Sweet Bravado (23 page)

A dejected Nicole joined Madame Lafitte in the breakfast room.

“He does not wish to see me.”

“Naturellement.
He is ill, depressed. His pride has been injured. This will pass.”

“No, I do not think so.”

“Give him time. If he loves you…”

“He does not.”

“Are you certain,
ma chère?
He does not act with indifference toward you.”

“That is because he fears I will cause a scandal.”

“And have you not?” Madame Lafitte asked boldly.

Nicole raised her chin haughtily, then subsided. “Yes, Fifi, I suppose I have but… I was provoked. I have my pride too,” she
pouted childishly.

“Is your pride more important than the love and welfare of the Viscount?”

“No, no, it is not,” Nicole confessed. “I realize now I was wrong to allow the past to influence my judgment.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? He will not even talk to me.”

“But he will.”

“When? Fifty years from now?”

“Soon,
mon enfant.
And when he does, what will you say to him?”

“I do not know.”

“Then I will tell you,
n’est-ce pas?”
Nicole inclined her head and Lafitte continued, “You will be humble…” Nicole’s face froze, but before she could speak, Madame
Lafitte went on,
“Non, non,
this time you must listen, child, if you truly love this man and want to save your marriage.”

Nicole sighed, “Yes, Fifi, tell me what I must do.”

Lafitte patted her hand reassuringly and continued, “You must soothe his anger, assuage his feelings. Let him be master. Do
not challenge him and swallow some of that pride of yours. But, of course, if you do not love him
enough, or your pride is more important to you than his love, then you will continue as you have, been and will lose him forever.
This one is a
man.”
She watched various emotions chase themselves across Nicole’s face.

“So, I shall be docile,” she finally replied.

“Yes, but do not become a simpering idiot. That would drive him away even faster. The Viscount likes a little fire with his
ice, eh?”

Madame Lafitte’s advice did much to alleviate Nicole’s fears for the moment; nevertheless, two days later it was difficult
to remain optimistic in the face of the taciturn Viscount who appeared at breakfast. His heightened color frightened her,
and she tried to dissuade him from going to headquarters for another day, only to receive a frosty retort.

“Your concern is misplaced, madame,” he said and strode from the room.

Madame Lafitte smiled encouragingly at Nicole but said nothing. Several gloomy days and nights passed, each much the same.
They would breakfast in relative silence; then he would leave for headquarters, not returning until late evening. If he was
at home in the evening, the Viscount would closet himself in the library while Madame Lafitte and Nicole sat in the drawing
room. Before retiring, he would stop at the drawing room, wish them both a formal goodnight, and disappear.

“He is drinking,” Nicole whispered on one occasion.

“How can you tell?”

“Have you not noticed the look in his eyes? Oh, he begins to infuriate me! That exaggerated bow and formal goodnight speech.
I am so angry. I should very much like to kick him.”

“I should not advise it,” Lafitte chuckled and then added, “Patience, Nicole, patience.”

But Nicole’s patience was beginning to wear thin as
several more days passed and Valentin continued to ignore her. She was dutifully stitching a sampler one afternoon when she
became aware of his presence in the room. It was not even necessary for her to raise her eyes to know it was he. As always,
his overpowering vitality communicated itself to her.

“Well, madame…” She jumped when he spoke. “What is the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing. I… I did not know anyone had entered the room,” she lied.

“I am sorry if my presence unsettled you, but that is something you will have to get used to. Will you not?” he taunted.

Nicole did not reply, and Madame Lafitte breathed a sigh of relief,

“However, I will not disturb you any longer…”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“Do not get your hopes up, my dear wife. You are not going to get rid of me that easily. I am simply going out. Sorry to disappoint
you.”

“You did not,” she said quietly.

“No?” he drawled.

Remembering her resolve, Nicole did not react. Controlling her temper, she shrugged her shoulders, saying, “It is for you
to believe me or not.”

Briefly she held his eyes; then forcing himself to look elsewhere, he said, “Do not wait up for me.”

“Will you be late again?” She regretted the question as soon as it was spoken.

Turning, he appraised her coolly. “That is my business.” And he left the room.

“Oh,” she cried angrily, and raced to the door.

“Non, non, chérie,
let him go!” Madame Lafitte urged.

Nicole clutched the door handle, then collapsed against it in resignation.

