Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (37 page)

“Better than whose, Miss Moran?” asked Mr.
Harcourt eagerly.

“Than—M’sieur Vallentine’s!”

“Me cousin?” blinked Mr. Harcourt. “I’m not
surprised. He speaks English badly enough!”

“
Bon Dieu
. All you English are
related,” Antonia said with a shake of her curls. “But I should
have guessed you are a cousin to Vallentine. It is in the
brain.”

“Antonia!” Lord Strathsay said brusquely,
but he could not help breaking into a smile.

Miss Harcourt thought it time to intervene
and she took Antonia’s hands in her own. “Shall you like to have me
for an aunt, Antonia?”

“
Parbleu
, more than anyone! I am glad
Theo finally proposed. I was about to become annoyed with him.”

Lord Strathsay tweaked one of her curls.
“Were you indeed?”

“What’s that you say? Charlotte! Are you—are
you—betrothed,” stuttered Mr. Harcourt.

“Is it such a surprise to you, this
betrothal, Harcourt?” said Antonia haughtily. “It pleases me very
much because I do not have any aunts. And soon Theo and Charlotte
will have babies, which will please me even more because I want
many cousins.”

It was some three hours later, and
approaching the dinner hour, when the elegant chaise carrying the
Earl of Strathsay and his niece turned in through the imposing
black and gold leaf iron gates that proclaimed the entrance to the
Duke of Roxton’s Hampshire estate, Treat. The mansion stood atop a
grassy hill at the end of a meandering mile-long, tree-lined drive.
The main building dated back to the Restoration. Yet, with its
decades of remodeling, it barely resembled its former self.
Buildings swept east and west from this central structure which had
a view of the man-made lake, well-stocked with trout, ducks and
swans, and dotted with several small islands accessible by punt and
bridge. To the east, acres of Ornamental gardens clung to the
gentle slope and curved away down to the lake. To the west was a
small enclosed Elizabethan garden, ivy walled and crumbling, and
beyond this, forest and fields and hamlets; all belonging to his
Grace the Duke of Roxton.

The drive through the tree-lined boulevard
skirted the lake and Antonia kept her nose pressed to the glass and
caught glimpses of templed islands and swans gliding under a stone
bridge, of autumnal forest, and undulating pastures newly fallowed
beyond where sheep grazed undisturbed. But nothing prepared her for
her first view of the house.

When the carriage came to a halt on the
gravel drive she could hardly wait for a liveried footman to open
the door and fold down the steps. Grooms ran across the crushed
stone to the horses heads, baggage was tossed down to waiting
lackeys, and the driver jumped down from his box, stripped off his
gloves, and accepted the tankard of refreshment offered him. The
door was opened by a bowing lackey. But before Antonia could alight
Lord Strathsay put out his hand to keep her in her seat. She looked
at him enquiringly and waited an explanation.

“You tell me you are determined to make
Venice your home,” said her uncle, taking her gloved hand in his.
“And I will not stop you if… if after this weekend you still wish
it. But I ask you to seriously consider my offer: that you make
your home with Charlotte and me.”

Antonia shook her head, a curious lump in
her throat. “Thank you, Theo. That is very kind of you and of
Charlotte. But I—I cannot stay in England.”

He squeezed her hand. “We have known each
other for such a short time and I do not want to lose you so soon.
But I do not want you to be unhappy here, and you are. Why?”

“Please-please do not ask me to explain… One
day the reason it will be very obvious and I—I cannot bear for you
to think me a better person than I am. In truth I am more like
Grandmamma than you can ever imagine! So please, now, let us go
inside because this journey has made me very ill.”

With that astonishing pronouncement Antonia
hurriedly bunched up the layers of her quilted petticoats and
scrambled out of the carriage with the help of an attentive
footman. She walked towards the collection of monolithic buildings
stretching to the left and right of her without looking up until
hailed by her uncle to wait up for him. It was only then that she
lifted her gaze from the crushed rock of the gravel drive and her
green eyes widened at the enormity of the aspect before her.

