by Joan Vincent
“I do hope,” he removed his arm, “that you are not fond of such personal contact, my dear. I do find such gestures tiresome. But of course, you English are so sensible about such matters,” he drawled with assurance.
“I must take my leave now, ma petite. I shall call upon your uncle in the morn.” Brushing the startled young woman’s hand with a kiss, he sauntered away, his shoulder dipping with each step, his lace aflutter.
Lady Waddington rushed to her niece’s side. “What did he say?” she asked excitedly.
“He is going to call upon Uncle in the morn,” Elizabeth managed, anger and mirth struggling for supremacy. “I don’t believe that... man,” she ended hopelessly. “Could we not go, Aunt? I find I have a beastly headache.”
“Wait here while I find Sir Henry,” Aunt Waddie solicitously told her. “Just too much excitement, my dear,” she assured her before hurrying away.
Elizabeth stepped to the balustrade surrounding the veranda and gazed at the crescent moon above. Thinking of Cavilon’s pompous assurance, she wanted to scream her protest, her denial. The man is odious, detestable in looks, arid, obnoxious in manner, she ranted silently. He cannot possibly mean to make an offer for my hand.
The tall, dark unknown Englishman flashed to mind. Elizabeth bit her lip. Cavilon could not compare even if, for a moment, there had been... Elizabeth pushed the thought aside. He was French. She could never marry him. Marriage to him would be a mockery. Uncle Henry would have to be disappointed. Suddenly tears began to well.
What had happened to her sane, orderly spinster’s existence?
Chapter Ten
The morning after the ball Lord Tretain received a secretive visitor with whom he was closeted for over an hour. When the man left, the earl ordered his landau and headed for Cavilon’s apartments. Learning that the comte had not returned home since the eve before, he went to White’s.
The doorman at the club greeted him cheerfully and directed him to the hazard room.
With a nod, Tretain hurriedly strode forward. Cavilon used gambling much as other men used drink. That he was disturbed enough to remain all night at the hazard table did not speak well for the earl’s intention.
Pausing in the doorway, Tretain’s gaze swept the room. At this early hour only one table was occupied and two of the gentlemen at it were rising. The earl nodded as they walked past. A third rose drunkenly.
“My solicitor shall call upon you, Lord Tenbury,” Cavilon drawled disinterestedly.
Tenbury snorted angrily and stumbled away.
“It had been a long evening,” Tretain said and sat down at the table. “Successful, I see.” He waved at the pile of coin and notes on the table. “I am always amazed,” the earl leaned back, studying the comte closely, “how you always appear as fresh in the twelfth hour as you did in the first.”
“The mark of the true gentleman.” Cavilon flicked a speck from his white silk jacket. “Do remove this,” he ordered a footman, waving at the coins. “And bring a bottle of your best Warre port.”
“You are in a black temper,” Tretain noted warily. He knew Cavilon considered port the basest of wines and preferred the better French varieties, which his work allowed him to procure in spite of the war.
“You certainly are out early this morn. I would think you would be resting,” Cavilon commented and turned his gaze on the earl.
“Gilreaux called on me this morn.”
“That is of no interest to me.” The comte sipped at the port placed before him, his movements elaborately exaggerated.
“Someone must go...”
“Not I,” Cavilon fluttered his kerchief.
“Listen.” Tretain hunched over the table and glanced about to see if anyone was near. “Melas has Masséna besieged in Genoa. Bonaparte has sent Moreau to attack Krug’s Austrian divisions. There are runners leaving Paris daily with orders to procure supplies and transportation along a line from Dijon to Villeneuve to St. Pierre. He means to defeat Melas and take all of northern Italy. Someone must go to Paris and—-”
“Do you not hear me? I shall not go,” Cavilon said coldly. “There are others who can do what is wished.”
The earl sat back and studied his friend. “What is it, Louis?”
“You once told me a man is good at this work only so long as his concentration holds, as long as he has no other interest. N’est-ce pas?”
Tretain nodded slowly.
“I find myself distracted.” The drawl was gone. “You see, there is a difference in changing poses consciously, and in reverting unconsciously. The former may save one’s life, while the latter will surely end it. Last eve I lost that fine line of control.”
