Cherished Enemy (2 page)

Holt clicked his tongue sympathetically and sampled his wine. Lowering the glass, he murmured, “If ever there was a city to lighten a heavy heart, 'tis Paris. I trust your cousin has recovered her spirits, ma'am.”

The faintest pucker disturbed Miss Albritton's smooth forehead. “Tante Maria says she has. Unfortunately, we missed her, for Miss Singleton is gone to Italy to see Tante Maria's eldest daughter, my cousin Elise, whose husband owns a villa on the Mediterranean. I had hoped they would be here tonight, and that Deborah could journey home with us, but—” She gave a small dismissing gesture and asked, “Do you soon go back to England, Captain Holt?”

“Tomorrow, Miss Albritton.” He hesitated. “I—do not mean to impose, but—I understand your home is in Sussex. Will you permit that I call on you?”

Rosamond smiled at him in her friendly, unaffected way. “You will be welcomed, do you chance to be in the vicinity. My papa would, I know, be glad to chat with another soldier.”

“A colonel, you said! I shall have to tread carefully, eh? A dragoon, ma'am?”

“Hussar. But in matters pertaining to the late Rebellion, a heavy dragoon, Captain. A
very
heavy dragoon!”

“Jolly good!” Holt chuckled. “I shall look forward to meeting the gentleman.”

Responding politely, Rosamond knew a guilty hope that Captain Holt might not find his way clear to journey into Sussex. He was pleasant and sympathetic, but there was a hardness about his eyes, an occasional set to his mouth that she found rather disturbing.

They finished their refreshments and rose to leave the table. At once, Miss Albritton's admirers were clustering about her again. Laughing, retreating, she collided with someone, and turned to say an apologetic “Oh, là!
Pardonnez-moi, monsieur!
”

She encountered eyes of grey ice. The handsome Mr. Robert Something-or-other had evidently been forced back against the table. The hand he had thrown out to steady himself had landed on the crystal dish of strawberry sherbet that she had left untouched. He drew out his handkerchief and began to wipe dark pink stickiness from the laces at his wrist and the great cuff of his primrose velvet coat as he said a cool “It is of—” The impatient gallants surged against him. He staggered. The crystal dish overturned and rolled, sending a bright pink stream over his cream satin unmentionables. “Of no importance,” he finished through his teeth.

Rosamond hid her twitching lips behind her fan, but above it her eyes danced with laughter. Several odes had been written to those dark blue eyes and one Parisian exquisite had vowed that to the day he died he would cherish the memory of their beauteous sparkle. Mr. Something-or-other was obviously of a different turn of mind. If the look he slanted at Rosamond was any indication, his memory of her would be one of wrathful disgust.

“Egad, what a catastrophe!” The deep voice boomed from a gentleman of about fifty years and great height. He was massively built, but muscular rather than fat, with wide shoulders and a leonine head that towered above the throng. He wore a fine Italian wig, the long white curls tied back, but the bushy brows that jutted over the light green eyes were auburn and his strong face was marked by freckles so that Rosamond thought he must have red hair. That he was a person of consequence was evident, for the clamour ceased and a respectful silence fell.

His resonant voice rang through the hush.
“Garçon!”
He snapped his fingers.
“Allons! Allons!”

“Thank you, my lord,” drawled the victim with an irked frown, “but—”

“Know me, do you?” boomed his lordship. “And—burn it! I know you, too! No! Don't tell me!” He took himself by the chin and frowned thoughtfully at the younger man.

‘My lord…' Rosamond searched her memory of the reception line. ‘Ah! The Earl of Bowers-Malden.' She glanced at Mr. Something-or-other and had the oddest impression that he was frozen, he stood so still, almost as though outraged and preparing to defend his honour. Did he resent the fact that his lordship could not at once place him? Only look at how his head was tilted back, his mouth a thin line, his eyelids drooping disdainfully. Lud, but the creature was fairly eaten up with pride! Much he had to be proud of, for unless she mistook the matter, that coat was not of the latest fashion, and she was sure he had no high title to warrant such arrogance. Not that she could abide snobbery, but— She chanced to look in Holt's direction and was again surprised. He stood almost as still as Robert-the-Arrogant, his eyes intent upon that gentleman.

“You was up with my eldest boy!” exclaimed the earl keenly.

