“Yes, Monsieur, we look forward to calling upon Madame.”
Kenrick darted forward so quickly they braced themselves for an attack even as he put out his hand.
As Émile and Kenrick savagely wrung each other’s hand, Lord Ynyr supposed his rakish cousin already schemed to cuckold Kenrick. He wondered if one day a primarily male substance in the human body would be identified as the cause of brawls, philandering and wars – though also, possibly, of energetic ambition. He was glad that, if it did exist, he seemed not to have an excess supply of it himself, being generally able to control his aggression.
But then he remembered how on his last trip up to Town, he had overheard the drawling Lord Dale repeat the rumour: ‘That Scoundrel Émile Dubois and his Insolent Valet are Highwaymen, as Sure as Fire.’ Lord Ynyr had demanded he either retract or named his friends.* Fortunately, a granite eyed retired Colonel had smoothed things over.
Now, as they came out through the side door, Lord Ynyr and Émile smiled at each other, stretching in relief in the open air.
As they walked towards the stables, Émile laughed. “The man is a clearly deranged in some ways, Ynyr, though sane enough in others. I am not surprised this mathematician avoids working with him. A nasty piece of work, bien sûr. It was all I could do to keep my hands off him.”
“I did notice, Cousin.”
The dismal groom appeared. Émile dug in his pockets. “Here, boy. Nobody beats you, I trust? Ynyr, there are often posts open at Plas Uchaf for grooms.”
“We cannot denude Kenrick of his staff quite, Émile.”
“Pourquoi pas? It is no more than he deserves.”
Chapter Six
Émile was helping Lord Ynyr in his laboratory. He handed the Count a bowlful of garlic he had crushed and lounged over to the row of windows to gaze down at the view. A bitter wind was driving flurries of sleet across the foothills.
“You know, Ynyr, Kenrick has some singular party tricks. When his fishy eyes met mine in his nice friendly house, Devil take me if I didn’t feel I must pull mine away or be the worse for it. That is the first time I have had a nervous fancy. Morwenna’s tales must be getting to me, eh?”
Lord Ynyr looked up from beating powders with a pestle. “Me too, Cousin. It was bizarre indeed, and no doubt something Kenrick has come upon through his grotesque investigations. What with his wild talk about dabbling in magic and the dismal atmosphere in the house, I will defer making another call there long.”
Émile smiled round at him. “That is leaving aside the absence of a fire.” Sleet pattered against the windows, and he stared out again for some moments before saying musingly, “Yet he has set me thinking.”
“How so, Émile?”
The Count expected a joke, but Émile, his back still turned, spoke with unusual seriousness. “Time being one of the greatest mysteries, I am not surprised Kenrick is become obsessed by the notion of access to the past, though I am sure his claim to have it already is bravado.”
The Count sighed. “I have been wondering since if that obsession, which by his own account is leading him into dangerous folly, isn’t connected with the loss of his wife? Perhaps he wishes at least to set eyes on her again, even if he cannot communicate with her –” he broke off in dismay.
He hadn’t yet felt able to raise the subject of Émile’s own losses; what he had just said came close to infringing on that.
The eyes Émile turned on him were unreadable save for quickened awareness. “Then, Ynyr, it was poor taste on my part to jeer Kenrick about his bizarre ideas, however much I dislike him. I knew he lost his wife some years back, but didn’t realise he still so mourned her, particularly as he’s remarried this beauty. There is something about him makes it hard to credit him with such human feelings –” He broke off suddenly himself, gazing fixedly down at the gardens below.
Lord Ynyr saw Miss Sophie, muffled in the fur-lined cloak ordered for her by the Dowager Countess, but recognisable by the blonde hair escaping from the hood, hurrying along the path to the hothouses, carrying a small basket.
“Ah, Miss Sophie.” Lord Ynyr was aware how his cousin, who allowed his social inferiors familiarities, treated the pretty Miss Sophie with reserve. No doubt Émile, knowing his own rakish tendencies, was ensuring he wasn’t tempted into familiarity with his aunt’s innocent dependant. That was typical of Émile; he was so much better than people generally thought him.
“She so charming a girl;” the Count said, “I confess I have to keep a hold on myself at times.”
Émile’s shoulders tightened, yet his tone was casual. “How so, Ynyr?”
“I own if her worldly position was nearer to ours, I might be tempted to think in terms of making her an offer.”
Émile didn’t turn round. He spoke after a few moments: “But as she is your mother’s companion, Ynyr?”
Lord Ynyr sighed. “I know it must be out of the question.”
The Count was surprised to hear Émile sigh too. They watched the flurries of sleet for some moments in silence. Then Émile turned about abruptly. “Now, Ynyr, what next with these herbs?”
The group at Plas Uchaf went to several Christmas festivities over the next few days.
Sophie went on taking great care over her clothes and appearance, whether they were out or at home. She even let Agnes tint her eyelashes darker and was delighted with the result.
She hoped she wasn’t motivated in her wish to look at her best through some previously unsuspected streak of cruelty, for when she entered a room and Monsieur’s eyes widened even as he tried to appear unaffected, she felt a tingle of delight even as she dropped her gaze.
During the outings, Monsieur avoided talking to Sophie as he did at Plas Uchaf. With other girls he was more forthcoming. Sophie told herself if she felt put out when Monsieur Émile smiled on a young lady while she kept her eyes on him as though trying to mesmerise him, it was because the girl played the coquette clumsily. Sophie prided herself on her own discreet flirting.
No, I am jealous, and must take care. It’s demeaning and in view of his mad proposal, sadly ironic.
