Midnight Marriage: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) (24 page)

“So, M’sieur le Marquis he is French when it suits and English when it suits the purposes of Lefebvre’s lawyers to point out he is a heretic who has taken advantage of a good Catholic convent bred female of the French bourgeoisie. Mademoiselle Lefebvre she is the innocent victim of an unscrupulous nobleman, whose very arrogance of nobility he used shamelessly to take advantage of the girl’s innocence and trust. It is said he offered her marriage to get her into his bed and once he had tasted enough of her delights he abandoned her, she with child, to her fate. Voilà! It is done!”

He motioned for Casimir to pass the crystal port decanter and poured himself out a drop before continuing.

“M’sieur le Marquis’s lawyers, headed by that most gifted and idiosyncratic of barristers, M’sieur Linguet, who likes nothing more than to bask in the glow of a dozen chandeliers, has painted his client as the innocent victim of a bourgeoisie plot. It is asserted that M’sieur Lefebvre he schemed to have M’sieur le Marquis as his son-in-law. At every opportunity he made certain his pretty coquette of a daughter, who was well-aware of her father’s ambitions on her behalf, danced in M’sieur le Marquis’s orbit. She was seen where he was seen. Dressed in the most ravishing of creations, her young breasts pushed up in her corsets and her lips painted invitingly. She rode about in carriages painted to complement her gowns. She paraded in the park whenever M’sieur le Marquis was there. She dropped her pretty painted fan at his feet at the Opera and made certain that she danced with him at every masked ball. It did not take many weeks before M’sieur le Marquis was bewitched by this nymph of seduction! And it took even less time before she permitted him her couch.
Enfin!
He is ensnared! Or so Lefebvre wished in his heart of hearts to believe.”

He paused, sipped from his crystal glass, a satisfied look at the rapt faces of his friends.

“To sum up: What he Lefebvre failed to understand is the nobility’s great arrogance for marrying within the confines of its own class. Being ignorant of the entrapment, then discovering the little demoiselle’s flattering attentions and masterful coquettery were not for his person but wholly for his title, her objective: marriage all along, M’sieur le Marquis turned his broad back, leaving the little demoiselle to a fate of her and her father’s making.

“This is the essence of Linguet’s case. And unlike the inflammatory and highly emotive accusations in Lefebvre’s brief, the arguments put forward by Linguet are seductive and believable by their very restraint. Thus, who are we to believe?” He smiled crookedly and threw up a lace covered wrist. “You, my dear friends, must decide for yourselves.”

There was a moment of awed silence and then enthusiastic applause from Casimir, who was up on his steepled shoes and clapping wildly. Even Evelyn raised his glass in praise of his friend’s eloquence. Sasha inclined his powdered head in acknowledgement and for one moment wondered if he had made the right decision all those years ago to give up the practice of law for his love of music. It was left to the barrel-chested baritone to disabuse him. Georgio plunged the conversation back into the scandalmonger’s gutter by saying with a punctuated belch,

“That’s all well and good, Sasha, but Eve, tell us: Is there truth to the rumor that your well-endowed cousin has never penetrated a female, whore or no whore, for fear of fathering bastards?”

This outrageous question went unanswered for the outer door opened with a squeak and a bleary-eyed footman appeared in the doorway, then did an about-face and scurried away, leaving the door ajar. The three musicians looked at one another, seeing this as sign for them to depart yet reluctant to do so for their meager lodgings on the Left Bank. They hoped Evelyn’s generosity would extend to allowing them to catch a few hours’ sleep on the sofas and chairs in his study, a regular occurrence when they rehearsed for an upcoming performance.

But Evelyn wasn’t paying attention. He was thoroughly bored with the incessant and mindless speculations regarding his cousin’s amorous adventures, real or imagined, and he sipped from his champagne glass, blue-eyed gaze wandering to the row of undraped French windows with their view of the Hôtel’s large rectangular courtyard of manicured lawn, cobblestoned walks and trickling fountains. His thoughts were not on his cousin but on his cousin’s beautiful young wife and how she must be dealing with the strain of an arranged marriage to a nobleman accused of breach of promise. At least Deborah had the good sense to remain in far away Bath.

She had not only defied her husband by remaining on the other side of the Channel, she had openly flaunted her total disregard for the Duke of Roxton’s authority by turning away at her door the Duke’s secretary and a six man escort sent to bring her to Paris. He smiled to himself at such audacity. No one ever challenged his uncle’s authority, ever.

