Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (43 page)

   "A bet? I do not know if—"

   "Ah, I see that under the woman is still the child. Never mind. I never do business with children."

   "You have a bet, sir! What are we wagering?"

   He threw back his head and laughed. Louise–Anne, trying to watch them, tripped over St. Michel's foot.

   "I will give you the horse if you can ride her," said Richelieu.

   "No. I will buy her."

   "How tiresome you are. Forget the bet."

   "No. I accept your terms. And if I lose?"

   "You buy me a new hat."

   She laughed at him. She had been afraid he would ask for something fast, forbidden, such as a kiss. She was so relieved that she decided she did like him, after all. St. Michel and Louise–Anne, who had run into another couple in their efforts to keep Richelieu and Barbara in view, agreed to leave their circle of dancers. They watched from the sides.

   "What is he saying?" cried St. Michel. "Armand is pursuing her. I can see it. Bastard! He promised me!"

   "What did he promise?" Louise–Anne demanded. "What?"

   "Listen to me, Barbara," Richelieu was saying. "I will allow you to try riding Sheba only under certain circumstances. One, that your husband knows and approves, and two, that your groom is with you the entire time."

   "Roger will not care—"

   "He will care if you break your neck, and I do not want to fight a duel with him."

   "Whyever not? Are two in one month too much for you?"

   "What an impudent mouth you have. Someone ought to take care of that. No, because he always kills his man."

   "No! Tell me more."

   "I cannot imagine why I wanted to dance with you. Women who love their husbands are a bore."

   "How fortunate then that this dance is ending. Is our wager still on?"

   "Yes. Go away, little girl."

   She stuck her tongue out at him. Several people saw her, but it only made Richelieu laugh. She turned to her next partner, who would treat her with more respect, and with whom she knew she would enjoy dancing far more than she had with Richelieu. But she could not resist checking to see if he was still watching her. He was not. She tossed her head and smiled at her partner.

   Louise–Anne grabbed Richelieu's arm as soon as he got near enough. "What promise did you make to Henri? Tell me."

   Richelieu shrugged. "I have no idea. Did I promise something?"

   "He seems to think so. I saw you romancing the skinny little English. God, what fools you all are over a new face. She would squeal if you touched her. I told Henri so, but he did not believe me. He seems to think she is burning with passion under all that innocence. Do you believe me, Armand?"

   "Indeed I do, pet." He smiled down at her. "Did you really say that to Henri?"

   She nodded, uncertain of his mood. He was sometimes so cruel. To her surprise, he kissed her hand.

   "Thank you, Louise–Anne. You are a treasure."

* * *

   Barbara was having a wonderful time. The other men did not talk to her the way Richelieu did. They smiled and said flattering things, and she enjoyed herself by smiling back and flirting and encouraging them to say even more flattering things. It was a delightful game, except that Roger was not around to see it. He stayed in the card room. When the supper interval came, and Roger had not appeared, and St. Michel, who seemed always to be at her side when Roger was not, suggested a stroll, she agreed. Let Roger come and find her. Let him find her enjoying supper with St. Michel. It would do him good. She was always standing around waiting for him. Tonight, she looked beautiful. He had said so himself. She had made herself beautiful for him. No one else. And he strolled off and left her on her own as if her transformation were nothing. She hoped he was losing at cards. She hoped he had to search an hour to find her. She was so busy hoping that she paid no attention to where St. Michel was leading her. Before she knew it, she was standing with him in a curtained alcove. There was room only for a settee, a kind of lengthened armchair that could seat two people.

   "Sit down, Bab," St. Michel was saying. "I will bring you supper."

   But then he was sitting down beside her. The settee was smaller than she thought. St. Michel sat very close. The dimness of the room made her nervous. St. Michel, at ease, leaned back, one arm across the back of the settee. Barbara moved forward so that she was sitting on the edge. St. Michel laughed softly.

   "What a baby you are. What can I do to you here, my dear Bab? The settee is far too small for any particular intimacy. I merely wish to rest a moment before I go for our supper."

   "I am hungry," Barbara said in a small voice. Sweet Jesus, where was Roger? What if he should walk in and find her sitting so close to Henri? First he missed her social triumph and now he left her on her own with a man who was obviously up to no good. Five minutes. She would let Henri rest five minutes—she jumped. His hand, the one that had rested across the back of she settee, had just touched her bare shoulder, so briefly that she might have thought she had imagined it if the same hand were not now on her neck, caressing it. She tried to twist away.

