The Curious Rogue

by Joan Vincent

  “I did not mean to frighten you, my dear,” he said as he joined her and twined a curl about his finger. “Are you not happy to see me?”

  “But of course, my darling,” she said in an altered tone, her nervousness not quite concealed. “Why do you look at me so strangely?” Teresa managed a gurgling laugh as she rose and turned towards him.

  “Is something wrong? But you tease me, that is it. You have been gone so long. What did you bring me?” An avaricious gleam entered her eyes. Pausing, she deftly arched her back and raised a shoulder slightly so he could see the fullness of her breasts beneath her sheer dressing gown. She swayed enticingly, a beguiling smile upon her lips.

  “You are happy to see me?” she asked, twining her arms around his neck. “What did you bring me?” Her hands softly ruffled his black mane as his lips brushed hers.

  Martin tightened his hands about her waist. He pressed her away as he gazed at her powdered and rouged face, her eyes closed, lips awaiting him. A question appeared on his features. He hesitated only a moment before he pushed aside all doubt and fiercely claimed her lips.

  Drawing back later, Martin felt a faint disappointment, which he carefully concealed. Before he could speak, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

  “Teresa,” a plaintive male voice called.

  The woman in his arms gulped as Martin lifted an eyebrow disdainfully. “I have been gone a long time,” he noted as he slowly released her.

  “He don’t mean nothing to me, Martin, truly. I was just lonely,” Teresa whined.

  “I’ll send a settlement, my dear,” he told her as he walked to the door.

  “You were gone so long...”

  “You shall have no problem finding another protector, dear girl. Your ways are quite winning.” If you could but control your greed, he thought. It proved a common flaw in women all too oft.

  “Come in,” he said evenly, opening the door and greeting a startled young man. “The lady and I are finished,” he noted, and walked down the corridor, his back straight, his head up, his eyes and ears closed to the epitaphs being hurled at him by his once adoring mistress.

  In the street Martin mounted and prodded his beast to a trot. Achieving Piccadilly and Berkeley, he paid a beggar lad to take the horse to the nearest coaching yard. He also gave instructions and coin for its return to its owner. This done, he fled into the darkness, moving swiftly and silently among the alleyways.

  Entering a second house through the servants’ entrance, Martin unlocked another door just inside that entry, stepped into the small closet behind it, and relocked the door. The false back of the closet was opened and the upper floor reached through a secret passageway with ease gained from long practice. At the end of the corridor Martin released the lever on the false panel and eased his tall form through the small opening into a darkened room. In the shrouding darkness he stripped to the buff and tossed his clothing back into the secret corridor. By counting his steps he safely reached a large bed and pulled on the long, flowing robe which was lying on it.

  Martin moved to the bedside table and lit the candle upon it, then moved about the room lighting the lamps and wall sconces. The large bedchamber thus revealed seemed at odds with the tall, muscular man.

  The fine oak panels covering the walls had been bleached and were etched with delicate tracings of flowers and vines which had been painted in delicate shades. Louis Quatorze furniture, with its dainty, ornate lines, contrasted sharply with the broad-shouldered and strong-featured man. Voluptuous nude maidens of sixteenth-century Venice painted by Sebastiano del Piombo adorned the two panels on either side of the fireplace. The damask drapes covering the large window on the west wall were edged in delicate French lace. An ornate, lacquered shaving stand was the only piece of obviously masculine furniture in the room, and it, too, was copiously decorated with a feminine touch.

  Standing before a full-length mirror framed by rococo ormolu mounts, the tall man gazed at his reflection. The full wine-coloured gown had been cut in such a way that it diminished the broadness of his shoulders and de-emphasized his above-average height.

  As he gazed, he managed a gradual transformation. One shoulder dropped slightly as he tilted his head to one side. The strong lines of his features faded; his mouth assumed a pursed look and twitched at one side. Powder and rouge he skilfully applied. Sauntering to a chair by the fire in a light, tripping step after he finished, the man pulled the bell cord before sitting.