Evelyn yearned to see Deborah’s smiling oval face again, with those candid brown eyes and wild mane of dark red hair. But why were her eyes so bright? Had she been crying? And surely he hadn’t seen her in that particular velvet traveling cloak with its collar and cuffs trimmed in fox fur. And why was his valet, Philippe, hopping about on the balls of his feet babbling something about instant dismissal if his master was disturbed for any reason except the Hôtel burning to the ground.

Philippe
? Why was his valet intruding in one of his daydreams? Evelyn must be more tired than he imagined. Drinking champagne on an empty stomach didn’t help…

He put aside the glass and rubbed his eyes. Good God! She was still there. Deborah was standing in his apartment, in his very dining room and smiling at him while his valet continued to spew inanities at her. He glanced swiftly at his three dinner guests and they had risen as one and were bowing to the unexpected visitor.

Evelyn shot up off the padded chair, offsetting his wig and sprinkling powder down his high forehead. “Deborah?” he whispered with mouth-gaping awe, as if speaking to an apparition, and took a tentative step forward. “
Deborah
.”

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Eve,” she replied in English, a nod at the three bedraggled men who shuffled their feet and smiled sheepishly, not least because she had scooped up off the turned arm of a silk covered chair one of the Lefebvre pamphlets accidentally dropped by the consumptive musician on his way to the fireplace. “Eve… I need—I need
your
help.”

The composer smiled sympathetically and kissed her forehead, gently removing the crushed pamphlet from her fist as he did so. He tossed the offending paper onto the crackling fire behind him. “Yes,
ma cherie
, I rather think that you do.”

T
EN

E
VELYN WAS SITTING
at the breakfast table by the long windows with their view of the rectangular courtyard when Deb appeared from his bedchamber dressed in a pretty day gown of muslin, her hair in a single plait down her back. She was feeling very much better for a good night’s sleep. He had insisted that she take his bed; he slept as best he could on the daybed in his dressing room. They had not exchanged more than half a dozen sentences the night before, leaving what was most important to be said for the morning.

Deb knew Evelyn’s gaze never wavered from her profile as she sipped
café au lait
, but she pretended an interest in the cobblestone walk lined with chestnut trees and the team of gardeners working in the flowerbeds. She picked up a warm bread roll, relieved that she no longer felt nauseous at the prospect of eating with her maid one step behind holding a basin. And that had been on the good days when she was well enough to take a little fresh air in the back garden of her house in Bath. Then one day, after four months of morning sickness, and as Dr. Medlow had continually assured her on his frequent visits, the nausea had disappeared as instantly as it had begun.

She had so much to say and discuss with Evelyn that she did not know where to begin. That she had not seen the composer for three years made conversation all the more awkward. Particularly when he must know by now about her arranged marriage to his cousin. She wondered how much he knew and what he knew. Her marriage and the consequences of its consummation had consumed her every waking moment since that hateful day at Martin Ellicott’s Queen Anne house, and were still so painfully raw she avoided talk of it altogether and asked after her nephew, whom she had missed dreadfully and who had been living with the Roxtons since their eldest son had orchestrated the mock elopement.

“Have you seen much of Jack?” she asked lightly then added in a rush, meeting Evelyn’s unwavering gaze, “Is he well? Is he happy? Do they make him welcome? Does he ever ask after his aunt?”

“Yes,
ma cherie
. He is well and he is happy and yes, he is made very welcome by the Duke and Duchess. And Henri-Antoine likes him, which says a great deal about Jack, for my haughty young cousin doesn’t like many people,” Evelyn replied with a smile, reading the apprehension in her brown eyes. “And yes, he has asked after you on many occasions; particularly the question of your arrival. But of course he is a boy who wants to appear a man, so he does not reveal to anyone that he misses you terribly. The Duchess she sees this and does her best to make him comfortable.”

“Her Grace is very good,” Deb murmured with downcast eyes.

“Yes, my aunt is, as always, very good.”

“My house—My house was very empty without Jack,” Deb admitted quietly. “But an aunt with morning sickness is no company for a nine-year old boy… You say he has played for you? Tell me honestly your opinion of his playing. Does he live up to his aunt’s high praise?”

