He took a seat, curious as to what was happening. He had heard bits of whispers about reading rubies or something of the sort, and seen some partygoers going outside as well towards the gardens. Laurence glanced over at the person sitting nearest to him.
"Do you think they have any truth to them? The fortunes, I mean," he sat up a bit more with his drink and nodded towards the curtain--meant to be mysterious in purpose, was almost concerning. But it seemed to fit the theme. "I am quite enjoying the night, however. So tell me, do you have any predictions for the evening?"
Claude, quite comfortable in the chair he had found, glanced toward the curtained alcove before returning his attention to Laurence, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth. "I have always found fortunes to be most convincing after they come true. I am not one to believe in predictions." Facts were easier to lie about than predictions that could mean anything. Facts could be used and manipulated to support him. predictions, fortunes, talks of luck... they were, ironically, unpredictable.
"People rarely seek fortunes to learn the future. They seek them in hopes of hearing something they already wish to believe. What can I observe and draw conclusions on, however? That is a different matter." He pointed out with a coy smile, taking a sip of his drink.
Even when she had the night off, Charlotte was still working. She needed to mingle with people, make connections. And that was what she was doing now as she glided across the dance floor with her partner, the music soft and airy. She twirled herself and smiled at her partner and then guided them into a turn as well.
"Thank you for dancing with me, I am having such fun with you!" It was true, they were very enjoyable. But she also knew she was representing the Theatre Royal, so really she had to be polite and charming even if she was not having a good time. Thankfully, this person was not bad company. "What activities have you done tonight? I am rather curious about the moonstone appraisals. Though I must admit, I am a little nervous for what they might say!" She said with a gentle chuckle.
Claude followed along with the steps in time to the music, at ease for the first time all night. He had spent most of his time on the side lines, simply observing as he figured out how to truly exist in this society, instead of watching from a far distance. It was nice to finally find someone who would understand his plight, at least somewhat, as a fellow French national.
"I would have been a fool if I had survived this whole event without a single dance with you." Claude responded with his usual grin as they spun, but it settled on his face differently than usual - deeper, more genuine, no ulterior motives behind it. For once. "I confess, I have done very little aside from converse with the nobility and drink by the refreshments tables. I am still... adjusting." He leaned a little closer to drop his voice into a quieter volume, avoiding eavesdroppers as he remarked playfully, "To English society, and their lacklustre alcohol choices."
Dominic remembered his first outing as a marquess. He’d always thought it was bad enough when he was the heir, but his investiture changed everything. Dominic heard his grandfather once described those looking for a spouse as bloodhounds. Their skills at sniffing out an eligible, unmarried lord were beyond compare. After his first ball, Dominic decided his grandfather had been delicate in his descriptions. “There’s no apology needed." Dominic offered a smile and his own full glass. He didn’t need the respite as much. “You never had it, so there’s no offence. I’m Lord Dominic O’Connor, marquess of Downshire.” His Irish accent was more prominent whenever he’d introduce himself. So many who visited London had the misconception of calling Dominic and his brother’s English when they were the furthest thing from it.
“Careful now,” Dominic laughed, his voice full of humour. “If you continue to talk about my fortune and looks, others will swarm us both.” Dominic needed a break from match-making. He wasn’t averse to finding a wife; he just needed the right one. This night, all Dominic had was his mother’s choices. Women he knew Lady Daniella thought could control. It’s not what Dominic wanted. “Are you here with Princess Genevieve? I have plans to match her to my brother and heir.” One of the princesses would do, but a French one was preferable.
Claude inclined his head slightly at the introduction, the movement elegant and practiced. There was a flicker of amusement in his expression as Dominic's accent thickened around the title, and he almost assumed the marquess had sharpened the distinction deliberately. Claude wouldn’t blame him - he thickened his own accent on purpose from time to time. "A marquess?" Claude repeated, with the appropriate amount of interest. “And Irish, I believe, from your accent? Forgive me, I still have trouble with the distinction.”
The warning about fortune and looks drew a low laugh from him, more genuine than polite. “I assure you, my lord, I have no wish to contribute to your suffering. I have witnessed the determination of ambitious mothers this evening. It is enough to make one reconsider attending society altogether. Though," Claude added, glancing around the room before turning his gaze back towards Dominic, "I suspect your difficulties stem less from your title and more from the unfortunate combination of being both handsome and apparently good-natured."
At the mention of Princess Genevieve, he shifted on his feet slightly, a momentary betrayal of his discomfort. "I am... acquainted with Her Highness, yes." Something unreadable crossed his expression before he smoothed it away with a smile. "Your brother must possess remarkable qualities if you intend to secure him a French princess. Is he aware of your… plans?” The twinkle in his eye suggested he was teasing.
Genevieve perked up when she realized who she had come across. What was the duke doing here? Nevermind that, she thought. She could question him tomorrow when the evening was not buzzing with excitement and anticipation.
"Tiger's Eye is beautiful, I hear," she said. "You reflect the gem well, but I did not see you at the docks upon my departure from France. And yet we arrived at the same time. Why is that, Your Grace?"