  A timid knock soon sounded upon the door, followed by a nervous, “Monseigneur le Comte, we did not know you had returned from Oatlands. Please forgive me for not coming sooner.”

  “It is of no import. I must bathe immediately. You know I cannot abide the filth encountered in others’ homes. Lady York is a dear, but her dogs. La, one trips over them everywhere. I don’t know why Brummell is such an eager guest there.

  “My water now—at once. Come, come, we must hurry.” The man in the chair by the fireplace wearily fluttered a lace kerchief in dismissal.

  Mr. Leveque closed the door quietly. He had been in this establishment but a year and still found it difficult to serve his master. “How did the comte enter?” the butler muttered as he hurried to order the water taken to the bedchamber.

  Best not to ponder it, he reprimanded himself. The Comte de Cavilon was known to be curious in his habits and to dismiss anyone who questioned anything.

  * * * *

  “This cravat will never do,” the comte told Leveque in a slightly nasal tone. “Redo it.”

  With an inner sigh the valet removed the offending linen and replaced it with a fresh one.

  “I shall see to this one myself,” Cavilon ordered with exaggerated pique, then deftly arranged it into the perfect folds of the currently popular “cascade” style. Adjusting the lace on his shirt cuffs, he examined his appearance carefully.

  The mauve jacket and breeches were styled in such a way as to be loose fitting in some areas and very tight fitting in others, so that he carried himself at a tilt, thus appearing much smaller than he actually was. His black mass of hair was now covered with a bag wig—elegant, if out of fashion—and held in the queue style by a massive mauve bow. A light layer of powder covered his ungentlemanly tanned features, and rouge reddened his lips.

  “What of my patches, Leveque? Never mind, my dear man, I shall not be seen by anyone of import this eve. Come, come, where are my kerchiefs?”

  The valet brought a tray filled with lace-edged linen and silk squares.

  Choosing one with a double frilled edging, the comte placed it in an inner pocket of his cutaway jacket. A second of the same size worked in silver thread was placed behind his watch in the pocket of his waistcoat. A third, ruched in three-inch lace, was tucked into his cuff band.

  “My boxes, I must have my boxes, Leveque,” he prattled.

  A second tray of an assortment of elegant and costly snuffboxes and pill cases was brought to him. These varied from delicate enamels to heavier ceramics to bejewelled and gold-leafed marvels. Choosing two, Cavilon placed them in the tooled-leather bag upon the commode, then placed the strap of the pack over his shoulder. “Order my coach, my closed coach, of course. I do believe I am ready.” He breathed a delicate sigh of relief as he paused before his looking glass once more.

  The stilted pose was eased several seconds after the door closed behind the valet. For a long moment Cavilon glared with distaste at the powdered face gazing back at him, then resumed all the affectations that achieved the startling alteration in his looks. There was no trace of Martin to be seen when he left the room. His transformation was complete.

  Chapter Four

  Arriving outside No. 41 Grosvenor Square, Comte de Cavilon stepped from his closed coach with exaggerated steps and minced to the door. His footman rushed to lift the door knocker for him.

  “Comte de Cavilon to see the Earl of Tretain,” the footman told the butler when the door opened.

  “Lord Tretain will be most pleased to see you,
my lord,” the butler told the comte. Ignoring the footman the butler took Cavilon’s hat and gloves. “My lord is in the library.”

  “I shall go on my own, Homer.” Cavilon waved his kerchief from his cuff and treaded towards the library with the light, tilted pose by which all recognized him.

  “Louis!” Lord Adrian Tretain’s face lit with pleasure at the sight of his friend. “From the gossip floating about London I feared for you.

  “When did you return? Come sit.” The earl pulled a bell cord as Cavilon swayed into position on the sofa at one side of the fireplace. “See we are not disturbed,” he instructed Homer, and went to his seat as the butler closed the doors. After carefully scrutinizing his friend, he noted, “You look exhausted. Would you care for some brandy or port?”

  “And after I was so very careful with my toilet.” Cavilon sighed and daubed at the corner of his eve.

