Courtship and Curses (25 page)

“Monsieur?” Sophie called. “Monsieur le Comte?” She took a few tentative steps toward him. Who had he been talking to?

The Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux started and whirled around. “Lady Sophie!” He wore an odd expression that she could not quite decipher in the torchlight.

“I didn’t know you would be here tonight, sir,” she said. “My aunt will be so pleased to see you.”

“Marie is here?” he asked. “I did not think—” He leaned toward her and frowned. “But you are not well, mademoiselle. Will you take my arm? May I help you?” He gave her his arm, then without comment handed her a large, snowy handkerchief.

Sophie took it with a murmured thank-you. He waited while she used it, then said, “You have gotten lost, perhaps, in this very large garden? May I escort you to your family?”

“Thank you, that would be … no, wait. Could you find Aunt Molly for me? I have a—a dreadful headache, actually, and I should like to go home, if she wouldn’t mind—”

He inclined his head. “At once. I shall call my own carriage, and drive you both back to your house on my way home. I too am finding the evening somewhat … disappointing.” He smiled and shrugged. “You will be all right to wait here? Can I not take you into the tent to sit down?”

“No, I’ll be fine here—really I shall.” The last thing she wanted was to see someone … like Parthenope. Or Parthenope’s cousin.

The comte was back more swiftly than she’d thought possible with Aunt Molly in tow.

“Poor child,” Aunt Molly said, peering at her in her nearsighted way. “You look quite dreadful. I think it’s the decorations, myself. They’re making me bilious. You were very right to fetch me, Auguste.” She dimpled at him. “Though I am cross with you for not telling me you’d be here, beastly thing.”

They bundled Sophie into the comte’s carriage—Aunt Molly enjoining the coachman to avoid all bumping and jarring on the cobbled streets—and set out for South Audley Street. All the ride home, Sophie gazed out at the shadows in the unlit side streets and alleys and longed to bury herself in a quiet dark place like them, where memory and thought could no longer find her to rip at her.

Chapter

15

Sophie
awoke slowly, savoring the faint lavender scent and comfort of the featherbed and soft linen sheets surrounding her. And the quiet too—no shouting innkeepers or coaches clattering on cobbles had broken her rest this morning. This was by far the nicest inn they’d stayed at since leaving London—

No, wait. She opened her eyes and remembered: This was no inn but the house Papa had rented, just off the rue Ducale near the Parc in Brussels, where they’d arrived late last night. The room was bright with dainty white-painted furniture and blue bed hangings and curtains, and the blue-and-white-tiled fireplace framed a cheerful fire to take off the chill of early morning—goodness, she’d slept right through the maid tiptoeing in to rebuild it, hadn’t she? The only discordant note in the room came from Parthenope, still sound asleep next to her and snoring gustily.

Sophie watched her for a minute, smiling, then sighed. If only she could fall back into sleep as well, where memory couldn’t follow her, but it was too late. At least today, though, she would have the flurry and excitement of settling into Brussels to take her mind off her misery.

It had been nearly two weeks since the Prince Regent’s party, two weeks since she’d seen the icy anger in Pere—in Lord Woodbridge’s eyes, right before he walked out of her life forever. Sometimes the memory of that night jabbed her like a knife; other times, it smothered her in a heavy blanket of wretchedness. Only getting ready to depart for Brussels had taken her mind off it. Papa had actually tried to convince her to stay in London with Aunt Isabel so that she wouldn’t miss the rest of the season, but missing the rest of the season was precisely what she wanted to do. She couldn’t face the thought of running into
him
at some ball or party, and watching him cut her or, worse, bow to her with polite indifference.

She’d been surprised that the duchess had permitted Parthenope to come with them to Brussels, especially without her old governess, Miss MacTavish, and on such short notice. But Sophie knew Parthenope could be extremely persuasive, and since Brussels was almost as full of London’s best society this spring as London itself and both Aunt Molly and Amélie were there to chaperone them, there was little reason for the duchess to say no. Besides, Parthenope confessed on the boat over to Ostend, she’d told her mother she’d be going whether she got permission or not.

As if she’d heard her thoughts, Parthenope gave a particularly loud snore, followed by a start and a faint mumble of protest. She opened her eyes and squinted at Sophie. “What’d you do? You woke me up.”

