Cecilia (The Families 0f Dorset Book 3)

by Martha Keyes

  Cecilia hid her dubious expression. She was fairly certain that Jacques was the most handsome man she knew. She thought him even more handsome now than she had upon first meeting him.

  Letty chatted almost without ceasing, asking Cecilia her opinion on this man and that and whether or not she was of the opinion that so-and-so and such a young lady would make a match of it, to the point that Cecilia began to feel out of patience with her cousin.

  After the meaningful conversation she'd had with Lord Moulinet, the gossip seemed empty. She wished she could continue her conversation with him rather than dwelling on foolish nothings.

  Thus it was with some small relief, followed by a bout of nerves, that Cecilia watched her mother's approach and listened to her request for a moment of privacy with Cecilia. She found that conversation with her parents had become a source of stress recently, as it so often involved discussion of Cecilia’s prospects with the marquess.

  They walked toward the pianoforte, leaving Letty and Aunt Emily behind them with the tea.

  "My dear," said her mother with a frown, glancing at Cecilia's dress, "I do not think that the pale yellow was a wise choice for you this evening. It makes you look sadly pulled and tired."

  Cecilia glanced down at her dress and swallowed. Was her mother right?

  She felt a twinge of embarrassment. She had always been complimented when she wore yellow—it was said to bring out the sheen in her hair. Perhaps the dress wasn’t the problem. Perhaps her beauty was declining?

  "Ah well," her mother said with a breath, "that ship has sailed, I'm afraid. At least we may content ourselves that the marquess was not here.” Her mother scanned her again critically, making a clicking noise with her tongue and shaking her head. “Yes, not at all flattering. Perhaps it is best to tell Anaïs to dispose of it so that there is no chance of him seeing you in it."

  Cecilia opened her mouth, but she found that she could find no words to respond. Her cheeks began to prick with heat. Her mother was disappointed.

  "Speaking of the marquess, my dear, I think you must have a little more care if you mean not to drive him off." She grimaced at Cecilia. "You seem to be on very good terms with the Vicomte de Moulinet, and I am sure he is quite unexceptionable and agreeable, but"— she squeezed Cecilia's arm and drew toward her to whisper— "he is hardly a Marquess."

  Cecilia felt her muscles tensing.

  "You are charming and beautiful, my dear," her mother continued, "and it pleases me greatly to see your success. You can hardly aim too high, it seems."

  The door opened to admit the men, and her mother patted her arm. "What a treat to enjoy a chat with you. Now I must go and see to the guests. I know that I may trust your judgment completely." She smiled at Cecilia and pulled her arm away, moving with her characteristic confidence to the other side of the room.

  Cecilia stood motionless for a moment. She had sought her mother's praise all her life, and she had frequently received it.

  But never had it felt so shallow. Never had Cecilia considered that praise could actually cause pain as it did now.

  Had her mother ever applauded her for anything but her appearance, her ability to attract and captivate those who would add to the family's prestige? Was she so intent upon utilizing Cecilia's beauty that she cared nothing for what would make her daughter happy?

  She swallowed. She had always pitied Isabel for her plainness, but for once, Cecilia felt the stirrings of envy.

  Isabel's marriage had been regarded as an unlooked-for stroke of good fortune—a boon to be rejoiced over because it added to the brilliant match Cecilia was expected to make. Isabel's plainness might have made life at home difficult, but in the end, it had allowed her to marry for love.

  That Cecilia would marry the wealthiest, highest-ranking peer she could attract was taken for granted. Never had anyone considered that she might wish to do otherwise. And for a long time, Cecilia herself had never considered it.

  But she was now.

  She looked to Lord Moulinet, laughing with Tobias across the room. She couldn't resist a smile when she saw his.

  But her own wavered.

  What would her mother and father say if she refused to marry the marquess? There was no doubt in her mind that they would exercise every power of persuasion to forbid such an incomprehensible decision.

  And truth be told, it seemed fantastic even to Cecilia that she would contemplate foregoing a future as a marchioness when it was within her reach.

