The Curious Rogue (5 page)

“Can you imagine how it would be to have a ruffian force his way into your coach?” She posed the question dramatically.

Gasps came from the four women; their eyes flew to Elizabeth.

“Why, he forced his way in and forced Elizabeth to help him escape the king’s men,” Lady Waddington explained with the verve of a practiced gossip. “You can imagine how unsettling it was. It is quite natural she has not yet recovered.”

“You know I was
not
unsettled by the incident in the least,” Elizabeth noted acidly. “And he did not use force—”

“As I was saving,” Aunt Waddie said loudly, “Elizabeth is not feeling well.”

“‘Pon my soul, Elizabeth,” exclaimed Suzanne. “If it had happened to me, I would have fainted, I am certain, or at least gone into high hysterics. But you always did have more...

“Well, you know how delicate I am.” She sighed.

Hoping to ease matters, Mrs. Chatworth asked, “Have you heard from your brother recently, Miss Jeffries?
”

“Our last letter arrived two months past. We are hopeful of hearing again soon, but it is very difficult to get letters through. It takes many bribes.” Her eyes went to the two French ladies.

“Your brother is a
captif
of Bonaparte,
n’est-ce pas
?”
Madame
Mone asked, meeting the glance without flinching.

“Yes, his ship was taken off Brest more than four and twenty months past,” Elizabeth answered coldly.

“We do hope he has not fared too badly,”
Madame
Turren offered kindly.

“Do you?”

“Elizabeth,” Lady Waddington said sharply. “Perhaps our guests would like some music. Why don’t you and Miss Chatworth play one of your delightful duets on the pianoforte?”

“Come, let’s do.” Suzanne rose eagerly. “I know it will raise your spirits,” she whispered, taking Elizabeth’s hand.

Miss Jeffries rose but was very doubtful of the truth of those words. The entire evening had become a series of sharp retorts to others and reprimands to herself. “Let us play ‘
Trieste Carmine’
,” she suggested as they sat at the piano.

“But that is such a sad melody,” Suzanne objected, but acceded with a sigh.

The melancholy air filled the room as the young ladies applied themselves to it with skill. Aunt Waddie looked at her niece searchingly. Her behaviour was distinctly at odds with her usual charming demeanour.

Elizabeth never played better. Her heart lent a new depth to the music, expressing a deep, frustrating sorrow she could not understand.

Chapter Five

“I am so glad you decided to remain in London for a time,” Lady Juliane told Comte
de Cavilon a few days after his evening call, as they seated themselves on a bench in St. James’s Park. The afternoon sunshine of early April warmed the spirits of many, including Lady Tretain’s two young daughters.

“You mustn’t pull your sister’s hair,” she called out sternly to the younger, who had a determined hold on her sister Michelle’s locks. “I fear Anne Marie is going to be a great deal like me,” she sighed, watching long enough to ensure compliance.

“And what is to be feared in that?” Cavilon smiled. “She is a beautiful child.”

“But more towards the hoyden than the lady,” Lady Juliane answered pensively. “I have no fears for Michelle’s successful entry into society when the time comes. She is already conscious of her looks and only six years of age. Why, I must have been six and twenty before I...” She laughed at herself, shaking her head.

“Now Anne Marie, even though only four, is concerned solely with defending her rights.”

“For my part a woman who is not overly concerned with her looks would be a vast relief.” The comte
’s
eyes strayed to the children. “If Anne Marie had a score more years, mayhaps I could be persuaded to...”

“Fah, you are the eternal bachelor, Louis,” Lady Juliane teased. “What woman would dare vie with your magnificence?” she asked and waved a hand at his elaborate toilet. “Although I do think you should desist in wearing those powdered perukes. They are just not the style.”

Cavilon sighed, sagging into a crestfallen pose.

“Why, Louis, I had no idea they meant so much to you. I did not mean...”

He looked at her with woebegone eyes. “Even you, Juliane? My only hope for English womanhood, concerned with style? La, women are all the same.”

“You are teasing again, Louis. When will you become serious? I—”

“Why, Lady Tretain, how nice to see you.”

The large, turbaned bulk of Lady Reed blocked the sunshine.

“Are those two adorable cherubs your daughters?” she gushed as she halted before Lady Juliane. “What a charming picture they present. Much like my own dear Barbara before she came from the schoolroom.” The proud mama manoeuvred her daughter into Cavilon’s view.

