Le Chevalier

by Mary Jean Adams

  The arrogance of the man! Alex fixed the marquis with a chilling glare, her heart beating double-time. “I have not been with any man, Monsieur Lafayette, and I certainly do not intend to start with a Frenchman.” Her breath came in short puffs between open lips.

  “My apologies, chérie,” Marie interjected, patting the clenched fist Alex had braced against one knee. “My nephew has overstepped his bounds, and I am afraid I let him do so at your expense. He seems to think he is irresistible to all women, and I simply wanted him to see it is not so.”

  It certainly was not so, Alex agreed in silence as she watched a slow smile cross the marquis’s face.

  She squeezed her friend’s hand, granting forgiveness while at the same time her anger at the marquis refused to abate. Heat smoldered in the pit of her stomach.

  “Why are you here anyway?” A dull ache formed at the base of her skull, promising a full-blown headache if she let the marquis and her temper get the best of her.

  “To escort my aunt and her new friend home,” the marquis answered.

  “No, no, no.” Alex shook her head and waved a hand about her. “I mean why are you here in America? The French come here expecting to become generals and to show us poor savages how to fight. I can assure you, we can win this war without your assistance.”

  Marie grasped her hand. Alex glanced at her, expecting to see a look of remonstration on her face. Instead, Marie eyed her nephew with a smile of smug satisfaction even while squeezing Alex’s hand.

  “I assure you, Mademoiselle, I am here to learn.” The marquis’s voice held no merriment this time, and she detected a hint of earnestness in his dark eyes as the light from a tavern flitted across his face as they passed.

  Alex narrowed her eyes at him in the darkness. He had sounded sincere, but how could she tell?

  Besides, America had seen more than her fair share of mercenaries and fortune hunters since the war began. Dutch, Spanish, and even French—they all looked to make money, one way or another, off the plight of her country.

  “And to make a fortune, I suppose,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud.

  “I already have a fortune. Why would I want another?” he said, with a shrug suggesting the matter of money held little consequence.

  He did not smile, but with the marquis looking her full in the face, she could see the twinkle in his eyes. In an instant, he changed from haughty aristocrat to something she couldn’t define. He was much more…more… The only word she could supply was likable.

  Or perhaps he had no sense of humor at all, and only the passing lights of the taverns and inns made his eyes sparkle.

  “For a marquis, is one fortune ever enough?” Alex muttered, low enough that she hoped the marquis might not hear.

  Despite her best efforts to fight them back, tendrils of pain made their way to her forehead. The skin on her chest had been rubbed raw by the dried wine, and she was eager to be home so she could peel her chemise from her body and wash the sticky substance from her chest. She would also try to repair the dress she had purchased especially because the color matched the Lancasters’ wallpaper.

  “What will you do if they don’t offer you a regiment to command?” she asked, trying to take her mind off her discomfort.

  “Pay for one myself, I suppose,” the marquis responded, with an airy wave of his lace-covered wrist.

  “Oh,” Alex replied, not knowing what else to say. It had never occurred to her one man might have enough money to outfit and pay his own regiment.

  Moreover, he was not an American. Why would he risk his fortune and his life for a cause not his own? Had she, perhaps, encountered a nobleman who deserved to be called noble?

  It would bear some thinking, but in the end, perhaps it didn’t matter. This chance encounter with the inscrutable marquis would likely be her last.

  Alex studied the strong profile of her new friend, Marie, silhouetted against the passing lanterns. The brief flashes of light illuminated her amused face as she regarded her nephew, seated opposite them.

  Alex’s tension melted away. She had at least one person on her side.

  With so little free time on her hands, Alex had never had many friends. Most of those she called friends were patrons of her tavern or friends of her brother’s, and therefore, mostly men. She couldn’t really call them friends. She most certainly couldn’t talk to them about the kinds of things women would normally share with their closest confidants.

