"She's a widow."
Charles's brows rose and a slow smile graced his handsome face. "How convenient."
"Not that kind of a widow," Pasha remonstrated, a rare fastidiousness in his tone. "She has a young son and lives in relative poverty."
"Which you were able to mitigate, I presume."
"I will, although I haven't yet. She wouldn't take any money."
"Good God, a veritable paragon of virtue."
"No comment, Papa?" Pasha quirked a brow at his father's amused countenance.
"If you enjoyed yourself and were able to do the lady a service in the bargain, I'd consider your holiday a success. As for virtue or its lack, I'm impartial. How old is the boy?" A young child was a consideration in any love affair.
"Four. He's the son of Theodore Gericault."
"So she's not completely a paragon of virtue," Charles coolly noted.
"Nor would such a woman interest me, Charles."
"With good reason. Pray tell how Gericault became involved with her?"
Pasha told them briefly, without undue detail, the mishaps and good fortune in Trixi's life. "The uncles Clouard have to be thwarted though," he added at the end. "Perhaps you could compose some suitable legal warning to them, Charles. I don't want Trixi harassed by either the Grosvenors or the Clouards. If they want to do battle with someone, I'll oblige them."
"I'd be more than pleased. Jerome Clouard tried to cheat one of my clients out of a property near Rheims. He's without scruple. Also, the judge Clouet is one of my close personal friends. So do you want to just scare them, or go for the jugular?"
"I'm inclined for the jugular. Chris deserves his inheritance."
"And if legal means don't bring results," Duras quietly added, "we could call on them and personally deliver a message they might better understand. Sometimes men of their stripe understand force. Death threats work wonders, I've found."
"There you have it," Charles cheerfully said. "If the judicial system fails you, your papa's suggestion will bring results. The Clouards are ours."
"When?" Pasha quietly inquired. "I'm pressed for time."
"I'll talk to Clouet in the morning and draw the papers up tomorrow. A messenger to the Clouards by, say, three, and none of them will enjoy their dinner tomorrow evening, I guarantee. I'll need some names and dates from you, Pasha, but if the will was registered, I'll find it somewhere. And we both know Theo had no love lost for his uncles. He would have registered it out of spite if nothing else."
"I think he cared for Trixi."
"The man was wild and unpredictable. He had ladies by the score."
Pasha nodded and exhaled softly. "
She
didn't know that, and he stayed with her for almost two years. She was different for him."
As well as for you, Charles thought. Pasha had never given more than a moment's consideration to any of the women in his life. And now he was savior to this young woman and her child. Charles wished he'd seen this wunderkind in person. He'd have to ask Jean-Paul tomorrow.
Charles asked several pertinent questions necessary for his conversation with Clouet, and then talk turned to the events surrounding Gustave. Meetings were planned with the ambassador and his attaches, and a list of supplies for Pasha's expedition to Greece was drawn up. Duras was of considerable help after decades in the military.
They agreed to meet for dinner the following evening to firm up further details on both the court case and the journey to Greece.
The following afternoon Jerome Clouard slammed his fist on the desktop with such force the inkwell jumped, splattering ink. "The bitch has Charles Doudeau for a lawyer now, damn her mercenary soul!"
"No need then to question who her protector is," Phillipe murmured. The Duras-Doudeau connection was well known. "But they can't
force
us to pay her the inheritance. Or not immediately at least. We can drag this out in court for years." Trained in law, Phillipe understood their dilatory prerogatives.
"Clouet was brought into this again," Jerome spat. "Damn his righteous hide and Doudeau's connections."
"We'll see if we can get a postponement."
"From Clouet?" Jerome snorted. "With the Duras family taking an interest in this. Not likely."
"We'll ask for a new prosecutor, too."
"Really, Phillipe. You're not that naive."
"Each request is simply a delaying tactic that requires a response. We then challenge. They respond, et cetera, et cetera." He smiled faintly from the depths of a Moroccan leather chair, the ornate embossing effeminizing his flabby plumpness. "Theodore's boy will be full grown by the time the case is settled."