“So your affectations were not as pronounced as usual. No one noticed,” the earl objected.
“You did.” He made his point. “But it is not that which concerns me. Later, when I was alone with Miss Jeffries, for a moment I almost became Martin.”
Understanding dawned. “She is the woman whose coach you used to get out of Folkestone.”
“Oui. She has the oddest effect upon me. I am compelled to pursue her and yet driven to escape,” Cavilon said slowly.
“Then you have your answer. She could not follow you to France.”
Cavilon shook his head. Slowly the shoulder tipped; he fluttered his lace. “It is too late. I am to call upon Sir Henry Jeffries in two hours.”
His great surprise did not show on Tretain’s schooled features. “Will she have you?” he asked, thinking of his wife’s words.
“But who would not?” The comte rose with a flourish. “I must go and prepare myself.” He bowed and gyrated from the room.
“A fine time for him to fall in love,” Tretain murmured, rising. Mayhaps he shall he disappointed, he thought, for Juliane did not hold the union likely without a great deal of persuasion on Louis’ part and of a different tack than he had begun.
Perhaps the mission could he delayed, Tretain continued thoughtfully. Miss Jeffries’ behaviour last eve was not that of a love-struck miss. But then again Louis is not the ordinary suitor. He shrugged and decided he had better make arrangements for someone else to go to France.
* * *
Elizabeth paced nervously as she awaited her uncle in his office. After tossing and turning all night, she had decided to speak with him about Comte de Cavilon.
“Good morn, my dear,” Sir Henry greeted her cheerfully and sat behind his desk. “Sit down. Be comfortable.” He chuckled. “No reason to be so serious. This is a day for rejoicing.”
Oh, Uncle. She sighed. Looking at his beaming smile, her spirits sank. Her eyes travelled to his powdered peruke, then down to the old-fashioned frock coat and stock. Helplessness gradually descended upon Elizabeth. Sir Henry’s thinking on marriage was as antiquated as his toilet.
“Come, come. Let’s have a smile. I had a note from Comte de Cavilon early this morn. He shall be calling in an hour,” Sir Henry told her looking at his timepiece.
If Cavilon meant to call, she had no choice.
“That is why I must speak with you, Uncle,” Elizabeth began slowly.
“No need. No need at all. I will be delighted to see to your dowry. And never fear, there shall be a decent sum settled upon you,” he assured her.
Distress filled Elizabeth’s features. “Uncle Henry, I do not wish to marry Comte de Cavilon. In fact, I shall refuse to do so.”
Sir Jeffries stiffened. “You are not a green miss, Elizabeth. This maidenly reserve is out of place. The comte’s title may not be English, but he is from an old aristocratic family. This nonsense about your feelings against the French is for children. He will provide for you much better than I shall be able to. You know that my property must go to Morton when I die,” Sir Henry told her evenly.
“I mean to refuse him if he offers.” She studied the white knuckles of her clenched hands.
“That would be most foolhardy. It saddens me greatly to think you so short-sighted.”
“Uncle, I know you wi
sh me happy. Please do not insist upon this marriage,” Elizabeth softly pleaded.
Studying his niece closely, Sir Henry debated what to do. He did wish for her happiness but firmly believed a financially secure marriage would achieve it. “Could we not arrange a period of courtship before, you decide so irrevocably?” he offered.
“You have known the comte for so short a time. If you dealt together for a longer space, you might come to see that he has many amenable qualities,” Sir Henry said more hopefully, unwilling to let the match slip out of her hands.
“If... if I would agree to this... this courtship, with a set time, and if at the end of the period I still found the idea of attachment with Lord Cavilon... distasteful, would you agree I need not marry him?” she questioned.
“But of course, my dear.” Sir Henry rose with a sigh of relief. Drawing Elizabeth to her feet, he brushed her cheek with a kiss. “You are of age, my dear. No one can force you, nor do we wish to.
“Now take that dire look off your face.” He pinched her cheek. “Why don’t you take Spense and go shopping or whatever it is you women do to cheer up. I shall arrange the matter with Comte de Cavilon,” he told her and led her to the door. “It shall be for the best.”
