by M C Beaton
Delphine felt warm and drugged and languorous. His lazy, slow, sensual lovemaking was sweet and dizzying and infinitely pleasurable.
Then he swept her up into his arms, one hand sliding inside her nightgown, searching and teasing, while his mouth grew hard again, questioning, demanding. Her body sprang to frenzied life, aching, burning, yearning with frustration.
He took one step towards the bed.
“No!” screamed Delphine desperately.
And immediately she was put on her feet. Gentle, deft fingers arranged her slipping nightgown back on her shoulders. The comte settled himself comfortably in the armchair in front of the fire and opened his book again.
Delphine did not know what to do or say. She felt cold and sick and rejected. And yet she had demanded to be released with that cry of “No!”
With a stifled little sob, she turned and ran from the room.
She spent a tortured, restless night, plagued with longings to return to him, at other moments chiding herself for wishing to succumb to what was surely only base lust. It could not be love. You respected someone you loved. And she did not respect Jules. She fell asleep at last amid a tangle of blankets and sheets, not waking until ten o’clock the following morning, only to be told that Harriet Bryce-Connell had called and that his lordship had gone out riding with her.
Delphine waited for his return, wondering what on earth Harriet had been up to. Visions of the way those women, those wives of his clients, had looked at him began to flash through her mind.
At last she remembered it was the day of the coal and clothing club and took herself off to Littlejohn. At least he would not find her meekly waiting when he returned. Bradley had reported that there had been no trace of anyone in the grounds the night before although they had searched everywhere.
Probably a poacher, thought Delphine.
She rode towards Littlejohn through a fine, drizzling mist wondering what on earth her husband and Harriet could be doing, riding for all these hours on such a depressing day.
She made various calls on her tenants on the road back, spending more time with them than she usually did.
It was seven o’clock by the time she returned to Marsham Manor.
His lordship was in his rooms, Bradley informed her. He regretted he was too tired to dine with her ladyship but would see her in the morning. Mrs. Bencastle was dining in her room.
So that was that.
Delphine crossly ate her dinner in solitary splendor and then went up to bed, making as much noise as she could.
At last, she decided to call on him before she changed into her bedclothes. It was only polite to wish him good evening.
But this time, when she pushed open the door of his room, he was fast asleep, the moon shining in on his relaxed face.
Chapter Eight
It was unusual for a hunt ball to be held in late spring, particularly when the Season was starting in London. But most of society was assembled around the Duke of Wellington in Brussels, and it was reported that London was vastly thin of company, so the hunt, in effect, was as good an excuse for a ball as any.
Maria Bencastle had, surprisingly, apologized to the comte for her malicious gossip. She had also freely apologized to everyone else. No one could quite understand the reason for this amazing about-face, but Delphine privately thought Maria had become tired of being so unpopular. Only look how happy and animated she had been since Sunday!
But the reason for Mrs. Bencastle’s sweetness of demeanor was founded on the realization of a dream.
She would shortly have proof that the Comte Saint-Pierre was, in fact, a Bonapartist spy.
How she had found out this staggering piece of intelligence had come about like this.
Not wishing to stay cooped up at Marsham Manor in the company of the comte, and not wishing to brave any more indignities in Littlejohn, Maria decided to take the carriage over to the town of Hegsley on the far side of Littlejohn to attend morning service there.
The day was sunny and mild, and the service pleasantly soporific and dull.
Maria walked through the quiet Sunday streets of Hegsley, having left the carriage in the main square. She wanted to spend as much of the day away from Marsham Manor as possible. It had been infuriating to know that the comte had not been invited to Woburn and to have to keep quiet about it. For who in the surrounding county would believe anything she said now?
Attired in her grim mourning weeds, a black silhouette in the sunny, cobbled streets, Maria continued to wander aimlessly, like a bulldog searching for a lost bone.
She had reached the outskirts of the town, when she all at once espied the tall, green-coated figure of the comte. He was accompanied by a small, thin man with a very white, foxy face who was wrapped in a rusty brown cloak covered with travel stains.
They went into a small public house called the Green Man. Curiosity beginning to burn inside her, Maria waited a few moments and then quietly followed them in. The tap was empty except for the comte and his companion. She could not see them, but she could hear their voices.
They were seated at a table flanked by two high-backed settles. By seating herself at another sort of booth formed by this furniture arrangement directly behind them, Maria was able to overhear every word without being observed.
They had already ordered wine, and the landlord, not having seen Maria enter, had retired to the back premises to eat his lunch. Maria listened intently.
It transpired that the white-faced man was called Bodet.
To Maria’s disappointment, they were talking in French. Then, to her relief, she heard the comte say sharply, “I would prefer to speak in English. French is not a very popular language these days. Why did you come to me with this information?”
“I happened to be in this area last week,” said the man called Bodet, “and I heard it said that you were a supporter of Napoleon Bonaparte?”
There was a silence. “Isn’t that lazy count going to say anything?” thought Maria. “He’s probably gone to sleep.”
Then the comte spoke. “And …?” he prompted gently.
He had not denied it! Maria began to tremble with excitement.
