French Jade: A dazzling Regency love story

by Janet Louise Roberts

  FRENCH JADE

  Janet Louise Roberts

  writing as

  Rebecca Danton

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  MORE BOOKS BY JANET LOUISE ROBERTS

  CHAPTER 1

  Minerva Redmond sat in a corner, brooding. She wished she were anywhere in the world but here. She hated balls and detested games of whist.

  She let her imagination riot for a time. She had been reading a book about the travels of an intrepid gentleman to South America, where Indians enjoyed the sport of shooting unwelcome visitors with poison-tipped arrows, then cutting off their heads.

  Risky to travel there, yes, but it might be preferable to sitting on a flowered chintz sofa in a stuffy corner of a huge townhouse in London, waiting for partners to dance with one. And not wanting to dance with any gentleman any more than he wished to dance with one.

  Oh, how miserable all this was! All the games one played in order to win a beau, and marry him, and be suitably set up in life. The only goal for a girl in Minerva’s position in life was to marry, have children, raise them, and sit back complacently to watch the next generation play its games in turn.

  When Oliver Seymour approached her, and held out his hand to her, she glared at him fiercely. He pretended to quail, his generous mouth quirked, and he put his free hand to his heart.

  “Come now, Minna, have I neglected you so, that you glare at me? You like to waltz, do you not? And you are old enough to do so, it is not your first season!”

  She bit her lip to keep back angry words. She rose, in silence, and accepted his big hand to lead her back to the large open ballroom of the Lavery townhouse. How he could jeer and remind her it was her third London season, and she was neither married nor engaged!

  “I do not see your brother Percy,” he commented, as they took their positions on the shining parquet floor. He put his right hand firmly on her waist, and clasped the other about her slim right hand.

  “No, he does not come to London just now. The estates require much of his time,” she said primly.

  “Yes. So do mine.” He grimaced. “I found them in bad condition when I returned from the wars.”

  She relaxed a little. She did feel sorry for Oliver at times. He could be a terrible tease, but when she remembered what he had gone through, she felt quite weepy. He had been a spy for Wellington on the Peninsula, all through the terrible battles there. Then, as though that were not enough, he had returned to the fray after recovering from a severe hip wound, to take part in the Battle of Waterloo, at which he had acquitted himself with such heroism that he had won several medals, which he firmly refused to wear. One could only silently admire such a man.

  “I have not seen you in Kent,” she said, a little more brightly. “We are quite near, Percy said.”

  “Yes, we are. I saw Percy around Christmas at Maidstone, but he had little time to pause and talk. When we all return to Kent, we must arrange little parties, eh?”

  When he spoke so kindly, she could like him. He was a wealthy man, but with no title, and he seemed to understand Percy and his problems with the estates.

  “I would have thought he would have the matters well in hand,’ Oliver continued. He inherited three years ago, I believe?”

  “Yes, three years ago.” Minerva said it dully, for Percival had inherited on the death of her beloved father. It had been so sudden, so shockingly unexpected — he had been there, big and bluff and helpful. Then he was gone, and all of them groping about blindly trying to think what to do without him.

  Oliver squeezed her waist with his hand, and said, “Come now. This is a party, Minna! Chirk up. Has Percy settled on one of the pretty Misses Lavery?”

  Percy was very fond of the second daughter, Denise Lavery, but Minna had no intention of telling Oliver so. Some things were private, after all.

  “I would not know,” she said, with a return of her prim manner. She straightened her shoulders in the ruffled white muslin, and glanced over to the lovely Denise in her favourite sapphire-blue silk. Mr Lavery was a silk merchant; it seemed all the girls always wore such lovely garments. Minna felt a flicker of envy, then forgot it. She could wear silks, she just did not choose to do so.

  “Oh, prunes and prisms,” said Oliver, with a laugh. “You must forget your books and learned papers while you are out for an evening, Minna! Learn to laugh and be gay. Men don’t like a glum look, you know!”