Madame Lafitte hoped the Viscount would change his tactics soon, or this private battle between these two strong-willed people
would surely be lost.

Nicole knew nothing about the encounter arranged between the Viscount and Crawley’s seconds. Sometime after the disastrous
incident at Zarelle’s, Valentin slipped quietly out of the house just before dawn on a crisp spring morning. Meeting Danforth,
they rode in silence toward their destination, a copse by a small creek, a short distance outside the city of Brussels.

Thinking back over the events that had led up to this fatal climax, Valentin knew this was the only possible solution. Reining
in at the edge of the clearing, he reached into his vest pocket and extracted two envelopes, one addressed to his mother and
the other to Nicole. He smiled uncertainly at Danforth as his friend accepted them with a grave nod. Then dismounting, they
approached Lord Crawley and his seconds. A bitter silence stalked the foursome which was broken briefly by a short protest
from the attending surgeon. But his complaints fell on deaf ears as the pistols were inspected, primed, and handed to the
principals. This time it would be a much quicker matter. Standing back to back in their shirt-sleeves, they waited for Danforth
to begin the count. As he called out the numbers, the opponents marched in opposite directions until he reached ten. Then
in the cold grey light of dawn, they faced each other and cocked their pistols. The handkerchief dropped, and the pistols
exploded.

A moment’s stillness followed the report. Then a glint of disbelief crossed Crawley’s face as he pitched forward to the ground.
Valentin’s bullet had struck him in the heart and the surgeon pronounced him dead. The grimness faded from the Viscount’s
face and was replaced by one of sadness. At the sound of thundering hoof-beats, his
features grew austere. If it were the authorities, they were too late.

“Colonel Harcourt!” One of the breathless men shouted as he dismounted.

“Here, gentlemen! If you have come to prevent the duel, you are too late.”

“Is that Lord Crawley, sir?”

“It was.”

“We were sent to arrest him on orders from Sir Thomas Chaldoner.”

“Arrest him?” the Viscount claimed incredulously. “What for?”

“For spying sir. He was a French agent.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“It looks like you just saved the state the trouble of hanging him. Unfortunately, the information we hoped to obtain will
go to the grave with him.”

“Sorry to disoblige you, gentlemen.”

“Still, if we could keep his death quiet for a while, it might help us discover his cohorts. Do we have your word on this
gentlemen?” The others nodded their agreement. “Then we will take care of the body, Colonel.”

Valentin breathed a sigh of relief as he stared at his fallen enemy. “You have just relieved me of a tremendous burden. My
thanks.” Without another word, he crossed to his horse, mounted, and rode away without a backward glance.

Rearranging the pillows on her bed for the tenth time, Nicole sighed with exasperation. Closing her eyes, she tried to fall
back to sleep. Why had she awakened at this ungodly hour? Why was she so tense as if expecting something momentous to happen?
What could it be? The Viscount’s voice suddenly echoing in the hallway below drew Nicole’s attention immediately. Quickly
slipping out of
bed and grabbing her negligee, she raced out of her chamber along the corridor and down the stairs to the library. Bursting
into the room and startling both men, she cried breathlessly, “Don’t do it!”

The sight of Nicole in her night clothes reminded Valentin of their meeting some six months ago. This same violet-eyed girl
with her long raven tresses had braved his wrath with such sweet bravado. Recovering from his recollections, he asked between
amusement and longing, “Don’t do what?”

“Fight Crawley!!”

“Why do you not sit down, Nicole,” Danforth suggested.

“I do not want to sit down!” She barely spared him a glance as she turned back to Valentin watching the tightening of his
facial muscles. “What is it?”

“I am afraid I have bad news for you,” he said through compressed lips. “News that must not go beyond this room.”

Danforth shook his head at the Viscount’s choice of words. “Bad news?” She clenched the back of the nearest chair, her knuckles
showing white.

“Yes, a little over an hour ago I killed Joseph Crawley.

“Oh, God,” she whispered covering her face with her hands. What had she done? It was her fault. “Poor Joseph.”

“Sorry, my dear,” he said sarcastically. “I know how you felt about him.”

Raising her head proudly, she retorted defensively, “No… no, I am afraid you don’t!” She read the message in those icy blue
eyes.

“No?” he questioned cynically. “Then perhaps you should enlighten me.”

