The Curious Rogue

by Joan Vincent

  Hampered because he did not wish to be seen obviously pursuing the lady, Cavilon paused to consider a course of action. Deep in thought, he tapped his cheek impatiently. A sudden inspiration dawned. A smile came as he located Miss Jeffries being led into a country set by Tretain.

  “Why, my lord Cavilon, isn’t this just the loveliest ball yet this season?” A heavy hand halted him as he was about to walk towards the pair. “Lady Tretain has such... extraordinary taste. Imagine, a May fair,” Lady Reed gushed effusively. “I was just telling my Barbara...”

  “Ah, Miss Reed.” Cavilon bowed with a flourish. “Do you think, Lady Reed, that I might lead your delightful daughter in this set?” he asked, seeking to escape the mother as quickly as possible.

  “Oh, my,” her ladyship trilled. “My, yes. Off you go,” she twittered. Watching them walk away, she preened proudly. “And they said no one could take Comte de Cavilon’s interest.”

  Miss Reed, however, did not share her mother’s delight at this singular honour. Her natural temerity was not aided by the comte’s impenetrable manner. He led her through the entire set without a single word. With the last chord of the song fading, she eagerly awaited being returned to her mama and started when, instead, the comte led her across the ballroom. “Let me introduce you to our host Miss Reed.

  “Dear Tretain.” Cavilon strove to regain his usual nasal drawl. “May I present Miss Reed? Miss Reed, the Earl of Tretain. I know you have been waiting the opportunity of dancing with Miss Reed, my lord. So happy to oblige you.” Cavilon deftly laid the young miss’s hand in the earl’s and led Miss Jeffries away before a word was said by anyone.

  Tretain, recovering from his surprise, turned to Miss Reed and began at once to put her at ease.

  “You will honour me with this dance,” Cavilon told Elizabeth, barely glancing at her as they joined the assembling dancers.

  “As you wish,” she answered, acknowledging this minor defeat graciously, while noting the danger of pausing in the centre of a ballroom.

  Watching Miss Jeffries unobtrusively while they went through the steps of the formal dance, the comte pondered the reason for his interest and could find no immediate answer. Studying the high-waisted gown of icy green muslin, he found that it neither concealed nor revealed an overly enticing form. He had known others more generously endowed than this country miss.

  The colour does set off her complexion nicely, he thought. Her features are not out of the ordinary. But her eyes, those warm, dark pools of brown, how they sparkle when she is angry. He sought to condemn but instead discovered more to admire.

  Watching the pair from the side, Lady Juliane happily noted Cavilon’s interest and found the young woman’s disdain for her partner even more diverting. Mayhaps a wife for dear Louis has been found at last, she thought. How perfectly Miss Jeffries’ more austere attire and mien complements the brilliance of his wit and toilet. With this thought she turned to find Lady Waddington. Plotting was in order.

  The dance ending, Cavilon took hold of Elizabeth’s arm as he straightened from his bow, thus preventing her from walking away as she had planned. “You must be frightfully warm,” he said solicitously. “Let me escort you to the veranda for a touch of fresh air.”

  “I really do not feel a bit warm, my lord. It must be your French blood,” Elizabeth cut him even as the warmth of a blush rose across her cheeks beneath his unsettling gaze. “But why don’t you fetch me an ice,” she parried.

  They eyed each other appraisingly, as combatants assessing strengths and weaknesses.

  Cavilon judged his intention the proper, if more unsettling, ploy to use with this particular female, and put his plan into action immediately. “But I could not bear to be parted from you, even for the short length of time it takes to fetch an ice,” he said, daintily sniffing.

  Her eyes rose sharply to his.

  “You see, my dear, you have quite stolen my heart with your sweet gentle ways,” he continued, fluttering his lace. “La, but I have... shaken your delicate sensibilities.” The comte feigned alarm at her continued stare.

  “This will ease you.” He motioned a footman bearing a tray of champagne to their side.

  Accepting the goblet calmly, Elizabeth raised it in salute. “At your age,” she smiled sweetly, “you have come to know life is filled with disappointments.”

  “You and I,” Cavilon ignored her. “What a delightful match we shall make.”

