Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (14 page)

“He knows! Your plans, they are a great pile
of ruins! She is too divine to be wasted on that raven-locked
icicle, but he’ll have her. Take heed of my words, Salvan! He can
hardly wait until she’s mended to mount her, I see that! And when
he’s had his fill she’ll be worthless—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” screeched the Comte, and
would have gone on but his cousin turned on a heel and came back to
them.

Lord Vallentine followed. He had a hand to
the hilt of his sword and itched to use it. An insult to his friend
was not to be tolerated. But a look from the Duke and he obediently
retreated to stand by the door.

“I go to Fontainebleau next week as a guest
of the King and—er—Madame de La Tournelle,” Roxton informed the
Comte, an eye on the Chevalier’s blank face. “I do not suppose I
will see you there, having as you do your own little diversion here
in the city?”

Salvan gave a start. “What?”

“You need not fear my interference,”
continued Roxton. “It is a wise man who knows when to beat a
retreat. I congratulate you. She is one of the more accomplished of
her kind.”

“Who?” the Chevalier asked the Comte, but
that gentleman stood rigid, so he looked to the Duke with a sly
smile. “Our friend here has a new diversion? A pretty object of
dalliance? He is too shy to admit it!” He peered at the Comte.
“Come, Salvan,” he laughed, “tell poor Fabrice the name of this
latest object of your desire. Then I too can offer up my
congratulations.”

“She is of no importance,” grumbled the
Comte. He walked away from the Chevalier who stood too close and
smelled of onions.

“Oho! You humble yourself, M’sieur le Comte.
This one, she must be quite a catch for M’sieur le Duc to comment
upon it.”

The Comte glared at his son who was still
slumped mute on a chair. “I told you to go home!”

The Chevalier minced over to Roxton.

“Tell me, M’sieur le Duc,” he said. “I beg
of you! Do not keep poor Fabrice in suspense. It is this Oriental I
have heard much about, eh? This blossom from the East?”

“Hardly, Charmond,” said the Duke quietly.
“My cousin is not one to indulge in exotic fruits.”

The Chevalier’s eyes danced. “Parbleu! He is
not as adventurous as you, M’sieur le Duc!”

“Nor does he have such a way with words,”
quipped Lord Vallentine, which sent the Chevalier into another
spasm of laughter his lordship found irritating. “I’m for home,
Roxton. And you?”

“And I. But I cannot leave Charmond in
suspense. Although, perhaps I shall,” said the Duke and glanced at
his cousin who seemed transfixed, as if willing him not to speak.
“It is Salvan’s place to tell. And—yet. No. He will not say because
he is modest in his little victory.” He bent to the Chevalier’s ear
and whispered the name Félice.

Antonia sat huddled on the window seat
peering out of a window that was partially frosted with ice. She
dared not push up the sash. It was bitterly cold outside and snow
had been predicted. She was supposed to be seated by the warmth of
the fire, with a coverlet over her knees and a cashmere wrap across
her shoulders, but she could not sit still waiting and waiting for
her hair to dry. That could take hours and ever since her bath,
when the shouts from the courtyard had echoed up the walls, she had
wanted to run to the windows to see if it really was the Duke of
Roxton returned home.

Madame de Montbrail had made her stand by
the fire in her chemise and stockings to be dressed: to be laced
into a tight bodice of cream silk, an embroidered stomacher hooked
into place; layers of petticoats of tissue thrown over panniers and
pulled tight about her waist; and finally, expertly slipped over
the whole, an open-robed gown of the palest shell-pink embroidered
with tiny flowers and vines. Then her waist-length hair had been
towel-dried, combed free of tangles, scented, and left to dry down
her back, a cashmere shawl folded about her shoulders to keep the
damp off her gown. Satisfied, Madame had then departed with strict
instructions to Antonia’s maid, Gabrielle, to see to it her
mistress did not stray from the fireside.

