Jean-Paul left in the morning with a message for Charles and a further one for the Duras's solicitor in London. Taking a detour to Dover via London, the courier arrived in the city in time to speak to Mr. Woolcott before he closed his office for the day. The message he delivered was succinct and to the point.
Thomas Woolcott said, "That much?" when he read the note.
"Each month on the first," Jean-Paul declared. "Delivered in small bills. As for the Grosvenors, Mr. Duras would like you to see that the Prime Minister receives his note. Apparently his father and Lord Liverpool are friends. He would prefer the curbs on the Grosvenors' noxious behavior toward Lady Grosvenor be quietly applied. She's not to know of his intervention."
"The P.M…" Woolcott murmured, thrusting out his bottom lip in concentration. "I'm not sure I'll be granted entree."
"Pasha said you should mention Countess Wolletski from the Congress of Vienna. A charming friend. He said the earl would understand."
"The Lady Grosvenor has a powerful protector," the solicitor gently mused, his intensely blue eyes reflective.
"A very dangerous one," Jean-Paul corrected. "The
Grosvenors should be apprised of that fact in the plainest of terms."
Woolcott had been handling the Duras's business affairs in England for a decade. Well paid and competent, he nodded his balding head. "In the plainest of terms," he agreed.
"Then I'll bid you adieu." Jean-Paul rose to his feet, picking up his riding gloves from the table. "Events in Greece necessitate speed. I'm expected in Dover posthaste."
"Will Pasha be in Kent long?"
Jean-Paul shook his head. "A day or two. He finds the lady difficult to leave." The courier shrugged, a swift Gallic acknowledgment of female allure, and his mouth lifted in a half-smile. "I'd say three days at the most."
She'd known their time was limited since Jean-Paul left. Pasha wasn't the same; a shimmer of tension existed beneath the surface of his easy charm. He took care to speak in the present tense only; Chris garnered immeasurably more of his time and he and Will seemed to be in some conspiracy, their conversations soft-spoken, hurried, with much nodding of the head on Will's part.
Two mornings later, Pasha came up behind her as she stood before the dressing table in her nightgown. He was already fully dressed despite the early hour. "I'm leaving today," he murmured, sliding his arms around her waist, her body still warm from sleep. "I wish I didn't have to." Bending his dark head, he kissed her rosy cheek.
She leaned into him and his embrace tightened.
There were no words sufficient to describe their feelings, no easy phrases to mark the end of such gladsome pleasure. Nothing that wouldn't sound trite and pointless.
"Thank you for everything," she simply said, shutting her eyes against the tears threatening to spill over.
"Do you want me to write?" He'd debated declaring that he would write. Finally, uncertain of his own feelings, he thought she should decide.
She shook her head, incapable of speech, but sure at least that she didn't want to prolong the good-byes. Better to remember the joy he'd brought her than the unhappiness of his forgetting.
He nuzzled her cheek, sweet as a young boy, and then gently let her go. "I'm packed. Will's keeping my horses for a few weeks before sending them on to Paris. Do you mind?"
She should say something, she thought, deal with this like an adult. Watching him in the mirror, she forced herself to say in a temperate voice, "I don't mind at all."
He turned her around then and took her hands in his. "I'm terrible at good-byes, but for once I wish I weren't."
She smiled faintly. "I despise them, too."
"We'll say au revoir instead."
"Yes," she agreed, thinking how smooth he was, how accomplished to manage this all with suave gallantry, as though they were parting after an evening together. As if they'd meet the next day for tea.
"If you ever need anything, I've left addresses on your desk where I can be reached—mine, my parents, Charles's. If you ever need
anything
at all, let me know," he murmured, his gaze devouring her for a moment.
"Thank you." Mesmerized by the haunting depths of his eyes, she wondered in some more rational part of her brain whether he really meant what he said or if this, too, was more of his consummate charm.
Touched by feelings he didn't understand, Pasha resisted being drawn into maudlin sentimentality. "Will and Chris are going to ride with me to the crossroad," he declared in a conversational tone that took some effort. "Would you like to come?"
