French Jade: A dazzling Regency love story

by Janet Louise Roberts

They moved on, looked at paintings, but Minerva would have been hard put later on to say what she had seen. She had a vague memory of ships in full sail, green-blue waves, sunsets and sunrises, a blood red sun.

  Percy was finished long before the other two, and waited impatiently at the doorway. He grabbed Minerva and pulled her towards their carriage.

  “The horses have been standing these two hours,” he snapped.

  “You are very rude to your cousin,” said Oliver sternly. “She was enjoying herself.”

  Percy bit back angry words, bade him farewell coldly. Minerva was shoved up into the carriage.

  As they moved on, Percy said, impassioned, “I cannot go on!”

  “Oh, Percy, nonsense!”

  “Well, I cannot. I shall trip myself again and again. I cannot stay around Seymour and tell lots more lies. I cannot look him in the face! And Denise Lavery — she has only contempt for me, hanging on the skirts of my widowed cousin!”

  Minerva eyed him with worry. “Oh, now, Percy, it is not so bad as that! She is jealous of me, and you will have more of a chance with her! Stick it out, it will be fine, I assure you —”

  “I hate telling lies!” muttered Percy gloomily, hanging over the edge of the carriage and glaring at a high-perch phaeton and its merry driver. “I should be back in Kent, working. Or engaging myself to Denise! Not hanging about art galleries while you make eyes at a fellow I used to respect!”

  “What do you mean, ‘used to respect’?”

  “He is making an ass of himself over you. Everybody was staring at you both!”

  “Well —” Minerva could not conceal her delight. “Then it should not be long before he is at my feet! Oh, Percy, just a few more days, I beg you! It won’t be long!” she added anxiously.

  “I don’t think I can endure much more! Denise is mad as fire at me!”

  Minerva felt sorry for her honest brother. He was unused to deception, and was not enjoying it as she was. She coaxed, “Just give me a few more days, Percy. I promise you, it shall not be long. I feel that Mr Seymour is ready to fall at my feet —”

  “Then what will you do with him?” he asked perceptively. “Will you kick him? I think not. I think you are liking him rather well these days. But when he finds out you have been deceiving him and making fun of him behind his back, I don’t think he’ll hang about you any longer! And what then, Minerva Redmond?”

  “Well — I don’t think that is the case —” she said crossly. She had the picture of her revenge in her mind, and refused to part with it. “He is becoming mad about me, and when he learns I am the same person whom he called dull and dowdy and dour, he will be most upset —”

  Percy drooped. “Oh, all right, all right. Minna, it shall be a few more days. But no longer! I shall go mad otherwise!”

  “You are a fine brother,” she praised him. “You won’t be sorry, I promise you.”

  ‘I’m very sorry already,’ he muttered, and hopped down as the carriage halted at their door. He helped Minna down, and escorted her into the house.

  “I have invited the Laverys to cards on Saturday,” she said, hopefully.

  “And Denise comes?”

  “Her mother wrote, they are all coming.”

  He perked up a bit at that, but she could see she was going to have a time with him. He was turning stubborn. She must work faster, and get Oliver Seymour to her feet more quickly!

  CHAPTER 7

  Oliver Seymour sat at his huge rosewood desk, and rolled his jade pen around in his large fingers. He frowned absently at the large bookshelves that lined the walls.

  The words formed in his mind, but before them rose the picture of an alluring oval face, sparkling green mischievous eyes, thick masses of silky red-gold curls — He groaned, and dipped his pen in the ink.

  He drew a sheet of creamy notepaper to him, and began to write.

  Dearest Mother,

  I hope this finds you well, and also my dearest sister.

  My thoughts are often with you and with her. Your letters of her condition are most reassuring. I hope to see the new little one before long.

  This letter comes to you to beg your presence in London. A most intriguing situation is forming, and I wish you to come with haste and aid me.

  You may find it hard to credit, as I do. But I feel that young Minerva Redmond is playing a little game with me, and with all London. I can scarce credit it myself, but she is, I think, masquerading as her own French cousin!

  Oliver laid down the pen to think, a smile around his mouth. His eyes shone as he thought of the latest exchange of dialogue with the intriguing Madame Dubois. Then he picked up the pen and continued.