"I wish I had your optimism," his brother grumbled.
"You're too impulsive. You always want immediate reprisals." Phillipe's voice was soft. "Delay will accomplish as much without violence."
"Violence works faster."
"Patience, brother."
"I've never acquired it, and this hearing has been rescheduled for three days hence, in case you didn't notice. An immediate reply is required."
"We'll send one requesting a postponement," Phillipe mildly replied.
"Do what you like," his brother snapped, "but if your method isn't effective, I'm having the boy seized." There was no softness in Jerome Clouard, his tall, gaunt form and relentless malice impassive to the gentler human emotions. "Without the brat, they have no case."
"What does this request for a postponement signify?" Pasha curtly inquired the succeeding morning, pacing the floor in Charles's office.
"Nothing more than an obstruction," Charles answered. "Clouet has already denied it."
"Next?"
"They'll attempt one or two more evasions—a day or so of these documents passing back and forth and then you'll see them at the hearing. By the way, Felix found Gericault's will in family documents in Evreux. It's also registered in the Minutier Central des Notaires Parisiens."
3
Charles leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied expression on his face. "Felix is very thorough."
"Is Chris the heir?"
"Apparently Gericault was very ill when the will was made. It's one sentence, appointing his father the sole heir of all his possessions, dated November thirtieth, 1823. On December second, his father in turn willed their combined property to Chris. It was probably done this way for discretionary reasons. Champion de Villeneuve was appointed protector of Chris's interest."
"Then why didn't he protect him?"
"A good question. We should ask him. The Clouards may have gotten to him first."
4
"It doesn't matter at this point," Pasha briskly said.
"If the will designates Chris as heir, the boy should have the estate."
"Clearly, yes."
While the various legalities continued to be debated in Paris prior to the hearing, Trixi returned to the familiar routines of her country life. She helped Will with the new foals and racers, an authority on breeding, a master hand with the horses, her expertise acquired from both Will and her late father. The summer crops were in full fledge and lush with the perfect weather, the fields maintained by day workers from the village. The Burleigh House women fed the field laborers lunch every day and busied themselves as well putting up strawberry preserves from the kitchen garden. Chris amused himself with boyish pursuits, his playroom an unending source of entertainment since Pasha had come bearing gifts.
Chris asked for Pasha only on rare occasions, understanding his mother's explanation that Pasha had returned home after his holiday with them. When he asked if they'd ever go to Paris to see him, Trixi, respectful of his hopeful feelings, said, "Maybe we will someday."
She missed Pasha, too, although she was more able to rationalize away her wistful longings. But she missed him terribly at night when the activities of the day were no longer a means of distraction. She'd often wrap herself in the linen shirt he'd left behind and sit by the opened window remembering, the night sounds washing over her. The scent of him clung to the fabric, the soft linen warmed her body, and she thought of their shared pleasures with covetous yearning—but never with melancholy or grief. He'd brought unalloyed joy into her life.
But she wasn't completely unselfish, and at times she wished with the benign fantasy of childhood that he'd suddenly materialize in the moonlight streaming through her window and take her into his arms.
Parisian nightlife seemed to have paled, Pasha noted, his comment not surprising to Charles after three days in his company. Their usual drinking companions were dull, he'd declared, the masked ball at Mme. Lafond's was monotonous, even the actresses from the Théâtre Français were insipid. He and Charles were now sitting alone in a quiet corner of the Jockey Club at four in the morning, drinking.
"The city seems humdrum and stale," Pasha grumbled. "Everyone's the same, the routines never change."
"The masked ball had a certain energy, I thought."
Pasha looked up from contemplation of the bottom of his brandy glass. "Did you think so?"
"It was a damnable crush."
"Unfortunately no one of interest was there."
Charles refrained from mentioning the score of women who had approached them at one time or another in their brief stay. "Perhaps we've attended too many," he said instead.
"My thought exactly." Pasha refilled his glass. "Although the Théâtre Français actresses weren't up to their usual standards either. Didn't they all seem cut from the same mold? Petite, perfumed, provocative."