  Tretain shook his head unsympathetically. “The trip was that difficult?”

  “Brandy,” Cavilon told him, slowly relaxing but not entirely dropping his pose. “Mayhaps it is time I tried in earnest to become a four-bottle man,” he quipped lightly.

  Tretain peered sharply at the comte as he filled the glasses. “There is word about London that Lord Frombv has offered a reward for a smuggler by the name of Martin. He even implies the man is a traitor. The Admiralty has been forced to send a special assignment of men to find him.”

  “Then Martin had better beware.” Cavilon arched a brow.

  “There was trouble?” Tretain handed the glass to the comte.

  Cavilon took a sip, and then drank more than half the glass. “There was an unusually large group of excise men on the shore to bid me welcome,” he said cryptically.

  “I thought a Frenchman was taught from birth to savour his liqueur,” Tretain commented. He refilled the other’s glass before sitting across from him.

  Cavilon drew a sheaf of papers from the purse beneath his arm. “Pass these on as usual. The Admiralty will find them interesting as well as useful.”

  “How did you escape the excise men?” the earl asked, accepting the papers.

  “It was not very difficult, but it was odd to find them placed as they were. They not only had the area where we landed surrounded but also knew the direction of the farm.”

  “Did they take anyone?”

  “I believe all escaped when I drove the officers’ mounts through the fray on the beach. I am grateful the king’s men can afford such excellent beasts,” he said, and smiled. “Else I would not have evaded those waiting me at the farm.”

  “Awaiting you? This is serious. Just what did you do to Fromby?” Tretain asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “I simply gave the pompous ass a lesson in deportment, although he did not take too well to the water. You had better see what can be done to control his enthusiasm for finding Martin. I don’t mind playing games with Bonaparte’s men, but I would prefer not to be regarded as a pheasant in season here,” Cavilon told him wryly.

  “It is time you took a rest. You have dared too much for too long.”

  “I believe you are correct,” the comte agreed, to the other’s surprise. “It is no longer a distraction.”

  “What troubles you, bon ami?” Tretain asked softly.

  Cavilon stared at him for a long moment, then his gaze moved to the fire burning brightly in the grate. “Perhaps I am like a fire that has burned too brilliantly for too long. The flame to avenge my family, lost in the bloodbath of the revolution, the loss of my home, my lands... my country—it was all-consuming for a time. The danger, the risk, was but fuel for the flame. Each challenge, once conquered, drew me to the next. It became a game.”

  “I recall that feeling,” Tretain reminisced. “The excitement of the chase, of overcoming all odds. Before I met my Juliane I was much the same as you. Even now there are odd moments when I wonder if I should have given it up so completely. But they are very few.” His eyes rose to the portrait of his wife above the fireplace.

  The comte’s gaze followed his friend’s. “Yours was a most unusual courtship, as I recall it.” He smiled. “You have had no regrets?”

  “None,” the earl assured him. “You must call when you can see the children.”

  “I never thought to hear such words from you,” Cavilon teased. “Do you remember those four ladies we entertained in Trier for a week? What about Versailles, when you were forced to flee in only your nightshirt?”

  “At least that was better than the time those chevaliers caught you in the bath with Lady Breaux,” Tretain countered, and both men broke into laughter.

  The earl noticed that Cavilon’s gaiety quickly faded. A restlessness he had seen growing in the other man for some time replaced it. “There are compensations that make such recollections small,” he offered gently. “Children—”

  “Is Juliane breeding again?”

  A proud smile came to Tretain’s face. “Yes, our sixth.”

  “You mean fourth, do you not?” the comte corrected.

  “Well, yes, but Andre and Leora seem like our own. Leora was little more than a babe when we wed.”

  “How do your young nephew and niece fare?”

  “Andre is at Christ Church Oxford and doing very well. He is anxious for the day when he can join the war. But that is natural, having lost his mother to the French as he did. Leora is all of seven now and still in the nursery with our three.”

  “Perhaps you shall have a second son this time,” Cavilon mused.

  “It matters not, although Mother would cringe if she heard me say that.”