“And so I came to beg your help, milord. I was placed in London a long time ago to pose as an émigré. While in London, I was to make my trade that of a hairdresser and ingratiate myself into the best households—which I did. When Napoleon was exiled on Elba, I thought my work was in vain, but word reached me to continue. And so I did.”
“Continued what?”
“Arranging the hair of les grandes dames and searching through their husbands’ papers.” “You were successful?”
“Not until a few weeks ago. At a certain general’s house, I came across a portfolio in his study full of maps and plans and details of the strengths and weaknesses of the allies. I copied it carefully. I was not so stupid as to take it. Alors, my plan is to get these papers into the hands of Napoleon Bonaparte or one of his advisers.”
“And what is stopping you?”
“I fear the authorities are suspicious of me. I had warning that my spying activities may have been discovered. Something about one of the maids having seen me sneak into the general’s study when I was supposed to be on my way out of his house after arranging his wife’s hair. I cannot risk being arrested at one of the ports. Then I heard about you. These stories about you are largely treated as rumor and gossip and will soon die away. In these country places, everyone French is suspect.
“But you now own English land through your marriage. You could easily get papers to pass over to France or Belgium without exciting much curiosity. All of the beau monde is in Brussels at the moment. There is hardly an English lord or lady left to grace the London Season.”
“And what made you believe this gossip that I was a supporter of Napoleon?”
“Because I heard a great fat lady telling someone so, and the great fat lady who was all in black I discovered was none other than your wife’s sister-in-law by her first marriage!”
>
“Ah, yes. That one.”
“You will do this for me? The success of the emperor may depend on this information.”
There was a long silence. A sound of clinking glasses came from the back. Maria prayed the landlord would not choose this moment to return.
“Yes,” she heard the comte say. “I will do it.”
“Bien!”
“But before I do, there is something you must do for me. Are you kept informed of the strength and movements and intentions of Napoleon’s troops?”
“Yes, milord, I am kept well-informed.”
“I would like you to meet me here next Friday and furnish me with all the details you can. That way, I will know exactly where to go. You must also give me a list of the names of the Bonapartist spies residing in London. Should the war continue for a long time, and if anything should happen to you, Bodet, I must know the names of my real friends among the French community in London.”
“Such a list would be dangerous were it written down. I carry the names in my head.”
“You must write them down or I shall not go.”
Another silence.
“Very well,” said Monsieur Bodet. “Next Friday, I will be here at the same time. And now, permit me to order another bottle to seal our bargain. Landlord!”
Maria slid quietly along the settle and, moving slowly and stealthily, gained the door of the inn without being seen.
Once out in the sunlight, she walked rapidly away, her heart beating hard.
Never had Maria Bencastle experienced such a feeling of elation.
Revenge would be very sweet indeed. She would pretend to be contrite over the cruel gossip she had spread. She would apologize to everybody. And then, on Thursday, she would alert the authorities. The inn at Hegsley would be surrounded, and the comte would be trapped with the incriminating evidence on him.
He would hang, and Delphine would mourn. But after a short time, things would go back to the way they had always been. She would stand by Delphine, and everyone would say what a marvelous, loyal, and Christian woman she was. Everyone would be sorry about how they had vilified her, and she would accept their apologies with touching modesty.
Delphine was driven to the hunt ball, which was to be held at Sir Giles Mancroft’s mansion near Hegsley, by the comte. For all his retiring ways, the late Sir George had been an excellent judge of horseflesh and kept several carriages. The night was fine, so the comte was driving a smart racing curricle. Charlie was perched at the back, resplendent in his new livery. The little tiger had become a great favorite with the grooms and the coachman since he had an uncanny way with horses and could soon have the most recalcitrant feeding out of his hand.
Delphine was wearing her burgundy-colored silk gown with the worked embroidery of dull gold. She was wearing a heavy gold necklace set with emeralds around her neck and a gold and emerald circlet on her head. She had washed and brushed her curls and arranged them above the circlet in artistic disarray on top of her head.
The comte had mysteriously acquired new clothes. There had been no time to have them made, reflected Delphine. Perhaps he had found an unlucky gambler of his size among the local gentry. But somehow she could not ask him. It seemed too strange to ask one’s husband where he managed to find his clothes.
He was resplendent in a green silk evening coat with a white waistcoat with silver embroidery, gold silk knee breeches, clocked stockings, and pumps with silver buckles. Delphine had given Bradley instructions to give the comte Sir George’s jewel box. An emerald pin winked among the snowy folds of the comte’s cravat, and emerald and diamond rings blazed on his fingers.
His hair was shining like newly minted gold under the curve of his curly brimmed beaver. He wore a many-caped driving coat and tan York gloves.
Delphine was warmly wrapped in a black velvet cloak lined with swansdown. It was late spring and the weather during the day had been fine, but the evening was chilly with great stars blazing in a black sky.
Although she was a twice-married matron and twenty-three years old, Delphine felt like a debutante. This was to be her first ball.
In trembling anticipation, she imagined the splendor of the ballroom, the glittering jewels, the light airs played by the orchestra, and the banks of hothouse flowers perfuming the air.