“No, sir. Your pardon, but I think not. My name is—”

“No, no! You must let me guess. You know Horatio, I'll be bound! You cannot pull the wool over my eyes, young fella! Your sire is…” The earl's brows knit in frustration. “Aha!
Doctor!
Doctor someone … I almost have it.” Oblivious of the fact that people were staring and that he was obviously annoying the other man, he snapped out a series of rapid-fire questions. “What're you over here for? Pleasure? Banking? You're no diplomatist, I think. Study? Aha!
That's
it! I have you now! You're at the Sorbonne! Following in your father's footsteps, eh? He
is
a doctor—no?”

A wry smile dawned. “You have me, sir. I am Robert Victor.” He put out his hand and the earl wrung it.

Almost, Rosamond heard Mr. Victor's bones crack, but he did not recoil, returning the clasp until his lordship, with a small amused nod, relinquished his hand. “You're a good man,” said the earl. “Not many can stand up under my grip.”

Victor inspected his whitened fingers ruefully, and a laugh went up.

A waiter who had made his way through the crowd now bowed respectfully and enquired as to milord's wishes. The earl indicated Victor's stained clothing. The waiter was horrified that the poor gentleman should have suffered such an embarrassment while under the comtesse's roof. Apologizing profusely, he begged that monsieur come with him so that the garments could be cleansed.

Clapping a hand upon Victor's shoulder, the earl accompanied him. “So you're a doctor. I know a couple of fellows at the Sorbonne. With whom do you study? Oh—specializing, are you? And your father is Dr. Victor, is he? In which case I was mistook, for I am acquaint with no gentleman of that name. Odd. Usually, I've a dashed good memory, and I'd have sworn…”

The booming voice faded, and with it the power of the earl's personality.

Captain Holt murmured, “An unlikely type for a doctor, eh, Miss Albritton?”

“I must agree,” replied Rosamond, amused. “I do not think I would care to have the gentleman tend me in illness. Brrr!” She looked mischievously at the soldier.

Holt's smile was thin, but before he could respond he was edged out of the way and the gentlemen, clamorous once more, closed in around the English beauty.

*   *   *

The full moon beamed benevolently upon the tall chimneys and high-pitched Parisian roofs, lighted the cobble-stoned streets, painted dark shadows under the trees that lined the quiet boulevards, and made the Seine into a broad silver riband threading its serene way through the great city.

The night air was cool after the ferocious heat of the crowded ballroom, and Rosamond, her gloved hand resting on the arm of her escort, glanced at him in some amusement. There could be no doubt but that he was not only the most handsome gentleman at the ball, but the most handsome man she had ever seen. Tall and well-built, he carried himself with a lazy but prideful air. His voice was low and pleasingly well modulated, and that incredible face! The lofty, intelligent brow, the velvety black eyes with their long, curling lashes, the lean countenance, finely chiselled nose, high cheekbones and strong chin were so near perfection as to have captured the eyes of every lady present. Yet there was a manliness to his looks and he made no bow to affectation or excess. His dress was, if anything, rather austere for so young a man, for although his coat was a masterpiece of tailoring and fitted his broad shoulders to perfection, it was of black velvet relieved only by a swirl of silver embroidery on the pocket flaps and the cuffs of the great sleeves. The white satin waistcoat was embroidered here and there with black fleurs-de-lis, the knee-breeches were also white satin, and she could not but notice that the stockings revealed an extreme shapely leg. Only his mouth she found displeasing, for although the thin lips were well cut, they had a sardonic twist. Perhaps, looking for faults in a gentleman so well favoured was but natural, for one could not but mistrust perfection. Still, he had given her no cause to think him either vain or a rake, his manner towards her being teasingly flirtatious, but in no way offensive or ungentlemanlike.

“I think you must be a wizard, Mr. Roland Fairleigh,” she said. “And rather a naughty one.”

He chuckled, turning his head to look down at her face so enchantingly caressed by the moonlight. “I am bewitched certainly,” he admitted. “Besides, Jacques is your cousin, Miss Albritton, and has the good fortune to be able to see you whenever he so chooses. If I—er, tricked him a little—”

“You told him my Aunt Estelle was greatly upset and desired his immediate presence.”

“And so she did, I—er, wouldn't be at all surprised.”

