The Wastrel

“Are you blind?” Jean Claude demanded as Paris changed his trousers. “That woman is a powder keg waiting for a match!”

“Why don’t you try lighting her up then?”

“Because she is not French,” Jean Claude announced huffily.

“I’ll agree she’s explosive,” Paris replied, lifting an aristocratic eyebrow as he tied his white cravat. Jean Claude impatiently adjusted it before providing Paris with his white satin vest. “However, that is not a quality guaranteed to recommend her to me.”

“It should be,” Jean Claude retorted while Paris put on his tails.

The valet picked up a clothes brush and attacked Paris’s jacket furiously, nearly knocking Paris backward with the violence of his strokes.

“Besides, she is not of my social class,” his lordship said.

Jean Claude’s brush strokes became even more aggressive. “You are not such a pigheaded cabbage to think that way,” the Frenchman admonished. “And even a pigheaded cabbage could see that she must have royal blood in her veins.”

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