by Martha Keyes
He said nothing, only closing his eyes and breathing softly through his nose.
Her smile wavered. "I am only jesting, my lord. I am sure that, whatever you have to tell me, it cannot be so serious as you imagine it to be. The esteem I hold you in"— she swallowed determinedly, wanting to see him smile again and feeling the need to reassure him —"my growing regard is not so flimsy as you seem to think it."
He met her eyes for a moment and then looked away. His brow furrowed as his gaze grew alert. "What in heaven's name?"
Cecilia followed the direction of his gaze, and her eyes bulged.
Lady Caroline stood in front of Lord Byron, wielding a dagger. She raised her voice and suddenly brought the dagger down, slashing herself in the chest. Cries of shock rang out in the ballroom, and Lord Moulinet shot up from his chair, followed by Cecilia, whose hand flew to her open mouth.
Lady Caroline stood, blood seeping through her clothing, her chest heaving, her face losing color by the second as the onlookers surrounding Lord Byron looked on in paralyzed shock.
Lord Moulinet rushed over to Lady Caroline, gently taking the dagger from her hand and then motioning for Cecilia to assist him.
Cecilia hurried over, her heart racing, and slipped Lady Caroline's arm around her shoulders, trying not to notice the crimson liquid which she could feel seeping through her dress from Lady Caroline's.
There was no resistance from Lady Caroline, who seemed to have lost all energy, and, together with the vicomte, Cecilia supported her across the room and into a corridor, feeling the eyes of dozens of people upon them. They passed by a footman carrying a silver platter, and Lord Moulinet instructed him to call for a doctor without delay.
As they laid Lady Caroline down on a chaise lounge, her lids began to flutter.
"Keep her alert," instructed the vicomte as he walked to the table against the wall, which held the platter of spirits. He set the blood-tinged dagger upon it and picked up one of the decanters. "How does the wound look?"
Cecilia put her hand to Lady Caroline's cheek. "Caro," she said. "Are you all right?"
Lady Caroline's head rocked from side to side, and she mumbled something unintelligible.
Cecilia took in a steadying breath and looked down to the torn bodice of Lady Caroline's dress. The blood on the fabric was a bright crimson, but she could see a gash in the center of the tear where the knife had pierced her skin. "It looks"— Cecilia felt a wave of nausea wash over her and closed her eyes, putting a wrist to her mouth —"It is bleeding, but it does not seem so very deep."
Lord Moulinet came to kneel beside her with a glass of what looked like brandy. "I think this will do you some good," he said, tipping up Lady Caroline's chin, putting the glass to her lips, and pouring some liquid into her mouth.
"What could have possessed her...?" Cecilia said, blinking as she looked at her injured friend. She imagined the mischievous smile of Lady Caroline as they had ventured from their chaise onto the green where the prize fight had taken place. She had always seemed so confident and unruffled. Cecilia had hardly recognized the woman in the ballroom whose outburst they had just witnessed.
Lord Moulinet kept his watchful eyes on Lady Caroline. "People can certainly make some drastic and incomprehensible decisions when they are in love."
Cecilia's eyes flitted to him. Was he only referring to Lady Caroline? Or was this an extension of the conversation they hadn't finished?
The door opened, and a doctor stepped into the room, accompanied by Lady Caroline's husband, whose face was stern, his brow dark and foreboding.
Lord Moulinet and Cecilia both stood, making way for the two men to take their places.
"We will leave you to care for her," said the vicomte with a slight bow. Neither the doctor nor Lady Caroline's husband seemed to pay him any heed, and Cecilia shot a final, worried glance at her friend, who seemed to become more agitated with the arrival of her husband.
They entered the ballroom to the view of covered-mouth whispers and shifting glances. Cecilia's mother approached them, a hand over her bosom.
"There you are," she said with an upward fluttering of her eyes. "Thank heaven! When I heard you had walked off with that woman, I was sure that the next I should hear of you would be that you had been injured by her."