Charles merely raised his eyebrows. Those qualities had always been more than sufficient to garner Pasha's interest.
"Don't give me that look, you know they were banal."
"Not blond enough?" Charles softly posed.
"No, as a matter of fact."
"A partiality for blondes has overtaken you?" Charles murmured.
"A not too subtle allusion to Lady Grosvenor, I presume?"
"You seem discontent with the usual wares tonight—not typical of your former scorched-earth policy with women. I don't recall your having a preference before for anything other than availability."
"Don't go there, Charles," Pasha said, surveying his friend through narrowed eyes. "I have no romantical sensibilities. Period."
"Your Trixi wasn't banal certainly."
Pasha's grip clenched on his glass at the possessive pronoun, but he gave away nothing when he mildly said, "No, she wasn't banal."
"You're allowed to miss her. It's perfectly normal."
Pasha inhaled, unclenched his fingers. "Not for me," he murmured, and emptied his glass into his mouth.
"Write her."
Pasha's piercing gaze held Charles's for a moment over the rim of his glass. "And say what, pray tell?"
"Tell her you miss her, tell her Paris has lost its charm, tell her you enjoyed your visit. Do you need a primer on letter writing?"
"Very funny," Pasha sardonically murmured, setting his glass down. "I have nothing to offer her. You know that."
"Maybe she doesn't want anything."
"They all do," Pasha muttered, slumping lower in his chair.
"So cynical."
"Realistic."
"You'll have to find someone someday."
Pasha's brows flicked up and down. "Someday is the operative word, my friend. I don't see you measuring any female for the marriage bed."
"But then, I'm not desolate in the midst of a feverish Parisian night."
"Nor am I," Pasha flatly denied.
"I've seen you more cheerful after losing twenty thousand at the races."
"I've a lot on my mind."
"That never stopped you from fucking before."
Pasha smiled. "So if I find someone to fuck tonight, you'll cease your harping?"
Charles grinned. "Maybe. But tell me about her first. Jean-Paul's descriptive powers are sadly lacking. He
thought
she might have blond hair."
"Golden blond, like sunflowers at high noon," Pasha softly murmured. "To be precise."
"And why did you stay so long?"
"She made me laugh. And cry once, too, come to think of it. Don't choke on your drink," Pasha said, grinning. "It shocked the hell out of me, too."
"I don't believe it. Too much hashish?"
"Not in Kent, Charles. Everyone goes to bed when the sun goes down."
"Unlike Paris."
"Oh, yes," he softly said. "But her father had put away a fabulous grade of Irish whiskey that added much to the pleasure of the evenings. That in itself would be worth a trip back."
"Take me with you when you go," Charles casually declared.
Pasha looked startled for a moment. "I didn't say I was going."
"It's just a thought," Charles offered. "Why not for the Epsom Derby?"
"If I wasn't in Greece."
"You're not obliged to go. Guillemont is moving heaven and earth."
"I'm going, Charles. I'm not staying for Trixi Grosvenor. At twenty-five, I'm not staying for any woman."
"In that case the Baroness Lacelles asked me to mention to you that she will be home tonight."
"It's four in the morning," Pasha reminded him.
"She particularly said
anytime
, in that luscious contralto of hers. I told her we'd think about it."
"We?" Pasha smiled.
"She enjoyed herself last time we were there." Charles glanced toward the curtained windows facing the street. "It's close enough to walk."
Pasha looked at the clock on the wall with the deliberate concentration of a man with several hours of drinking behind him. "What time do we have to be at the hearing?"
"Ten."
"And you're fully prepared for the Clouards?"
"There's nothing to prepare. Felix found the will. Clouet will take one look at it and tell them to pay up."
"We have until nine then."
"Five hours of Caroline's assiduous charm."
"Maybe I'll just watch," Pasha lightly surmised.
"And maybe the sun will fail to rise this morning."
"You're intent on this, aren't you?"
"It might curtail your moping."
"I don't mope."
"Well, then?" Charles softly challenged.