  “No,” she said savagely, unable to stop herself. “Men like females who flirt with them, and let them kiss in corners, and act the fool!”

  Oliver stared down at her, and she blushed hotly. She had been thinking of her cousin Gabrielle, and let the words run away from her.

  “You are quite right,” he said soberly, but there was a twinkle in his dark grey eyes. His dark curly hair waved back from his broad bronzed forehead, and vaguely she admired his looks. He was tall, a little taller than her brother Percival. He limped a bit from his injury, but carried himself with grace, and danced well. But damn it, she thought, borrowing Percy’s language, he could be such a devil of a plaguey man. “I am surprised you know about that, Minna! Surely not from your sober brother?”

  “Percy is a good man, and a fine one, and the girl who marries him will be a lucky one!” Minna cried out, furious at his seeming scorn.

  “Did I say otherwise? Come on, now, what’s got into you? You’re very hard to please, I must say,” he said plaintively.

  “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly, and turned her head away so he could not see her face.

  The waltz finished, she had scarcely noted how he carried her through it with grace and polish. “Will you have an ice?” he asked.

  She was hot, more from his baiting than the dance. “I would like it, yes.”

  He bowed her into a corner near one of the older women, and went off to fetch it. The lady was Mrs Lavery, brisk and practical — she had to be, with her four daughters and two sons, thought Minna.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Redmond?” asked Mrs Lavery kindly. She wore a dark purple silk, probably from her husband’s warehouse.

  “Yes, very much, thank you, ma’am. Your house is always so cool and comfortable,” added Minna, conscientiously. The Laverys entertained lavishly, always inviting all their children’s friends as well as their own. “Such a lovely ballroom.”

  “Thank you, my dear. The girls arranged the flowers. Your mother looks delightful this evening, as always.” Both of them looked towards where Mrs Betsy Redmond talked and smiled in the centre of a little group. She wore black lace, as she was still in mourning for her husband, dead these three years. But her face was calm and controlled, sweetly pleasant.

  Oliver Seymour returned with three ices on a tray, and handed one to Mrs Lavery with a smile. “Thank you, Mr Seymour. May we look for your mother to come this spring?”

  “If she can tear herself away from my sister and the children,” he replied. “Eleanor’s fourth has arrived, and Mother hovers with delight.”

  Mrs Lavery looked at him shrewdly. “She probably has only one wish in the world to make herself completely happy,” she said, significantly.

  Oliver Seymour looked self-conscious. “Whatever do you mean, madam?”

  “Your marriage, and heirs
to inherit your beautiful property in Kent, sir, as you well know!” she said, with a laugh, and a tap of her fan on his arm. “Sterling Heights is a most beautiful place. You’ll not leave it to your sister’s children? She and her husband have their own place. The wars put you off long enough, sir!”

  “You have guessed it, Mrs Lavery,” he said, with a sigh, and a comical grimace, while Minna stood eating her ice, with eyes cast down in some embarrassment. Why did older women choose the oddest occasions to be familiar? “Mother tells me I must find someone soon, or put myself on the shelf as a hopeless, crusty old bachelor!”

  The two of them laughed, as though it was funny. Minna felt very odd, and cross. Why was it funny to be an old bachelor? When it was pathetic and sad to be an old maid? Life was not fair!

  “Well, I would offer you one of my own fair daughters, but here is pretty little Miss Redmond,” said Mrs Lavery, trying to be kind. “You are in your third season, dear?”

  Minna knew her cheeks were fiery red, and she felt so furious at Mrs Lavery she could have screamed! “Yes, my third, Mrs Lavery,” she said. “And I really do not care! I have my books and my writing, and just last week one of my articles was published in the Ladies’ Gazette —”

  Oliver gave a guffaw. “Oh, come on now, Minna! Don’t be a bluestocking,” he said roughly. “You’re not suited to that role!”

  “I had an excellent governess!” She gasped at his rudeness. “She always encouraged me to develop my mind.”