Cecilia reared back, noting Lord Moulinet's frown. "Of course not, Mama. Lady Caroline would never do me an injury."
"If she would do herself an injury," her mother said dismissively, "there is no one she wouldn't injure, my dear." She looked down at Cecilia's dress. "Good heavens, you are covered in blood!"
Cecilia glanced down at the blood which had transferred to her dress. "It is of no account," she said.
Mrs. Cosgrove dipped her head, her eyes flitting to the nearby attendees. "I think, Cecilia, that we can agree that you must avoid the company of Lady Caroline. We cannot afford to have your reputation damaged by association with someone who commits such abhorrent acts. And in public!"
Cecilia looked an apology at Lord Moulinet, who had stiffened beside her.
"Just think, my dear," her mother continued, "if your chances at marriage were ruined simply from keeping company with a woman as dead to propriety as Lady Caroline."
"Mama," said Cecilia, feeling the heat seep into her cheeks at her mother's uncharitable words, "surely Lady Caroline deserves our sympathy rather than our disdain." Cecilia, too, had been shocked by her friend's conduct and had at first wondered whether perhaps she had made a mistake in getting on such close terms with Lady Caroline.
If it had not been for Lord Moulinet's unhesitating desire to assist Lady Caroline, Cecilia had the uncomfortable suspicion that she might have simply looked on, as everyone else had, in shock and secret condemnation.
"What ideas you have, child," said her mother with a condescending laugh. "How precisely is one to have sympathy for a woman who was the cause of her own misfortune and harm? And, again, in public"— she motioned to the room around them —"at a ball of all places!"
"Forgive me, ma'am," said the vicomte with a hint of a bite to his tone, "but does your disapproval of Lady Caroline stem from her behavior or merely from the fact that she failed to keep it private?"
Mrs. Cosgrove blinked twice and stuttered, clearly not expecting to meet argument from the vicomte.
Cecilia’s jaw hung open at the uncharacteristic outburst from Lord Moulinet. But his jaw was shifting from side to side, and she could feel his arm muscles tensing beside her.
"Forgive me, ma'am," he said, bowing and excusing himself.
Cecilia nearly called out to him, but she thought better of it. Her mother's company was unlikely to improve his mood, whatever had soured it. Certainly her mother's comments were in poor taste and unfeeling, but the vicomte's reaction seemed unwarranted, given how composed and even-keeled he normally was.
She would have to find another time to discover what was underlying his touchy behavior. And to discover what he had been on the verge of explaining to her before Lady Caroline's episode had interrupted.
"What an angry man the vicomte is," her mother said, watching him walk off with an offended stare. "Come, my dear, we cannot possibly stay here another moment with you looking so morbid."
Cecilia hadn't the energy to resist. Nor did she wish to.
On the carriage ride home, her mother talked almost incessantly, largely focusing on the merits of the marquess as a suitor.
Too drained to try to help her mother see reason, Cecilia laid her head back against the coach seat and found her thoughts making their way, as they so often did, to the vicomte.
With Lady Caroline's injury, Cecilia had not had the opportunity to reflect on or examine the words which she and Lord Moulinet had shared. They had been so wrapped up, too, in the intensity of whatever Lord Moulinet had been on the verge of telling her.
Had she imagined his words? Had she read something into them that he hadn't meant?
"I think you cannot be unaware of the regard I hold you in,
" he had said.
It was possible that he had not meant anything serious by it—simply the regard of a dear friend.
But she fervently hoped that she had come to mean more than that to him. It felt too fantastic to be true, of course, but Cecilia could no more force herself from hoping it than she could stop herself from thinking and feeling at all.
16
After his conversation with Mrs. Cosgrove, Jacques had only stayed at Lady Heathcote's ball long enough to convince his father to leave.
