Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (4 page)

“M’sieur, let me explain—”

“
Taisez-vous
!” snarled the Comte and
instantly transformed himself into the gay courtier for Antonia’s
benefit. “Mademoiselle Moran, allow me to apologize for my
unthinking son’s behavior. To bring you out-of-doors on such a cold
night is unforgivable. He is a clod! An inconsiderate dolt! I would
be thrown into a thousand agonies if I thought a worthless piece of
my flesh had caused you the slightest inconvenience.”

He took a step closer but Antonia shrunk
from him, causing his son to stand taller. This incensed the little
man but his painted face remained fixed in a coaxing smile. “Come
now, you must not be frightened of Salvan. He thinks of little else
but your well-being and how best to serve you.” He glared at his
son’s unblinking countenance. “What has my son said to make you
have a dread of poor Salvan?”

“Pardon, M’sieur le Comte, but what I
discuss with M’sieur d’Ambert is not your concern.”

Salvan’s smile tightened. “Pardon,
mademoiselle, but when my son takes it into his head to conduct
clandestine meetings with unattended and very pretty females, it is
very much my concern.” He bowed with formality.

Antonia was a little unnerved that the Duke
of Roxton continued to stare at her in a leisurely fashion through
his quizzing-glass, but she did not allow this to stop her
answering the Comte. “Pardon, M’sieur le Comte, I had not realized
M’sieur le Comte’s life was of such a boredom he needs spy on his
son’s.”

Far from taking offence the Comte de Salvan
threw his hands together with delight. “Is she not refreshing,
Roxton? What spirit! And in one so young! Mademoiselle is divine.
Do you not agree,
mon cousin
? What next will she say?”

The Duke ignored his cousin’s exuberance and
let fall his eye-glass. The girl’s haughty upward tilt of her chin
and the insolent sparkle in her green eyes annoyed him. “You lack
manners,” he said to Antonia and turned away into the darkness.
“Walk me to my carriage, Salvan,” he ordered. “The boy can escort
the girl back to the nursery.”

Salvan’s face fell and his shoulders
slumped. “But,
mon cousin
…”

“Excuse me, M’sieur le Duc,” retorted
Antonia, “but as you refuse to own our connection, you have no
right to comment on my manners.”

“Antonia,
no
,” whispered the Vicomte
and felt his knees buckle with nervousness when the Duke of Roxton,
who had not gone more than two strides, turned and came back to
stand before Antonia. The Vicomte tugged at the girl’s sleeve to
get her behind him but she would not go. She stood bravely beside
him, the tinge of color in her cold, pale cheeks the only sign of
her nervousness. “M’sieur le Duc, I beg you to forgive
Mademoiselle, she—”

“Be quiet, d’Ambert!” the Comte de Salvan
hissed. “If anyone is to beg on Mademoiselle’s behalf it is I, you
dolt!”

Father and son were ignored.

“Unlike my good cousin, I do not find
Mademoiselle amusing,” the Duke enunciated icily, suppressed anger
reflected in black eyes that stared down at the girl unblinkingly.
“You mistake insolence for wit. A few more years in the schoolroom
may correct the defect.”

Antonia pretended to demure and lowered her
lashes with a sigh of resignation. “Sadly, I may not be given the
opportunity for such correction, M’sieur le Duc,” she answered
despondently, a fleeting glance at the Comte de Salvan, “that
is…unless M’sieur le Duc he will own me as his kinswoman…”

The Duke caught the significance in her
glance but he was not fooled by her veneer of humility. He saw the
dimple in her left cheek and he knew what she was trying to do. It
annoyed him more than it should have. He would not have his hand
forced, not by anyone, certainly not by an impertinent chit whose
disordered hair and ill-fitting clothes were more befitting a
street urchin than the granddaughter of a much decorated General
Earl. He gritted his teeth. “You are not my responsibility.”

