The Curious Rogue (4 page)

* * * *

“This cravat will never do,” the comte told Leveque in a slightly nasal tone. “Redo it.”

With an inner sigh the valet removed the offending linen and replaced it with a fresh one.

“I shall see to this one myself,” Cavilon ordered with exaggerated pique, then deftly arranged it into the perfect folds of the currently popular “cascade” style. Adjusting the lace on his shirt cuffs, he examined his appearance carefully.

The mauve jacket and breeches were styled in such a way as to be loose fitting in some areas and very tight fitting in others, so that he carried himself at a tilt, thus appearing much smaller than he actually was. His black mass of hair was now covered with a bag wig—elegant, if out of fashion—and held in the queue style by a massive mauve bow. A light layer of powder covered his ungentlemanly tanned features, and rouge reddened his lips.

“What of my patches, Leveque? Never mind, my dear man, I shall not be seen by anyone of import this eve. Come, come, where are my kerchiefs?”

The valet brought a tray filled with lace-edged linen and silk squares.

Choosing one with a double frilled edging, the comte placed it in an inner pocket of his cutaway jacket. A second of the same size worked in silver thread was placed behind his watch in the pocket of his waistcoat. A third, ruched in three-inch lace, was tucked into his cuff band.

“My boxes, I must have my boxes, Leveque,” he prattled.

A second tray of an assortment of elegant and costly snuffboxes and pill cases was brought to him. These varied from delicate enamels to heavier ceramics to bejewelled and gold-leafed marvels. Choosing two, Cavilon placed them in the tooled-leather bag upon the commode, then placed the strap of the pack over his shoulder. “Order my coach, my closed coach, of course. I do believe I am ready.” He breathed a delicate sigh of relief as he paused before his looking glass once more.

The stilted pose was eased several seconds after the door closed behind the valet. For a long moment Cavilon glared with distaste at the powdered face gazing back at him, then resumed all the affectations that achieved the startling alteration in his looks. There was no trace of Martin to be seen when he left the room. His transformation was complete.

Chapter Four

Arriving outside No. 41 Grosvenor Square, Comte de Cavilon stepped from his closed coach with exaggerated steps and minced to the door. His footman rushed to lift the door knocker for him.

“Comte
de Cavilon to see the Earl of Tretain,” the footman told the butler when the door opened.

“Lord Tretain will be most pleased to see you, my lord,” the butler told the comte. Ignoring the footman the butler took Cavilon’s hat and gloves. “My lord is in the library.”

“I shall go on my own, Homer.” Cavilon waved his kerchief from his cuff and treaded towards the library with the light, tilted pose by which all recognized him.

“Louis!” Lord Adrian Tretain’s face lit with pleasure at the sight of his friend. “From the gossip floating about London I feared for you.

“When did you return? Come sit.” The earl pulled a bell cord as Cavilon swayed into position on the sofa at one side of the fireplace. “See we are not disturbed,” he instructed Homer, and went to his seat as the butler closed the doors. After carefully scrutinizing his friend, he noted, “You look exhausted. Would you care for some brandy or port?”

“And after I was so very careful with my toilet.” Cavilon sighed and daubed at the corner of his eve.

Tretain shook his head unsympathetically. “The trip was that difficult?”

“Brandy,” Cavilon told him, slowly relaxing but not entirely dropping his pose. “Mayhaps it is time I tried in earnest to become a four-bottle man,” he quipped lightly.

Tretain peered sharply at the comte as he filled the glasses. “There is word about London that Lord Frombv has offered a reward for a smuggler by the name of Martin. He even implies the man is a traitor. The Admiralty has been forced to send a special assignment of men to find him.”

“Then Martin had better beware.” Cavilon arched a brow.

“There was trouble?” Tretain handed the glass to the comte.

Cavilon took a sip, and then drank more than half the glass. “There was an unusually large group of excise men on the shore to bid me welcome,” he said cryptically.

“I thought a Frenchman was taught from birth to savour his liqueur,” Tretain commented. He refilled the other’s glass before sitting across from him.

Cavilon drew a sheaf of papers from the purse beneath his arm. “Pass these on as usual. The Admiralty will find them interesting as well as useful.”