“
Tiens
. Vallentine was right. This
place is as monstrous as the palace at Versailles!”

“Not quite on that scale,” Lord Strathsay
said with a laugh. “But it is certainly monstrous. And growing more
so, what with the Duke’s latest improvements. He has commissioned
the whole of his private apartments be remodeled and refurbished,
and of all things to incorporate into the grand vision, a bathing
room
, with tiled plunge bath and running heated water, along
Roman lines, if you please!” Theo shook his head as he led Antonia
into an Italian marble foyer the size of a Great hall in any
respectable house. “Can you imagine it? Ah, Duvalier, you may take
Mademoiselle Moran’s coat and muff.”

Antonia could well imagine a tiled plunge
bath along Roman lines, and tears welled up at the back of her
green eyes. Quickly, she took in the ceiling, with its blue skies
painted with clouds, and golden cupids, and the Gods all staring
down from the heavens at her and inexplicably she felt very happy,
happier than she had been in weeks. Perhaps fate had not deserted
her after all?

Mention of the butler by name brought
Antonia’s nose instantly down from the clouds and for one horrified
moment Lord Strathsay thought she was about embrace the old man.
“Duvalier! Oh, Duvalier, it is such a pleasure to see a familiar
face,” she said happily and shook his hand.

The butler’s face cracked and he beamed at
her as he took her coat and muff and held them to him as if they
were his own. “May I say what a pleasure it is to have Mademoiselle
Moran as a guest at Treat.”

Lord Strathsay watched in astonishment as
the butler and his niece spoke in hushed tones like two old
friends. He could hardly believe this happy smiling creature to be
the same girl who on the carriage ride through the countryside had
looked so forlorn and with the weight of the world on her
shoulders, and he dared not interrupt, following them as they
mounted the curved staircase.

“Do you have a long way to walk to the front
door?” asked Antonia skipping beside the butler, her head turning
this way and that to take in the paintings, the furniture, and all
the gilt and marble of the vast rooms that lead off the passageway.
“How is Baptiste?”

“Who is Baptiste?” asked Lord Strathsay but
was unconsciously ignored.

“Ah! Mademoiselle remembers Baptiste!” said
Duvalier beaming up to his ears. “He will never drive again, such
is his elbow. It is sad for him, but he is not unhappy. M’sieur le
Duc gives him the safekeeping of all his carriages and equipages in
Paris. It is an important position, a respectable living. Baptiste,
he is not unhappy. His wife, she is very proud of him. She is my
sister’s second cousin. So, Baptiste, he is family.”

“Is that so?” said Antonia with interest. “I
am glad for him and your sister’s second cousin.”

“Duvalier,” said Lord Strathsay, and was
pleased to see the butler’s back stiffen to attention. “Where are
you taking us?”

“Forgive me, my lord,” the butler said
tonelessly and without another look at Antonia, who had wandered
off to inspect the view from a set of long windows. “M’sieur le Duc
directed that you be shown your rooms immediately as dinner is soon
to be announced.”

Theo waved him on and took Antonia by the
hand lest she wander off again. He left her at the door to her
suite of rooms with the promise that she not roam the corridors but
wait for him once she had changed into a suitable gown so he could
escort her to dinner. He was changed and dressed before she was but
he was not kept waiting many minutes. She came out of her dressing
room in a froth of Venetian red petticoats. The emerald choker was
about her throat and her hair was swept up off her face and left to
cascade about her bare shoulders. She collected a large fan of
carved ivory and her reticule and went down to the Saloon with her
uncle.

About twenty guests were assembled in the
Oriental drawing room off the Saloon. Not all those invited for the
weekend had arrived in time for dinner. Most of the persons were
unknown to Antonia and she stuck to her uncle’s side as he crossed
the room in search of his mother. He found her soon enough. She was
talking with Lady Paget and looked anything but pleased with her
surroundings.