  He looked down her, in what she thought was a very forward manner. “That isn’t what a man looks for,” he said.

  Even Mrs Lavery was somewhat shocked. “Mr Seymour!” she rebuked, covering her mouth with her gloved hand. “Whatever would your dear mother say?”

  “She would agree,” he said. “She knows what’s what! Well, if I have shocked you with my language, forgive me! But, Minna, don’t be a fool, or you’ll never catch yourself a man!” And with this crass statement, he stalked off.

  Mrs Lavery was trying not to laugh, and that enraged Minna even further. “What a rude man,” said Minna grimly.

  “But he is right, my dear,” sighed Mrs Lavery. “I have encouraged my girls to learn how to sew, cook, manage a household, ride well, develop some nice hobbies. But after all, what a man does look for is pretty looks, nice manners, and a good figure! What a world it is, to be sure.”

  “To be sure,” echoed Minna, and left her hostess as the woman was distracted by a servant whispering about the refreshments.

  She sat down in another corner, hoping she was hidden from the little throng of guests. Some went on dancing to a very good little orchestra in the shining ballroom. Others drifted to other rooms, where whist games, bridge, and even loo were being played. The Laverys believed in giving their guests what polite entertainment they wished.

  Minna’s thoughts had gone to Gabrielle Mably, her cousin. Oh, how Gabrielle would have revelled in this evening, and the coarse talk of Oliver Seymour! She would have agreed completely!

  Minna had always been shy and quiet. Her brother Percy had been her best friend. Her father had understood her. Her mother had quietly encouraged her and supplied her with a fine governess, Miss Cratchford.

  Then in 1811, Gabrielle Mably had come to stay with them, from France. Her parents had been killed in the Napoleonic Wars, and poor dear Gabrielle had nobody, said Mrs Redmond, compassionately.

  Gabrielle was everything that Minna was not. She was three years older, and a dozen years wiser about men and life. She was chic, even at her young age. She was smart, flirtatious.

  Both girls had curly red hair, green eyes, slim rounded figures. Gabrielle was one inch taller, that was all the difference, as Betsy Redmond often said, in a puzzled way. But how different —

  Minna had her hair in a long childish braid. Gabrielle had hers in little curls and ringlets that made men long to pull them — or kiss them. Minna had a girlish face. Gabrielle had smooth, painted cheeks, long eyelashes, a knowing look, and men always wanted to pull her into corners of the dark garden and kiss her. Minna had found her on four different evenings with four different men, as she told her mother in amazement.

  Men flocked about Gabrielle like moths about candle flames. And how they loved to get burned! She had drawn men to her, laughed and teased them, flirted with them. And they never looked at all at Minna. They did not even see her. Minna had withdrawn deeper into corners, watching in awe and, yes, jealousy.

  Gabrielle had remained with them for three years. The damage was done. While Minerva was in her most vulnerable teenage years, Gabrielle had been there, to outshine her, push her into corners, attract every man for miles around, make Minna all the more shy and retiring. Minna had not developed emotionally. At eighteen, she had come out in London, but she was hurt, stunted, as much by the teenage years with Gabrielle as by her father’s death.

  She had no confidence in her powers of attraction. Whenever she was with a man, she had thought of Gabrielle, laughing, winking, teasing, flirting. She could not act like that, she had told herself. Everyone would laugh at her, as Gabrielle had laughed at her.

  Her little successes had been in the schoolroom, with her writing of articles, her watercolours, which were very nice. She could play the piano nicely, and entertain her father’s guests — when Gabrielle was out. Her family had modest wealth, and she could dress as she liked. But muslin gowns of white and pale blue suited her, she had told her mother. She could not wear the bold low-cut dresses of silk and lace, like Gabrielle. She was not that kind, she knew it. Everybody would laugh.

  Oliver Seymour glanced at little Minna in the corner, and shook his head. He led out Denise Lavery and said briskly, “What a pleasant party, Miss Lavery! Everyone is always welcome in your house, and you make us feel such warmth of polite pleasure.”