  “My lord,” Miss Jeffries interrupted him coldly.

  “Ah, la, yes, my dear?” The comte waved aside her words. “I know, you wish to go to the veranda with me. You have but to speak to command me. I am your slave,” he bowed deeply.

  Elizabeth glanced about, seeking to escape, and saw that many were beginning to note their conversation. She suffered Cavilon to lay her hand upon his arm and followed him demurely while she plotted her revenge. She halted when they reached an unpopulated area of the veranda.

  “My lord, there is something you must know.”

  “Speak and I shall obey, ma chère petite.” He raised her hand to his lips.

  “My lord Cavilon,” Elizabeth reproved him sharply. “I cannot like your behaviour.”

  “How lovely you are,” he simpered.

  Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth decided that tact would never free her. “My lord, I detest, heartily detest, all things French,” she told him adamantly.

  “But of course,” he agreed. “It is only the war, naturellement,” the Cavilon generously assured her.

  “You do not understand.” She sought to rein in her rising temper. “It is you—personally—who I detest.”

  “La, the English. They make the joke.” He waved his lace. “So charming, ma chère.” Cavilon reached for her hand.

  Evading his grasp, Elizabeth turned to walk away and found her elbow in his grip. “My lord, what must I do to be rid of you?” she bit out.

  “Smile, ma petite, our hostess approaches,” the comte told her with killing sweetness.

  A madman, Elizabeth thought, staring at him. He belongs in Bethlehem Hospital—Bedlam.

  “Comte de Cavilon,” Lady Juliane teased him with her formality, “who is your lovely partner?”

  “Madame Tretain,” the comte greeted Lady Juliane. He arched an eyebrow upon seeing that her ladyship was already certain who was at his side. “May I present Miss Elizabeth Jeffries? Elizabeth, Lady Tretain.”

  “My lord, I dislike your familiarity,” Miss Jeffries said curtly, shaking his hand from her arm. “Pray learn to conduct yourself properly among Englishwomen.

  She dipped a curtsy to Lady Juliane. “It has been a pleasure to meet you. If you will excuse me, I find I must locate my aunt.”

  “Of course, Miss Jeffries,” Lady Tretain murmured. She took Cavilon’s arm as the young lady stiffly walked away.

  “It must be painful to be so dreadfully pursued. Just of late I was told by someone who should know that there wasn’t a miss in the land who would not fall at your feet. Do you think I should inform Miss Jeffries of this? She doesn’t seem to realize it, does she?”

  “She will,” Cavilon said.

  His tone caused Lady Juliane to remain deep in thought when he sauntered away.

  Chapter Nine

  “Elizabeth, it is so marvellous,” Lady Waddington beamed at her niece. “Henry will be so pleased that you are to be settled at last.”

  “Of what are you speaking, Aunt Waddie?”

  “Why, you and Comte de Cavilon. Everyone is talking of it. To think I had despaired of you. You are the sly one.” She patted Elizabeth’s hand, but her rejoicing was quickly tempered by the black look on her niece’s face.

  “Now, Elizabeth,” A note of fear entered her voice, “what do you mean to do?”

  “Put that pompous, overdressed French manikin in his place.”

  “You can’t mean Comte de Cavilon?” Lady Waddington asked, aghast at the thought. “Why, he is one of the richest, one of the most eligible men in England,” she p
rotested. “You should be grateful that such a man has taken an interest in you... at your age. Aunt Waddie took a firm hold on the other’s arm.

  “You are not going to make a scene, Elizabeth. Think of Sir Henry—of myself,” she implored.

  “Am I interrupting?” Lady Juliane hesitated before the pair.

  “Nonsense, Lady Tretain, we were merely commenting on what a wonderful time we are having this evening.” Lady Madeline managed to swallow her alarm, dropped her hold, and smiled pleasantly.

  “It is going quite well, isn’t it,” Lady Juliane smiled in return. “I always fret so about these affairs.”

  “One in your condition should not be worrying,” Lady Waddington told her. “Besides, there is no need. The ball is and will,” she nudged Elizabeth, “remain flawless.”

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Jeffries?” Lady Tretain studied the young woman.

