lord Maximilien sent Uncle Mortimor an arch look under his eyebrows. "How you say. Nevertheless. It shall be seen that you do. It is why Paris shall accept you as - who you shall be." He turned to survey a large portrait of a beautiful woman - no doubt a scion of his. "That and a great deal of artistic license."