  She smiled up at him, and he felt a little jolt. She was a very pretty girl, just nineteen, in her second season. She was pretty, practical as well, much like her good mother. A man could do worse than court Denise Lavery. Her father was newly rich, a merchant of silks, and would settle a good dowry on each of his daughters.

  Denise was the second of four girls. There was Mary, at twenty-one, more plain but a good-hearted girl. There was Amelia, seventeen, a bit shy, but lovely. And then little Jane, at fifteen, just beginning to bloom.

  He wondered how serious Percival Redmond was about Denise. He would not want to cut out that nice lad. He had problems enough. Oliver thought of the last time he had seen Percy, the worried lines about his green eyes. The boy worked hard; he had had little time to learn the estate work from his father. Oliver must see to him when he returned to Kent; perhaps he could help him.

  “It is most kind of you to say so, Mr Seymour. Do you remain long in London?”

  He must remain long enough this time to find himself a bride, he thought, even as he spoke idle pleasantries to Denise Lavery. His mother had had a long talk with him. Oliver was now thirty-two, he had his estates in hand, he needed sons and heirs. He really must set down to the task of finding a suitable mistress for Sterling Heights. The Seymours had had the estates for three hundred years, it would not do to leave them to his sister and her sons. Not unless he must.

  And he was young and vigorous, he was fed up with wars and death and violence. He wanted to marry, to dally with a pretty girl, kiss her senseless! His desires rose up in him; he was ready for the next part of his life. He wanted to become a lover, a husband, a father, even. Yes, he had enjoyed the weeks with his sister and her little family. To have a little boy cling to his leg and beg for a ride on his black stallion, to set a pretty little girl on his knee and sing her a naughty war song, to feel the helpless little bundle of a baby in his arms — Yes, he was quite ready for marriage.

  But to what girl? He had no liking for some money-hungry female, brazen and ready to lead him a merry dance. He wanted some nice young girl, with laughing lips and innocent eyes, a virgin bride that was his to teach the pleasant lessons of marria
ge. Yes, he wanted a lively and lovely young bride. But who? He looked with speculative eyes about the merry company. This was why he was here in London this season. He wanted to return home an engaged man, if not married.

  He changed partners, this time choosing young Astrid Faversham. The girl was tall, eighteen, in her first season. He took her on his arm, and escorted her into the set of eight persons.

  He did not know her well; they had met only a couple of weeks ago. He asked her several questions, and found her quite pretty, though her silver-blonde hair looked a bit touched up, and her eyes were cold and grey as an icy stream. Her ice-blue gown showed a fine figure, though. Perhaps he was wrong about her. Blondes sometimes did seem cold.

  “You have been in London for some time?”

  “Only since March, sir. My father determined it was time I came out.”

  “You are from the north of England, by your accent?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you like my accent?”

  “Charming,” he said automatically, though he found it rather Scottish. She smiled, showing her pretty, small teeth, like those of a cat.

  Oliver glanced about. Minerva Redmond was sitting in a corner again. In her white frilly muslin dress, she looked a dowd, he thought disapprovingly. And why did she tie up her long, curly red hair like that? She looked ten years older than her age.

  A mischievous impulse overtook him. The girl needed stirring up. If she could only see herself as a man did! He steered Astrid over in that direction, and saw Minerva shrink back further behind a flowered curtain.

  “Have you met Miss Minerva Redmond, Miss Faversham?” he asked, a little loudly.

  “Sir? Oh, yes, I believe so. Does she not have hair of a disagreeable red shade? And some pretensions of intellect?”

  “The very one,” said Oliver, with intent. “She could be quite pretty, if she but dressed herself better, and found a finer hairdresser! But she will wear such frumpy clothes! I find her dull, dowdy and dour.”

  Astrid gasped at such frankness. She gazed up at Oliver with open pink mouth, like a kitten. She began to laugh. “Oh, sir, how too funny you are! Yes, indeed, she is that! Dull, dowdy and dour!”