Taking the lady’s words with an inner sigh, for Anne Marie was at the moment tackling Michelle, Lady Juliane nodded a greeting. “How nice to see you,” she said, hoping this was to be a brief encounter. There was much she wanted to ask the comte.

“I don’t believe you have ever met my Barbara.” Lady Reed prodded the girl forward.

Miss Reed, just come from the schoolroom this season, blushed fiercely but curtsied, her eyes fast upon the grass.

“Of course you know Comte
de Cavilon, Lady Reed,” Lady Juliane said when the matron’s look told her she would remain until introduced. She barely suppressed a fit of giggles as Cavilon wriggled his nose and cocked his head to acknowledge the woman.

“La, what a pleasure.” He waved his kerchief wearily.

“A most decided pleasure,” Lady Reed beamed. “I saw you at Mr. Seibring’s on Wednesday last. Perhaps your lordship would consent to grace our soirée on Thursday next?” she rushed to invite him. “I shall send a card at once,” she added before he could refuse. The large woman then nudged her daughter once more.

“So... so pleased to make your... acquaintance, my lord,” the young Miss Reed stammered, undone by his lordship’s elegance and unnerving manner.

“We must be going.” The lady fluttered a hand in farewell and marched proudly away, her purpose accomplished.

“Another conquest,” Lady Juliane teased when the pair was out of hearing.

“It never ceases to amaze me,” Cavilon noted dryly. He raised his lace to his nose and delicately sniffed. “No matter how odd my dress or curious my habits, the determined English mama is ever able to find credit for them. They are quite willing, nay, eager to foist their daughters into my hands.”

“Your dress odd?” The Countess Tretain arched an eyebrow, a finger to her cheek. When this drew no response, she continued more seriously. “Not everyone is eager to know you only because of your pounds sterling.”

“But the rumours of my wealth procure immediate acceptance for me. Name a woman other than your who would fawn over me if I were poor, or who would not hurry to offer me her charms if chance of wedlock were held before her.”

The bitterness in his voice shocked Lady Juliane. “There is Lady Wolhampton,” she offered meekly.

“She is five and ninety.” Cavilon broke into a grin and shook his head.

“You did not give any limitations,” Lady Juliane smiled in relief. “But let us be serious. You—you are becoming too cynical, Louis,” she noted sadly. “I do not deny you are correct up to a point, but there are women who hold honour more valuable than wealth.

“What reaction can you expect, though, the way you carry on?” she challenged. “The young ladies of the
beau monde
are raised spoiled beyond belief and taught from the cradle that they are the centre of importance in the world. You challenge them by believing that exactly the same is true for you.”

“Ahh, la, a true scold. It has been years since...” An odd look came to his eyes. For a second he saw not Lady Juliane but Elizabeth Jeffries before him.

“Louis? Louis, are you well?” Lady Tretain asked, laying a hand upon his arm.

The comte shook himself. “When have you known me to have but the best of health?” He forced a smile.

A sudden answer for Cavilon’s recent strange behaviour occurred to Lady Juliane. “Have you lost your funds?” she asked.

“No, my dear countess,” he laughed and patted her hand. “The four percents are as certain as ever. Do not concern yourself. I fear I have been neglectful and bothersome this afternoon.”

“Of course not. I was delighted when you called and asked to take us out. Oh, dear.” She rose and rushed forward, scooping Anne Marie from atop a lad slightly larger than the little girl.

An irate nanny ran forward at the same time and picked up the crying lad. Tossing a quelling look at Lady Juliane, whom she thought to be an overdressed member of her own profession, she carried the boy off.

“He called me a name, Mama,” Anne Marie protested, wriggling in her mother’s arms.

Cavilon came up to them at his usual tilt. “Lady Anne Marie,” he bowed exaggeratedly, waving his kerchief wildly, which distracted the little girl as he had intended, and caused her to chortle.

“I would be delighted to defend your honour,” the comte told her and kissed her hand.

“Would you, Uncle Louis?” she asked excitedly. Then a question entered her eyes.

“You doubt me?” Cavilon tweaked her check.

“But if you did, you might muss your pretty clothes, and Michelle says you would never do that,” Anne Marie told him ruefully.