“Of course she is not,” the Comte de Salvan
proclaimed with a forced laugh of light-heartedness, his scented
handkerchief up to his thin nostrils, yet a wary eye on the Duke’s
implacable features. “Mademoiselle has a grandfather who has only
her best interests at heart.
Enfin
. That said, let me see
you to your carriage,
mon cousin
, before we all catch our
deaths out in this night air.”

“My grandfather’s interests do not accord
with my father’s last will and testament,” Antonia stated to the
Duke, ignoring the Comte. “My father he sent M’sieur le Duc a copy
of his will from Florence, before his final illness.”

If Frederick Moran had sent him a copy of
his will, it was news to the Duke, and surprise registered in his
black eyes. Yet the girl continued to regard him with her clear
green eyes, eyes that were accusatory; as if he had read and
deliberately ignored her father’s last wishes and should account
for his actions to her. Insolent creature. He would not give her
the satisfaction of a response, and with a small nod at the Vicomte
d’Ambert, he turned on a heel, beckoning the Comte to fall in
beside him.

With a small, knowing smile, Antonia watched
the Duke stride off into the darkness, deaf to the Vicomte’s
monologue about how her ill-mannered behavior would get them both
into trouble. The Duke might be angry with her, indeed the look on
his face suggested he had washed his hands of her once and for all
time, yet, Antonia was satisfied that this late-night encounter,
unlike the half dozen letters she had written him about her
predicament, had finally pricked at his conscience.

Confident she would soon be leaving
Versailles, there was no time to lose. She must ensure her
portmanteaux were packed and ready for the flight from this Palace
and the Comte de Salvan’s menacing orbit. At the Galerie des Glaces
masquerade in two days time, that’s when she would force the Duke
of Roxton’s hand. She smiled at her own cleverness and, gathering
the overlarge cloak about her small frame, she ran off across the
Marble courtyard towards the Palace buildings, calling out to the
Vicomte that she was a very good runner and would beat him to Maria
Casparti’s apartment.

An hour later, the Duke of Roxton’s town
chariot swung through the black iron gates to his hôtel on the Rue
St. Honoré. The four chestnuts glistened with sweat, their heads
rearing up, curls of hot breath expelled through wide nostrils into
a black night. Grooms ran to the horses heads; liveried footmen
scattered across the courtyard; the porter opened wide the massive
studded door and bowed low; everywhere was ordered chaos. The
driver jumped down from his box with a grunt and stripped off
leather gloves. When a lackey hastened to his side with an
expectant look he jerked a thumb at the chariot and lifted his
thick eyebrows.

“He’s in a rare one,” muttered Baptiste the
driver. “Tell Duvalier. Two wagons overturned on the
Pont de
Sèvres
and a near miss with a coucou on the Quai de Passy. The
devil was in it tonight!”

“What is so unusual?” chuckled his fellow.
“It is always the same with him.”

Two whippets, one grey, one spotted white
and tan, both dressed in diamond studded collars, greeted their
master in the marble foyer with a nuzzle of his gloved hand and
frenzied wags of their whip-like tails. The Duke’s butler Duvalier
stepped forward, careful not to come between master and devoted
animals, and relieved the Duke of roquelaure, gloves and sword. He
was informed Madame de Montbrail and Lord Vallentine waited in the
salon and went up to the second floor, whippets following happily
at his heels.

He entered the room quietly and found his
sister seated by the fire working at a tapestry screen. Lord
Vallentine, legs sprawled out in front of him, frockcoat
unbuttoned, wig slightly askew, and square chin resting on his lace
cravat, was comfortably situated in a deep chair, reading aloud
from an English newssheet. His progress was slow and deliberate.
Translation made all the more difficult by Madame’s constant
interruptions.

“I do not understand at all,” she
interjected, her head of shining black curls bent closely over her
stitchery. “Why does your King listen to this minister at all? I
would not sign a bill I did not like. Why should he? Is he not
King?”

“Listen, Estée,” said Lord Vallentine
patiently. “England ain’t France. I keep telling you that. I’ve
explained it a hundred times. The House of Commons votes on a bill,
it goes to the Lords. Then if it has a majority vote it is
presented to the King for signature to pass it into law. If he
don’t like it he can return it to the House and—”

“It is all too tedious,” she sighed. “But
please, read me more about this Cambric bill.”