  Imagine, if you will, a beautiful French widow of some twenty-five years, with beautiful green eyes, masses of red-gold hair, who refuses to wear black or even grey for her late “beloved” husband. Imagine a delectable madame who exchanges most flirtatious comments with me, as she dances exquisite waltzes. I found myself madly intrigued by her, and convinced she was a sad flirt, who might yet make a pretty mistress! Oh, I know you gasp, but such was my state of mind! She is quick of tongue, warm of passion in her kisses, yet refused to come alone to my house.

  However, at the same time, young Minerva Redmond has disappeared into her bedroom, with fever and some illness which has not yet been fully described to me. She has never been seen in the same room with Madame Dubois! After some two weeks of devotion to the French lady, I am becoming suspicious. The French accent slips, the French lady reveals some knowledge of England she could not easily know, and her brother Percy came to London to escort her about. Yet he shows more impatience with her than devotion.

  Oliver drew in his lip, frowning over his letter.

  I mean, Minerva’s brother Percy came. Forgive my incoherence. I am quite bewildered, confused and puzzled.

  At any rate, this day finds me set upon solving the puzzle. If she is truly Madame Dubois, a French widow, then that is one matter. However, if she is young Minerva Redmond, set upon mischief, and dangling me on a string, that is quite another matter! I think you will be intrigued by the sight of your son dangling helplessly to the play of a young puppet-master!

  I send you Hendricks, the barouche, and two carriages for your trunks, and my fond hopes that you will soon consent to attend me in London. I warrant you will have a splendid time of it. You wish me to marry soon. Well, I may think of doing so, should the puzzle end as I wish it to do! But what is the lady? Widow of some six years? Or girl playing a part with wicked accuracy, and showing much more depth than I had dreamed in her? Come soon, and discover for yourself!

  Your loving son, Oliver.

  He read over the letter, sanded it, and folded it, then rang for Hendricks. The coachman, old and faithful in the Seymour service, promised to carry out Oliver’s wishes to the line, and soon departed with carriages and outriders.

  Oliver then looked at the gold ormolu clock on the wall of the study. Ten o’clock. He returned to his bedroom, and removed his gold lounging robe, and his valet held out the fine silk waistcoat of gold and silver thread.

  Oliver put it on, patted it down, then donned the blue silk jacket the valet held for him. The valet smoothed down the back devotedly, until not a wrinkle showed on his master’s muscular back. Oliver eyed himself anxiously in the mirror. He had always cared about appearance; it was the mark of the gentleman, whether one wore trim uniform or London town clothes, or country styles. But never had he felt so keen to look well. Madame Dubois always noticed, and sometimes commented, and he did not want to be outshone by any French dandy.

  Was she truly Minerva Redmond? He could scarce believe it himself, yet clues had started to show, now that he was on the lookout for them. When he had first guessed, he scarcely knew. Yet the continued absence of Minerva disturbed him. His little mousy friend was a fine girl, though dull, and prim. If she were truly so ill, he was very sorry. Yet — yet the eyes were the same, the same shade of green, their faces had the same oval — and the
same colour hair, though it looked so different.

  Yet — people said Gabrielle Mably had been of the same colouring as Minerva Redmond, when they were girls together in Kent. He might be wrong!

  What if the lady who made him quiver with passion, who caused his heart to beat twice as rapidly, was really a widow? What would he feel then? Married five years, with no children! Married to an elderly Frenchman — for his money? Why else? It showed a want of romantic feeling that disturbed him. And the fact that she had no children might mean a lack in her husband — or a lack in herself!

  And Oliver Seymour owed it to his family and his estates, his lineage, to have a son to follow him! And he did want children. He enjoyed them, he longed for his own sons and daughters, to complete his life.

  A wife would be all very well, but one must marry well, and with circumspection, with due regard to what one owed to the family.

  He set jade cufflinks into his wrists, and the valet fastened them, and the jade stud in his blue tie. The pale green jade was set off by the electric blue of his suit. He surveyed himself with satisfaction.