“How did you escape the excise men?” the earl asked, accepting the papers.

“It was not very difficult, but it was odd to find them placed as they were. They not only had the area where we landed surrounded but also knew the direction of the farm.”

“Did they take anyone?”

“I believe all escaped when I drove the officers’ mounts through the fray on the beach. I am grateful the king’s men can afford such excellent beasts,” he said, and smiled. “Else I would not have evaded those waiting me at the farm.”

“Awaiting you? This is serious. Just what did you do to Fromby?” Tretain asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I simply gave the pompous ass a lesson in deportment, although he did not take too well to the water. You had better see what can be done to control his enthusiasm for finding Martin. I don’t mind playing games with Bonaparte’s men, but I would prefer not to be regarded as a pheasant in season here,” Cavilon told him wryly.

“It is time you took a rest. You have dared too much for too long.”

“I believe you are correct,” the comte agreed, to the other’s surprise. “It is no longer a distraction.”

“What troubles you,
bon ami
?” Tretain asked softly.

Cavilon stared at him for a long moment, then his gaze moved to the fire burning brightly in the grate. “Perhaps I am like a fire that has burned too brilliantly for too long. The flame to avenge my family, lost in the bloodbath of the revolution, the loss of my home, my lands... my country—it was all-consuming for a time. The danger, the risk, was but fuel for the flame. Each challenge, once conquered, drew me to the next. It became a game.”

“I recall that feeling,” Tretain reminisced. “The excitement of the chase, of overcoming all odds. Before I met my Juliane I was much the same as you. Even now there are odd moments when I wonder if I should have given it up so completely. But they are very few.” His eyes rose to the portrait of his wife above the fireplace.

The comte
’s
gaze followed his friend’s. “Yours was a most unusual courtship, as I recall it.” He smiled. “You have had no regrets?”

“None,” the earl assured him. “You must call when you can see the children.”

“I never thought to hear such words from you,” Cavilon teased. “Do you remember those four ladies we entertained in Trier for a week? What about Versailles, when you were forced to flee in only your nightshirt?”

“At least that was better than the time those
chevaliers
caught you in the bath with Lady Breaux,” Tretain countered, and both men broke into laughter.

The earl noticed that Cavilon’s gaiety quickly faded. A restlessness he had seen growing in the other man for some time replaced it. “There are compensations that make such recollections small,” he offered gently. “Children—”

“Is Juliane breeding again?”

A proud smile came to Tretain’s face. “Yes, our sixth.”

“You mean fourth, do you not?” the comte corrected.

“Well, yes, but Andre and Leora seem like our own. Leora was little more than a babe when we wed.”

“How do your young nephew and niece fare?”

“Andre is at Christ Church Oxford and doing very well. He is anxious for the day when he can join the war. But that is natural, having lost his mother to the French as he did. Leora is all of seven now and still in the nursery with our three.”

“Perhaps you shall have a second son this time,” Cavilon mused.

“It matters not, although Mother would cringe if she heard me say that.”

The comte chuckled at the thought of the Dowager Countess of Tretain. “How is she?” he asked.

“Very well for her age. She enjoys having the children about.”

“How
domestique
you have become with all this talk of children,” Cavilon said more sharply than he had intended. He finished his brandy, rose, and refilled his glass.

“What troubles you?” Tretain questioned a second time, puzzled by his friend’s unusual lack of composure. Something had occurred to shake the iron calm the comte always maintained.

Cavilon swung about abruptly. “When you met Juliane, were you certain... I mean did you feel...” He groped for words.

“You don’t mean to wed at last?” Tretain exclaimed, and then lifted an eyebrow. “
Certes
not that lightskirt you keep at—”

“No,” the comte answered curtly. “That was ended this eve,” he continued in a milder tone. “I fear I was gone too long. Those situations are not long-lived in any event,” he concluded, the subject dismissed.

“Then who?” Tretain asked, puzzled.

“No one,” Cavilon returned. “The voyage across the Channel was rough. I have not slept for two days. I begin to ramble. The joy has gone out of the game. I have tired of it. Of this, too.” He waved the lace kerchief.

“The pretence serves you—and all England—well,” the earl told him, admiration for the other filling his words.

