The Primrose Path (13 page)

Angelina was not quite sure what Mademoiselle Lavalier meant by
chevalier,
but she knew what she meant by joy. “No, no, mademoiselle, you mistake the matter. Lord Knowle and I are barely acquainted. I used to be his aunt’s companion, which is how I ended up in this cottage. That is all.”

Mercedes looked Angelina up and down, from the top of her disheveled curls to her encompassing flannel nightgown and tattered robe. Angelina had seen no reason to put Mavis to work on garments no one would see. Her old, faded bedclothes were good enough.

Obviously not for Miss Lavalier, who sniffed her disdain. “A little lip color, a bit of rouge, we fix that, no?
Mon cher
Knolly is no,
qu’est-ce que c’est
? a slowtop.”

Angelina should have held out for four years’ support for the shelter. “But, Mademoiselle Lavalier—”

“No, no,” the Frenchwoman declared. “You shall call me Mercedes, no? And I shall call you Angelique,
mon ange.
We are friends forever, no?”

“Forever? Ah, that is, how long do you think you’ll be staying?”

From the amount of baggage piling up in the hallway under the direction of Penn without his wig and an older, black-gowned Frenchwoman without a speck of English, Angelina feared forever, indeed. For a fugitive, mademoiselle outdid Marco Polo. Angelina expected her servants to unload a camel next.

What they did unload was even better, a tall white female poodle with a topiary haircut. The dog looked as if her last grooming had been performed by a demented gardener, or a blind one. The dog had pompoms and frills, bare patches next to little clumps of tight curls. She also had a diamond collar around her neck, ribbons in her hair, and gold paint on her toenails. The viscount was going to love her!

Angelina’s dogs were sniffing ‘round the newcomer. The poodle raised her nose like a
grande dame
lifting her lorgnette, but
“Mon Dieu!”
Mercedes exclaimed. “This will never do, my friend Angelique. My Juliette, how do I say it politely? The reason I gave her such a name, she is always in love.”

The bitch wasn’t in heat now, or Angelina would have a dog riot on her hands. It figured the French seductress would have an oversexed pet. It also figured that Knolly— Knolly, by Heaven!—wouldn’t mention the dog when he was negotiating for Mercedes Lavalier’s room and board. “Things seem calm right now. We shall keep a close eye on her, shall we? But the matter is not so grim, for most of the male dogs have been neutered. We can keep the others separated when Juliette comes into season, ah, falls in love.”

“Neutered?
C’est merveilleux.
They should do the same for men, no? We would have no wars, no duels, no
imbecile
neck-or-nothing steeplechases.”

Angelina knew the first gentleman she’d nominate for the honor, but Mercedes was going on: “Ah, but then we would not have the pretty jewels and the furs, no?”

No. Women like Mercedes would be out of work, along with warriors, weapon makers, and witless wagerers.

All of the baggage seemed to have been unloaded, so Angelina started to lead the way up the stairs. “I have given you the Blue Room, Miss, ah, Mercedes. It is just down this hall.”

“A room, my friend?” Mercedes waved a graceful arm toward the mountains of boxes, baskets, and trunks filling the marble-tiled entryway.

“Perhaps the Oriental Room is larger.” Angelina turned down the opposite hall. “It is right this way.”

“And where shall my maid sleep? I need her nearby me, in case I wake at night,
n’est-ce pas?
When inspiration calls, I must be up and practicing, composing new dances, writing down my thoughts. Then I need refreshment, or hot water for bathing. What an affront to your hospitality,
mon ange,
to awaken your household.”

Angelina tried to hide her yawn, and her dismay at having her sleep disturbed every night when she had to get up and teach the dogs and exercise the children, or the other way around. “We’ll be sure to set up a cot for your maid in the dressing room.”

“Ah, but my Jeanne snores. She is the hairdresser par excellence,
mais oui,
but she snores. And I, I am a light sleeper.”

Angelina made another about-face, almost tripping in her weariness. “Then we’ll put you in the Rose Suite, ma’am. You can close the connecting doors between you and your maid and the sitting room, but Jeanne will still be within call. There is plenty of room for your baggage and for Juliette, too.” Angelina had been keeping the best guest suite in readiness for her sister, but getting to bed and letting the servants get to theirs seemed more important. “It’s right here, at the top of the stairs.”