The stern control he had been exercising over himself for years—what had kept him from attracting too much unwanted attention—was fraying quickly. The stress of discovering that the marquess had, somewhere in his memory, the power to undo Jacques and his father—to make social outcasts of them, if not something worse—was taking its toll, particularly as it had come at a time when Jacques was beginning to feel hopeful of a happy outcome with Miss Cosgrove.
Mrs. Cosgrove's words had been everything he knew but had been trying to pretend not to know: her daughter's reputation was of foremost importance, and Miss Cosgrove wouldn't be allowed to associate with anyone who could harm it in any way—much less marry such a person.
"What do we do?" Jacques said to his father as the carriage bobbled down the street.
His father was staring blankly at the seat across from him in the coach, but he looked up at Jacques's words.
"What can we do?" he said. The helpless, resigned note in his voice made Jacques clench his teeth.
Surely there must be something within their power? How could his father give up so easily?
Jacques cleared his throat, hoping to clear away the anger he felt toward his father. He knew it wasn't rational. His father had done what he had believed would give Jacques the best life possible. When Jacques thought on the alternatives, they were hardly better than the situation he currently faced.
Living in poverty in the war-torn streets of France? Or living in poverty in England, completely oblivious to the life he had experienced for the past twenty years, except perhaps as a servant?
But when he thought of losing Miss Cosgrove—of feeling so close to happiness, only to have it suddenly and mercilessly snatched from his reach—it made him wonder if never having known her or the world she operated in might not have been preferable.
He felt a wave of sympathy for Lady Caroline. Her rash and deranged behavior was no doubt brought on by a similar, helpless feeling of a widening distance from happiness with the man she loved. He could understand the desperation that, combined with a volatile temperament, might have led her to such a drastic action.
And yet, it had taken her no closer to the man she loved—further from him, likely.
And such was the case for Jacques. Nothing he did now could close the gap between him and the woman he loved.
"What will happen to us?" he said, turning his head to stare out the window at the passing houses.
"I wish I knew," said his father. "We will be cut, no doubt; no longer admitted among any of the people we now consider acquaintances." He let out a large breath. "Beyond that, I can hardly say. It will depend largely, no doubt, on how intent the Marquess of Retsford is upon revenging himself on you."
He was right. But who was to say whether the marquess would be content with their social ostracism? He certainly had enough power and influence to make life miserable for them in England—or worse, the power and influence to force them back to France.
They could hardly return to France. Jacques had heard enough about the plight of returned émigrés to know that they would hardly be better off there, particularly if it was known that they had impersonated noblemen for the last two decades.
There were no good options. And yet, how could they simply sit idly by, waiting for fate to deal them whatever blows it had in store?
Jacques rubbed his forehead harshly. His father had said that it was God who had given them the opportunity they took twenty years ago.
Where was God now?
17
As she and her parents stepped onto the grounds of the marquess's home which stood imposingly on the outskirts of London, Cecilia scanned the crowd of guests. Some were sitting on blankets, some standing under the white tents which had been raised for shade, and some walking among the boxwood hedges and roses beyond.
She knew that her eyes were searching in vain—of course the marquess would never have invited Lord Moulinet to the picnic—and yet she couldn't help herself. She hadn't seen or heard from him in days.
Her heart jumped as her gaze landed upon Letty and Aunt Emily. But there was no sign of the vicomte.
She stifled a sigh. This was hardly her idea of an enjoyable way to pass the day. It would have been, even two months ago. An invitation to one of the marquess's famous al fresco picnics? She would have been thrilled; victorious.
But the only thing that had brought her on this occasion was her mother’s and father's insistence. How could she tell them that she had no intention of marrying the marquess, even if he offered for her?
"Ah, Cosgrove," said Lord Retsford as they reached the top of the stone staircase which led down to the picnic. "I am honored to have you here." He bowed slightly to Cecilia and her mother. Why did she always feel that there was a hint of mockery in his tone?
"Miss Cosgrove," he said, offering his arm, "allow me to show you the way to the food. I hope you will find it meets your expectations."
