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Jean looked more or less how Edward had remembered him, if slightly more crinkled around the eyes, with a touch more grey at his temples. He stood when Edward entered the quiet little booth that had been reserved for them, and spread his arms for a fully Gallic embrace. Edward fell into it, awkward as an Englishman should be, submitting to the kiss on both cheeks, but not returning them.

“Teddy, my dear friend, how have you been?” 

When he and Jean conversed, it was in a tortured pidgin, rendered nearly incomprehensible by the other’s vile pronunciation and abominable accent, stuffed with Latin loan-words and the odd flicker into German or Italian. An outsider would never have made sense of it, but they muddled along well enough. 

“My dear boy of Westlehill, you still dress like a pillar of the ancien regime.”

When Edward had last left Paris – indeed the whole country of France – it had been under Jean’s protection and something of a cloud, “Why change what works for me? And I’m afraid it’s Forthenby now, old man. An Earl and all that.”

This took a while to process, for although he said as much of it as he could in French, it took a handful of exchanges to clarify that an Earl was better than a mere Lord, but nothing like so good as a Duke.

“Then you have become quite the aristo, ” ventured Jean, at last, “tell me, do I bend the knee and call you Monseigneur? 

“Oh, Edward is as good as it ever was.”

“And how is your scar, my foolish boy?”

“Twinging, dear heart. Your blade is still sharp?”

“So say the girls of the town.”

He laughed, and they embraced again. 

“Do,” Jean insisted, “do be seated. And this handsome fellow, he is your Dickie, yes?”

At that, Edward felt his shoulders go back, felt every ease in him break, and there he was, barely three-and-twenty, and a damn fool all over again. “Beg pardon?”

“Your beloved Richard. You have brought him here to meet me, at last, with your discord forgotten and him to apologise for your having been so foolish at our first encounter?” A pause, “Or do I misspeak?”

“This is Peach,” he explained. “He’s my valet.”

A laugh. “Ah you Englishmen, you murder my poor language. But are you not...?”

Edward shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

Jean stood and bowed, “Monsieur Peach the valet, I welcome to our table.”

Peaches bobbed an awkward bow back again, and then look at Edward for guidance.

“Come and sit down,” he advised, “Jean understands.” 

Which was an advantage, because Edward bloody didn’t.

Jean was a good sort. He had the kind of long surname that Edward got stuck in the middle of, a small chateau somewhere outside of Paris, and a wife who was charming, plain, and excellent company. Jean would come to the city three or four times a year with his good lady, and also alone for shorter trips that were prompted by a taste for the fleshpots, and the stimulation of a mind whose openness was not always suited for the provinces. 

He was a commoner, not an aristo, but was broadly apolitical, pointing out with some justice that the politics of his beloved country tended to be not only weighted, but razor sharp. Regardless, Edward suspected him of Republican leanings and an idolisation of the tyrant of Corsica lurked beneath that genial and relaxed exterior.

As it was, they mostly stayed off the subject.

“But are you sure you are safe?” Jean asked, “you had to leave in something of a hurry, last time.” 

“I’m Lord Forthenby, now,” he shrugged, “I suspect my past indiscretions will be overlooked.”

Jean admitted this, but, “A title is not so powerful as it once was.”

“Money is though.”

A peculiarly French shrug. “Then I assume our repast is –?”

“My treat.”

“It is well.” And with that, the rascal gestured over a waiter, and ordered that the champagne be sent away, and a better bottle provided. “Besides, it was only a duel. A man so insistent as our late friend upon a duel cannot expect anything other than his desserts, is that not so?” 

Which cut a little too close to the bone, if Edward were honest about these things. 

But, of course, Jean wasn't thinking about Dickie any more - he was just trying to induce a twinge in the old scar. 

“Kind of you to remind me.”

Jean spread his hands, “A clean hit and he did not suffer. Just as you had no fever when I made my mark on you. Not like that other you have. As I say, France is a civilized country, and we fight with swords, like gentlemen.”

“That’s up for debate,” he took his Lady from within his jacket. “Come on, old man. You’ve not seen a rapier as fair as this.”

“She is beautiful,” the Frenchman conceded, “and deadly. But she has not the purity of naked steel.”

Edward stroked the bare, dark wood of the handle.

“She is also alone. A fine condition for a blade, but not, I think, a gun.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have all night.”

And because he trusted Jean, because he had always trusted Jean, and Jean had saved his life twice, it all came out – all the nonsense and farce and tragedy of it. He omitted a few details, like Peaches’ real identity, and some of the words which had passed between himself and Serafina, but the shape of it was there. The whole ugly business with Richard, he left unadorned. 