  “Very handsome, sir, if I may say so,” murmured the valet. He brushed an imaginary fleck from the collar, and stood back critically. He seemed to sense that his master went a-courting. “You will return for luncheon, sir?”

  “Er, probably. About one o’clock, if all goes well.”

  “May I wish you well, sir,” said the valet fervently.

  “You may. Thank you,” and Oliver strode out eagerly to seek his fate.

  He stepped into his carriage and directed the man, though it was scarcely necessary. Even the horses must know the way by now to the Redmond townhouse.

  By eleven o’clock, he was stepping down and striding to the door. The butler swung open the door soundlessly, and greeted him.

  “The ladies and Mr Percival are in the drawing room, Mr Seymour,” he said, and swung open that door with a flourish.

  Oliver was delighted to find he was early, and nobody else had come yet. He kissed the hand of Mrs Redmond, then of the languid Madame Dubois, then shook the hand of Percival.

  Then he seated himself opposite to Madame Dubois, and admired the sight of her, lounging on a chaise longue, her dainty feet in golden slippers on the foot of it, her lovely slim rounded form attired in a gown of daffodil yellow, the white lace at her throat revealing something of the white breasts they only half concealed. She must be a widow, he thought, involuntarily. No virginal girl would dare wear that gown — and yet — He looked at her hands. No rings! And no marks of rings! She wore only a golden bracelet on her left wrist.

  “You are well today?” he asked, conventionally.

  Her smile dazzled, her eyes provoked. “Very well. And you, monsieur, there are marks under your eyes? You have not slept?”

  She picked up a lace fan and surveyed him over it. Her green eyes sparkled.

  “My dreams keep me awake, madame!”

  “How odd!” she remarked, with a little low giggle that was pure delight to his ears. “Your dreams — keep you awake? Explain if you will, monsieur!”

  “Oh, I have begun to dream great dreams, Madame Dubois! Worlds to conquer, conquests to make! From the hot sun of the Equator —” and he looked significantly at her wildly curling red-gold hair, then down over her body — “down to the belt of Orion, and to the delights of the tropics — to the Cape of Good Hope —”

  Percy strolled over to them. “I say, that is all rank nonsense,” he said, bewildered. “You have your geography all wrong, Seymour! If you don’t mind, I shall obtain an atlas —”

  “Gabrielle” burst out laughing, her cheeks very pink. “He teases, Percival!” she said in her pretty drawl. “He thinks to confuse me, knowing I do not — know geography!”

  “Oh, is that it?” muttered Percy. “I swear, nobody knows what you two talk about! At the art gallery, Mother, they talked of fires at sea, and all that nonsense. All I saw were splashes of red paint.”

  “Much is in the eye of the beholder,” said Oliver, and looked again boldly over his tempting mistress. When he was with her, he found it difficult to think; he could only feel, his pulses boiling, his heart pounding, his breathing quickened. And he longed only to pull her into his arms, her body over his ruthless arm, as he punished her softly with kisses.

  The butler opened the door, a maid wheeled in the silver tea tray, and Mrs Redmond seated herself to pour. Minerva or Gabrielle, whichever she was, made no move to help. Perhaps she was the visiting French cousin; surely otherwise she would jump up to take around plates — Minerva always did, as he recalled. Minerva was a good, eager, obedient girl, except sometimes sullen of temper, and quick of biting tongue.

  He looked at the little red tongue of Gabrielle, licking quickly at a cake crumb, and tempting him with the sight, recalling the feel of it in his mouth when she had responded to his kiss. Oh, if he but might have the right to crush her to him, to press his mouth to hers, to thrust his tongue into that little pink kitten-mouth, to lick the pearl-like teeth, to touch that red tongue —

  “Don’t you care for your tea with cream?” murmured Mrs Redmond.

  Oliver started. “Oh, yes, fine, fine.”

  He caught the keen look of the lady. Could she really join in such a rash escapade, to deceive him and all London? She was such a practical, sensible, placid lady. Oh, no, his imagination had run riot! He must be wrong. He sipped, thoughtfully, and formed the questions he had determined to ask.

  “Ah — how is Minerva today?”

  “Fine,” said “Gabrielle” with a smile.

  “Fine?” he exclaimed. “She is well again?”