“At the top of the stairs?
Mon Dieu,
that will never do. The noise, the comings and goings, why, I could never sleep! Quiet, I need,
absolument.
In my house in Paris, no one was permitted to stir until noon, lest they disturb me, no, not even Juliette. Except when she was in love,
naturellement.”

“Noon?” Angelina’s household had accomplished half its chores by noon.

Mercedes was wiping another tear from her eye. “But of course noon, after I danced half the night. Ah, but I no longer have a house of my own, do I, my angel? I will be strong, do not regard my tears.”

“Lady Sophie’s rooms are in the rear, overlooking the gardens. They have recently been refurbished.” For Angelina’s own use, but she hadn’t been ready to move into the master suite, where her beloved mistress had died. She led her small caravan in that direction, a frown marking her brow.

“Do not scowl,
petite.
It leaves the lines. We have enough to fix already, no?”

“I was merely worrying that even the best bedroom will not be quiet enough for you. This many dogs can create quite a stir, you know, and then there are the children that I teach in the mornings.”

“I thought you were the companion, no?”

“I was, but the viscount hasn’t found a proper instructor for the local children, so I have been helping.”

“An angel,
vraiment.”

“No, they help with the dogs, but, you see, Primrose Cottage is not an entirely restful place. The gardens are coming along nicely, and there are lovely walks into the village, but I am afraid the cottage is simply too small to grant you absolute quiet. It is not as spacious as you are used to.”

“Non,
my Angelique, do not distress yourself. Your little house is
tres charmant.
I shall be happy in the country, you will see. This walking?” She shrugged. “I do not know about walking. The sun, the wind,
n’est-ce pas?
You would do well to avoid the outdoors,
cherie.
But me? I shall rest after my great escape and rejoice that no one is trying to kill me, no? I shall visit with my new friends and my dear Knolly, and I shall busy myself writing.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you wrote, too, besides dancing.”

Mercedes smiled. “No one knows,
cherie.
I scribble now and again, but I mean to try writing my memoirs while I recover from my so terrible ordeal.”

Mercedes was inspecting her new quarters while Jeanne directed the placement of the luggage. Angelina sent one of the maids to help Cook fix tea, and another to fetch hot water. Mercedes nodded. “You are the perfect English lady. Mademoiselle Angelique. If the French
chiennes
had been half so gracious, my poor France would not be in such turmoil.” Another tear, then another smile. “I shall return someday,
certainement.
Meanwhile we shall be as happy as English grigs,
oui,
and I shall sleep and write and practice. You have the ballroom, yes?”

Angelina could barely stand up without holding onto the back of a chair. The hall clock had just chimed four bells. She’d have to tell Penn to remove the gong in the morning, after he muzzled all the dogs and children. A ballroom? There was a lovely one at Knowle Castle.

“I am sorry, Mercedes, but no. Primrose Cottage does not have a ballroom. Lady Sophie did not entertain on a grand scale.”

The Frenchwoman’s big brown eyes filled with tears. “My house, my homeland—but my art? Am I supposed to give up my very life’s blood?”

Not on Lady Sophie’s Aubusson rug. “I suppose if we take up the carpet in the music room, you might have enough space to practice. That is, I’ve never seen you dance, but the music room is nicely proportioned.”

“Tres bien, tres bien.
I shall make do. And you shall play for me, no?”

“Me? No! That is, I am not proficient enough to play for a real performer.”

“Bah, you are too modest. Every wellborn
jeune fille
can play the pianoforte adequately.”

Not when their grandparents were religious fanatics. “I’m afraid I only had a few years of lessons at school.” After the Armsteads had left England and before they died. Her tiny legacy did not cover additional instruction.

Mercedes was not fazed. Of course, any woman who could cross war-torn Europe without breaking a fingernail was not going to be upset by an unaccomplished accompanyist. “Then we will practice together, no? You will be the
demoiselle
most perfect when I leave. You see, Angelique, how many ways I can find to repay your kindness?”

“Oh, but I don’t expect you to—”

“Don’t frown. And it’s no trouble,
mon ange,
no trouble at all.”