  7

  The arrival of Jacques's father to town was entirely unexpected.

  "I thought I would come see how you're getting along, mon fils," he said, smiling at Jacques and squeezing his shoulder as he walked up the steps to the Broussard's townhouse. His hair was powdered, as always, and his clothing—with his buckled shoes and green striped coat—was impeccable, despite being a score of years behind the current fashions.

  Jacques was glad for his father's company—it always made him feel less alone, less like a solitary impostor.

  But his father seemed to harbor none of the qualms that niggled at Jacques more and more each day in town. Perhaps his father's placid confidence was only a façade, though? Jacques had to ask. Surely he couldn’t be the only one whose conscience pricked at him.

  Mr. Broussard was taking his dinner at White's, so Jacques and his father were left to their port alone after dinner the evening of his arrival.

  "What news do you bring from home?" Jacques asked.

  His father made a grunting noise as he finished swallowing. “Nothing happy, I’m afraid. Adam Hewitt’s hopes are dashed to pieces, you know.”

  Jacques set his wrists on the edge of the table. Adam was his closest friend back home. Adam had known himself to be in line for his uncle, Lord Guildforth’s, barony for years.

  “Dashed to pieces how?”

  His father shrugged, pouring more port into his glass. "Guildforth has remarried."

  Jacques looked at his father incredulously, covering his mouth with a hand.

  "And quite a young, healthy woman at that. I'm afraid there is little chance of young Hewitt inheriting anymore."

  Jacques's arm dropped to his side.

  Poor Adam. Of course, he had only ever been the heir presumptive, but no one had expected Guildforth to remarry—not at his age, and not with the deep affection in which he had held his late wife. To have every expectation of leading a life of wealth and status, only to have it taken unexpectedly…

  Well, it was the exact opposite of what had happened to Jacques. Jacques had done nothing to merit his good fortune, and Adam had done nothing to merit his bad fortune.

  Jacques sat back in his chair, his brows drawn together and his jaw shifting from side to side. Had his own good fortune been at the expense of someone else's?

  "Father," he said, staring at the crimson liquid in the glass in front of him. "Had Monsieur le Comte any family to inherit his title?" It was a question which had plagued Jacques at the back of his mind for years. He looked up at his father, whose eyes narrowed. "Have we stolen the life someone else should have had at the Comte's death? A life meant for his heir?"

  His father's eyes widened, and he shushed Jacques, glancing at the doors as if someone might be listening. "Keep your voice down, Jacques."

  "Have we, though?" He needed an answer. Was someone walking around the streets of France, destitute because he and his father had capitalized on the opportunity presented them twenty years ago?

  His father shook his head. "Le Comte was a singular man, with no family to speak of—at least I never heard him do so."

  Jacques rubbed at his cheek thoughtfully. No family at all? It seemed incredible. "You are sure?" He closed his eyes and took in a breath. "I can't rid my mind of the image of some poor wretch whose rightful place we have usurped."

  His father scoffed. "Rightful place! By virtue of sharing a bloodline?" His father waved an impatient hand.

  "You sound like a Jacobin, Father, a revolutionary. But y
ou and I are reaping the benefits of l'ancien régime and all the benefits of high birth."

  His father shook his head, staring at Jacques with hard eyes. "We took a small fortune and made it into what we now have. We did that."

  Jacques nodded thoughtfully. His father was right—it was their careful managing of the Comte's wealth which had allowed them to buy their estate and turn it into one that was healthy and thriving.

  "But we could not have done it without that small fortune. Or without the title that opened so many doors for us—a title and fortune which were not rightfully ours."

  His father made an impatient noise. "Did you think we should have sent the Comte's valuables back to France on the packet? Hoping that they would find themselves in the hands of an heir, if such an heir exists, which I am certain he does not? You would think he would have made some attempt to know the Comte and his lands if he was truly the heir."