She found her eyes narrowing, strangely suspicous of him. His tone alone let her know he was not prepared to see her, let alone speak with her.
Claude had never felt so uncomfortable in his life, which was saying a lot, considering the various compromising positions he had found himself in over the years. He cleared his throat in a thinly-veiled attempt to fully recover his composure.
"Merci, Your Highness, your approval is duly noted." He paused, thinking his words through carefully before straightening up a little taller. "Ah, see, I was not upon the docks for I have been in England for... quite some time, now. I have not been to France for many years." He managed one of his charming smiles, and a laugh, though it didn't quite reach his eyes the same. "I cannot be in two places at once, it is impossible."
Genevieve was not impressed attending balls anymore. Perhaps when she was a child and marveled at the grandeur chandeliers and elaborate decorations, but now, it was all crude. People with too much money using things they did not need for a gathering that did not matter. It was an agitation, a tumor that would never cease its festering upon people.
It was Edgar who made it all the more better, though. She wouldn't have admitted that she detested balls as much as he did, then he wouldn't have possibly shown up. He would make this an exciting ordeal, something to remember.
The one thing she would give credence to is the fashion. Everyone looked marvelous. There were some people who Genevieve eyed curiously, wondering if they'd gotten dressed in the dark. But aside from those outliers, her gaze remained on the crowd. She spotted someone in particular and approached them. "You are quite the dazzling gem, though I cannot tell which one you are."
Running into French royalty was... less than ideal. Claude had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he would be able to avoid her, and to his credit, he had! He had forgotten, however, that other people indeed had free will. Which meant, he had forgotten that just because he was actively avoiding the Princess, did not mean she shared the sentiment.
And perhaps ashamedly, her sudden advance threw his composure briefly.
"Ah, well... thank you, Your Highness." He managed to choke out with a polite bow, clearing his throat before regaining his dignity (somewhat). "I was rather inspired by the Tiger's Eye - specifically, the blue variety."
who: dominic & @reveryfm
where: The Barnett House (event)
Society events didn’t bother Dominic. He knew some people hated them and found them to be an inconvenience, but Dominic understood the necessity of them. He didn’t like that the Barnetts had something to celebrate, but Dominic wouldn’t let it ruin his night. He’d watched as others wanted to be appraised, as if they were nothing but cattle. Dominic may have been necessary in these events, but he didn’t have the patience for this sort of spectacle. Even though someone was getting appraised, Dominic couldn’t hear anything above other people talking. The Duke of Chartres was now in England, and many hoped he was looking for a wife. Dominic understood how frustrating this could be. He crossed the room, brandy in hand, and introduced himself. “I find these evenings are more tolerable with enough liquor,” he joked, holding out one of the glasses. “You’re the subject of a lot of conversations there. I’d avoid it if I were you.”
Claude had mostly stuck to the side lines of the ball so far, attempting to minimalise the attention he might have garnered. In truth, he was still getting used to the grand events, the likes of which he hadn't attended freely since he was a boy, and it was all very overwhelming.
The offer of a drink was a welcome one, and regardless of who had offered it, he took it without hesitation. "Ah. Merci, sir." He hadn't even looked at the other person before he had knocked back half the glass... so perhaps he was a little more highly strung than he had been attempting to act.
"Where are my manners, excuse me." Claude laughed, more at himself than anything, turning to the man who had approached. "Yes, conversations I find I often hold no part in. Usually whispers behinds fans, I find, so you are right - liquor does make it bearable." Names were not something that came easy to him after years of reclusion, and as Claude regarded the man beside him, he realised he had no idea who he was. Knowing how offended people seemed to get when he couldn't remember (or didn't know) a name, he decided to turn on the charm. “I owe you an apology. I have misplaced your name entirely, though in my defence, gentlemen with your good fortune in looks and taste in dress tend to be rather distracting.”
Also known as Falcon Eye or Hawk's Eye, this gemstone fits Claude for it's associations with quiet strength, confidence and intuition. Claude is deeply observant and considerate with his wording when he needs to be, or when he deems the situation in need of more careful handling - perfect, as it also enhances communication. Blue Tiger's Eye is generally used for emotional balance, which Claude prides himself on, keeping calm in even the most anxious moments in order to make the right decision (most of the time).
Edgar was mid-laugh when the situation turned - though whether it had turned badly or simply become more entertaining was, in his mind, still up for debate. He'd somehow found his way onto the edge of a fountain in the square of Covent Garden, one boot braced against the stone lip while the other hovered far too close to slipping. His coat hung open, cravat half-loosened, hair a touch unruly in a way that suggested the night had been far longer than intended. A small crowd had gathered at a cautious distance.
"I'm perfectly steady," he insisted to no one in particular, though his balance suggested otherwise. He lifted his glass as if to prove a point, only managing to spill a portion of it over his hand instead. Edgar blinked at it, then laughed again, entirely unbothered. "See? Not a drop-" His foot slipped slightly. He caught himself, barely, grin widening as though that had only improved things. "- well, nearly."