  A female friend would be such a delicious novelty. She gave Marie’s arm a quick squeeze, and Marie treated her with a warm smile in return. Was it too much to hope that this well-born, elegant Frenchwoman could remain friends with a lowly tavern owner?

  Alex chuckled to herself at the absurdity of it, and Marie cocked a questioning brow.

  The carriage grew dark again as they passed through the remaining taverns and entered the residential district. Alex grasped a hanging leather strap just as, with a bone-jarring jolt, the carriage hit a hole in the unpaved streets caused by the recent rains. Marie, having her attention on Alex, caught her action and did the same in time to save herself from being thrown to the floor of the carriage.

  Alex grinned in the darkness as the marquis picked himself up from the floor of the carriage and resettled on the velvet cushions, chuckling as he did so. Perhaps she had misjudged him after all.

  She peered through the window at the identical brick Georgian townhouses lining Baker Street. “This is it. I’m just the third townhouse in.”

  The marquis rapped on the roof again with his cane, and the carriage bumped to a halt, coming to rest in a rut at the edge of the street.

  “May I see you to your door, Mademoiselle?” Marie and the marquis asked together.

  Marie coughed. “I mean, may my nephew see you to your door, chérie?”

  “No, thank you. I will be fine.”

  The marquis opened the carriage door and stepped down, jumping with surprising agility over a muddy puddle, before lowering the steps and then reaching a hand up to help Alex alight.

  She accepted his hand, with as much grace as she could muster. Holding her skirts back, she picked her way down the steps in the darkness lest she pitch forward and knock the poor man down into the very puddle he had just avoided.

  She turned and waved to Marie before climbing the steps to her door. As she retrieved her key from her reticule, she could sense the marquis’s eyes on her. She turned around to confirm her suspicions.

  The marquis stood, just as she had left him, at the foot of the carriage steps. Still seated, Marie leaned forward and peered through the carriage door. Alex could just make out the double set of furrowed brows in the dim moonlight.

  She grinned as she let herself in. It was quite probable that neither of them had ever been in a neighborhood like hers.

  ****

  “Do you think she is safe?” the marquis asked, as the door shut behind Alexandra.

  “Not living here,” Mont Trignon grumbled. He massaged his aching throat with his hand. It was dry and scratchy after an evening of attempting to sound like a woman.

  “No one met her at the door. No manservant, no brother, no father…no one. Do you think she lives by herself?” the marquis asked.

  He didn’t seem to expect an answer, for he kept his eyes on the faded front door with the peeling paint of an indescribable color through which Alexandra had just disappeared.

  Mont Trignon said nothing, but his concern for Alexandra’s well-being overshadowed his own discomfort. Had he known where she resided, had he suspected she lived alone, he might have suggested another destination.

  Impossible! That would mean he would have to continue to play the role of “Marie.” For how long would he be willing to keep that up, even for his young friend? How long could he keep that up around her before he gave himself away by sweeping her into his arms and tasting those soft lips that had so enticed him even as she scolded Lafayette?

  In the end, the marquis and Mont Trignon st
ayed just as they were, waiting for a sign that Alexandra was safe in her own home. After a few minutes, the light from a single candle flickered through the lace curtains. They watched it disappear and then reappear in an upper floor window.

  Mont Trignon leaned back against the soft cushions, blowing out a long-held breath.

  The marquis climbed in and sat across from his friend. “Well, mon ami, when you pick a challenge, you pick a challenge,” he said, a dimple showing in his cheek.

  He rapped on the roof with his cane, and the carriage groaned as the horses pulled it out of the muddy rut.

  Mont Trignon returned his grin. “I came to America to start a new chapter in my life.”

  They both grabbed the hanging leather straps when the carriage passed the gaping hole that had caught the marquis unawares the first time.

  The carriage jolted and the marquis laughed, holding the strap with both hands. “I have the feeling you may be starting a whole new book.”

  A stay dug into Mont Trignon’s hipbone, reminding him of his appearance. “Just get me back to my rooms, so I can burn this gown.”