“It may soon he time for it to end,” Cavilon mused. “I believe I shall look about England for an estate, something which would fill my time.”

“There are lands for sale near Trees,” Tretain began, his eyes brightening at mention of his country seat.

“No, I was thinking more of the eastern counties. I am, after all, more familiar with them.” He sipped his brandy. “Yes, perhaps near Ashford.” Rising, he held out his hand.

“Give my best to Juliane. I take it all is well with her?”

“Yes, it is early days yet. Her confinement will be late in the summer. Why don’t you come to supper tomorrow? She will be angry at having missed you.”

“I shall send word later. I may leave in the morn.”

“What? Without seeing me?” a light voice asked.

The two men turned to the library’s doors. “Homer told me you had come,” Lady Juliane added, approaching them. “You did not mean to leave without seeing me?” she questioned accusingly, a smile belying her tone.

“It is always a delight to see you.” Cavilon bowed with a flourish, his kerchief trailing on the carpet. “You are the only sensible woman I have ever found in England. How sad you are already wed.” He sighed dramatically.

“Stop that nonsense,” Lady Juliane laughed.

The earl stepped to her side and put his arm about her waist.

An odd look came to Cavilon as he gazed upon the happy couple. “I fear I must bid you adieu.” He took Lady Juliane’s hand and kissed it lightly.

“You are most fortunate,” he told Tretain gruffly, and strode past them before either could speak.

“What has come over Louis?” Juliane asked.

“I think he may have met a second ‘sensible’ woman and does not quite know what to do,” Tretain said, putting his arms about his wife.

“Did he say something... mention a name?” she questioned eagerly.

“No, my dear, to both questions. I think he almost did, but Louis has never been very open about such matters.”

“He has been open enough about the courtesans he keeps.”

“But they meant nothing to him,” the earl said gently.

“Has there ever been anyone?”

“Many years past there was the daughter of a French duc. Rosamon was her name, but he has not spoken of her since the days of gore in Paris. I do not even know if she perished there. His look was so black when I began to speak of her one day that I have not brought it up since.

“Now, my love,” he cupped her chin gently, “why don’t we leave Louis and his love, if there be one, to solve their own problems?”

“Of course, my lord,” she answered, mentally adding a “for now” before losing the thought as the earl’s lips claimed hers.

* * * *

The supper table in Sir Henry Jeffries’ dining room seated twelve guests this night, and while his dinner parties were known for their cuisine, intelligent conversation, and good humour, only the food was saving this evening from total failure.

Sir Henry had never seen his niece in such fitful temper. On the ordinary she was pleasant if not biddable, and witty rather than spiteful. Such were her words this eve, when she did speak, that Mr. Wayne, the young barrister at her right, had long since concerned himself with his food only.

Even Lady Madeline had grown silent beneath Elizabeth’s sharp replies and the five French émigrés who had come with her were hoping for an early end to the evening. Only Suzanne Chatworth, daughter of a business acquaintance, and his wife, remained unperturbed and chatted gaily with Sir Henry and
Monsieur
Manc.

“Let us excuse ourselves, ladies,” Lady Waddington signalled an end to the meal. “We shall leave you gentlemen to your port.” She cast a meaningful glance at Elizabeth, who rose dutifully and led the way to the large salon where a fire was burning brightly and tea awaited.

Mrs. Chatworth and her daughter sat on the sofa while Lady Waddington manoeuvred the French ladies,
Madame
Mone and
Madame
Turren, to chairs close by the fire before seating herself.

“Come, Elizabeth, sit down,” Aunt Waddie commanded, pointing to a chair near the Chatworths.

“I am quite capable on my own,” Miss Jeffries snapped. She instantly regretted the outburst as she had many of her actions and words this eve.

“Perhaps you should sit close to the fire,” Suzanne offered innocently. “A chill can bring on the crotchets in one your age,” she teased.

“Are you feeling quite well, Miss Jeffries?” Mrs. Chatworth’s words followed sharply on her daughter’s. “I could not help but notice that you did not seem yourself this eve,” she added, trying to ease the tension.

“Elizabeth has not yet recovered from the severe fright she was dealt just two eves past,” Lady Waddington entered the conversation determinedly. “Quite understandable in a young woman of her sensibilities.