Only then did his gaze flick outward, landing on someone just close enough to intervene. Recognition - or something like it - lit his expression, bright and easy. "Ah," he said, as if they'd arrived exactly when expected. "There you are." He tipped his head, still precariously balanced, entirely untroubled by it. "Tell me," he added, voice warm with amusement, "are you here to save me, or simply witness the ending?"
The spectacle was amusing indeed, Claude had to admit, though he hadn't expected to be singled out as such. Still, he didn't recoil nor walk away like he might have done mere days ago, but instead, decided to indulge this... strange man. Claude was certain he was drunk, something he could at least respect.
Amusement coloured his words as he stepped forward, allowing himself a smile. "Good man, I do believe I might save you from yourself in this advice, but perhaps it may be clever to... get down." He gestured to the edge of the fountain, and then the much safer, much drier ground. "That is, presuming you do not wish to spill the rest of that very fine drink you have there."
Thomas moved through Covent Garden with ease, remembering each alley and backway as if he had never been away. It was loud, with music spilling out of open doors and dimly lit, making it easy for him to remain mostly anonymous. Gentlemen, of course, did not come to Convent Garden, so it was with purpose and much discretion that Thomas found himself here.
One of the main currencies of good society was information, and as he'd been away from London for too long, he was in great need. Though his contacts were reliable, there were too few of them left, and so he was willing to trade for what he needed to reassert himself back into the royal inner circle. He ended up at a Tavern waiting for.. someone. He wasn't quite sure who, only sure that he received a note. He sat in the back corner, facing both the front door and the open street, back straight, hand clenched tightly around a glass of whisky as he listened to the conversations around him. When the door opened, letting a warm rush of air in, Thomas raised his eyebrows, the only evidence that he found himself intrigued by the person that walked in. "I must confess, I did not expect to see you here."
Claude was still attempting to adjust, despite his residency stretching beyond years. In his honest truth, he hadn't been out much, spending most of his time in his modest home - well, modest in his own estimations. He had made the odd acquaintance, perhaps seen the same face or heard the same name a handful of times in his rare moments of exploration, but certainly not enough to keep up with the daily comings and goings.
He hadn't even read this "Whistledown" paper everyone seemed so interested in. perhaps that should have been his next move.
Instead, a s a typical Frenchman would, he had spent his days since his decision exploring and searching for at least a decent place to drink. This Tavern was the next on his list, though he hadn't truly expected to be spoken to so suddenly. "Me, sir?" He asked with a raised eyebrow, polite yet surprised. He didn't recognise the man in front of him - had they spoken before? "Je vous prie de m'excuser, monsieur. I am truly terrible at names. Have we met before?"
Goodness, [ CLAUDE DE CHANTERELLE ] has arrived! [ HE ] is [ 38 ] , of the [ FRENCH ] [ DE CHANTERELLE’S ], and a [ DUKE ] . They are [ NEW ] to England and the season and their family holds the [DUTCHY OF CHARTRES ]. This author has heard they are [ DIPLOMATIC ] but also [ CALCULATING ]. Accompanied by [ NO ONE ] , there is much talk of their arrival and accepting calls but be warned: I have heard they [ ARE SELECTIVELY LOYAL ]!
full name: Claude De Chanterelle
date of birth: 29th July 1776 (38, as of 1814)
height: 6.0"
faceclaim: Sebastian Stan
title: Duke of Chartres
Born to an old, wealthy noble family in France, Claude grew up in a world that vanished almost overnight when the Revolution came. His father was executed in 1793, his estates seized, and his family scattered, every man (and woman) for themselves. At seventeen, Claude fled France under cover of night, aided by a loyal servant who paid with his life when they were discovered at a checkpoint.
He spent his early exile drifting between courts, learning languages, manners, and, most importantly, how to survive without a country backing him. Though officially stripped of his title, he never relinquished it privately, always using it to introduce himself. In England, he adopted a careful persona: a displaced aristocrat, easy enough to talk to but distant with his private life - something no one could truly blame him for, not in his position.
Fluent in several languages and intimately familiar with the shifting loyalties of French lords, he became an informal intermediary between British officials and French royalist networks, secretly passing information between both sides. By 1814, with Napoleon’s first fall and the Bourbon restoration underway, his title and his lands were “reinstated” (aka, he paid a nice sum for the return of his title).
However, instead of returning to France, Claude has decided to spend some time in England still - having been living there for a handful of years, he had grown fond of the country, and this Season would be the first time he dared step into the public eye fully.
In truth, staying in London is a calculated move for many reasons. He can avoid any remaining enemies from the revolution. He doesn’t trust the newly reinstated monarchy and the unstable political environment. And most of all, he simply fears what he will face if he goes back.
Personality
Claude is not one to panic, always remaining composed even under pressure, though it can sometimes come across as prideful. His secret work during he wars taught him the skill of diplomacy and strategy, and his travels have left him cultured. However, he remains distrustful, and his loyalty is based purely upon whatever might aid his survival - in a way, he is still living in fight or flight mode, despite having decided to settle. He remains emotionally guarded as well as secretive, and if he had to give himself a label, it would be morally flexible and charming.