   "How lovely you look tonight."

   Now both his hands were on her shoulders, holding her, and he was whispering against her neck and back. "Lovely and exciting. Do you know how exciting you are?"

   She could feel his breath on her neck. She pulled away and stood up. He did, too, and his arms were around her, turning her, and they were strong, and he was kissing her.

   "Let me go!" She pushed at him.

   "Barbara!"

   St. Michel's arms dropped from around her. He stepped back and put a hand to his sword. Roger stood at the alcove opening, one of the curtains pushed aside by his hand.

   "Are you well, my dear?" Roger stepped into the alcove and touched her arm.

   "Yes! No! He tried to k—" Roger suddenly squeezed her arm so hard that it silenced her.

   St. Michel and Roger stared at each other. She could hear their breathing, short, staccato breaths, as if each had been running hard. God only knew what she sounded like. She looked from the face of one man to the other. What she saw made her tremble. If Roger had not been holding her arm in a death grip, she would have fallen to the floor. All the glamour of the evening faded beside reality. Roger was going to challenge Henri to a duel. In which one or both of them would be hurt. Or killed. It happened all the time. Over things far sillier than an attempted kiss. Oh, dear God, she had never realized.

   After a moment, which seemed an hour to her nerves, St. Michel bowed and left. As soon as the curtain swung shut behind him, Roger jerked her arm so hard that she stumbled, and said, "You little fool!"

   "He tried to kiss me!"

   "Did he?" He was still holding her arm.

   She wrenched it away. He must not talk to her this way. It was not her fault. She was going to cry if he did not stop staring at her. He was so angry.

   "You are not in Tamworth," he said, his voice making her writhe with shame, "repulsing the attentions of the village yokels. You are in France, and if you do not wish a chevalier to kiss you, you should never enter darkened alcoves with him! Did he kiss you? Look at me! If he did, by God, I will—"

   "No! No! Nothing happened! He tried to—I did not—"

   "Be quiet. Go at once and ask Hyacinthe for our cloaks and our carriage. We are leaving."

   "B-but we have not seen the king—"

   "Do as I say."

   "What are you going to do?"

   "Nothing that concerns you."

* * *

   St. Michel went to the supper room, wiping the perspiration from his brow and upper lip. Trembling, he refolded his handkerchief and took a deep breath. Louise–Anne and Richelieu sat by themselves at a small table, and he joined them without a word, reaching at once for Louise–Anne's wine. He drained the glass. Richelieu motioned for a footman to bring more wine. St. Michel drained that glass too. Then he straightened, his eyes widening. Louise–Anne and Richelieu both turned, in spite of themselves, to see what he was staring at.

   Roger strode toward their table, and Richelieu rose, smiling, but St. Michel sat rooted to his seat.

   "I came to tell you that my wife has a headache, and I am taking her home. I did not want any of you gentlemen who had solicited later dances to be disappointed." Roger's words were clipped and rude, unlike himself.

   "Naturally," said Richelieu slowly, glancing from Roger to St. Michel when St. Michel did not answer.

   "I wanted to dance with you," said Louise–Anne, pouting her full lips at Roger, but he did not notice.

   "I am assuming you lost your way tonight, Henri, in more ways than one." Roger focused on St. Michel, his face grim, his voice edged with challenge. "Lady Devane is inexperienced socially. But I am not, and I guard what is mine."

   His hand moved to his sword. There was a long moment of silence. St. Michel did not move. Neither did Richelieu or Louise–Anne. Abruptly, Roger bowed and left the room.

   "What did you do?" breathed Louise–Anne, her, eyes wide.

   "I kissed her. He almost caught me." St. Michel wiped his brow again. "I will not fight a duel over one kiss. Not for anyone."

   "You kissed her?" asked Richelieu, his eyes sparkling suddenly. "How was it?"

   "I hardly know. There was not time—"

   "What did she do? Did she lie for you?"

   "Not precisely. She started to tell him, but he stopped her."

   "A duel would have hurt her reputation. You should have pushed it. I would have," said Richelieu.

   "Would you?" snapped St. Michel. "Well, I do not fancy dying over one kiss. A fuck, maybe, but never a kiss!"

