Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (11 page)

Lord Vallentine, a Chinese silk banyan over
his nightshirt and a cap of similar cloth covering his shaved head,
slipped into the library where a fire and chandelier still blazed.
The Duke of Roxton sat at his writing desk in fresh white shirt and
ruffles composing a letter.

“There is coffee on the sideboard,” the Duke
said without looking up. He dipped his quill in ink and began a
clean sheet of paper.

“Couldn’t sleep,” confessed his lordship
with a grin. He refilled the Duke’s dish and poured out a dish for
himself. “Tried to but tossed about for an hour. Damned awful
business,” he muttered and settled himself in a deep chair adjacent
to the ornate mantle. He sat watching the flames for several
minutes before he said, “How is she, Roxton? That physician took
his time about it! I hope he lived up to his reputation and his
pocket. I mean, she is young and—Damme! Must you go on
writing?”

“Yes, my dear. I need only sign my mark and
then I will be with you.”

Vallentine gazed back into the flames and
waited. The Duke took longer and when he finally came to the fire
Lord Vallentine looked at him sharply.

“Well? Ain’t you going to tell me what
happened?” he asked. “How is the girl? It’s been a shocking night’s
work! My nerves are shredded, I can tell you. It took me forever to
coax Estée down from one of her passions—”

“Lucian the Martyr,” the Duke teased
caustically. “I don’t know why you bothered. She deserved to be
left to her ill humors.”

Vallentine squirmed uncomfortably under the
Duke’s steady gaze. “I know she don’t behave as she should but she
was overwrought when you didn’t come home on time. She’d filled her
head with all sorts of imaginings. So, when she saw you safe I
think it was relief which prompted her to act so damned foolishly.
You understand how she is, Roxton.”

“I understand Estée’s sensibilities were far
more bruised than any feelings of compassion she may have exhibited
on my behalf.”

His lordship nodded and kept his eyes on the
dark liquid in his dish. “I admit when I first saw the girl I
thought as Estée did. It was only natural we would! You ain’t
exactly a-a saint. I mean, you’ve done some pretty sordid things in
your time and well, you’ve kept Estée sheltered. Although she’s
heard the whisperings she’s never been a party to any of it and
coming face to face with that girl dressed as a—”

“And if I said she is my latest whore?”

Lord Vallentine’s mouth dropped open. “That
girl? No! I don’t believe you.” When the Duke smiled crookedly he
was made to feel more uncomfortable. “You’re shamming me, by
Jove!”

“Yes I am,” the Duke answered in a flat
voice. “I could be her father.”

“Hardly!” said Vallentine with a snort. “She
said she was going on twenty and you’re three years my senior, and
I’m six years older than Estée but you’re two years younger than
that sniveling cousin of yours Salvan. So that makes you... Well! I
guess you could be!”

The Duke sighed at his friend’s complicated
mathematical musings. “Yes, I could be. I admit she was dressed
atrociously,” he mused. “Her idea of what the worst of whores must
look like—idiot girl. It only served to get her Richelieu’s
unwanted attentions and those of every lecherous dog at court. My
suspicion is she did so to force my hand, which I—er—felt compelled
to do, under the circumstances. And it only served to have my
carriage held up by a herd of ignorant cattle.”

Much of what the Duke said was lost on his
friend but the mention of highwayman made him sit up and set his
nightcap to rights. “What! Taking a chance on the Versailles road
weren’t they? What happened?”

“Happened, Vallentine?” said Roxton, slowly
looking up from contemplating his emerald ring. “Two peasants lie
dead on the Versailles road, both by my hand. The leader failed to
take the girl from me and escaped. We were shot at—”

“You? Who would dare?”

Roxton shrugged. “A mystery, my dear. Two
shots came from the forest. The second found its mark. Mademoiselle
Moran lives because the bullet first shattered the carriage door
before it entered her, thus lessening the impact. The ball lodged
shallow in her upper shoulder just missing collar-bone and rib. She
was extremely fortunate.”

“Damned fortunate!” stated his lordship.
“She will mend soon enough?”

