by Unknown
"You would not." Danielle paused in her tracks.
"Throw it and see," he responded.
She lowered the prospective missile. "Now you have made me want to laugh," she reproached with a comical grimace. "That is most ungallant of you. I was enjoying my anger."
"Well, I have a better way for you to utilize your surplus energy. Put on your britches and we will go together to the Palais Royal."
"That was exactly what I wished to propose until you made that nasty remark."
"For which I beg a thousand pardons." He apologized meekly and Danielle chuckled as she threw off
the wrapper and donned her beloved britches, twisting her hair into a knot that disappeared beneath the cloth cap.
"Molly is sleeping well," she informed Justin. "I think she has quite recovered from her sickness, but tomorrow I will buy food that she may prepare for herself. It will be better so, do you not think?"
"I think so," he agreed, walking to the open window looking out over the garden. "I will meet you under the third tree. Come here and let me show you."
Danielle was instantly beside him and he slipped an arm around the narrow waist. "I will leave first since my comings and goings will not be questioned. Follow me in five minutes. If you are challenged by the guards, I feel sure you will find a way to persuade them of your credentials."
"Mais, bien sur, milord. I am a mere servant lad in search of a putain."
"A part you will play to perfection," he said dryly. "In five minutes then."
While the Earl and Countess of Linton roamed the cafes and clubs of the Palais Royal, listening to the impassioned talk and maintaining a generally low profile except for the occasions when Danny entered
the ring with all the enthusiasm of a backstreet worker and turned the conversation into an alley that provoked the interests of the information-gatherers, Roland, Comte de St. Estephe, sat in his darkened chamber and thought of his father on his death bed.
The old man had been as vicious under the imminent sword of death as he had been all his life, the words spurting forth with a venom that exhausted his last strength. But he had exacted the promise from his son and heir that the insult would not go unavenged. His wife had paid dearly for her infidelity with the young English earl, but the earl himself, when challenged, had turned the tables and driven his point through the shoulder of the comte. He had refrained from delivering the coup de grace in tacit acknowledgment that he had been in the wrong—one did not seduce another man's wife with impunity, but unknowingly he
had left alive an enmity that would span the next generation.
Roland, throughout his childhood, had become accustomed to the abuse inflicted upon his mother and
had learned the lesson well. By the age of twelve he was sexually active and used the maidservants freely. They had little choice but to submit to the rape and those few who resisted bore the marks of their resistance as examples to their fellows.
The contempt for womankind engendered in the young Roland by his father's brutalization of his mother became crystallized when he heard the death-bed story. He stopped not to consider that his mother may have sought, like Louise de St. Varennes, a brief respite from the abuse that was her lot in life, thought only of the betrayal and, after his father's death, treated the widow with the same venomous cruelty that she had received in her husband's lifetime—and all women who fell into his path, vulnerable and eager for his attentions. Women deserved no other form of treatment and he would take his father's revenge on the house of Linton through the woman. It was entirely appropriate and when Linton, after the event, challenged him then he would face a finer swordsman than his father had faced and there would be no quarter this time from the "guilty" party.
But how to achieve the seduction of a bride who looked with such doe eyes at her husband? The fact that Linton appeared to love his wife merely added spice to St. Estephe's plans, but if the wife could not be persuaded to play her husband false . .. He smiled in the darkness. There were many methods of persuasion and he had always preferred the less gentle ones, particularly with such a diminutive, fair-skinned piece of frailty.
Closing his eyes, the comte mused pleasurably on the prospect of having that frail body in his hands. She wo'uld not resist him for long and when he eventually returned her to her husband ... The excitement brought about by these reflections sent the comte off in search of release and the young kitchen maid
that he found was, as a result, unable to leave her bed for a week.
The next morning he positioned himself behind a tapestry screen in the corridor outside the Lintons' apartments. He thought it unlikely he would succeed in taking her from the palace, but his plans would
be best laid after careful observation of her movements.
The earl left the chamber first and strode purposefully down the corridor, elegant yet unremarkable in
a silver gray cloth jacket and knee britches. He looked as if he had business other than pleasure to attend to, St. Estephe reflected, but the nature of that business was not what concerned him.
What did concern him emerged some ten minutes later and the comte stared in disbelief. The young countess was almost unrecognizable in a dull round gown of brown merino, stolid, serviceable, and horribly bourgeois. She wore a plain chip hat with a heavy veil, carried a wicker shopping basket of the kind carried by all French housewives, and was accompanied by a wan-faced maidservant, also with a basket.
"Let us make haste, Molly. I do not wish to be seen abovestairs in this guise. Once we are in the back corridors we will be unremarked."
