Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (11 page)

Chapter 11

H
oneymoon. Minerva happened to have looked up the word in Johnson's
Dictionary
.

The first month after marriage, when there is nothing but tenderness and pleasure.

The famous doctor's definition bore no resemblance to the week that had passed since her lonely vigil in the Abbeville Inn.

There had been no chance to interrogate Blake about his unaccountable failure to join her that night. The next morning he'd hired a horse and ridden all the way to Paris while she occupied the coach in solitary splendor. When they spoke, which wasn't often, he was perfectly polite and maddeningly elusive.

On arrival in the French capital, they moved into a handsome Faubourg St. Honoré apartment arranged by the Duke of Hampton. The spacious accommodation spread out over the entire floor of an
hôtel particulier,
as the noble mansions of Paris were called. The count who owned this one had moved to a modern house in the St. Germain quarter, leaving the faded glory of his graceful old family home to tenants.

Although not given to timidity, Minerva couldn't find the words to ask her husband why he'd chosen not to consummate their marriage.
Why haven't you bedded me?
would do it, but she couldn't quite form her mouth around the sentence. Her fury at Blake and frustration at her own helplessness increased as the days passed.

What in the name of heaven was the matter with him? And what was the matter with her?

T
he French seemed to be damnably fond of mirrors in their furnishings. Almost ubiquitous in the cafés and restaurants that were such a feature of French life, they also covered the walls of every public room in the rooms occupied by Lord and Lady Blakeney. Even after a week in France Blake wasn't used to catching sight of himself at every turn of the head. Never particularly fond of his looks—as a boy he'd always thought dark coloring more manly—he was beginning to hate the sight of his own face.

The positive side of the array of glass was that he was able to look at his wife without appearing to stare. She looked very beautiful that morning. Perhaps there was something about the Parisian air, but she seemed to grow more appealing each time he saw her.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said, taking a seat at the table and accepting chocolate from the manservant, one of several domestics who came with the apartment. She barely accorded him a glance, instead picking up the French newspaper that waited at her place.

He couldn't really blame her. After failing to appear in her room in Abbeville, he'd taken the coward's way out. He'd never offered an explanation and she hadn't asked for one. As for his reasons, he became less confident of their validity by the day. He couldn't flatter himself his continuing absence from her bed was much of a hardship for her. He, on the other hand, was beginning to think his decision had been a very bad idea.

Things seemed different away from England. Even in Devon he hadn't felt so free of his father, for the estate there belonged to the duke. But something in the atmosphere of Paris, the existence of the sea between himself and his destiny, filled him with a sense of optimism he'd been scarcely aware of lacking.

“What are your plans for today?” he asked.

She glanced over the top of the paper and regarded him as though he was a piece of refuse in the gutter. Not encouraging.

“I doubt you'll be any more interested in my daily activities than I will,” she said.

“Why don't you try me?”

With an exaggerated sigh she lowered the gazette. “I have a dress fitting this morning.”

What was so annoying about that? Women always liked new clothes, didn't they? “New clothes, splendid.”

“My interfering sister set me up with her maid's cousin to visit a dressmaker in the Palais Royal. It's a ridiculous waste of time, but I'll never hear the last of it from Diana if I refuse. And it's not as though I have anything else very interesting to do.”

“I thought you'd called on some of the ladies attached to the Embassy.”

“I have, but sitting with them is no more exciting than paying morning calls in London. I daresay there are some evening parties among the diplomatic set, but they hesitate to invite us.”

“Why?”

“Because the rumors of our love match reached Paris. One of the ladies implied we must wish to be alone together at night.” She wrinkled her nose.

“I'm sorry about that.”

“I set her right, I assure you.”

“Perhaps invitations will start arriving now.”

“I notice the lack of invitations doesn't stop
you
going out after dinner. But men can always do what they want.”

Blake wondered how he could improve her mood. Not only was he remorseful that she was finding her visit to the French capital so dull, he also needed her help. Judging by her baleful stare she'd just as soon drop him into the River Seine as share a crust with him if he was starving.

The servant reappeared at his elbow with a large envelope on a silver tray. He frowned at the address. “It looks like an invitation, my dear. Why don't you open it and see if it's something that will get you out at night.”

“ ‘Monsieur et madame le marquis et la marquise de Blakeney,' ” she read. “Not from the ambassador, or anyone English.” He glimpsed a gilt fleur-de-lis on the card she pulled out. “Oh my goodness! It's from the Tuileries. We are summoned to the King's reception on Tuesday.”

“Are we, indeed? There you are.”

“It's not an evening occasion. King Louis receives diplomats and distinguished foreigners every Tuesday afternoon.”

“How do you know these things?” he asked.

“I read the papers.”

“What do you know about the King's brother Charles?” he asked before she could start doing so again. After a week of pursuing introductions and frequenting the fashionable cafés that were the Parisian equivalent of London clubs, he had to acknowledge he needed help.

“The Count of Artois? It's said he isn't as easygoing as Louis. He leads the Ultras and is opposed to any liberal reform. Many Frenchmen would prefer not to see him succeed. But it's highly unlikely that Fat Louis will outlive him. Then we shall see whether he can hold onto the country.”

The effect of his question—and her answer—on Minerva's appearance was extraordinary. It was as though a magician had breathed into the veins of a sullen ice princess and transformed her into a creature of heat and light. Blue eyes emitted sparks of excitement, her cheeks grew flushed, and her bow-shaped mouth revealed pearly white teeth as it formed cogent thoughts with admirable speed and fluency.

The sight of those red lips transfixed him. Visions of them doing things other than talking invaded his brain. He beat them back and concentrated on the words, as she spoke of the Duke of Orleans and the remaining Bonapartes. He'd always been good at learning by listening, and she could tell him what he needed to know.