She would
never
make him understand! Tears glistened
in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she stared at him. Finally an inarticulate sound escaped her, and she fled from
the room.

Valentin shrugged, his face full of defeat. “There you have it, Danforth.”

“Have what, Val?”

“Don’t be so blind!” Valentin struck the desk with his fist. “She loved the cur.”

“Love? My God, Val, have you gone completely mad?” Danforth asked incredulously. “She has never loved anyone but you.”

Valentin laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t expect me to believe that!”

“It is true, though. As I told you… when I.lst Geneviève it was your wife who comforted me because she understood the anguish
I felt. You have been too hard on her, my friend. She has been all alone. No wonder she has made mistakes.” He spoke earnestly.
“Poor girl—deserted by her husband when she most needed him.”

“Enough!” Valentin commanded and strode from the room.

Danforth’s words rankled all day and into the night. To his chagrin the Viscount could not forget them and began feeling guilty
of neglecting his young wife. By the following morning he gave into his long suppressed hopes and greeted her with unusual
cordiality at breakfast.

“That shade of yellow becomes you,” Valentin observed, taking in the sprig muslin dress which accentuated her dark hair and
eyes. “Is it new?”

“Why yes,” Nicole was surprised by the warmth in his voice and his smiling countenance. “A designer lately arrived from Paris
created it.”

“Bonjour, bonjour,”
Madame Lafitte bustled into the room and happily regarded the seated couple. “Is it
not a grand day? It gives one the appetite, yes?” She heaped her plate with food from the sideboard. “Such a day as this was
made for merriment
n’est-ce pas?”

“You’re right, madame,” Valentin said as he seated her at the table. “And speaking of amusement, the Bram wells’ soirée is
tonight. Will you come with me, Nicole? Many of your friends have been asking about you, and I am afraid I can think of no
more excuses for you.”

“Excuses for me?” she queried. “But I have gone nowhere because of your ultimatum.” A shrillness crept into her voice.

“My ultimatum? What the devil are you talking about?”

“You warned me not to go anywhere without your permission: Remember?” she claimed indignantly.

“That was before you compromised yourself at Zarelle’s,” he stated flatly.

“Compromised? I? You made the scene, my lord, not I!”

“I what?” He rose from the table and crossed to her. “Why you little fool, what do you think would have happened to you if
I had not arrived?”

Nicole was about to reply angrily when she felt a good, swift kick to her shin bone. Madame Lafitte frowned at her as she
cried out in pain.

Brought up short, Valentin asked, “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” she gasped, “my leg… a sudden cramp, that is all.”

“Are you sure?” He knelt down beside her as she began to rub her foot. “I thought you said‘leg’?”

“I… I meant… foot.”

“Here let me.” He lifted her foot onto his knee, removed her slipper, and began massaging it gently. He looked up at Nicole
and caught the soft glow of her eyes on him. “Does that help?” he asked a little unsteadily.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she murmured and smiled.

“Good.” He placed her foot back into the slipper and rose. Studying her upturned face, Valentin almost yielded to the temptation
to kiss her. Squaring his shoulders instead, he said quietly, “Nicole, we must go out together sometime soon and squelch these
rumors which are circulating about us.”

“Rumors about us?”

“Yes, of course. Fortunately, Harry has kept Helen quiet about Zarelle’s,” he answered curtly. Then he continued more calmly,
“You will come to the Bramwells’ tonight?”

“I… I would very much like to attend the soirée.”

“Fine. I shall be home early then.”

Madame Lafitte sighed in relief and winked at Nicole who smiled happily.

Despite the large proportions of the Bramwell residence, the rooms were stuffy with such a crowd in attendance. Nevertheless,
it did provide the opportunity for Lord and Lady Ardsmore to mingle somewhat unobtrusively among the guests. The babble of
voices in so many languages reverberated around the room as the Viscount calmly led the way through the many greetings retaining
the Viscountess’ arm with a decidedly protective air. Nicole enjoyed being in society again, especially with her handsome
husband. She looked around the room noting the varied little dramas being enacted. Helen Bramwell was assisting one of her
young guests to an antechamber to repair a tear in the hem of a fragile gown carelessly trodden by a passerby, and across
the room Sophie Eversly
was administering a light tap of her fan to the wrist of an aspiring gallant.