  Finding she could not disappoint the hopeful expression, Elizabeth searched for an honest compliment. “Yes, the decorations make this as gay as if it were a true May fair and the music is wonderful.”

  “I am so glad to hear you say so. I have a special surprise in which you shall take part a little later this eve.” Lady Juliane reached out and took Elizabeth’s hand. “But now I would like a coze. You are not taken for this dance?”

  “It does not appear that I have to stave off admirers,” Elizabeth replied laughing lightly.

  “Do not fear. I believe I know the reason.

  “Lady Waddington, would you excuse us for a few moments?”

  “You young people have much to chat about,” Lady Madeline smiled approvingly. “Ah, I see Lady Grosvenor. There is a most wicked piece of gossip I hear she is telling.” She laughed and sauntered off to accost the lady.

  “Let us go to one of the side rooms,” Lady Juliane suggested. “I have been commanded to rest for a time. Oh, there is no need for concern,” she assured the other. “Lord Adrian knows I am not overly fond of dancing and seeks to rescue me through this ploy.”

  The two women exchanged pleasantries as they walked.

  Elizabeth could not help but take an instant liking to Lady Tretain. She admired her simplicity and genuineness. Few women, she was certain, would speak of their families with Lady Juliane’s honest affection. When her ladyship broached the subject of Cavilon, however, Elizabeth bridled.

  “I am so pleased that Louis has at last found someone. The Comte de Cavilon,” Lady Juliane added, seeing the question on the other.

  “I must protest, my lady. Comte de Cavilon has only amused himself with his senseless chatter. I have not encouraged him. Quite to the contrary, I have seen him only once prior to this eve. Tonight I told him of my dislike of his person.”

  “And he continues to ignore your words?” Lady Juliane asked softly, wondering at the young woman’s vehemence.

  “He has been most obtuse. It must be his French blood.” Elizabeth scowled.

  “You have a... a dislike of the French?”

  “I can see no reason not to. My cousin was killed at Quiberon because of the émigrés neglect, and my brother is a prisoner,” she explained. “My father would not have died but for his worry over Morton.”

  “I am so sorry,” Lady Tretain said with genuine emotion. “But Comte de Cavilon does not support Napoleon.”

  “It makes no difference. He is still French.”

  “Are you not being a bit harsh?” Lady Juliane asked gently. “Would it not be better to judge each person on his particular merits instead of condemning him because of his country?

  “Louis lost all his lands and some members of his family in the revolution. He dislikes Napoleon as much as any of us,” she offered, hoping to ease the other’s attitude.

  “He does not seem to have suffered from the loss,” Elizabeth retorted before she could halt the words.

  “If you are wise, Miss Jeffries, you will look beyond Louis’ affectations. Many of us wear a mask to protect ourselves from further hurt. But I must rejoin my guests.” She rose and held out her hand.

  “I do wish to be your friend.”

  “And I yours.” Elizabeth accepted the hand, smiling.

  “Then you must call on me,” Lady Juliane said as they began walking back towards the ballroom.

  “Gladly. I have few acquaintances in London.”

  Lady Juliane pondered on what she had learned and crossed her fingers in the folds of her gown, fervently hoping that what she had planned for Louis and Miss Jeffries did not erupt into a scene. Excusing herself when they reached the ballroom, she hurried away to find Cavilon.

  Sir Henry bowed before his niece. “Would you consider pleasing an aging gentleman by consenting to this dance?”

  “As long as you promise not to tread on my toes,” Elizabeth laughed and accepted his hand.

  When the piece ended, Sir Henry kept her hand in his when they left the set. “I am very proud of you,” he said.

  The happy gleam in his eve caused Elizabeth’s heart to sink when she realized the probable reason for his words. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me, my dear.”

  A fanfare sounded before she could speak. I must explain the misunderstanding later, she thought, turning to see what was happening. Drat the comte! Elizabeth angrily tapped her foot, her heart heavy at having to disappoint her uncle, who had always given her love, and asked nothing in return.

  A second fanfare sounded. Lord and Lady Tretain walked to the centre of the ballroom near the Maypole. Their guests slowly ceased chattering.