  “I think perhaps you should keep it.” The marquis eyed Mont Trignon’s dress with thoughtful eyes. “You never know when your ability to impersonate a woman might come in handy.”

  Mont Trignon scowled as the carriage moved from the soft slushy sounds of Alexandra’s unpaved street to the rattling cobblestones marking their turn into a more affluent neighborhood.

  Mont Trignon watched the darkened houses and closed shops as they passed. He would unravel the secrets of Mademoiselle Turner, but next time he would meet her as his true self.

  As he considered his options, the shops and houses gave way to well-kept townhomes and then to lofty mansions.

  He would find a way to see her again. His training had prepared him to wheedle his way into the inner circle of princes, diplomats, and even the occasional king. What was one common American woman compared to that?

  But when he did meet her again, it would be as a man should meet a woman. Only then could he truly discover her secrets—all her secrets.

  Chapter Four

  Drawing a mug of ale from the tap behind the bar, Alex kept a watchful eye on the three men at the table. Two of the men she knew well—if you could call them men. Chronologically, the Bandy brothers were eighteen, but if you went by their level of maturity, they were still boys—albeit large boys.

  The other man was a stranger.

  Taller than either Josh or Beau Bandy, each of the boys looked to outweigh him by at least fifty pounds. Yet Alex wouldn’t have described the stranger as scrawny. Just before he took a seat with the boys at the table, she noted the way he filled out his blue coat and taupe breeches.

  Alex clucked her tongue as the foamy liquid climbed higher in the mug. A man’s physique wasn’t something that normally caught her attention, but the contrast between his stylish attire and the local crowd’s work clothes made him appear like a prince among paupers. Under his royal blue wool coat, he wore a crème-colored waistcoat of silk and buff breaches. His shoes even boasted silver buckles when most of her customers were lucky to have laces in theirs.

  More than the cut of his clothes made him unique, however. Broad of shoulder and chest with narrow hips and long lean legs, he evoked the Adonis Alex had imagined when her father first told her the story of the Greek youth forced to split his time between two goddesses vying for his affections.

  She handed the foamy mug to her barmaid, Molly, and pointed to the customer at the end of the bar who had ordered it. Then she set to cleaning more mugs, wiping them out with a soapy rag and grinning to herself as she recalled the fullness of the tragedy that had befallen the young Adonis. If she remembered correctly, he had met his end after being gored by a wild boar-a fitting finale for a man who played with the affections of more than one woman even if they were goddesses.

  Her gaze wandered back to the table as she worked, and she watched the stranger stretch one long, muscled leg in front of him, taking a disproportionate share of space and marking his position of dominance at the table of men. Like a pair of awe-struck boys, the Bandy brothers leaned forward, arms crossed in identical fashion in front of them and their big feet hooked around the legs of their chairs, as they hung on his every word.

  “Oy, Alex! Could’ja bring us a round?” a man with grizzled hair and bushy eyebrows called, as he and a group of regular customers seated themselves around one of the few open tables in Turner’s Tavern.

  Alex nodded, wiped her damp hands on a towel and grabbed a handful of the mugs she had just finished washing. Her nose filled with the fresh, yeasty smell of ale mingled with the sharp metallic scent of pewter as she poured. As she savored the aromas she had always associated with her father, a couple of local women wandered in from the street. Taking no more than a few steps inside the taproom, they surveyed the gathering crowd, sizing up likely candidates for a bit of fun.

  Staunching the flow of ale with an expert flick of her wrist, Alex frowned as the gaze of one of the two local wenches settled on the tall man in elegant attire. A satisfied grin curled her lips, and she jabbed her friend in the ribs with a meaty elbow. When the skinny girl gave her a blank look, she rolled her eyes, hooked an arm through hers and dragged her over to the table.

  Filling another mug, Alex watched the women sidle up to the stranger with nary a glance at the Bandys. She shook her head as he gave them a polite smile and said something Alex couldn’t hear over the suppertime din, but which made the two women beam.