Taking his arm, she glanced at her parents and noted the pleased and triumphant glint in their eyes. It was the glint she had come to rely on, to crave, as it meant that they were proud of her. But today it only weighed her down.
The marquess led her down the steps, her parents trailing behind, surely surveying the crowd in the hopes that all eyes were turned to them to witness the honor which had been bestowed upon their daughter.
"It is my understanding," the marquess said, "from your cousin, that I have been so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure."
Cecilia felt a tightening in her chest, remembering Letty's escapade at Ranelagh Gardens. How was she to respond to such a blatant attack?
But he seemed to need no response from her. "She was very clear that you think my character reprehensible and"— he put a finger to his lips —"what was it that she said? Ah, yes, that I am far too old to be courting young ladies in their first blush of youth."
Cecilia tried to suppress a smile. She had never asked Letty precisely what she had said to the marquess. "And yet," she said, "you seem untroubled by her words."
"On the contrary," he said, "they inspired me with a greater desire to show forth my true character to you—to please where I have so far drawn your displeasure."
Cecilia looked over at him. He was watching her with a half-smile.
"Or perhaps," he said, "it is a lost cause. Perhaps you simply prefer the company of men like Lord Moulinet."
Cecilia bit back a rejoinder. Of course she preferred the vicomte's company to the marquess's.
"I wonder," said the marquess in a silky voice, "if perhaps you are not misled in your assumptions about both myself and the vicomte? It is entirely possible that his is the reprehensible character."
An inadvertent, scoffing laugh broke from Cecilia. "I think we are venturing into fantasy rather than reality, my lord."
"Hmm," he said, the same half-smile on his face. "We shall see, I suppose."
They arrived at the first white tent under which a long table of food and drink lay, spread with fruit and square-cut sandwiches, lemonade and ratafia, tarts and pies.
Cecilia glanced over her shoulder. Her parents had stopped just short of the tent and were watching her and the marquess, as though they hadn't wished to cut short the tête-à-tête they seemed to think Cecilia was enjoying. Her father winked at her, and Cecilia forced a smile.
Though she felt less and less dependent upon it, she was not immune to the desire to meet the expectations of her parents. Surely it wasn't wrong to wish to please one's par
ents. But what was one to do when it conflicted with one's own desires so significantly?
The marquess bowed and left her to the food, prompting her mother and father to step under the tent and approach.
"It is far better than we could ever have hoped, Cecilia," said her mother with a contented smile. She sighed slightly as she watched the marquess greeting other guests. "Lord Retsford! Of all people. And singling you out as he did."
"Yes," said her father, patting her shoulder, "you have done very well indeed, my dear."
Cecilia could only smile back. She had no one but herself to blame for the position she was in. The greatest irony of all was that her parents likely would have been content with a French Vicomte had she not persuaded them that she could aim as high as she pleased.
What had she done?
* * *
It was with unwonted joy that Cecilia greeted her sister Isabel upon her unexpected arrival in London the following day. Isabel and Charles had decided to break their journey in London after spending some time up north, and Cecilia felt an enormous sense of relief upon being informed of their presence.
Isabel had blinked in surprise at being greeted with such warmth and wrapped in such a hearty embrace by Cecilia. They had never been terribly close as sisters, but Cecilia's feelings toward Isabel had undergone a dramatic shift since last seeing her. She felt like a much-needed ally now.
Cecilia insisted upon helping Isabel get settled in, mentioning that she had a few dresses which she thought Isabel's darker complexion would do more justice to than had her own fair one. Isabel smiled confusedly and agreed to the plan, planting a kiss upon her husband's cheek and promising she would be down for dinner.
When Anaïs appeared at the door to Isabel's room, Cecilia thanked but dismissed her. "We will call for you when it is time to dress for dinner, but I should like to help Izzy with her belongings today."
Isabel had laughed softly upon overhearing this exchange. "What has come over you, Cecy?" she asked as she took out a dress from one of her valises.