Her lips twitched. “Yet when I was anxious, you assured me 'twas nothing. It will not do, sir! I cannot help but deduce that you sent my poor cousin off on a fool's errand, only so as to commandeer his dance.”

All shocked innocence, he halted, turning to face her and pointing out, “But I am
not
dancing with you, Miss Albritton, so how could Fontblanque accuse me of such infamous behaviour?”

He might not be dancing with her, but there was a dance of amusement in the dark eyes, and she could not restrain a smile as she said, “Only because I told you I would like to get a breath of air.”

“And what a fellow I should be to deny a lady so simple a request!” He led her closer to the fountain that splashed its liquid melody into a great marble bowl. Taking her fan and fluttering it deftly towards her face, he said, “Here is air, washed and purified, provided by me especially for your beautiful lungs. I try hard, ma'am. Own it.”

She took back her fan and said laughingly, “I own you a silver-tongued scamp, sir!”

His shoulders slumped. “Someone has been telling you about me. Name the villain, and I'll put an end to him!”

“Aha! So I have found you out. You admit to being a scamp.”

He trod a pace closer. “I never contradict a lady.” But as she drew away, startled by a subtle difference in his tone, he at once stepped back. “Faith, but I think you do not hold a very good opinion of me, ma'am, when all I ask is to serve you, in any possible way.”

He sounded forlorn. Reassured, she reminded him that they had met for the first time this evening. “Are you always so generous upon making the acquaintance of a lady?”

“'Tis you who would be generous, dear ma'am, in granting me such a boon.”

“Fie upon you! What an evasion!”

“Not so, fairest of the fair. Do but name a task, and though it take me to the roof of the world, I shall accomplish it.”

“My thanks, kind sir, but I have no need for ice.” The word reminded her of Dr. Robert Victor, who had not reappeared after going off with the earl. How much more pleasant, she thought, was this humorous man who flattered with such a light and polished touch that he could not help but please.

Fairleigh sighed, then said in a less frivolous way, “No, I really am serious, ma'am. Is my understanding you and your aunt sail for England on Wednesday. I shall be returning myself, and I believe you have no courier. May I offer my services?”

They began to walk back towards the house and he extended his arm once more. Resting her hand on it, she said, “How very kind in you. I expect you think it an odd circumstance that two ladies travel without a gentleman. Actually, my brother last month escorted us to my great-aunt's home in Denmark, but he had to return to England at once. Luckily, my cousin Jacques is all that is obliging. He came to Copenhagen, took us on to Brussels, and then here, and will escort us home.” Fairleigh groaned and she went on with a twinkle, “Nonetheless, 'twas a gallant gesture and I
do
thank you, sir.”

“Alas, I am balked at every turn. I think I shall form a deep hatred for Jacques de Fontblanque!” He sighed, disconsolate. “I will leave this frustrating place and put a period to my dismal existence.”

Her silvery little laugh rang out. His hand closed over hers, so lightly resting on his sleeve. He said in a different voice, “How very beautiful you are, lady from Sussex.”

Her eyes widened. “Now how did you know that my home is in Sussex, Mr. Fairleigh?”

“Our martyred King Charles had twelve good rules, dear lady. One was—‘Reveal no secrets.' I have found it a—” He broke off, halting, as a booming voice wafted from the open terrace doors. “I know of only one individual with such resonance,” he murmured. “Bowers-Malden is here?”

“Yes. You know him, sir?”

“A home question, Miss Albritton. Dare I answer, I wonder?”

She stared at him. “Why, I do not understand you.”

Several couples had come out onto the terrace and were chattering gaily. Mr. Fairleigh lowered his voice. “He is Catholic, ma'am. And there are those who believe his son, Glendenning…” He shrugged, spreading his hands in a faintly Gallic gesture. “Horatio is a fine fellow, but—it does not do to be acquainted with Jacobite sympathizers these days.”

Her back stiffened. “Tio Glendenning is a—
Jacobite
sympathizer?”

“Now curse me if I've spoke out of turn! You know him, I see.”

“No. But—” She bit back the words, ‘my brother does.' It would be just like Charles to know that young Viscount Glendenning had Jacobite sympathies, but to keep his friendship. Charles was so forgiving and would never stop to consider that to associate with a known rebel sympathizer might be dangerous. “But I have heard of him,” she finished rather lamely.