  The comte chuckled at the thought of the Dowager Countess of Tretain. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Very well for her age. She enjoys having the children about.”

  “How domestique you have become with all this talk of children,” Cavilon said more sharply than he had intended. He finished his brandy, rose, and refilled his glass.

  “What troubles you?” Tretain questioned a second time, puzzled by his friend’s unusual lack of composure. Something had occurred to shake the iron calm the comte always maintained.

  Cavilon swung about abruptly. “When you met Juliane, were you certain... I mean did you feel...” He groped for words.

  “You don’t mean to wed at last?” Tretain exclaimed, and then lifted an eyebrow. “Certes not that lightskirt you keep at—”

  “No,” the comte answered curtly. “That was ended this eve,” he continued in a milder tone. “I fear I was gone too long. Those situations are not long-lived in any event,” he concluded, the subject dismissed.

  “Then who?” Tretain asked, puzzled.

  “No one,” Cavilon returned. “The voyage across the Channel was rough. I have not slept for two days. I begin to ramble. The joy has gone out of the game. I have tired of it. Of this, too.” He waved the lace kerchief.

  “The pretence serves you—and all England—well,” the earl told him, admiration for the other filling his words.

  “It may soon he time for it to end,” Cavilon mused. “I believe I shall look about England for an estate, something which would fill my time.”

  “There are lands for sale near Trees,” Tretain began, his eyes brightening at mention of his country seat.

  “No, I was thinking more of the eastern counties. I am, after all, more familiar with them.” He sipped his brandy. “Yes, perhaps near Ashford.” Rising, he held out his hand.

  “Give my best to Juliane. I take it all is well with her?”

  “Yes, it is early days yet. Her confinement will be late in the summer. Why don’t you come to supper tomorrow? She will be angry at having missed you.”

  “I shall send word later. I may leave in the morn.”

  “What? Without seeing me?” a light voice asked.

  The two men turned to the library’s doors. “Homer told me you had come,” Lady Juliane added, approaching them. “You did not mean to leave without seeing me?” she questioned accusingly, a smile belying her
tone.

  “It is always a delight to see you.” Cavilon bowed with a flourish, his kerchief trailing on the carpet. “You are the only sensible woman I have ever found in England. How sad you are already wed.” He sighed dramatically.

  “Stop that nonsense,” Lady Juliane laughed.

  The earl stepped to her side and put his arm about her waist.

  An odd look came to Cavilon as he gazed upon the happy couple. “I fear I must bid you adieu.” He took Lady Juliane’s hand and kissed it lightly.

  “You are most fortunate,” he told Tretain gruffly, and strode past them before either could speak.

  “What has come over Louis?” Juliane asked.

  “I think he may have met a second ‘sensible’ woman and does not quite know what to do,” Tretain said, putting his arms about his wife.

  “Did he say something... mention a name?” she questioned eagerly.

  “No, my dear, to both questions. I think he almost did, but Louis has never been very open about such matters.”

  “He has been open enough about the courtesans he keeps.”

  “But they meant nothing to him,” the earl said gently.

  “Has there ever been anyone?”

  “Many years past there was the daughter of a French duc. Rosamon was her name, but he has not spoken of her since the days of gore in Paris. I do not even know if she perished there. His look was so black when I began to speak of her one day that I have not brought it up since.

  “Now, my love,” he cupped her chin gently, “why don’t we leave Louis and his love, if there be one, to solve their own problems?”

  “Of course, my lord,” she answered, mentally adding a “for now” before losing the thought as the earl’s lips claimed hers.

  * * * *

  The supper table in Sir Henry Jeffries’ dining room seated twelve guests this night, and while his dinner parties were known for their cuisine, intelligent conversation, and good humour, only the food was saving this evening from total failure.

  Sir Henry had never seen his niece in such fitful temper. On the ordinary she was pleasant if not biddable, and witty rather than spiteful. Such were her words this eve, when she did speak, that Mr. Wayne, the young barrister at her right, had long since concerned himself with his food only.