No sooner had the door closed than Antonia
flew to the window seat. She ignored Gabrielle’s pleas, intent on
knowing what was happening in the courtyard below. She heard shouts
and male laughter and the clash and scrape of steel on steel. Yet
the only persons in view were two lackeys, each with a frockcoat
over an arm and holding a goblet of wine.

Her patience was soon rewarded when the two
swordsmen came into view. They traversed the courtyard from corner
to corner. Elegant of wrist, they were strong and quick in their
art. There was the hiss and sing of blades as each fought for
mastery over the other. First the Duke was pushed back by Lord
Vallentine, then he proved stronger of wrist and forced his
lordship against the low stone wall which separated the garden from
the stables. They were stripped to their white shirt sleeves,
oblivious to the cold and not caring.

“Come look, Gabrielle!” insisted Antonia,
forehead pressed against cold glass. “M’sieur le Duc and M’sieur
Vallentine are fencing cork-tipped. This is the first time I have
been up to see them. Always I could hear their carryings-on and
always I was confined to that wretched bed! Is it not exciting?
They are very good I think. Perhaps Vallentine is the quicker but
M’sieur le Duc is the stronger. He looks very fine in white shirt
and breeches, and his hair just so. Poor Vallentine! If he is not
careful he will lose his wig! Oh! He has slipped on the icy
cobbles!”

She laughed and turned too quickly. A pain
shot down her arm to her fingertips; a grim reminder that she was
not as mended as she would like to believe. Gabrielle had gone to
fetch her mistress’s breakfast so Antonia looked out of the window
again and discovered the battle over. The two gentlemen leaned
against the garden wall catching their breath and drinking wine.
She wondered if they could see her and was sure of it when Lord
Vallentine looked up and said something to the Duke. Antonia waved
and Vallentine responded in kind. The Duke did not even glance up,
not even when they passed under the window to go inside some five
minutes later.

She sank back down on the cushions and
frowned. This was how Estée found her and was not at all pleased
her patient had left the warmth of the fire. She scolded Gabrielle
who had followed her into the room with a breakfast tray. The girl
took the abuse good-naturedly and disappeared to complete her other
duties.

“Did I not tell you to sit by the fire?”
demanded Madame. “You think just because that fat physician says
you are allowed out of your rooms you are strong enough to do as
you please? Catch a cold amongst other things? You try my patience,
Antoinette—”

“Antonia. My name is An-tonia! I do not like
the French form. You must remember that, Madame.”

Madame de Montbrail sighed and propelled her
charge to the chair by the fireplace.

“I will strive to remember if you will do as
I ask,” she said picking up the cashmere shawl and fussing with it.
“Why you should mind the name Antoinette is beyond me. It is the
prettier and it is French. Antonia is merely a Latin
corruption—”

“Antonia was name of the mother of the Roman
General Germanicus. He was a very good soldier who fought the
Germans and she was a devoted and pious—”

“Where do you pick up such trivia? No, I
know. Your papa.”

Antonia accepted a mug of hot chocolate and
drank gratefully of the bitter-sweet brew. “It is not trivia,” she
said defiantly. “It is history and Papa said—”

“Enough! Drink your chocolate and eat those
rolls and give me a minute’s peace, wretched girl.”

Antonia chuckled into her chocolate and was
silent, but not for long. “I am a great trial on you, am I not,
Madame? I am sorry. Indeed, I do not mean to be. Sometimes I cannot
help it. As when you call me Antoinette, which I loath more than I
loath any other name. You understand, yes?”

“I understand you a good deal recovered,
ma petite
,” smiled Estée. “There was a time when you had not
the strength to argue with me.”

“How long have I been here?”

“One month and one week to the day,” she
answered and picked up a hair brush from the dressing table and set
to brushing the girl’s long curls. “It is not so damp that your
hair cannot be dressed. La! You have such hair and of a color I
adore. You make me envious, child. It would have been a great pity
had it been cut off.”