"No, I couldn't," she whispered, her heart in her eyes.
"Jesus." His grip suddenly turned painful. And then he pulled her into his arms, crushing her. "I
have
to go," he finally whispered, sadness overwhelming him. Then his grasp loosened and he quickly stepped back, his arms spread wide, the pressure of constraint in every muscle in his body. A second passed, two, and his hands dropped to his sides. "Au revoir," he whispered, and spinning around, he strode from the room.
She heard his footsteps racing down the hall, taking the stairs in leaps, and then the outside door slammed. Running to the windows, she pressed her face against the glass so she could see the curve of the drive leading from the house.
There he was only moments later astride his new black, the long-legged thoroughbred prancing every few steps as though he could feel the agitation of its rider. Chris accompanied Pasha, riding Petunia, and they both laughed as she watched them, enjoying some mutual humor. Her mother's heart went out to the man who had shown such kindness to her son.
She watched them until they were out of sight, Pasha and Chris in front, Will following. When the forest finally obscured her view and she could no longer see, she sat down and allowed her tears to fall.
She hadn't felt such a sense of loss even when Theo left, and she wondered at
her lack of loyalty to the father of her child. But Theo had always been wild,
untamed, his talents more a part of the world than the province of a single
person. Perhaps she'd always understood that no one would ever possess him completely. When he'd come to England to buy racehorses, to draw and paint them, he'd been as high-spirited a thoroughbred as any of his subjects. Drawn to the glittering light of his persona, she'd fallen under his spell, a country mouse on the world's stage for a brief engagement. He'd adored her and Chris with a zealous enthusiasm and passion she'd not completely understood. He'd be back in a month, he'd said, intense and ardent when he'd left.
The shocking news of his death had come via a notice in the London papers advertising an auction of the contents of his Paris studio. At least he'd died on one of his beloved racehorses, she thought as she read the brief description of his death.
How different Pasha was, she mused. Not a glittering comet, but a flesh and blood man, complex and subtle, like a dark warrior from a distant place at times, virile, powerful, yet tender… so tender. She smiled at the incongruous word. His gentleness was only one facet of a grossly material man, a wealthy, influential man who chose to bend the world to his will, a man raised to be contemptuous of authority by a father who had held the world at bay.
And yet he could be exquisitely compassionate, boyishly open, full of teasing laughter.
She'd miss him.
She'd miss the breadth of his worldly experience, his willingness to indulge her, the spectacular, shameless pleasure he gave. No one had simply held her before and provoked such flagrant feeling.
"Thank you," she whispered into the quiet of the room. "And Godspeed."
Pasha arrived in Paris the evening of the next day, early enough to join his family for dinner. "I invited
Charles, Maman," he said, strolling into the opulent dining room, looking point-device in black evening rig, his hair still damp from his bath. "I hope an extra guest won't disturb your chef."
"Everything disturbs Jallut, darling. I've learned not to worry. Did you have a pleasant holiday?"
"Yes, very," Pasha replied, smiling, taking in his parents and siblings ranged round the table. "I see the family is arrayed in force this evening."
"Odile has a reading this evening at the Comtesse Crozat's. She had a rehearsal earlier and we were her admiring audience," his father replied, bowing his head graciously in his oldest daughter's direction.
"Have you heard her Devil's Bridge poem?" his sister Honoré inquired, her cat's eyes alive with emotion. "It's stupendous. Berri is going to let me do the illustrations for it."
"I
have
heard it, and congratulations, Rory," Pasha said, seating himself. "Berri has a good eye for talent."
Honoré had been studying with Guerin for five years and her talent had won her medals at two Royal Salons.
"You look tanned and fit, darling," his mother said. "And you bought yourself some more racehorses, I hear."
"From whom, pray tell?" Pasha murmured, his brows lifted. "I haven't been in town for more than three hours."
"Mansel, of course. He knows everything." Teo smiled at her eldest child and softly winked. "He counts your billets-doux as well."
Pasha groaned. "Don't remind me. It was a pleasure to escape the society belles for a time."
