Velvet (15 page)

Jake’s hand moved in hers, and she shook herself free of the gossamer strands of arousal., “Which queen?” she asked again, as if the previous exchange had not interrupted the preceding train of thought.

“Queen Caroline, George the Second’s wife,” he said. “She spent a night here on her way from Southampton to London.” He rose to his feet. “May I pour you a glass of sherry? Or would you prefer madeira?”

“Sherry, thank you.” She took the glass he handed her and sat down on the window seat, picking up a periodical from the side table. It was a copy of the
Farmer’s Almanac
, hardly stimulating reading for a nonfarmer, but it was all that came immediately to hand and would serve to indicate to Nathaniel that she had withdrawn her attention from himself and Jake.

Nathaniel perched on the edge of the desk, stretching his legs out in front of him as he sipped his own sherry. Jake shifted his feet on the carpet and waited for the inevitable questions about his schoolroom progress in his father’s absence.

Gabrielle idly turned the pages of the almanac and listened to the stilted question-and-answer session. It was excruciatingly painful to listen to Nathaniel’s careful questions and the child’s monosyllabic replies, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from interrupting. There seemed no connection, either physical or emotional, between the man and the child. She had an almost
overpowering urge to fling her arms around the two of them and push them together.

What was it that made Nathaniel so distant, so chilly with his son? It surely couldn’t just be that he was trying to toughen him up. He’d obviously had a troubled relationship with his own father, but he said he had no intention of following that example. Didn’t he realize that his manner could be as hurtful to the child as any crude physical discipline?

Obviously not. Nathaniel was dismissing the child, sending him back to the nursery with a handshake. It was absurd, Gabrielle thought, watching covertly as Jake’s tiny, dimpled hand disappeared into his father’s large one and the child bobbed his head in a half-bow of formal farewell.

“Say good night to her ladyship,” Nathaniel instructed Jake, reaching to refill his glass, relief clear in every line of his body now that his parenting session was over for the day.

“Good night, Jake.” Gabrielle reached for the child as he approached, put her arms around him and kissed him. “Is Primmy going to read you a story?”

“She might,” Jake said. He stayed for a moment in the circle of her arm, his body leaning against her with a slight ambivalent awkwardness as if he wanted to stay but didn’t know whether he should.

Gabrielle kissed him again. “Tomorrow, I’ll tell you one of my stories,” she promised.

“Do you know lots?”

Something had happened to the room, Nathaniel thought in vague bemusement. The light seemed to have softened, the crackling of the fire to have intensified, imbuing his customarily austere library with a domestic, hospitable warmth and comfort. And it was emanating from Gabrielle. The curtains were still open behind her, and the rising moon hung low over the dark curve of the river, a silver and black background for the vibrant head and pale skin.

“Oh, I know lots of stories,” she answered Jake, gently putting him from her as she became aware of Nathaniel’s silent frowning observation. “Good night, Jake.”

The door closed on the child’s departure and there was an uncomfortable silence until Nathaniel said, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t make promises to my son, particularly ones that will interfere in his routine.”

“Nathaniel, I just offered to tell him a bedtime story,” she exclaimed in soft-voiced exasperation. “If you don’t want me to do it, why don’t
you
tell him one?”

“I don’t know any,” Nathaniel said crossly.

“Oh, you must remember some from your childhood.” She regarded him in disbelief over the rim of her glass.

He shook his head. “I was never told any to remember.”

“Poor little boy,” she said softly. “What a horrible childhood you had.”

“It was not horrible in the least.” He scowled into the fireplace.

“Were you an only child?”

“Yes, like you.”

“How did you know that?”

“Miles said something.” He shrugged and drained his glass before standing up. “If you’re ready, we should go in to dinner. I don’t like to upset the cook. She’s inclined to fret if her dinner spoils.”

“I can’t say I blame her.” Gabrielle rose and took his formally proffered arm. “Of course I was just eight when I went to live with Georgie’s family and stayed with them until I was eighteen. So I don’t feel like an only child.”