“She is out of danger,” said the Duke
calmly. “But she has lost a great deal of blood and is very weak.
At least four weeks in bed and then we shall see. The scar will not
be pretty.”

“Poor babe,” muttered Vallentine. “What did
the ruffians want besides the usual pretties?”

“They demanded I hand over the girl; nothing
more. A singularly stupid expectation.”

“That’s damned odd.”

“Yes. My friends were not highwaymen at all
but men in the employ of someone—someone I am yet to identify.
Although, I have my suspicions.”

“Yes?” Vallentine asked eagerly.

The Duke sipped cold coffee. “It is much too
early in the game to voice my theories, Vallentine. You must be
patient.”

“Any witnesses?”

“A carriage and a carabas headed for the
palace pulled over by my friend’s accomplices. Their occupants were
standing in full view of the drama acted out by a silvery moon.
They had excellent seats.”

“Then they saw you mur—kill those two
men?”

“I am reasonably confident of receiving a
visit from the lieutenant of police tomorrow.”

“Benyer wouldn’t dare touch you!”

Roxton shook back a ruffle and took snuff.
“God forbid,” he drawled. “I am hardly a nobody.”

“I didn’t mean—of course not,” said his
lordship awkwardly. “But won’t there be a lot of questions?”

“Probably. He can ask all he likes.”

“But you ain’t going to tell him a whit are
you?” said Vallentine with a laugh.

“My dear, Vallentine,” said the Duke with a
raise of his eyebrows, “are you implying I, the most noble Duke of
Roxton, would deliberately obstruct the course of French
justice?”

Lord Vallentine grinned. “You’ve already
dispensed your own as it is! And they deserved it! Murderous dogs
to want to abduct a-a—Mademoiselle—Moran...?”

“Your so charming face betrays you,
Vallentine,” said the Duke. “Her name is Antonia Diane Moran,
daughter of the famous physician, one Chevalier Frederick
Moran—”

“The fellow who killed the Prince de
Parvelle’s heir in childbed?” said his lordship sitting up
straight. “Jesus!”

“I commend your excellent memory,
Vallentine. Not—er—killed precisely. Let us say it was a
bad—er—delivery,” answered the Duke quietly. “It was never proved
but it certainly ruined his reputation in Paris thereafter. He
sought refuge in England and subsequently eloped with the Earl of
Strathsay’s young daughter.”

“Adventurous character, ain’t he!”

Roxton declined to comment on Lord
Vallentine’s smirk and continued. “Lady Jane died when Antonia was
about five or six-years-old and her father less than a year ago in
Genoa. She has no one in the world save a dying grandfather—Yes,
Vallentine, do calm yourself. The Earl of Strathsay and his
estranged wife—”

“Your cousin Augusta is that girl’s
grandmother?” blurted out his friend. “What a lineage! The
notorious Lady Strathsay’s grandchild. Well! Well! Wait until Estée
hears about this!”

“Do you think that will further endear her
to the girl?” sneered the Duke. “To continue. She has one uncle,
Theophilus Fitzstuart, the Earl’s son—”

“But the old man don’t acknowledge that
connection.”

“Must you continually interrupt?”

“Sorry.”

“What the Earl continues to announce to the
world and what is absolute fact are not necessarily one and the
same,” the Duke answered crushingly. “Theophilus is his son
whatever Strathsay says to the contrary. Augusta’s morals are
decidedly unsavory but there is no disputing that boy’s sire. It is
my belief the dear old Earl will come to his senses on that score
with his last breath. After all, he is a papist and frightened for
his soul. He will make amends be sure.”

“You think it was Strathsay who tried to
have the girl abducted?” asked Vallentine standing at the sideboard
refilling his dish, the Duke declining more coffee. “He couldn’t
have been pleased to know you had abducted her. Did you abduct
her?”