“I did not. You woke yourself. If I were possessed of any conscience at all, I’d write James Leland immediately and inform him that you snore.”

“Pooh.” Parthenope yawned and rubbed her eyes, then dropped her hands and looked at Sophie with a small frown. “
Do
I snore?”

“Abominably. But then again, he might too, so you’ll drown each other out.”

To her eternal credit, Parthenope hadn’t said a word of reproach when she told her about what had happened between her and Peregr—dash it, Lord Woodbridge. In fact, all her rancor seemed reserved for her cousin: She expostulated at length on his pigheadedness and foolishness at not having consulted her. Sophie knew Parthenope hadn’t given up hope that there would be a reconciliation between them—but she couldn’t think about anything like that right now. The wound was still too fresh, not to mention compounded by her anxiety about him working at the War Office.

Parthenope snorted and sat up, plumping her pillows and leaning back against them. “Twaddle. So what are we doing today?”

“I suppose that’s up to Papa, but I should think we’d be able to at least go for a walk in the Parc or something like that. I assume he’ll be calling on the Duke of Wellington and the ambassador and other people today.”

“The duke.…” Parthenope got a dreamy expression in her eyes.

“The duke is quite married, if you’ll recall,” Sophie said, poking her. “And what about Mr. Leland?”

“I don’t want to marry the duke, silly. I just want to see him. He’s a hero, remember?” Parthenope sat up and flung aside the bedclothes. “Anyway, I have a list of people Mama wants me to call on, so I suppose we could see about getting some of them out of the way. The sooner we call on them, the sooner they’ll start inviting us to parties, right?” She paused and looked back at Sophie. “How are you today?” she asked, more gently.

Sophie shrugged. “I was wondering, in the carriage yesterday on the way here … do you think we can finally stop worrying about Papa? Do you think he’s safe now that we’re out of London?”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Parthenope said lightly. “If something bad happens here, then—” Sophie’s face must have changed, because she leaned over and pushed at Sophie’s shoulder. “And you can get that expression off your face. I’m not implying that Amélie had anything to do with any of it, the way my bacon-brained cousin seems to think she did. All I’m saying is that we ought to watch out for him a little longer. If nothing happens, we can assume whoever was responsible is still in London.” She sighed. “I confess, I don’t like to think about Perry there if that’s the case, bacon-brain though he is.”

Neither did Sophie, but she couldn’t admit it just yet. Not even to Parthenope.

*   *   *

By the time they’d dressed and found their way down to the small breakfast room, the rest of the family had gathered there. Papa already had his nose buried in a newspaper.

“
Bonjour, mes chères!
” Amélie called gaily from behind a pair of silver pots. “Did you sleep well? Come, sit! Would you care for coffee or chocolate?”

Amélie had been delighted to accompany them to Brussels, where she had a cousin she had not seen since her childhood. Sophie knew she’d also guessed that something had happened between her and Lord Woodbridge. Though Amélie had not mentioned his name, she’d been particularly gentle and sweet.

“I should have the chocolate if I were you,” Aunt Molly said from her seat on Papa’s other side. “And besides, it’s better for you. Young girls should never drink coffee.”

“Good morning. Coffee for me, please,” Parthenope said as if she hadn’t heard Aunt Molly. Sophie looked at her and guessed that she hadn’t; she was ignoring the chair the footman had drawn out for her and was making a beeline for the birdcage in the window. “Hester,
ma choucroute!
” she murmured, scrunching her face and making kissing sounds. “How is
maman
’s darling? Did you sleep well too?”

The footman made a small choking sound that he tried unsuccessfully to turn into a cough, and Amélie laughed. “I think you are meaning
chouchoute
, which means ‘pet,’” she said kindly. “
Choucroute
means ‘pickled cabbage.’”

“Does it? Oh, dear.” Parthenope opened Hester’s cage and held out her hand. He hopped readily onto her finger, and she set him on her shoulder, where he started tugging at her ear. “Ow! All right, you little beast! You shall have some breakfast in just a moment. Pickled cabbage, you say? I rather like that. It fits his temperament. Come along,
ma choucroute
.”