Jean would not be shocked by it.

Indeed, all he did, was to shake his head and say, “You are married, and you did not tell me? That is shameful, my friend. But come. We must toast your wife.” 

So, together, the three of them raised their glasses, and intoned, “To Serafina Valance, Lady Forthenby.”

“And she is beautiful?”

“Very,” answered Peaches, which Edward did not trouble himself to translate.

“Your new friend,” Jean said, “he has your eye? Your inclinations?”

Edward shrugged a nod.

“Your temperament, also?”

“Peach is more sensible.”

“My faith, that is a blessing. I do not believe the city could handle another such as yourself, Edward.”

“Thanks,” said Edward, with the appropriate dryness. He swigged champagne and ignored the smelly cheese. “But that’s your comment on it all? That Peach has a good eye and roistering character, and I should have written to say I’d got myself a wife?”

“What other comment do you expect? I am French. And you are English, and Englishmen are all quite mad.” He snorted into his glass, “Why, you even believed you could defeat our Emperor in battle.”

Edward checked his recent history, and then rechecked it. “We did,” he said, “Twice.”

“Not in France.”

“No. In the Netherlands, little place called Waterloo, I be-”

“And where is Waterloo, my friend?”

“Well, it’s-”

“Who knows where that place is? No-body knows where this place is, no-body has heard of it, not in Paris, and Paris is the world. Therefore...” He gestured.

“I think you’ll find-”

“Come, my friend,” Jean slapped him on the shoulder, “let us not speak of your military humiliations. Let us instead drink, and be jovial. I have missed you, and your unbalanced intellect.”

Edward gave up and refilled their glasses. The champagne was good, prickling along his tongue, deep and rich with a taste of night and wickedness. Peaches sipped her own, smirking a bit as the bubbles went up her nose. She had drunk the stuff before, of course, but it was different here, sitting at a table with the quality. Under the table, he put a hand upon her thigh. 

“What do you think?” he asked her.

“I could get used to it,” there was a pink flush to her cheeks which suggested that she was a few sheets gone. She had barely picked at the food, and – as she habitually concerned herself with the clearer spirits, avoiding such weak stuff as wine – anything with a hint of grape had a tendency to go to her head.

“Well, I promised you Paris.”

“And pearls in me hair, and nights at the opera,” When he opened his mouth to protest, she said, “Don’t go getting any smart ideas. This suits me fine. Though I could do with you under the table. This bench is quite high. I need a footstool.”

And that was it, the barest idea of concentrating on anything went out of the window as he thought of the square heels of her shoes cutting into his back. “Oh,” he said, “my sweet Peach. I’d-”

“Be down there in an instant,” she smirked, “if there weren’t a law against sodomy.”

“Uh,” said Edward, “there ain’t. Not here. Although, it still ain’t exactly smiled upon.”

“On your knees, then.”

“I’ve been run out of this City once before. I’d rather not repeat the experience.”

“Spoil sport.”

“I understand more of this than you believe I do, my friends,” said Jean. 

“What did he say?” asked Peaches.

“He said to shut your bawdy mouth, dear heart.”

“In fact, please communicate to your man that I said there is a discreet tavern nearby, if we wished to take such matters further.”

“Jean,” Edward exclaimed. 

“I’m afraid you are offering me your hospitality, my dear friend, and as such, if you will insist on such provocation, I cannot be said to be lacking in curiosity.” 

It took Edward a minute or so, and a quick leaf through his traveller’s dictionary to get to the bottom of that one, but he soon got there. “Are you propositioning me?”

“Why, are you going to call me out again? Some languages are universal, after all.” A pause, “If your man is amenable.”

Edward pulled back and switched to pure gutter English, “What do you think, Peaches? Is our friend worth one of your specials?”

She eyed Jean up in such a way that Edward became convinced that some languages were universal, and whore was one of them. 

“Does he want to fuck or be fucked?" 

Well, that one bore some translating. “He says,” a pause, “well, do you fancy yourself more of an Achilles or a Patroclus.” 

“I think opinion is divided as to –” Jean made explicit motions with his hands.

“Good point.”

“I am happy merely to watch, if that is what your Peach would rather.”

“Filthy bastard,” said Peach, clearly picking up on their patter. “But I’m pretty sure we can find him something to do, all the same. But let’s not go to a drab’s place when there’s clean sheets at the hotel, and no way the charlies can get us for a frolic.”

Edward sighed. Jean was going to need some help understanding that.