The comte waited until they had rounded a corner and then followed stealthily as they made for the working part of the palace. The Tuileries and the Louvre housed over two thousand souls of every
station in life and the presence of a respectable French matron clearly on her way to market would
attract no attention. Danielle exchanged cheerful greetings with those they passed and the comte gasped
in surprise. Cone was the delicate speech of the aristocrat, in its place a country twang. What the devil was she? he wondered for the second time.
He followed at a discreet distance as they walked briskly through the streets of a city that in these days was far from a quiet, restful place of residence. Street corners were covered with posters announcing the latest regulations of the commune, print shops abounded, and the sellers of newspapers cried their papers and pamphlets from every doorway.
His quarry appeared unaffected by the signs of tension, the beating of a drum, the sudden alerting peal of a church bell, the pounding of a patrol of militia down narrow alleyways. She went in and out of shops, haggling ferociously over the price of an ell of stuff and a yard of ribbon. In the open market on the rue St.Andre des Arts she bought bread, wine, fruit, and cheese, selecting the produce with all the fastidious care evinced by her fellow shoppers with whom she blended as easily as a chameleon on a leaf. Not
even one of the spies of the comite des recherches, mingling with the crowds, noting looks and recording remarks, would find anything unusual about her.
But why? St. Estephe was quite at a loss as the conviction grew that there was much more to the Countess of Lin ton than met the eye—a master of disguise who sang the songs of the people! Quite clearly he was going to have to find out a great deal more about her before making his move; and London was the place to glean that information. But he couldn't leave Paris at the moment. Not until he saw which way the political wind would blow eventually; not while he had a foot in both camps.
Part 3: The Butterfly
Chapter 17
St. Estephe was a shrewd and cautious man, building contacts amongst the revolutionary factions as carefully as he played the committed aristocrat at court. When France decided which way it would jump, he intended to be on the right side, preserving his material wealth in the only way possible—by a position of undisputed power in the government that must at some point stabilize. For the moment he p
layed a waiting game, sensing the potential danger in aligning himself too soon with any one faction—unlike that ambitious fool Mirabeau, whose domineering manners and open desire for power had alienated both sides. The king rejected his advice and the king's confidants would not listen to him and he was without credibility in the Assembly, for all that he was quite the most capable politician around at the moment.
St. Estephe would play his cards close to his chest—he cared not whether the king or the people achieved the final sovereignty but he knew that it would not be found in a middle course of moderation and compromise, and he would play whatever part was necessary when the time came. To do that, he must remain in Paris with his ear to the ground. The matter of Danielle and her husband must wait awhile longer. It would come to no harm for the keeping.
Four days later, as firmly convinced as St. Estephe of the inevitability of a volcano of blood and horror that would tear the country apart, Justin and Danielle left Paris with a relief that was only surpassed by Molly's.
In the peace of the Cornish countryside, the married lovers passed an idyllic summer during which Danielle displayed an inordinate interest in making love in the strangest surroundings. Her powers of invention delighted her husband who, as Lady Lavinia remarked to the Earl of March, appeared to
grow younger by the day.
"I do not care for this at all, Justin."
Justin looked up from his solitary repast in the breakfast room at Danesbury the Christmas morning following their excursion to Paris and surveyed his wife. She was an entrancing sight as she came into
the room—the white velvet wrapper as crisp as the snow-covered landscape beyond the French doors, her hair tumbling unconfined to her shoulders. Her feet were bare, he noticed, but at Danesbury Danielle rarely conformed and, as a result, their guests were always carefully selected. So far, not one of the small group had emerged from their bedchambers this holiday morning, but it was not yet ten o'clock. Linton, after failing to persuade an unusually drowsy Danielle to join him, had taken an early ride and was now addressing his breakfast with some enthusiasm.
"What business, my love?" he prompted when she seemed disinclined to expand her comment.
"This business of babies," she announced, lifting her bare toes to the crackling fire. "I was not aware that it would make one puke so distressingly, but it is the same every morning . . ."
"What did you say?" The earl choked on a mouthful of beef and had recourse to his tankard of ale.
"I beg your pardon," she apologized, warming her other foot. "It is a very vulgar word, but it is actually
a very vulgar activity—this vomiting."
"I do not care what you call it," her husband spluttered.
"What is it that you are saying?"
"Why, that I do not care to be sick every morning." Her eyes widened innocently. "But Grandmaman says it is good because it means that the baby has taken firm hold . .."
"What baby?" Linton exploded, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses.
"Yours, of course, milord." She turned from the fire and smiled.
"Danielle, I do not quite understand." Linton spoke carefully. "Are you saying that you have decided to conceive, or that you have already done so?"
"You are a slow top this morning, sir," she chided. "I would hardly complain in anticipation of
discomfort; it is not my way."
"Come here." He pushed back his chair and patted his knee imperatively.