“Cut off?” Antonia almost spilled her
chocolate. “I will not have it cut! I am very vain about my hair,
Madame. It is a fault, I know… Why must it be cut off?”

“Anyone would think it was your neck for the
chopping block!” said Madame with a click of her tongue. “Sit
still. I have not finished. I said it was to be, not that it is
going to be! The physician, he suggested it be cut off because it
was such a great tangle. Even I thought it impossible to put to
rights. But my brother he would not hear of it. He can be very
obstinate. And men, they don’t like a woman’s hair to be short, not
even a few inches cut.” She gave a sigh as she pinned up the girl’s
hair and threaded ribands through the weight of clustered curls.
“My brother he was right in the end. It would have been a great
pity to see such hair for the cutting floor. It is as well, is it
not, my dear?”

“Yes, Madame,” answered Antonia, glad Estée
had a view of her back and could not see her inflamed cheeks. She
was patient while her hair was fussed over but after a long silence
she said in a small voice: “Why has M’sieur le Duc not visited me?
M’sieur Vallentine, he comes every day to play at backgammon and at
reversi. Sometimes he reads to me from the newssheets. But M’sieur
le Duc never comes. I find that strange.”

So did Estée but she was not about to say so
to Antonia. “Mayhap he has a disgust of the sick-room? Persons who
are never ill always do.”

“No, I do not think that can be the reason,”
argued Antonia. “When I was shot it was he who tended to my wound
and bound it up. And he stayed with me the whole time of the
operation. Not once did he show a disgust or was repulsed at the
sight of my injury. He said I was very brave.”

“And so you were. Very brave.”

“So why does he not come?” Antonia
persisted. “I have been out of bed for almost a week now.”

“There, I have finished,” said Estée
cheerfully. She gave Antonia the hand-mirror but the girl did not
look at her handiwork.

“Madame, why has he not visited?”

“He has been very busy,” answered Estée in
an off-hand manner she did not feel in the least. “He went to
Fontainebleau for a fortnight to hunt with the King, and after he
was a good deal at court. And just three days ago he returned from
a stay at Marly, or was it Choisy? La! I cannot remember where! He
has been away so much recently it is difficult for me to keep up
with all his comings and goings. So you see how it is. He has not
been in Paris at all while you’ve been confined to your rooms.”

“But he has been here in Paris,” persisted
Antonia with that streak of obstinacy Estée found beyond her
endurance to deal with. “I have heard Vallentine and he fencing
under my window most days this week. And Vallentine said only
yesterday he and Monseigneur went riding in the forests of St.
Germain. And I know when he is home because Grey and Tan visit me
and he always has them with him when he is away for more than a
day.”

Madame de Montbrail threw up her hands in
exasperation. “Enough! He does not keep me informed of his
movements! I am not his keeper! He is home today. That is all I
know. Does that satisfy you? He may come and see you today.”

“I do not think he will.”

“
Eh bien
! I will not have you frown
at me! Now see what I have done with your hair and if it is to your
liking.”

Antonia went over to the long looking glass
and dutifully peered at herself. “I look very well I think, Madame.
Thank you. Oh! And you have affixed a nice clasp to hold up my
curls. They are diamonds and emeralds, not paste?”

“
Parbleu
! What next will you say? Do
not let my brother hear you call his gift paste!”

“It is not yours, this pin? It is a gift you
say? For—for
me
?”

“Of course it is not my hair clasp. Emeralds
do not suit me. Sapphires and rubies yes, but never emeralds. Come
here, I have something else for you.”

“What are those, Madame?” asked Antonia when
Estée dropped two diamond and emerald encrusted shoe buckles into
the palm of her hand. When Madame rolled her beautiful eyes Antonia
smiled shyly. “I know what they are. But—they are not for me, too?
I mean, you did not have to give them to me. I have Maria’s and you
have given me so many lovely things already.”