Evelyn put up his brows at her open pronouncement of her condition but ignored it for the time being, saying evenly, “When he plays he reminds me of Otto.”

Deb heard the note of sadness and put out her hand across the table. “Did I not tell you in my letters? There is the same natural grace in his style and he feels the music as I never can and—”

“Deb, dearest. He has his father’s ability to be sure but not his passion,” Evelyn told her seriously. “Jack enjoys playing for its own sake but he is first and foremost like other boys his age. And that is no bad thing.”

Deb bit her lip. “I see. I’ve pushed him too hard.”

“Not at all,
ma cherie
. I think you miss Otto; I do, very much. And when Jack plays it is as if Otto is with us again. Jack is his father’s son and he has talent but you must permit him to decide if composing and playing music will be his way of life. One may have a love of music and the love of playing a musical instrument without making it their sole purpose for existence as Otto did. Look at me. I pretend to be a composer—”

“—but you are!”

Evelyn laughed. “I compose music but I am not the composer or even the great musician that Otto was. He lived for his music. He sacrificed his comforts and his wants, his good name and even his family, yes, even Rosa and Jack, came second to Otto’s compositions. I, on the other hand, could never sacrifice my all for music.” He held Deb’s hand across the cluttered breakfast table. “To put it bluntly,
ma cherie
, I indulge my musical eccentricities because I have the wealth and family support to do so. My musical composition is seen by family and friends alike as a passing interest, to be indulged, not taken seriously.” He shrugged and sat back. “So be it. Music is at least an escape from the mundanity of one’s social position. Being related to a ducal house is a tiresome business: every move watched by a thousand pairs of eyes; most of us with little to do but parade about in fine silks from one social function to the next, with your social equals for the entertainment of your inferiors. And if you are unlucky enough to be an eldest son life is spent in limbo waiting to inherit title, estate and the seat in the House of Lords. I have escaped such an existence by immersing myself in music. Alston spent several years wandering Italy, Greece and the Ottoman Empire and thus he too managed for a time to avoid social suffocation. However, he can no longer do so, nor delay the inevitable. His father, the grand old Duke of Roxton, is ill. It is whispered he is dying from a complaint of the lung.”

“Dying?” Deb repeated softly. “How dreadful…” She stood up, a hand to her aching lower back, and stared out of the window, down at the velvet green lawns where a huddle of lackeys were creating a commotion struggling to erect a striped marquee. “Do the physicians know how much time is left to him?”

“We have heard widely differing opinions from numerous physicians. The more morose say it is only a matter of months; those who wish to remain in their noble client’s pay tell him confidently he has many more years of earthly pleasure; then there are those who see the sorrow in my aunt’s lovely eyes and lie, predicting M’sieur le duc will live to see three score years and ten.”

“Then I see why Lord Alston felt some urgency in getting me with child,” Deb said bitterly.

Evelyn went to her, took hold of her hands and met her sad gaze squarely. “I do not excuse my cousin’s conduct any more than you do,
ma cherie
. But perhaps I understand it a little better knowing the Duke, and the arrogant shadow he casts over his family and retainers. Tell me honestly: Do you love your husband?”

“I cannot answer that,” she said in a stricken voice, her brown eyes meeting his steady blue-eyed gaze, “because I do not know to whom I am married.”

Evelyn was more attuned to her confused feelings than she realized for his response startled her. “You may not know the Marquis of Alston, indeed your feelings for him must be quite repellent after such a deception, but what of the man you willingly eloped with and married, the man you know as Julian Hesham? What are your feelings for him?”

Deb stared at Evelyn through a blindness of tears, overcome with such sadness as her mind’s eye flooded with memories of her honeymoon with the man she loved and had known only as Julian Hesham. The hard emotional shell she had cultivated and shown her brother cracked down its center and fell away.

“You are right,” she answered quietly. “I do not know the Marquis of Alston at all, except to say he is detestable and arrogant and everything hateful and despised that is written in that disgusting pamphlet.” She took the lace handkerchief he offered her and smiled a watery smile as she dabbed dry her eyes. “Eve, it’s as if I married two men. One is very caring and easy-going and enjoys the simple pleasures of life. I care about that one deeply; I love him. The other one is this insufferably arrogant creature who was banished by his father for his unspeakable actions and who it is whispered is depraved beyond redemption. That one I hate.”