Though Papa had been perfectly willing for Parthenope to accompany them, Sophie didn’t think he’d expected Hester as well. But Parthenope had already established his cage in their barouche the morning they left, and their poor butler Belton had looked mutinous when Papa attempted to hand the bird into his care.

“This room stays warm all the night, so I thought he should be comfortable in here,” Amélie said. “He looks as though travel agrees with him.”

Papa snorted slightly from behind his newspaper. Parthenope pretended not to hear him and said brightly, “Oh, yes, I believe it does. He’s learned several
very
interesting French words recently, thanks to the boot boy in the inn at Ostend.”

Amélie’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, I am sure that he has. May I pour coffee for you too, Sophie?”

“Sophie, child, I must insist you have the chocolate. You must keep up your strength,” Aunt Molly interjected.

“Yes, aunt,” Sophie agreed meekly. “Chocolate, if you please, Amélie.” It had been quietly decided that Amélie would be taking over the role of mistress of the house while they were here in Brussels, as neither Aunt Molly’s French nor her strength, what with her arm still in a sling, were up to the task. It was pleasant to see Amélie presiding over the coffee pot, just as Mama once had—

“It would appear that half of English society truly is in Brussels right now, from what I read here,” Papa commented, lowering his paper.

Amélie nodded. “Madame Mabuse—she is the housekeeper—says that you were fortunate indeed to get this house. There’s not another available in Brussels. The city has been overwhelmed not only with its own tourists but with many who fled Paris after the emperor’s return.”

Parthenope came to the table and sat down. “Cowards,” she said, busily stirring cream into her cup. “I suppose they’re all composing stories to tell when they get home about what brave, clever fellows they were to evade old Boney. Utter rubbish.” She took a large gulp of her coffee, burned her tongue, and said a word that possibly even Hester didn’t know. Yet.

Amélie smiled. “Your confidence is refreshing. Madame Mabuse says that many in Brussels are quite sure that the emperor is poised to fall upon Brussels at once and lament that there are so few troops to protect them.”

“They assume we keep soldiers laid away tidily in bandboxes until needed, too,” Papa said drily. “But I expect in a few weeks’ time they’ll be complaining that the town is overrun with them.”

“No they won’t—they’ll be too busy flirting with them,” Parthenope whispered to Sophie.

“I can see that might be so. However”—Amélie hesitated—“I must say something, and I hope you will not misunderstand. You should know that many Bruxellois would welcome the emperor’s return. Of course the British here feel differently, but it … it is perhaps best to avoid discussion of the matter if you are not sure of the sentiments of your company.”

Parthenope’s eyebrows shot up, but Papa nodded easily. “I’m not surprised. Your point is well made, madame.”

“Why would they prefer to have Napoléon back?” Sophie asked.

“Because here in Brussels, the people feel more French than they do Dutch. If Napoléon again wins, they can be part of France. If he does not, they must be part of the new Netherlands under the Dutch king William,” Papa explained, dropping the newspaper on the table and pulling out his watch. “And speaking of Napoléon winning, I think I ought to call upon His Excellency the Duke this morning—”

“Oh, look here,” Parthenope said, picking up the newspaper. “It says there’s a British literary club in the city. That sounds interesting—I expect all the newspapers from London will be there—”

Papa made an odd coughing sound. Glancing up at him, Sophie saw he was trying to conceal a laugh. “I can’t say if the newspapers are all there,” he said, “but I hear that a great many
notes
are exchanged among the members.”

Amélie laughed. Aunt Molly looked confused. “Why are they exchanging notes? Is no one allowed to talk while reading the newspapers?”

Parthenope grinned. “It’s a gaming hall, isn’t it? Oh, famous! I’ve always wanted to see one. May we go?”

“Certainly not.” Papa rose. “I’m taking the carriage, but can send it back for you if you wish. This afternoon we ought to all call on the Duke of Richmond and a few others. Does that suit you?”

“We’re going to walk in the Parc, aren’t we, Sophie?” Parthenope announced.

“A park! Well, I shall like to see how the Belgians do with their plantings,” Aunt Molly said placidly, and poured herself another cup of chocolate.

*   *   *

The Parc turned out to be more on the scale of a London square than like Hyde or Green Parks (“It’s not so much a Parc as a Parc-lette,” Parthenope declared), but what it lacked in size it certainly made up for in beauty and charm.