“They did come in time to dine!” announced
Lady Paget and kissed both Antonia’s cheeks. “How was your stay
with the Harcourts, my love?”

“You look none the worse for a week with
Percy Harcourt,” Lady Strathsay quipped and held out her hand to
her son. “Did you bring Charlotte with you?”

“Percy is bringing her down tomorrow.”

Antonia curtseyed prettily to her
grandmother then dutifully kissed her forehead but could not
understand why she received nothing more than a perfunctory
welcome.

“Would you care for refreshment?” Lady Paget
asked Antonia. “Come, let us sit down and you can tell me all about
Percy’s unusual house.”

“Enjoying your stay, Mamma?”

“Don’t be an ass, Theophilus,” his mother
grumbled. “What is there to do in the country but get one’s feet
muddy? The child looks particularly radiant. What did you say to
her? Or did a week of Harcourt’s sickening devotion restore her
spirits? It wouldn’t be because you happened to mention the
Vicomte’s visit? You did tell her I hope?”

“I don’t see Roxton…”

“He’s always late. So you didn’t tell her,”
said Lady Strathsay slyly, peering over the sticks of her fan.
“That was unwise.”

“The right moment did not present itself. I
hardly see that it makes a difference.”

“We shall see who is right,” she stated and
turned a different face to her granddaughter. “Antonia, my love,
come see who has just come through the door.” She rose to have a
better view of her granddaughter’s face, and when the girl gave a
horrified start she turned back to her son with a smile of
satisfaction. “There,” she said triumphantly. “Did I not advise you
to tell her before she arrived?”

Antonia had interrupted her conversation
with Lady Paget to go to her grandmother. She had not heard her
words but followed her gaze across the room. Lord Strathsay was
looking in the same direction, but whereas the Countess was smiling
as she fanned herself, he was frowning through his quizzing-glass.
Antonia expected to see the Duke, such was the general hush. But it
was not the Duke. Making a slow progress across the room was the
Vicomte d’Ambert.

There was a moment’s frightened hesitation
before Antonia curtseyed and extended a hand to the Vicomte. His
bow was very formal and there was no hint of warmth in his pale
face. She noted he had taken to wearing a mouche at the corner of
his eye and rouge on his close-shaven cheeks. His wig was thickly
powdered and his frock, with its stiff gold skirts, outshone even
her grandmother’s heavy gold petticoats.

As she stared at the top of his powdered
head the warm blood in her veins seemed to turn to ice for she felt
suddenly very cold. She wondered if the Comte de Salvan had indeed
won out after all and this weekend house party was in effect to be
a celebration of her engagement to the Vicomte. Her grandmother
certainly looked pleased with the young Frenchman, and as surprise
had not registered on her uncle’s face it seemed to confirm her
fears that this reunion had been arranged all along. She felt sick
to her stomach, but forced herself to smile at the Vicomte who was
staring at her in a fixed way.

Lady Strathsay prodded her with the pointed
silver sticks of her fan. “Have you nothing to say to M’sieur le
Vicomte, my dear?”

Antonia could only stammer a welcome. The
Vicomte turned away to answer a question put to him by Lord
Strathsay, but after five minutes of polite conversation with
Antonia’s uncle and her grandmother he took Antonia by the elbow
and unceremoniously led her to the closest unoccupied sofa.

“Ten weeks in England and you cannot utter
one word of warm greeting?” he whispered. “Have you lost the use of
your tongue?”

“I was so surprised to see you, Étienne. Did
you think I would not be?” she countered in an angry whisper and
flicked open her fan.

The Vicomte looked about with distaste and
took snuff. “How can you bear it in this barbaric country, eh? The
English tongue, it grates on the ear. And to hear them speak
French?
Parbleu
, it offends me. And there is this dish
called—pudding? Yes, pudding.
Mon Dieu
, it is an
abomination!”