  Jacques said nothing. He couldn't deny his father's sensible arguments. What could they have done with the Comte dead and all his possessions in their charge? The French government would have gladly accepted the treasure, no doubt, and made use of it in furthering its success in the war. But that hardly seemed a preferable outcome to the good Jacques and his father had been able to do.

  "Perhaps it is the Broussards who should have received the valuables," Jacques said softly.

  His father shook his head for the tenth time. "Their relation to the Comte is through marriage only—a distant cousin on the Comte's mother's side." His father sighed, his energy suddenly sapped. "This is all absurd talk, Jacques. Nothing of le Comté de Montreuil remains to be inherited, after all that happened during the Revolution. If the Comte had stayed in France, he would have lost everything he had. How he knew which way the wind was blowing, I don't know. But he understood something that the other nobles did not, and we are left to thank God for that fact and for the opportunity He provided us."

  Jacques clasped his hands together, twiddling his thumbs. "You are right, Father. Of course you are. And yet I find myself wishing that we weren't obliged to deceive everyone we care about. It is a heavy burden at times."

  "Heavier than the rejection we should face if it were known? You must not think, mon fils, that we are the only ones with secrets. Le beau-monde is full of secrets and scandals that could be the undoing of their keepers if they were known. Le Comte had secrets of his own—vile, terrible things which do not bear repeating. He was not a good man. Have you considered that perhaps God wished for a good man to take his place? And you, Jacques, are a good man."

  Jacques tried to offer a smile but knew it was more like a grimace.

  His father watched him for a moment, then leaned toward the table, placing his hands on the edge. "Écoute-moi bien, mon fils. Many of our friends and acquaintances are every bit as indebted to luck for their good fortune as we are. They are only much less aware and much less grateful than we. En plus, you have been le Vicomte de Moulinet longer than some of these English peers have held their titles. There is no logic to it. But at least we may do justice to our humble origins by using the influence we now have to benefit those with less good fortune than we."

  Jacques nodded slowly.

  Surely there was nothing wrong with doing what his father was saying? To reveal the truth about themselves would be to forfeit everything they had worked for and all the good they could yet do. And to what end?

  It would bring shame to the Broussards and would benefit no one.

  No.

  Surely the past was best left where it was: forgotten by everyone else and, with any mercy, forgotten by Jacques himself in time.

  8

  The line of carriages outside the Simmons' townhouse stretched down the street and wrapped around the corner, while the hustle and bustle of passing equipages continued in the congested lane.

  "I don't see why we have to leave so early," Letty complained as she stepped into the Broussard's coach, "when we shall undoubtedly be obliged to sit in the carriage for three quarters of an hour waiting for our turn to leave."

  Jacques shot an amused glance at Miss Cosgrove. Quite opposite from Letty, Jacques found himself feeling grateful that his aunt had asked to leave the ball at an earlier hour than was her custom. He was content to rest in the carriage in the company of Letty, Miss Cosgrove, and Aunt Emily rather than to continue dancing and talking in the overheated ballroom.

  "You are directing your complaints to entirely the wrong person," he said as he handed Cecilia in with a smile. "Your mother was the one who insisted upon leaving right away."

  "Yes," Letty said bitterly, installing herself on one of the seats, "and yet she is nowhere in sight, is she?"

  "I believe," said Miss Cosgrove, scooting next to Letty as Jacques climbed in and sat across from them, "that she stopped to talk to Mrs. Simmons for a moment as we were leaving."

  Jacques left the the coach door open for Aunt Emily to enter whenever she arrived.

  "Then three quarters of an hour was not an overestimation," said Letty with a great sigh. "Mrs. Simmons is the greatest chatterbox."

  "Surely it will not be that long," Jacques said, "however long it may feel to you. I, for one, am grateful to be outside where the temperature is much more comfortable and the noise less oppressive."

  Letty frowned. "You may prefer the sound of carriage wheels and yelling coachmen to musical instruments and people conversing, but I surely do not."

  Jacques encountered Miss Cosgrove's smile, peeping at the corner of her lips. Letty had a point, after all.