  “Oh, no, not well!” cried Gabrielle. “I mean — she is so much better! She is practically well!”

  “Practically well!” echoed Percy, eating a cake in one bite.

  “And the fever?” Oliver asked, looking about as though to see Minerva enter the room. “She joins us today, the fever is gone?”

  “Oh, no, no,” said Gabrielle quickly. “The fever is gone, but she is not well, yet, I mean —”

  He dashed in ruthlessly, while she still seemed confused. “I never did comprehend, what is the exact nature of her illness?”

  “Fever,” said Gabrielle, nodding her pretty head wisely. “A very — severe — fever.”

  “But a fever has many causes,” he said. “One can have a fever from a bullet wound, or a disease, or a grippe —”

  “Ah — well, the fever was —” And Gabrielle looked helplessly towards Mrs Redmond. “Tante, the name of it —”

  “Chicken pox,” said Mrs Redmond crisply. “Yes, it was chicken pox.”

  “Ah, very serious, then, to last so long? Almost three weeks,” said Oliver thoughtfully, thinking frantically what little he knew about chicken pox. “Is that like smallpox? You have been quarantined?”

  “No, no,” said Mrs Redmond, smiling. “It is usually a disease of childhood, but dear Minerva did not have it then. She caught it from some children —”

  “Ah, yes, as she visited in some slums,” said Oliver, nodding.

  “Slums!” gasped Mrs Redmond. “Oh, never —”

  “Yes, I have confessed to him,” said Gabrielle quickly. “Dear foolish Minerva visited the slums, and got the — ah — pox — from some children —”

  To Oliver’s keen eye, Mrs Redmond was a moment in recovering. But she had a bland face, he could not be completely sure she had been taken by surprise.

  “Chicken pox,” said Mrs Redmond. “Do not make it worse than it is,” she added sharply. “If it had been smallpox, we would not all be so casually sitting here! We should all be in quarantine, and confined to a doctor’s care!”

  “Not a bad idea,” muttered Percy gloomily.

  “Nonsense,” said Gabrielle heartily. She gave Oliver a delicious wink, and murmured so only he could hear, “He finds his courtship of — you know who — goes heavily!”

  He bent devotedly closer. “Do you encourage that — courts
hip?”

  “Of course! I wish to see him happy, and she is a sweet girl,” said Gabrielle, with no trace of accent.

  “Hum. I thought he escorted you about with great devotion.”

  “He is a devoted cousin, he always was,” sighed Gabrielle, with a return of accent. “Zis is why my visits to England were always so — enjoyable! My dearest, cousins — zey are so sweet to me —”

  Yes, her accent did come and go, his eyes and ears were noting. She had a little way of pursing up her lips when she spoke in a Frenchy way. Now that he was alert to it, he could tell when she was putting on the accent. The little demon, he thought. He was practically certain that she was really Minerva! But how to be sure?

  “Well, one hopes that dear little Minerva will be completely well before long,” he said jovially, watching Gabrielle’s face alertly. “She is very intelligent, is she not? She puts much value on books, so you said, rather than people.”

  “Oh, Minerva likes people!” said Gabrielle quickly, with a glance at Mrs Redmond. “It is just that she is — shy. Verree shy, dear little girl! One must bring her out more!”

  “Yes, I must bring her out more,” said Mrs Redmond thoughtfully. “I have not pushed her enough, I fear. She dances well, but sits in corners. I cannot have that any longer! When she is well again, we shall see to it, eh, Gabrielle?” And she exchanged a stem look with her “niece”.

  “But of course!” cried Gabrielle, showing her small pearly teeth. “She shall come out of her shell! I zink she shall wear more bright clothes too! I talked to her about zis —”

  “You talked to her — while she is in isolation?” asked Oliver quickly.

  “Through the open door.” Gabrielle smiled. “One may now speak to her in zis way —”

  Oliver stood up. “Oh, then let me go upstairs and speak to her! She must be very dull, to be alone so much! I shall just give her my good wishes for her recovery —”

  All three sprang to their feet to stop him.

  “No, no, you cannot go up there!” cried Percy, standing before the closed drawing-room door with outspread arms. He looked very alarmed.