* * * *
I can’t blame Elizabeth for her hesitancy, Sir Henry thought as he stared at the figure in sky-blue satin seated before him. Shan’t like to be tied to the likes of him. He noted Cavilon’s whitish cheeks and lightly rouged lips. Never did care for popinjays who powder their faces. Wonder what sort of man he is behind all that folderol.
Doubt crept into Sir Henry’s thoughts. He resolutely pushed it aside. His niece must be cared for, and a husband was the only proper way to assure her future. ‘Tis unfortunate the comte is the only one to have ever reached the stage of actually offering for her hand. He smiled. The fact that Cavilon had dealt with Elizabeth and still offered for her showed a degree of determination could not be scoffed at.
Beneath the older man’s smile Cavilon sensed an inner unease. This proposal made perfect sense last eve in the midst of battling with Miss Jeffries, but it had lost relevancy in the harsh light of morn. He crossed his legs and drew a lace scarf from his heavily embroidered waistcoat.
“What may I do for you?” Sir Henry began the interview.
“It is such a... delicate matter.” The comte fluttered the scarf nervously. “And I but so recently come to your acquaintance. I fear you shall think me too bold in what I wish to say.”
“Let me assure you your fears are groundless.” Sir Henry cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on his desk top. “I believe you mean to speak of my niece, Miss Jeffries,” he forced the point.
“Ah, Miss Jeffries. The most beautiful mademoiselle I have ever beheld.” Cavilon clasped his hands to his heart. “She has stolen my affections. I think only of her.” He sniffed daintily.
“Of course, Sir Henry, you as a man realize that one cannot permit such a condition to be unattended. It interferes so with important matters. Therefore I have decided it would be best to wed Miss Elizabeth.
“One’s wife never... Well, one’s wife is simply one’s wife.” He fluttered his scarf. “I am prepared to settle a handsome amount upon Elizabeth when we marry. Would ten thousand pounds be agreeable?” he asked with an air of boredom, in reality studying Sir Jeffries keenly from behind his drooping eyelids.
The sum named was outrageously generous. Sir Henry smiled and chose his words carefully. “That is most generous, my lord. There is one minor detail which we must attend to first, however.
“Elizabeth has spent the majority of her life in Folkestone, living in a very quiet manner. She has been properly educated and will prove a most acceptable hostess, skilled in all the social affairs,” he hastened to assure the comte. “But since she has been so sheltered, she is of a retiring nature and is naturally sensitive, showing, of course, that she is of genteel quality.
“It will therefore, I think, be most wise if there be a period of courtship—a time in which you may both come to know each other better. In this way Elizabeth’s shyness can be naturally overcome.”
“Miss Jeffries does not wish to wed me?” Cavilon drawled with a hint of offence in his voice.
“Oh, no. No,” Sir Henry blustered. “While Elizabeth is not a... is not just from the schoolroom, she is rather green in the area of... of men. Well, I am certain you understand,” he ended hopefully.
“This courtship you propose, how long is it to be?” Cavilon rapped his chin contemplatively.
“Could we say three months?”
“I have no objections.” The comte rose and placed a limp hand in Sir Henry’s outstretched palm. “I wish to see Elizabeth now.”
“Mayhaps you could dine with us this eve? My niece has gone shopping,” Sir Jeffries explained.
“With Lady Waddington?”
“I believe she took her abigail.”
“Then I must be content to see her this eve. We shall conclude the business portion of the marriage when the wedding date is named, n’est-ce pas?”
“That will do very well, my lord. I shall see you to the door.”
The two men discussed the present state of the war as they walked through the corridor. Coming into the main entry, they saw a young woman on the upper landing.
“Why Spense, has Miss Jeffries stayed at home?”
The abigail bobbed a quick curtsy. “No, sir. She said she was going out for but a short time.”
“Then Lady Madeline accompanied her,” Sir Henry assured Cavilon.
“Oh, no sir. Miss Jeffries went alone.” Martha offered. “She said she wanted to think some matters through.”