  The women, to the best of her knowledge, hadn’t gone into what Alex thought of as “the profession.” They might be loose with their favors, but as long as they didn’t start soliciting her guests, it remained none of her business. Not like the Bandys would have the money anyway, but she would have to keep an eye on this new customer of hers. If he attracted the wrong sort, she would have him out on his ear. There could be no doubt about that!

  Alex hefted the mugs, several in each hand, and picked her way between tables careful not to slosh the foamy ale onto the guests sitting back to back in the rough-hewn chairs scattered throughout the cozy room. More than once, she thanked the stars she still had the thinness of youth as she squeezed her way between chair backs, lifting herself on her toes so her backside brushed over the top.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Josh Bandy signal to her with a wave of his hand. She nodded an acknowledgement as she set the mugs down in front of the newcomers.

  “Thanks, Alex,” said, Frank Greenbaum, the candle maker. “We was gettin’ a mite parched.”

  The men with him nodded but said nothing as they buried their noses in the foamy head sloshing over the side of their mugs.

  Alex took no offense at the man’s gentle rebuke and smiled at the imprint around his head left over from the floppy leather hat he wore most of the time.

  Mr. Greenbaum had been a patron of the tavern since before Alex could remember, stopping by almost every night after he closed up shop. He had uttered the same words, Thanks, Alex, we was gettin’ a mite parched, for nigh on ten years now, no matter how long she took to bring him his ale.

  She gave him a polite curtsy as though he were the most honored of guests, something she had been doing for as long as she could remember, and grinned when the now aged man blushed with satisfaction.

  “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” she asked, looking around at his friends, many of whom she knew almost as well as Mr. Greenbaum.

  “Have Molly bring us a round of stew, when she has a moment,” said Mr. Isaiah Wellsman, the baker who had lost his wife to small pox at the same time the dreadful disease took her own parents.

  While he didn’t always drink with Mr. Greenbaum, he came in almost every night and ordered ale and a bowl of stew. Alex had the sneaking suspicion the poor man had never learned to cook, and if it weren’t for her stew, he would be thin as a rail.

  “I’ll have that brought out straight away,” she s
aid, giving him one of the smiles she reserved for her favorite patrons.

  As she left their table and weaved her way toward Josh, Beau, and the stranger, she waved with a circular motion to a woman so petite her fringed white cap barely cleared the top of the taps. Molly, nearly as familiar with the habits of long-time patrons as Alex, recognized the signal and retreated through hinged double doors into the kitchen to retrieve several steaming bowls of the stew for which Turner’s Tavern had grown famous.

  As Alex arrived at the Bandy’s table, wiping her hands on her apron, the strange man stood. She had to tilt her chin to look up at him, and it left her with the odd sensation that, although this was her establishment, the space that she now entered belonged to him. The force of his presence wrapped around her like a blanket until the noises and smoky atmosphere of the tavern faded.

  Alex shook her head at her own fanciful imagination and met his direct gaze with one of her own. Up close, she judged him nearly a foot taller than her own five feet and probably a head taller than either of the Bandys.

  He had tied his hair, a striking combination of gold and silver, in a simple tail with a leather thong, setting an odd contrast to the richness of his attire.

  His face reminded her as much of Adonis as the rest of him—high cheekbones, eyebrows that were not too thin nor too thick arched over wide set hazel eyes, a straight nose, and a symmetrical mouth set over a square jaw with a small, yet noticeable, cleft in his chin.

  He might have been made of marble had his perfect lips not been curving in a slow smile, giving Alex permission to take his full measure.

  Tearing her gaze with some effort from whatever charm spell he had used to turn her thoughts to mush, she turned to the two women.

  “Shoo, shoo!” She waved her hands at them as though they were errant puppies begging for scraps from the table.

  They had retreated a couple of steps, but she knew as soon as she returned to the taps, they would be back at the table. They glared at her before turning their attention to the newcomer.