  “No May fair would be complete without the dance of the Maypole,” Lord Adrian announced.

  A twitter ran through the company. Those familiar with the country May fairs recalled the wild exuberances done in honour of spring.

  “Since it isn’t possible for all of us to take part, we have drawn names... carefully,” Tretain continued. “The footmen will now escort the gentlemen who have been chosen.”

  Laughter and mild joking abounded as everyone strained to see whom the footmen approached. Applause and good-natured teasing followed many of the dozen gentlemen brought to the Maypole.

  Selection had been careful indeed, and the well-known members among the dozen were indicative of the Tretains’ popularity. The Beau, George Brummell, whose gracious consent forced the more serious Lord Petersham to follow his lead, was a close friend of the Prince of Wales. Lord Addington, soon to be prime minister, joined them, along with some of the younger members of the ton. Last to be selected was Comte de Cavilon.

  “And now,” Lady Juliane signalled the footmen to return to the guests, “the ladies.”

  There was little surprise as Countess Levien and Lady Jersey were led forth. A murmur of approval rose as Lady Addington and Lady Petersham joined their husbands, and a polite spattering of applause heralded the choice of young Miss Seymour, who blushed as she joined her fiancé. A gabble of whispering arose when the footman halted before Miss Jeffries.

  A cold chill swept through Elizabeth when the footman bowed before her. Hurriedly she looked to Lady Juliane, but her hostess was busy occupied positioning the ladies beside the gentlemen and keeping the more doubtful of her selected dancers from bolting.

  “Go on,” Sir Henry whispered and gave his niece a small nudge. “Show them you are equal to any London miss.”

  To go forward was to give further credence to the gossip about her and Cavilon. To refuse would embarrass her uncle beyond redemption. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Elizabeth allowed the footman to lead her to Lord Adrian.

  Misreading her look Tretain sought to assure her. “There is nothing to fear, Miss Jeffries. Simply follow the other ladies’ steps.” He took her hand and led her to her place.

  A sigh of relief came when Elizabeth saw that she was nowhere near the comte.

  “Remember, when the signal is given you must begin to weave with the person you are next to, instead of with the pole. When the end of the streamers is reached in each pair, we shall complete the pole,”
Lady Juliane whispered hurriedly as she placed the bright-coloured streamer in Elizabeth’s hand.

  The Tretains took their places; the music was struck. Six and twenty dancers began to move out from the Maypole, halting when the streamers were taut. Lord Adrian began the circular weaving pattern that characterized the dance. The pace increased. Enthusiasm and laughter infected the dancers, and Elizabeth found that she enjoyed it. Even Cavilon was not totally scorned as they occasionally wove past one another.

  At the signal laughter-filled confusion erupted as choices as to who was nearest were hurriedly made. Seeing the gentleman before her taken, Elizabeth turned and, with sinking heart, saw Comte de Cavilon moving towards her. Their streamers gradually shortened, then Cavilon’s hand was upon hers and his arm circled her waist.

  With each individual pair thus united, the final weaving began about the Maypole. The dancers drew ever closer to it.

  The arm about her waist had far more strength in it than Elizabeth had thought possible for one of the comte’s mien. His hand upon hers was gently firm.

  Glancing over her shoulder into his eves, an odd sensation flowed through Elizabeth. His wrist against hers, she found their pulses beat in unison. For a brief moment his eyes spoke an appeal. She quickly averted hers. Daring to glance back, Elizabeth encountered the languid, bored expression previously present.

  As the music near its conclusion the dancers moved with increasing speed. Because of their closeness, great care was taken not to jostle anyone too roughly. Lord Petersham, just in front of Elizabeth, stumbled on his wife’s skirt, and only Cavilon’s deft movement and strength saved Elizabeth from falling over them. The streamers’ ends were reached at that moment. The crowd poured onto the ballroom floor as the orchestra went immediately into a lively country set.

  Bemused, Elizabeth found the comte’s arm still about her waist as they moved from the floor onto the veranda. Her dislike and anger were forgotten in the comforting security of his hold. But the magic moment passed as quickly as it had descended upon her as Cavilon, again the effeminate fop, daintily mopped his brow.