“Do you know her direction?” Cavilon questioned without bothering to look at the young woman.
“Miss has shown a preference for St. James’s Park, my lord.”
“Merci. I shall go there at once, Sir Henry. It shall not do to have my future bride seen unchaperoned. I trust that in the future she will not go about unattended,” the comte stated as he carefully arranged his lace scarf.
“Of course not, my lord,” Sir Henry quickly assured him.
“My wife must be most proper in all matters, at all times,” Cavilon admonished, his voice rising. With a flutter of his hand, he withdrew.
“It will take a miracle,” Sir Henry muttered mopping his brow, “if this match is achieved.”
Chapter Eleven
The brilliant sunshine and May fragrance of green grass and blooming flowers did little to cheer Elizabeth as she sat upon a bench in St. James’s Park.
Why, she thought, does my mind keep turning back to the rogue? I know nothing of him. I would not even recognize him and yet he comes unbidden into my thoughts each day. You are too old far such foolishness, she scolded. She read herself a sermon, reciting the catechism of reasons Aunt Waddie and Uncle Henry were certain to batter her with in regard to the comte.
Cavilon, she mused. Even he had moved her, if only for a moment on the eve just past. Was there something wrong with her that her heart could be tugged about?
You cannot despise a man and love him, she admonished.
You cannot love a man you know nothing about, her subconscious responded.
Elizabeth sighed heavily. Her only hope was that Cavilon would reconsider and find her unattractive, if not distasteful, when viewed as a prospective bride.
Rising, Elizabeth began to walk. Her thoughts dwelt on what she might do to dissuade the comte without severely embarrassing her uncle.
When something solid brushed against the back of her skirt, Elizabeth spun around. Looking down, she saw one of the largest, woolliest dogs she had ever seen.
He sat down and whined imploringly.
“Why, are you hungry?” she asked.
Two loud barks answered her question.
She reached out and patted his grey coat, sending up a puff of dust to the air. “Where is your master?” Elizabeth glanced about but could see no one paying any attention to
the beast.
“I suppose I could buy you a loaf,” she mused, and began walking towards the street where vendors hawked wares of every conceivable sort. Buying bread, she tore a piece from it and tossed it to the dog.
The animal which had stayed a short distance from the vendor’s cart now bounded forward to catch the bread. He swallowed the piece in one gulp.
“My, you are hungry,” Elizabeth laughed, tossing another hunk. Walking slowly, she turned back towards the centre of the park. The dog ran ahead her, circled her, and paused to bow to her every few paces and beg another piece.
Comte de Cavilon spied Elizabeth at the vendor’s cart and ordered his coach to halt. He smiled as he watched her play with the huge dog. With a command for his coachman to wait, he stepped down and slowly gyrated towards her.
Tossing the last piece of bread, Elizabeth laughed as the dog still pranced about her barking. “That is all there is,” she told him, holding out her empty hands as proof.
A sharp gasp replaced the laughter when the beast gave a low growl. Suddenly he leapt at her but, instead of attacking, sank his teeth into her reticule, which hung from her wrist by two cords. A tug of war ensued.
“Let go of it,” Elizabeth commanded, but was unsuccessful in tugging it free. The large dog shook its head, threw her off balance, and came away with the reticule in its jaws. It bounded towards a clump of shrubbery in the distance.
When Cavilon saw the dog lunge, he, too, thought the beast meant to attack Elizabeth. Dropping all affectation, the comte sprinted towards her. When the dog loped off with the reticule dangling in its jaw, he realized what was happening and slowed his steps. He could only chuckle when Elizabeth gave chase.
The dog disappeared into the shrubbery. Miss Jeffries entered on its heels. Shouts and cries as well as vociferous barking bespoke an encounter involving more than the young woman and the animal.
Easing his way through the shrubs, Cavilon released a bark of laughter at the scene before him.
The dog’s master, a young lad of ten or eleven, had been snared by Elizabeth. She was attempting to regain possession of her reticule while the dog nipped at her ankles and pawed at her skirt. In desperation she pushed the lad to the ground and sat upon him. The huge woolly dog jumped astride Elizabeth, effectively pinning her to the ground.