She stopped to draw breath and looked at him closely. He'd cultivated the art of looking unconcerned while his brain concentrated on taking in verbal information. Had his bland mask failed him?

“What is Artois to you?” she asked.

“I'm curious about the factions that want to replace him, that's all,” he said, as he might about the prospects for a boxing match or horse race.

“Well, that must be the first time.” She eyed him with open suspicion.

Since he was getting nowhere on his own, he told her what his brother-in-law had asked him to find out.

“It's so unfair! You know nothing and he gives you a wonderful mission like that. And I, just because I'm a woman, have to go to dress fittings and drink tea with ladies.”

“I was hoping you would help me. We could start at the Tuileries reception. I don't know where to start looking for secret Orleanists or Bonaparte sympathizers.”

“I don't see what you can expect to learn when you don't even know French.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I noticed how you avoid anything written in French. The menus in the inns, the newspaper. Even that card of invitation.”

He froze for a moment. Minerva was far too observant. If he contradicted her now she might draw the correct conclusion: that it was only the
written
word that gave him trouble. “I'll never discover anything without your assistance,” he said in a humble voice.

She gave him a kind nod. “I'll do my best to help you. I speak German too, of course, and Napoleon's son lives with his mother in Vienna. I may be able to discover something from the Austrian delegation.”

“That's an excellent idea. But even with my limited powers of communication I believe I may be able to turn up something among the French gentlemen I encounter. With your advice, of course.”

“I expect you will.” Her voice reeked of condescension. “As Sir Gideon told you, no one will expect you to be interested in French politics. It all comes down to patronage, of course. I recommend you look for hints that people are dissatisfied with their position at court and their standing with Louis and Charles.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't forget that Orleans has several sons too. You may meet some of them and observe their associates.”

Her superior tone aroused his sporting instincts. “I'd like to propose a small wager. More of a contest really. Let's see who can identify the most Orleanist or Bonapartist supporters.”

“Very well,” she said. “What's the prize?” From her smirk she regarded it as money in the bank.

“What would you like?”

“I don't know. I can't think of anything I want at the moment.”

“Very well. A favor to be named later.”

“And you?” she asked, confident she'd never have to pay up.

“The same.”

“Done.”

“May the best spy win.”

L
ady Elizabeth Stuart, the wife of the British ambassador, told them about the new historical tapestries in the Tuileries Throne Room. Minerva wished she wouldn't. The illustrious French monarchs admired by the present king—Saint Louis, François I, and Henri IV—interested her not a whit.

Blake didn't even pretend to look at the wall hangings. He was surveying the crowd for anti-Bourbon subversives. She pulled on his arm to draw his attention and smiled sweetly.

“Did I tell you I saw the King's carriage driving through the streets yesterday?” she asked. “My goodness he does drive fast.”

“He does that because it gives him the illusion he's taking exercise,” the ambassadress said.

“Truly? No wonder they call him Fat Louis.”

“I met him once,” her husband said. “My father took me to call on him at Hartwell.”

“What was he like?”

“Affable. And fat.”

How could Blake sound so laconic? Had he no idea how fortunate he was to have met Louis XVIII during his exile in England?

Sir Charles Stuart hurried over to warn them that the king and his party were on their way. “When he addresses me I shall present you. He will tell you he wishes you well. He uses the same words to everyone and hardly ever says anything else.”

“It's all a matter of his tone of voice, I suppose,” Minerva said.

“Precisely, Lady Blakeney. Much thought goes into the interpretation of those few repeated words. I compliment your instinct for diplomacy.”

A rustle of expectation, followed by a hush, heralded the royal entrance. As Louis made his way through the crowd Minerva had ample chance to examine him. Simply but richly attired, she learned little from his appearance. His expression was agreeable but distant and gave little away. “
Le Roi se porte t'il bien,
” he said. The same words to each person he addressed.

Affable
. She rather thought Blake had it right.
And fat
.

The king greeted Sir Charles, who begged leave to present his companions. She and Blake curtseyed and bowed respectively, deeply and in perfect coordination. When she rose and lifted her face the king was smiling.

“We have met before, Lord Blakeney,” he said in excellent English. “I remember when your good father brought you to Hartwell. Walk with me a little and give me news of the Duke of Hampton.”

Surprise rippled around the huge chamber. Members of the king's entourage stood aside to make room for Blakeney. Minerva moved to accompany him but was stayed by Sir Charles Stuart's hand on her arm. She watched them walk into the dividing crowd, who looked astonished at King's unusual condescension to a foreigner, and were clearly speculating as to its significance.

Minerva asked the ambassador to introduce her to some members of the Austrian delegation. Blake might think he had an advantage due to a childhood visit. All right, a very grand childhood visit, not the kind of thing that ever happened to her at Wallop Hall. But she wasn't without her own resources, not least of which was an excellent command of German. While her husband was occupied by the king and surrounded by die-hard loyalists, she would be making the acquaintance of those who knew Napoleon's widow and son.

“H
ave a delightful time.” Minerva waved from her seat in the salon where, as usual, she was nose deep in a newspaper. “I can think of few worse ways to spend a day than exploring a dilapidated stable.”

“That's hardly the way to describe a building that accommodated two hundred and fifty horses and five hundred dogs. I'm sorry the party is gentlemen only. You'd enjoy it.”

“I think you must have mistaken me for my mother.”

“No, I most definitely haven't done that.”

“Go,” she said, shooing him off. “Go and talk to men about racing. Men who are courtiers of the Count of Artois and would never abandon the legitimist cause. I, meanwhile, will be pursuing other avenues.”