Nathaniel made no response as he held the door to the dining room for her. It was a massive room with heavy oak furniture and dark paneling. The long table had two place settings, one at each end. Candles in ornate
silver holders marched down the middle of the expanse, the yellow pools of light merely accentuating the vast distance between the two diners.

Gabrielle opened her mouth to suggest a more friendly arrangement that would be easier on the serving staff, and then closed it firmly. She’d spoken out of turn quite enough for one day. She was still a guest in Nathaniel’s house, however unorthodox the arrangement.

She took the seat Nathaniel pulled out for her and then gazed down the table at him with what she hoped was an expression of intelligent, courteous companionship.

“Do you know Georgie’s family?”

“Not really,” Nathaniel said, taking the scent of his wine before gesturing to the footman to fill Gabrielle’s glass. The man’s footsteps sounded very loud on the waxed oak floor as they progressed the length of the table.

“Georgie’s the eldest of six,” Gabrielle persevered, feeling in some way as if she had to explain her own ease with children to a man who clearly didn’t know the first thing about them.

She smiled slightly. The De Vanes were a large, erratic family, generally happy, tumbling in and out of scrapes that Lady De Vane regarded with vague dismay on the rare occasions she noticed and her husband responded to with indiscriminate clouts and caresses. None of the children were ever much perturbed at finding themselves on the receiving end of one rather than the other for whatever reason. Justice was a movable feast in the DeVane household and accepted as such with cheerful pragmatism.

Gabrielle helped herself from a dish of artichokes presented by the peripatetic footman and began to describe life in the DeVane household to her companion. She generally considered herself a lively conversationalist; however, Nathaniel responded to her remarks and
stories with at best a noncommittal murmur, at worst, a frown and a vague grunt.

After a while she decided to leave the conversation to Nathaniel, and fell silent. The silence was disturbed only by the footman’s movements and quiet queries.

“I’ll leave you to your port,” she said when the covers had finally been removed, the footman had left, and the silence had remained unbroken through the entire second course.

“That seems unnecessary,” Nathaniel said, filling his glass from the decanter at his elbow. “With just the two of us … unless, of course, you’d rather withdraw.”

“I don’t think it’ll make much difference,” she commented, leaning back in her chair. “Since your dislike of conversation at mealtimes is so profound, I can hardly see that my company could matter one way or the other. My poor efforts at conversation have certainly failed to entertain you.”

Nathaniel glared in the candlelight. “This is a damn stupid way to dine,” he stated. “Who the hell decided to set the table like this? I can barely see you, let alone converse.”

Gabrielle pushed back her chair. “If you’re prepared to share the port, I’ll join you down at that end.”

“I wish you would.” He rose as she came the length of the table and took the chair next to him. “I suppose you’re going to accuse me of being ill-tempered and surly again.”

“Deny it,” she challenged him.

He made a rueful grimace and cracked a walnut between finger and thumb. “I can’t, damn you.” He peeled the nut and placed it on her plate.

“Well, I don’t suppose my conversation was all that stimulating,” she said cheerfully, popping the nut into her mouth. “Shall we try again? What topic would be most suitable? Children and childhoods are clearly forbidden.” She cast him a sideways glance to gauge his reaction to this frank statement.

His expression was dark, then he shrugged. “It’s not a subject that inspires me, I grant you. And I don’t care to talk about Jake, so if you don’t mind, from now on we’ll leave him out of our conversations.”

“If you say so.”

She took a sip of port, her eyes, bright with sensual suggestion, smiling at him over the lip of the glass.

Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord leaned over the railed gallery overlooking the ballroom of the elegant eighteenth-century palace on Miodowa Street in Warsaw, surveying his guests below. It was a sight to satisfy the most ambitious statesman. The flower of Poland’s nobility and the Emperor Napoleon’s triumphant court were gathered together for the opening of the carnival season as guests of the emperor’s Minister for Foreign Affairs, recently given the title of Prince of Benevento by his grateful emperor. The ball, as Talleyrand had intended, was turning out to be the most brilliant function Warsaw had seen since the glorious days of Poland’s monarchy—before Russia, Austria, and Prussia had partitioned the country, each taking her share.

In this frozen winter of 1807, the Poles had welcomed Napoleon, his army, and his court with fervent adulation, hoping as always for the emperor’s protection and support in their bid for the restoration of Polish independence. Napoleon received their adulation as readily as he received their soldiers and the contents of their coffers, but he promised nothing in return.

The Prince of Benevento watched the swirling bejeweled throng below and wondered how many of them understood that their savior was no savior. They had welcomed his entrance into snow-covered Warsaw with two triumphal arches, brilliantly lit and inscribed with the legend:
LONG LIVE NAPOLEON, THE SAVIOR OF POLAND. HE WAS SENT TO US STRAIGHT FROM HEAVEN
. There had been torch parades through the city and bonfires lit around the old royal palace high on a cliff over the Vistula, where the emperor was to reside, and every house and shop sported a gold Napoleonic eagle.

But their
liberator
would bleed them white and then abandon them as a sop to his own defeated enemies, the Austrians, the Prussians, and the Russians. The Partition of Poland would not be ending any time soon.

There were some areas in which his master was very shortsighted, Talleyrand reflected, tapping his long fingers on the gilded railing. A strong Poland was essential to the stability of the Continent. A northern barrier, it would act as a vital buffer state between Russia and the West. But left partitioned, it was as helpless as a wounded bird facing the cat.

“There is at least some compensation for this dismal country’s terrible climate.”

Talleyrand turned at the voice of his son. Charles de Flahaut leaned over the railing at his father’s side, inspecting the scene. Although the Comte de Flahaut had officially recognized the child as his own, Talleyrand’s paternity had always been privately acknowledged both by his son and the world, and his natural father’s influence ran through every aspect of the young man’s career.

“The women, you mean.” Talleyrand smiled. “They’re unusually attractive, I agree.”

“And one in particular,” Charles mused. “The emperor seems much struck by Madame Walewska.” He glanced sideways at the older man, his eyes shrewd.

“Indeed,” Talleyrand agreed with another bland smile. “But are you surprised? She’s a charming combination of beauty and intelligence, with such a sweetly shy manner. The emperor finds her most refreshing after Josephine … and the others. You know how cynical he’s become about women these days.”

“And the lovely Marie might well exert a beneficial influence … ?” suggested Charles with the same shrewd gleam in his eye.

“Perhaps so,
mon fils
, perhaps so.”

The old fox wasn’t giving anything away, as usual, Charles reflected with an inner chuckle. But he’d been watching his father’s skillful maneuvers with the entrancing young wife of the elderly Chamberlain Anastase Walewski. If Marie Walewska became Napoleon’s mistress, she might well influence him in Poland’s favor where all the blandishments and pleas of the country’s nobility and politicians had failed.

He moved away, leaving his father to continue his observation. The exquisite Madame Walewska, in a delicate gown of white satin over a pale gold and pink underskirt, a simple laurel wreath on her fair curls, was partnering the emperor in a quadrille. The contrast between the lady’s exquisite grace and her partner’s clumsiness was laughable, but Napoleon wouldn’t give a fig for his awkward performance, as Talleyrand knew well. In the emperor’s opinion, a man at home on a battlefield had no right to be at home on the dance floor.

The emperor, however, was making no secret of the fact that he found Madame Walewska enchanting. However, could the lady be persuaded to sacrifice her honor for her country? Talleyrand had discovered that Marie was passionately devoted to the cause of Polish liberation. He knew she would give everything she had, maybe even her life, in the cause, as, indeed, so many of her countrymen were doing. But she was young, innocent, delicately bred. Would she give Napoleon the one thing he wanted?