   "Roger and my uncle," said Louise–Anne, "used to share women between them, and now he is ready to kill for a stolen kiss from his wretched wife. It is too ridiculous for words."

   "He was very insulting," said St. Michel, feeling braver now that Roger was gone, and some of the immediate fear was fading. "I ought to kill him for that."

   "I can think of a sweeter revenge than death. Do you give up, Henri?" asked Richelieu.

   "No! She will come around. She liked my kiss. I could tell—"

   "And a moment ago you could not remember. Amazing!"

   St. Michel put his hand to his sword. Richelieu stood up at once, knocking over his chair. Both had acted before Louise-Anne had time to blink. They stared at each other, the planes of their faces hard, contemptuous.

   "Stop!" she screamed. "If you two fight a duel over that mewling little English child, I will never, never forgive you. Sit down, Armand! Take your hand from that sword! Have you lost your senses? She has not even kissed you yet! Armand, you are not healed from your last duel!"

   "She has kissed me," St. Michel said petulantly. Slowly he moved his hand from his sword.

   "You kissed her," Louise–Anne said. "There is a difference."

   Richelieu sat back down. Louise–Anne shook her head.

   She was angry, near tears. Either of them could be dead by morning at the rate they were going. Men were idiots. She had always wanted to go to bed with Roger Montgeoffry and he had never given her a second glance. She wished he would kill St. Michel. And Richelieu. And himself.

   "I despise you all," she said in a trembling voice. "You are insane."

   "The hunt. The hunt is all," St. Michel said softly.

   "And the fuck," said Richelieu.

   "I will drink to that," St. Michel agreed, draining his glass. To have come close to two duels in one evening was enough.

* * *

   In the carriage, Barbara and Roger were silent. Hyacinthe, sitting by Barbara, wriggled his hand into her cloak, found her hand, and squeezed it. She swallowed. She was struggling not to cry.

   Roger sat opposite her, his mouth a hard line. For him, the evening had turned bad from the moment he entered the card room. He had lost at cards, steadily, which was unlike his usual luck. And then the regent had taken him aside and whispered that one of his spies had brought news that the Pretender had given up his fight for the English throne and left Scotland in the dead of night, abandoning those Scot clans that had supported him to the wrath of King George.

   Only a few of his followers would be with him, one of them Viscount Alderley. Even now they might be on the seas. Or on the roads. Their destination was said to be Paris. It was not a pleasant situation, from any point of view. The regent was bound by a treaty not to give the Pretender a safe haven in France. And Roger had no wish to deal publicly with the drunken, irresponsible man who was his father–in–law, a ridiculous relationship since he was almost ten years older than Kit. He had no wish to jeopardize his friendship with George, whose own spies would be reporting every move the Pretender and his entourage made. He was so irritated by the news that he went to search for Barbara, to tell her that he was leaving early but that she should stay and enjoy the rest of the ball. And he had walked into a scene that stunned him.

   I guard what is mine, he had said to the childlike Princesse de Charolais. He had sounded like an actor in a bad play.

   This whole evening had been a bad play, and not entirely a comedy. It had shocked him to see Barbara in another man's arms. A rage had possessed him that he had not felt in years.

   He had just enough sense to keep from killing the young fool with her. It was really too ironic, to be spouting the lines of the distraught husband, when the other part, the lover, had always been his. It was really very amusing—except that he did not feel like laughing. He felt like strangling Barbara, who was stupidly impulsive, like her father. First she found her way to his house by herself and cried all over his best coat and upset his entire household; then she convinced that grandmother of hers—Alice made a better general than Richard—to persuade him to marry her immediately; then she appeared tonight, a vision of beauty, surprising him (even while he was amused by her transparency), touching him. She will grow into a lovely woman, he had thought, a graceful complement to Devane House, and then she was kissing strangers in dark alcoves! He was furious with her, even more furious because he knew she did not deserve his anger. But when he had seen St. Michel holding her, something in him had snapped. He had wanted to run his sword through St. Michel's no doubt fleshy belly and see the red blood stain his white shirt. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him? If he had seen a woman he had wanted at tonight's ball, he would have gone up to her without another thought, except to behave discreetly so that Barbara should not know. Yet, here he was, acting the outraged husband because his naïve little fool of a wife allowed a young man to kiss her.