  "What is that noise?" Letty said, perking up and straining an ear. "It sounds ominous."

  A distant, muffled din sounded. "It is only the traffic, Letty," said Jacques with an amused smile at her. "A valiant attempt at an excuse to return to the ballroom, but fruitless, I'm afraid."

  Letty paid him no heed. "Do you hear it? It is getting louder."

  Miss Cosgrove stilled, and Jacques watched her listen, with her eyes on the open door.

  And Letty was right. Jacques could hear it—a cacophony of voices increasing in volume and, he could only guess, proximity.

  The sound of glass breaking met his ears. He frowned and rose from his seat, hanging on the door frame to peer down the street. Torch-bearing men led the mob, bearing down the street determinedly. His eyes widened, and he stepped back into the coach.

  "A riot," he said, shutting the door soundly. "We must hope they pass by and leave us in peace."

  Letty's face went white. "Surely they wouldn't harm us?"

  Jacques grimaced. He didn't wish to frighten her, but nor did he wish to mislead her. "I will do everything in my power to keep you both safe. But when hungry people combine in a mob, they become desperate and destructive. And the people are very hungry."

  Shouting, stomping, and chanting drew nearer, and Jacques watched Miss Cosgrove look through the carriage window, taking a deep breath as if to still her nerves. He sincerely hoped that she would not succumb to fear—Letty would be looking to her and Jacques for direction and comfort, and if Letty saw Miss Cosgrove in terror, it would only add to her own.

  Traffic had stopped in the street, and the sound of carriage doors shutting and horses pawing and neighing nervously could be heard through the coach windows.

  Cecilia squinted as she continued looking through the window. "Good heavens," she said in alarm, "that boy could be killed if he remains there."

  Lord Moulinet moved beside her to look through the window, and their shoulders rested against each other. Outside the carriage, a slender young page boy looked about in fear, as if searching for a place to hide. The doors to the Simmons' house were shut and the liveried servants who had stood by the doors nowhere to be seen, no doubt protecting the house from a possible invasion.

  "You are right." Jacques moved to the coach door, opening it swiftly and calling to the page. "In here, young man!"

  The page boy spun around and, seeing Jacques, rushed over to the door, hopping gracefully
up the stairs and into the carriage as the sound of more breaking glass assailed their ears.

  His breath came quickly as he sat down next to Jacques. "Thank you," he said, gasping. "You have saved my life."

  A woman screamed in a nearby carriage, and Jacques looked through the window and swore softly. "They are lighting things aflame wherever they can."

  The fear within the carriage was tangible, and Jacques's mind raced, trying to prepare in the event that their own coach was lit on fire. The page boy would hardly be an asset in such a situation—he was slender and almost delicate-looking.

  Letty grabbed Miss Cosgrove's hand.

  "Are we going to die?" Letty said tearfully.

  Jacques grimaced and reached over to put his hand atop Miss Cosgrove's and Letty's hands, feeling his heart jump as he did so.

  "Decidedly not." He smiled teasingly at Letty, hoping that it would act as a calming influence, showing Letty that he was in control of the situation—even if he wasn't. "If the mob requires a sacrifice from the four of us, I shall offer myself. This world cannot be allowed to go on without Miss Letitia Broussard. Or Miss Cecilia Cosgrove." He glanced at the boy next to him. "Or..." he raised his brows in a question.

  The young man shifted in his seat. "Vaughan," he said, clearing his throat. "David Vaughan." His voice, like his figure, had a slightly feminine quality to it.

  The sounds of the mob reached their peak, and Letty turned her face into Miss Cosgrove's shoulder, muttering something unintelligible.

  A chaos of shouts—angry from the marching men, fearful from those confined to their carriages—continued for a full minute that seemed to stretch an hour. The three others all seemed frozen, barely breathing, while Jacques willed his breath to come evenly through his flared nostrils.

  The mob passed by the coach without incident, and Miss Cosgrove let out a large breath of relief, pressing her eyelids shut as though she were praying.