Chapter Fifteen

 No trouble? It was no trouble for Mercedes to turn Primrose Cottage on its ear. Angelina could not blame her, could not even dislike the charming Frenchwoman. She could, however, dislike being wide awake at four in the morning, and she could blame her discomfort on its ultimate cause. She sent her youngest footman to the Knoll, therefore, with a lantern.

“You won’t have to awaken his staff, Tom; there is sure to be a night watchman on duty. Make sure Lord Knowle receives the message himself, though. Tell him that his important package from France has arrived. Oh, and take Homer with you.”

Satisfied, Angelina went back to sleep. The dogs had kept the bed warm for her.

* * * *

“What the deuce?” It was black as night—hell, it was night—and Corin was awake. How could he not be, with his irate valet shaking his shoulder and holding a candle in his eyes?

This was not what Doddsworth was used to, the valet made sure Corin knew before giving over his message. Dogs, damaged clothing, disturbed rest, why, no gentleman’s gentleman should have to deal with such irregularities.

“What, you woke me up to extort a higher salary? Not a good career move, Doddsworth, even if you can tie a cravat properly at the first try.” Corin rolled over, to come against soft curls. For a moment he thought—But, no. Homer licked his face. “Thunderation, I suppose you want something, too?”

Doddsworth cleared his throat. “Ahem, milord, there is a footman with a communication from Primrose Cottage. He will not explain his errand to the night guard, who rightfully fetched me, nor to myself. As if I would not give milord his messages in proper form. The insolence, the inconvenience—”

“The purse is on my dresser,” Corin said, jumping out of bed and belting his robe. A moment’s reflection stopped the pounding of his heart: if there was trouble, the footman would have been shouting for help, not caring who heard. “Take what you think a night’s sleep is worth and get out. No, lay out my riding clothes before you go. I’ll most likely be going to the cottage.”

“It is dark, milord.”

“Don’t worry, the dog knows the way.”

So Mercedes Lavalier had arrived. Blast, it should have been one of the soldiers at the gatehouse who came to tell him, not one of Aunt Sophie’s old servants. What if Mercedes had been followed from the coast? She’d be leading ruthless killers straight to Kent, straight to Primrose Cottage, with the guardsmen none the wiser. The devil take it, Corin knew he should have had that fellow Fredricks replaced. He called for his horse and his pistols.

Everything seemed quiet at the cottage when Corin got there. Either they were all asleep or all lying murdered in their beds. He didn’t want to go too close, to chance setting off the dogs and thus waking even the dead, but Homer trotted right to the front door and barked. A few dogs barked back, halfheartedly, it seemed to Corin, before the door opened and Homer went inside. He couldn’t hear the angry words, but he thought it was the same footman who had come to the castle. So nothing was wrong, except that his dog would rather be anywhere but at Corin’s side.

Corin couldn’t blame him. Homer was most likely asleep on some soft cushion right now, near a banked fire, surrounded by warm bodies. His lordship would not think of which warm bodies, or body, Homer cuddled with as he patrolled the circumference of the property in the cold and damp early spring air.

The viscount stayed near Primrose Cottage until after dawn, when smoke rose from the chimneys, dogs poured out of every door, servants went about their chores. Then he rode for the gatehouse to destroy the peace and tranquillity of the birdsong morning.

Fredricks wasn’t even there. A lowly private was, fast asleep in the chair next to the window, but not for long. Corin was disgusted. The boy didn’t look as if he could shave, much less shoot.

“My orders was to guard the Frenchie when she got there, not afore,” the sergeant claimed after Corin rode to the army barracks to complain. Fredricks wiped egg off his mouth with the back of his hand. “We wasn’t on duty yet.”

“You are now, Sergeant, so I suggest you get yourself and the rest of your men to the Knoll before the lady has her morning chocolate. If Mercedes Lavalier puts her nose out of doors without one of your men there to wipe it for her, you’ll all be at the front before Napoleon takes his next bath.”

Which wasn’t as often as should be, Corin had heard, but the threat had Fredricks and his men in a wagon headed toward the gatehouse. “And see you don’t frighten the children or the dogs,” the viscount yelled after them before riding home cross-country. There’d be the devil to pay if Miss Armstead got wind of the danger.