“Let me ruminate on the speculations. I have
my own reasons. But no, I do not believe it was the dear old Earl’s
men.” Roxton looked levelly at his friend and smiled thinly. “And
no I did not abduct her. My sordid reputation has magnified itself
tenfold, even in your tiny mind.” He gave a weary sigh. “There is
no further hope for my declining prestige. Thus it is no use
telling you she is well aware I am her grandmother’s cousin and
that she wrote to me some months back asking me to—er—extricate her
from an unpleasant situation. She is under the misguided belief
that her father’s will left her in my care—”

“What?
You
? Guardian to a girl not
quite twenty years of age?” Lord Vallentine scoffed. “The man
must’ve had rocks in his head!”

“Your confidence in me is unswerving,”
sneered the Duke. “As I was going to add, in my care to see her
safely to England to her grandmother.”

“The knight errant! Bravo for you, Roxton,”
exclaimed his lordship. “But is it wise to send the girl to a woman
of your cousin’s morals? I mean, you have a reputation, that’s
certain, but Augusta Strathsay doesn’t have a moral bone in her
body!”

The Duke had gone to the fireplace and was
absently poking a log with the toe of a black leather shoe. He had
his back to Lord Vallentine denying him a view of his features, but
his lordship thought he detected a wisp of emotion in the normally
placid voice.

“The girl cannot remain in France,” he said.
“Her grandfather has—or is in the process, we await to see if he
lives a little longer—of contracting a match between his
granddaughter and the Vicomte d’Ambert. Wait, Vallentine, before
you tell me such a union does not seem unreasonable, for I would
agree with you but for two reasons. First: the Vicomte is loath to
marry her because she is beneath his touch. I do not know her
feelings for him. And second: no sooner will Salvan wed his son to
her than he will take the girl himself—”

“Good—God. That’s disgusting!” declared his
lordship with a tug to his mouth. “Salvan and that girl?”

“Quite, my dear. Nonetheless that is
Salvan’s intention,” said the Duke, resting his wide shoulders
against the mantle. “I admit I found the tale rather fantastical
but I had to give it an ounce of credence given my cousin’s
penchant for virgins straight from the nunnery.”

“I’ve always thought your cousin a
disgusting little worm,” grumbled his lordship and pulled a
face.

“Yet,” reflected the Duke, “observing my
cousin’s behavior of late, and Antonia’s aversion for him, I was
not totally disbelieving. Then, through a fortuitous accident, I
learned there is a
lettre de cachet
in d’Ambert’s name. And
let us not forget the state of my cousin’s finances. He needs his
son to make an advantageous match. Antonia will be an heiress when
her grandfather dies. He will leave what is not entailed to her.
What price the family name if Salvan can bag an innocent heiress
for his son whom he wishes to bed?” He watched his friend’s face
cloud over. “Go to bed, Vallentine. Your brain has passed the
limits of its comprehension.”

Yet when the Duke announced his intention to
visit Rossard’s his lordship summoned up all his reserves of energy
and dashed off to change clothes, declaring his wish to accompany
the Duke. He said he would be down in the foyer within ten minutes.
It took him considerably longer to make himself presentable. Roxton
patiently waited, great-coated and gloved, one hand scratching the
ear of his grey whippet, its companion content to lie at his
master’s feet.

“Do you think it wise to show your face at
Rossard’s tonight of all nights?” asked Vallentine as he was helped
into coat and gloves. “There’s bound to be a stir. All Paris must
know by now what happened on the Versailles road and well, as you
said, two men are dead and—”

“—there is blood on my hands?” Roxton
shrugged. “Ridding the world of such
canaille
is of supreme
indifference to me, my dear. But if you feel…”

“No, not I! I couldn’t agree more!”
Vallentine responded quickly and waited for the Duke to pass out
under the hôtel portico before him, the whippets close at their
heels. “But there’s bound to be talk. And not a few who won’t
condemn your actions. For no other reason than it was you who
killed those swine. I just hope it ain’t an unpleasant
reception.”

“Not for me, my dear,” said the Duke, a hand
to the jeweled hilt of his sword, “but for my friend who dared to
mutilate a beautiful young girl, it will be unpleasant, deliciously
unpleasant.”