“I took it upon myself to pay for our tickets,” said the comte, negotiating a turn in the road.
“Pay for our tickets!” exclaimed Delphine, startled. “But we were invited.”
“That was a last-minute kindly gesture so that we would not feel left out, but I discovered everyone from Littlejohn and Hegsley will be there and they have all paid for their tickets. It seemed only correct to do the same.”
“I did not know,” said Delphine faintly.
“My informant was Mr. Partington, the haberdasher. Although the ball begins at eight o’clock, he said we should not be expected to arrive until after ten. All the plebeians, he assured me, arrive on time. The higher-ups deign to put in an appearance later.”
“Oh,” said Delphine in a small voice. “But we are going to be there at exactly eight o’clock.”
“I considered it more courteous,” said the comte with a smile. “Furthermore, I do not think you are the kind of lady who cares to make a grand entrance.”
“Noooo …”
“And furthermore, Mr. Partington told me to please wear as many jewels as I could, which is why I am bedecked in your late husband’s wealth. He said that last year everyone waited to see Lady Gladstone and her diamonds, and she did not turn up until quite midnight and without a single jewel. The evening was accounted uncommonly flat as a consequence.”
“I—I hope I can dance,” said Delphine nervously.
“Have you not been taught?”
“I had a dancing instructor, but perhaps it will not be quite the same thing in a room full of people.”
“It should be no different.”
The road all at once seemed to be full of a great deal of traffic. There were flies and chaises and traps and other carriages of every description. Even Hegsley’s last two remaining sedan chairs were in service, the town’s elderly chairmen scurrying along as fast as they could with their burdens so that they might be in time to return to Hegsley and pick up other fares.
Delphine began to relax. It was not going to be a stately ball with only the upper crust of the county, after all. And perhaps she would have practiced enough to perform her steps properly before Harriet Bryce-Connell arrived.
Sir Giles Mancroft’s home was a rather shabby, rambling house grandly called Mancroft Towers. It had originally been a small Elizabethan manor, and subsequent periods of architecture seemed to have been added at random.
The ballroom was one of the most modern additions, having been stuck on to the back of the house in the 1790s. Delphine left her cloak in the cloakroom, joined her husband, who was waiting for her in the hall, and then both made their way through a series of twists and turns to the ballroom.
The seats for the aristocracy were on a sort of dais at the far end of the room, directly under the musicians’ gallery.
The ballroom had been decorated by the young ladies of Hegsley and Littlejohn with more enthusiasm than expertise. Branches of evergreen hung drunkenly from the gilt frames of looking glasses and shrouded the marble mantel over the fireplace. All sorts of vases were bursting with the flowers of field and garden and had been placed in awkward spots and were balanced precariously on wobbly pedestals.
Sir Giles Mancroft was a small, wizened man wearing a bag wig and green spectacles. His wife was enormous and square, with a small, pretty face and neat features. She looked as if she had borrowed someone else’s body for a joke.
The comte promptly led Lady Mancroft out to where a set was forming for a country dance. Sir Giles croakingly apologized to Delphine, explaining that his rheumatism prevented him from performing.
After some hesitation and much whispering, the bookseller from Littlejohn, Mr. H
arry Withers, a fresh-faced young man, shyly asked Delphine if she would honor him with a dance.
Delphine accepted and nervously took her place in the set while the tinny orchestra crashed into the opening strains of “Monymusk.”
Poor Delphine muttered instructions to herself under her breath as she tried to master the complications of “Cross hands and back again, down the middle and up again.” But she was constantly snatching hold of the wrong hands, and apologizing, and tripping over feet as she tried to find the right partner. Then when she returned to her place, she made the mistake of stopping, quite forgetting that she was supposed to go on capering until she reached the bottom of the set.
But the delight of the tradespeople at the spectacle of Delphine and the comte taking the floor was beyond bounds. Lady Mancroft had never before been known to dance until the aristocracy arrived in force.
Their delight and goodwill were infectious. How manfully and gallantly did the bookseller blame all Delphine’s clumsiness on himself!
By the end of the dance, however, Delphine had fully resolved to sit against the wall for the rest of the evening.
But Mr. Partington requested the pleasure of her company in the quadrille, looking at her with pleading eyes, terrified that he would have to turn around and walk back down the length of the dance floor with everyone knowing he had been rejected.
Delphine accepted.
Mr. Partington was so terrified at the honor being done him that he stumbled and staggered through the dance, until Delphine, too concerned for him to worry about herself, found she was performing her own steps very competently, and from that moment on, she began to enjoy herself.
Next she danced a Scotch reel with her husband, laughing and breathless as they whirled about.
Dance followed dance until, at half-past ten, the doors at the end of the ballroom opened, and Harriet Bryce-Connell, her brother, Lady Gladstone, Sir Frederic Gibson, the lord-lieutenant, Lady Gibson, the Earl and Countess of Hollingford and their daughters, Lady Clara and Lady Lucy, and the Honorable John and Mrs. Caxford made their entrance.