“Your first lesson,
ma petite,”
Cavilon took her from her mother, “is to learn to never believe all you hear about a person, nor believe just what he wishes you to see about him,” he told her as he smoothed her gown over her petticoats.

“That is true for women as well as for men,” Lady Juliane noted pointedly.

“Come, young ladies.” She took hold of Michelle’s hand. “It is time we returned home.”

“Oh, must we?” Anne Marie disclaimed.

“Think of your little brother. He must be lonely,” Lady Juliane told her.

“What if I were to let you ride beside my driver?” Cavilon asked, putting her down.

“Would you?”

“People will stare at you. It would be most improper,” Michelle told her primly. “Ask Mama.”

Lady Juliane threw a hint of a frown at her eldest. “You may... if Uncle Louis rides with you. I would not like to chance the child falling,” she explained in answer to his look.

“Then we shall do it. It is time I gave the town a new
on dit.
Come, let us go. I see my coach.” The comte led Anne Marie forward, his heart melting beneath her grateful smile.

Handing Lady Juliane and Michelle into the coach, Cavilon ordered his driver down. “You will be so good as to ride with the footman,” he told the man as he climbed onto the box.

“Please hand Lady Anne Marie to me.” Taking the little girl, he made certain she was securely seated before picking up the reins. After a nod at the footman at the team’s head to release them, he flicked the reins and eased them out into the busy street.

“What was it the young man called you?” Cavilon asked, his curiosity pricked by the violence of the little girl’s reaction.

“He said I was a lady,” Anne Marie answered with an insulted grimace. “I told him I would rather be a hoyden, and he laughed. That’s when I hit him.”

“And what is a hoyden?” he asked, wondering if this little one was more knowledgeable than he supposed.

“I... I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But Papa says he loves Mama because she is still more a hoyden than a lady.”

Cavilon laughed gently. “May you never change, Anne Marie,” he told her with a smile.

“Could we gallop, Uncle Louis?”

“For you,
ma belle petite,
anything.”

Those who knew the comte gaped in surprise at the sight of him atop the box with the joyous little girl beside him. It was widely known that Cavilon disliked the London air and was seldom, if ever, seen in anything but his closed coach. Even more startling was that he would permit a child near him and that she was being allowed to crush the tail of his velvet coat as she clung to it as they bowled down the street.

* * * *

“Here you are Elizabeth,” Lady Waddington clucked, pouncing on her niece in the sewing room. “I have been trying to find you since breakfast. My lord, what are you doing?” She gazed in horror as her niece rent a wide strip of material from a linen bed sheet. It was evident from the material surrounding the young woman that several sheets had already met a similar fate.

“Wrappings... bandages for the wounded,” Elizabeth answered, vigorously tearing another strip from the bed linen.

“Quite commendable, my dear, but what has Henry to say to this? It would not do if our guests were forced to sleep on bare mattresses.”

“The émigrés should be happy to have anything to sleep on. Besides, these sheets have seen many years of service and shall not be missed. I am certain Uncle Henry would approve.”

Deciding to ignore her niece’s first words, her aunt attacked her last. “Elizabeth, when are you going to learn that you must always question a man before you do anything, even if you are not interested in his answer. It is the first principal of being a good wife.” Lady Waddington shook her head despairingly.

“But I have no need to concern myself with such a rule,” Miss Jeffries quipped. She wound the last strip she had torn into a neat roll. “I have been delivered once more. Mr. Wayne took his leave this morn after breakfast.”

“You should be ashamed of the way you treated that young man,” her aunt scolded. She sat, picked up a strip, and began to roll it as she saw Elizabeth do.

“Is it my fault he was so easily cowed? I do wish you and Uncle would find men of at least minor spirit if you must throw them in my path.”

Lady Waddington eyed her sceptically. No one had ever cowed Elizabeth, nor were they ever likely to, she thought. It is all George’s fault, educating her as if she were a lad, allowing her to run the house at such an early age when her mother passed away. Why, she had been only ten at the time.

“Why were you looking for me, Aunt?” Elizabeth asked, breaking Lady Waddington’s reverie.

“Oh, Madam Turren wishes to go into Ashford. I was wondering if you could go with her. Her English is fair, but she forgets it all if she becomes flustered,” Aunt Waddie continued, diligently rolling the stripe.