“Well, I’m parched,” said his lordship and
stretched out a hand for the small silver hand-bell. “More coffee,
Estée?”

“For three, my dear,” said the Duke stepping
further into the warm room.

“Hey! Hey! Look what the night has brought
us! It’s Roxton!” declared Vallentine with a huge grin and leapt up
to grasp the outstretched hand of his closest friend.

“As always, my dear Vallentine, you are
omniscient,” said Roxton with a rare smile. He snapped his fingers
and the dogs came to heel, waiting expectantly, not moving as
Madame in a rustle of voluminous silk petticoats swept across the
room and into her brother’s arms.

“Didn’t I tell you this morning Vallentine
would be in Paris by supper time?” she scolded playfully and
received a kiss on both cheeks. “And you not here to greet
him!”

“How was your crossing?” asked the Duke and
sat in the chair opposite his friend, the whippets quick to curl up
at his feet. “I trust it was calm?”

“I wish. Damme! Sick as a goat!” laughed his
lordship, stretching out again. “But a good supper at your table
and you see me back to full health.” He looked his friend over with
a critical eye. “Not unlike yourself. You don’t get any older. I
declare I’ve more lines on my face than you. And you’re still
looking the cleric,” he said, commenting on the Duke’s stiff black
velvet frockcoat and raven hair, pulled severely off the stark face
and plaited in a queue that reached to the middle of his wide back.
“I can’t understand it. A man in your position could do much
better. Have a wardrobe of fine frocks in any color, material and
adornments you desired. Not that I’m saying the black and white
don’t suit. Far from it. It does. Mighty finely too!”

“I try not to disappoint you, Vallentine,”
said the Duke. “But I see I have dropped in your estimation. On
your last visit you branded me a—er—magpie.”

“Did I by Jove? Well, and that too!” said
his friend unabashed.

“It is useless to go on at him,” complained
Estée. “I am forever saying the same and he is deaf to all my
entreaties. Oh, Duvalier, fresh coffee and clean dishes.” When the
butler had closed the door she said to her brother, “I expected you
home much earlier. You stayed for the recital?”

“Recital?” repeated the Duke absently, his
eyes on the large square-cut emerald he wore on a finger of a long
white hand. It was his only piece of jewelry. “Recital? Yes. I
don’t remember the pieces played, only that the whole was
insipid.”

“Is it true the Duc de Richelieu has
returned?” she asked.

“Armand has returned,” he answered. “Madame
du Charolais took him instantly to her bosom, and Mademoiselle de
Vintimille to her bed as soon as he was out from under Madame de
Flavacourt’s covers. As always one smells him before one sees him.
His habits and his perfume remain unchanged.”

“Was he pleased to see you?” she asked.

“Armand is always pleased to see me,” the
Duke replied with a thin smile. “He remarked he missed the
competition in Languedoc. I assured him I would do my best to keep
him guessing.”

Estée laughed. “And does he know about
Marie-Anne de La Tournelle?”

The Duke showed her a neutral expression and
this made her frown.

Lord Vallentine understood immediately and
gave a low whistle for which he received the same treatment as the
sister. “Leave it be, Estée,” he cautioned.

“Why should I not say something about
Marie-Anne?” she bristled. “Most men would boast of such a
conquest. Why, even here in Paris, it is whispered she will soon
oust the de Mailly—that so ugly sister of hers—as Louis’ next
mistress. Thus I am interested. You play a dangerous game, dearest
brother. I don’t care for it.”

“I do not ask you to care. It is none of
your business.”

Estée de Montbrail’s beautiful face quivered
and she bustled back to her tapestry frame and sat in silence
without taking up needle and thread. Lord Vallentine hated to see
her in any distress but he knew his friend to be right so he kept
his mouth shut. The silence was only broken when Duvalier returned
with a footman and the coffee things. Estée absorbed herself in
pouring out and her brother watched her, saying as he accepted a
dish of coffee,