The Figure of Deception

The carriage crest was unmistakable in the golow of the flaming embrasures of the billowing chateau where Lord Maximilien had chosen to debut his newest inamorata. If the crest was not recognizable, teh livery of the coachmen and the style of the coach itself would have given any onlooker with the smallest knowledge f Paris ton the complete understanding of its owner.

Such a constant, spoken of, and yes, even revered member of Paris society could not be found. The length of his tenure as an arbiter of good taste and human enjoyments alone was enought to make him the name of Parisien uclture - above that, his innate good manners and unshakable wit in the face of all disasters - political, social, cultural, personal - had rendered him a model of breeding in a society drowned in blue blood. Lupin knew his grace, wit and the constant, cool feeling that seemed to emanate from him. She also knew the feeling of social power that seemed to hover just behind him, as if his to command. One could not but wonder, however, if it was not a careful dance of just who could command whom.

The full strength of the Paris gaze would let her know - the dance was not so much careful as passionate. They loved Lord Maximilien as a society can only love someone who epitomizes and betters its own image at once. And they jealously guarded the name and image of that beloved. Lupin, until proved, was both an unknown interloper and the promise of a new toy from a beneficent godfather. Lupin stepped down from the carriage. As they watched her, the eyes of Paris would also protect her. For it regarded her as exactly what she pretended to be, and that was something her pursuers would never expect. Fail or succeed in the eyes of the ton, she was hidden in the refracted glare of their attention.

Lupin's gray silk skirts billowed out around her as she stepped neatly onto the gravel drive. She fel the small twitch of her skirst behind her, as if a watching eye had adjusted the generous train away from a bothersome snag. The flames reflected orange on her silver coutume, she was covered in the finest, dullest silver. Sheening quietly in the flames' light, her garb was deceptively simply cut. And yet so perfectly formed to her figure, and so cut as to proclaim her as nothing but what she could possibly be. A bodice of the most minimal design, cut to display a low decollatage, her neck, the sweep of her collarbones swooping elegantly, like wings, to either side. The bodice, with a boned waist cinched tight enough to make her breathing shallow and her silhouette acute, fell to a huge billow of swirling, ruched skirts. panniers caught up in sweeping folds to either side, a fall of skirts beneath them, her train yet another bustle of silver silk behind. Sleeves dropped straightly to her elbows, fitting slimly her upper arms. Her chemise, of finest lawn, fell from her sleeves in two, generous and billowing falls, simply cut without ruffles or ribbon.