Danny deposited herself firmly on his lap and reached for a piece of bread and butter from the table.
"It helps sometimes," she informed him, taking a healthy bite. "A little plain food seems to soothe the stomach. I cannot imagine, though, how I ever cared for coffee." She glared at the silver pot on the sideboard with the utmost distaste.
"Stop playing games now, Danielle." Linton turned her face toward him. "You have amused yourself at my expense quite sufficiently. When do you expect the child?"
"In June." She kissed his nose. "I did not mean to tease you so abominably, Justin, but . . ."
"You couldn't help yourself," he finished for her with a chuckle. "I wonder if you will ever be anything but an outrageous wretch, Danny."
"Do you wish me to be?" She scanned his face with a small frown.
"No." He shook his head. "And I can only hope that if you provide me with a daughter she will take after her mother."
"And if it is a son, he must take after his father," she said softly, placing her mouth firmly on his.
"Oh, beg pardon." Julian burst into this scene of conjugal harmony. "Didn't mean to be de trop."
"Oh, you are not, Jules," Danielle reassured, making no attempt to move from her husband's knee.
"You must break your fast. I was merely giving Justin one of his Christinas presents. I am with child,
you should know."
"Sweet heaven," Julian muttered irreverently. "By Gad! I mean .. . well, my felicitations, Justin only . .. only do you think it is wise? Oh, that was not what I meant," he stammered, "but how is Danny to . . ." "In the usual way, Jules." She went into a peal of laughter. "Oh, do not look so discommoded. Is it so very shocking?"
"No, of course it is not. It is only that I cannot imagine you as a mother," he replied candidly. "But you cannot go around blurting the news in that way, Danny." Julian helped himself to a dish of deviled kidneys. "If you are in a delicate situation you must be discreet. Must she not, Justin?"
"Oh, stuff," Danielle declared before her husband could respond to the appeal. "It is perfectly natural and quite to be expected . . . Oh, must you eat those, Jules? They make me want to p— To be sick," she amended hastily as Justin squeezed her waist.
"But they are quite delicious," Julian protested in puzzlement. "I have seen you eat them."
"That was before I became enceinte. I begin to wonder if I will ever have a taste for anything but bread and butter again.''
"My love, I do not think a description of your symptoms is going to aid Julian's digestion," Justin put in mildly.
"Good morning, and a merry Christmas to one and all." Sir Anthony Fanshawe, in the company of Viscount Westmore, entered the breakfast parlor wreathed in smiles. They appeared not at all embarrassed by the position of their hosts and made directly for the chafing dishes on the sideboard.
"Jules has been saying that I may not tell people I am with child. Is that not absurd?" Danielle demanded.
Sir Anthony dropped a heavy silver spoon into the dish of scrambled eggs, and Westmore lost interest in the kedgeree. "You are?" they said with one voice. They were quite accustomed to accompanying Danielle on her forays into the backslums of London, had become used to the silver-mounted pistol and the terse instructions they received from a businesslike young woman who bore little resemblance either
to the social butterfly or to the mischievous imp who delighted in shocking them. But this simple news defeated their powers of imagination.
Justin was enormously amused as he read their minds and saw their startled recognition of the horrifying realms of discourtesy into which their astonishment had betrayed them. He accepted their stammered felicitations with a slight smile, still maintaining his hold on his wife, who showed no inclination to break
it anyway.
Lady Lavinia bustled in opportunely. "Danielle, where are your shoes, child?" She chose this dereliction above the greater one—that of sitting upon her husband's knee in such a public fashion. But since scolding her granddaughter for that indecorous behavior would also implicate Justin, she found herself with little choice.
"Oh, my feet are quite warm, Grandmaman." Danielle smiled. "I have been telling my news."
Lady Lavinia paled and sat down hastily, her eyes on Justin.
"Just so, ma'am," he soothed. "There is a movement to persuade Danielle that she may not be so frank
in other company."
"I should think so, indeed. Whatever can you be thinking of, Danielle? This is information for your husband
alone."
"Grandmere, it was a Christmas present and as such should be shared with one's friends." Danielle left her husband's knee and went to kiss her grandmother. "We are amongst friends, are we not, chere madame?"
"Oh dear." Lady Lavinia sighed helplessly and embraced her granddaughter.
"Rest assured, ma'am, I shall be quiet as a church mouse on the subject to anyone else. But now I must dress for I have to ride to Seven Acre field this morning and pay a Christmas visit to the Ducloses."
"Danielle, you cannot ride in your condition," her grandmother expostulated.
"Now that, if you will pardon my saying so, ma'am, is a great piece of nonsense," Danielle declared firmly. "I will not be mollycoddled and have no intention of spending the next six months lying on the
sofa with my smelling salts."
"Do you have any?" Jules was betrayed into uttering.