"Is the English lady safely home?" His father's inquiry was delivered in a bland tone, but his dark eyes held a quizzing note.
"Yes, safely, thank you."
"What kind of racehorses?" his youngest brother James inquired, a tremor of excitement in his voice.
"A chestnut, a black, and a bay, all from top-notch sires. I'm having them shipped over next month."
"Can I ride them?"
"If you think you can," Pasha teased.
"I can ride
anything
," his brother Eugene softly interposed, the only member of the family who knew every stud book from Kiev to Yorkshire. "Are any from Darley stock?"
"The bay."
"Will you race it this season?"
"
You
can. I'm off to Greece by week's end." And Pasha went on to explain the turn of events regarding Gustave. A political family, they discussed the full scope of current battles and naval engagements, their sources of information numerous and current.
"Take me with you this time," James pleaded. His older brother Eugene added his pleas.
Teo's gaze met that of her husband across the table.
"Not until you're eighteen," Duras said, understanding his wife's pointed glance.
"
You
were fighting when you were sixteen," Eugene declared. "Why can't we?"
"Because I won't let you," Teo interposed.
"Because your mother won't let you," Duras said with a smile.
"You outrank her, Papa," James exclaimed.
"You have to be eighteen," Duras quietly said, but everyone understood regardless the soft tone, the discussion was over.
Honoré, a conciliatory middle child, stepped in with a question about the race schedule, and soon racehorses were the subject of debate. Pasha was too large to ride in any but amateur events, but Eugene at sixteen and fifteen-year-old James were still coltish enough to meet the weight standards for the track.
Charles arrived along with the second course and entertained the entire family with the newest gossip. Everyone was laughing by the time he'd dissected the dull court society, even Odile, who was much too serious of late. He brought a smile to her face, which was his intent. He didn't care to see her so morose.
Honoré challenged him to a musical contest, and each of them tried to outdo the other in remembering the lyrics of the newest songs. Teo joined them, James and Eugene adding their voices to the race songs and music hall numbers. Duras never sang, not wishing to inflict his tuneless voice on the festivities, and Pasha sang an occasional bar when the others were struggling to remember the words. He was notoriously up-to-date on all the music hall ditties.
It was a joyous dinner
en famille
, like so many in the Duras household, and for a moment Pasha wished he could have Trixi and Chris at table with him. How they would have enjoyed the evening.
How he would have enjoyed having them.
He drank considerably more after that, wishing to obliterate such pointless yearnings. His mother noticed, as did Odile. She and Pasha had always been the closest. And Duras glanced once or twice at his oldest child, aware of a subtle constraint since his holiday abroad.
A woman did that to a man, he thought.
He recalled how beautiful the young lady they'd found that night at Langelier's had been.
And three weeks in England, he mused, was a very long time in one lady's company for Pasha.
The party broke up by nine when Teo, Odile, and Honoré left for the Comtesse Crozat's literary soiree. James and Eugene were excused to ready their studies for school the next day, and Charles, Pasha, and Duras retired to the library.
Drinks were poured and the men drew up chairs to the map table.
"I wasn't sure you'd come back," Charles said, glancing at the red flags dotting the map of Greece spread out before them.
"I wasn't sure either," Pasha replied, leaning back in his chair, his expression shuttered.
"You liked the lady, I gather."
"Yes."
The liquor sloshed over the rim of Charles's glass at Pasha's unexpected answer. He'd anticipated some ribald, masculine comment, not a soulful, earnest response.
"You're wasting good cognac," Pasha said, his gaze amused.
"You shocked the hell out of me. Are you feverish?"
"No. She was just…" Pasha paused, considering an appropriate word for the indescribable Trixi Grosvenor. "She was unusual," he finally said. "Haven't you ever met a woman who seems different from all the rest?"
"No. Nor have you, as I recall," Charles sardonically retorted.
Pasha smiled faintly. "I recommend the experience."
"Does she have a friend?" Charles drolly inquired.
"No. Sorry. She lives in a small village away from the world."
"And no scandal ensued with your visit in this small village?" Charles was as au courant with convention as the next man.