Monsieur Émile wasn’t expected to take much note of his poor relation, and his coolness towards Sophie puzzled nobody.
Often, though, Sophie felt his resentful gaze upon her, noting her actions, no doubt thinking hateful thoughts. It made her nervous; sometimes she broke off in a conversation or stammered.
Monsieur watched her particularly when she was speaking to Lord Ynyr. Fate seemed to arrange things so that whenever the Count smiled at her warmly, or she laughed in a way that seemed encouraging, Monsieur Émile would glance across at them. No doubt, his belief she was ‘after the title’ was confirmed again and again, when within a couple of days of meeting with Monsieur it somehow seemed far less of a prize to her.
Sophie knew he had been as good as his word, saying nothing to Lord Ynyr about her supposed appearance in Paris. She liked him for it: despite his coldness towards her, she found herself liking him generally, if only for his liveliness and sense of fun.
Monsieur Émile flirted with Miss Morwenna, of course; she matched him in spirits. Sophie watched in turn as they joked together. She wondered if Monsieur was thinking of Miss Morwenna as a future wife. As Lord Ynyr’s cousin with a small fortune in her own right, she was infinitely more eligible than Sophie. Of course, anyone in society was more eligible than Sophie.
Sophie told herself in Harriet’s voice her bereft feeling was ridiculous. After all, someone attractive enough to take her mind off this oddity in whom she had come to feel a possessive interest could well come along soon.
Young Mr Lewis did just that, his pimples flaming with passion. “M– Miss Sophie, are you going to play? C–capital, nobody sings like you.”
When Sophie was called on to sing to the company, Monsieur Émile generally rose to pace about.
He did so now.
Her Ladyship snapped, “Do sit down, Émile! You have just caused me to make a mistake in my embroid
ery!”
He bowed solemnly. “I beg pardon, Madame. That will never do.”
Sophie, playing the interlude of the song, only just stopped herself from giggling outright.
Sophie felt like sending him a note (if only it was acceptable to correspond with a man).
‘Dear Monsieur Dubois or Gilles Long Legs (whichever you are at the moment)
I am sorry I have bruised your feelings and your pride. It was unintentional. You have beaten me down so I am ready to agree there must be something in your belief we met in Paris, if you will only renew your proposals, because I have been taken with you these twelve years and more.
Your Poor Relative
Sophie de Courcy.’
Sophie sang in the music room with only her kitten for an audience, playing the lament from Handel’s opera ‘Rinaldo, ‘Lascia ch’io pianga’’* (‘Let Me Weep my Unhappy Fate’). Sleet whirled outside, melting the snow in the winter bleak fields on the foothills while the wind buffeted the bare trees.
The kitten gambolled on the rug in front of the blazing fire. The Dowager Countess had given him, born in the autumn to the kitchen cat, to Sophie, who adored him. He was black and white, with a white tip to his tail as though dipped in a paint pot. She often took him with her to the music room.
She felt she needed practice. Lately, Miss Morwenna had taken over Sophie’s music lessons. Sophie realised Her Ladyship’s companion was lucky to have music lessons at all; still, it was disappointing.
The door opened. Monsieur Émile stood there. She paused.
She had longed him to come and renew their talk, horrible as it was. Now he was here she wished he would go away. Still, she was glad she was wearing her new peach coloured day gown which suited her well.
He signalled to her to go on singing, and so she went on to the end. Meanwhile he gave the kitten a smile and paced over to the window to stand staring out across the fields, arms folded across his chest. Of course his presence made her as nervous as on that first evening. Somehow, as then, she managed to sing her song better than she had yet. Certainly, a song about mourning an unhappy fate was appropriate.
At the end he turned to applaud. “Miss Sophie, your voice could melt anyone’s heart. How is that for a cliché?” He looked singularly bitter.
“Thank you, Sir.” She waited nervously.
He came and leaned on the instrument. “I have come further to demean myself. You should find that droll, Mademoiselle Sophie. I cannot put you out of my mind. I do love you; I cannot pretend otherwise. You may congratulate yourself, when I have known women enough and none of them have had such an effect upon me since I was a boy.”
Sophie glowed with pleasure and trembled with apprehension. “No, Sir, please believe you do me an injustice.”
“Do I?” He breathed rapidly.
She jumped up. “You do indeed do me great injustice, Sir. I am sure that you are telling the truth. You are convinced I lie.”
Only ladylike inhibitions prevented her from saying, ‘I wish I could say I remembered. I would love to have shared a kiss with you. I wish we could begin all over again. I don’t want you to forget about me with help from Éloise, either.’
“Please, Mademoiselle Sophie, do not keep on with this pretence! Only tell me you are alarmed by my villainous self, and I will court you more slowly, trying to reassure you that you have nothing to fear, though I am by nature impatient. But we must be honest with each other; I detest hypocrisy. Tell me, ma petite, what you were doing in such an area of Paris? I have wondered so long?”
She looked down at the floor, feeling her face red. A romantic novelist would write how she was ‘as red as any rose’. She thought probably she looked as florid as a cook on Christmas Day. “Monsieur Émile, I would be happy indeed for you to pay court to me. I do not like hypocrisy either, and when you say you love me, I think I could easily return those feelings –” Sophie broke off, as unable to carry on as any of the heroines whose burbling modesty she had scorned as the candle guttered by her bed at Chester.
He was by her instantly, cupping her face in his hands. “Ah, my lovely girl, I knew I could not be so far mistaken about you! I was obliged to live on my wits too long not to be able to judge people quickly. So you give up this pretence?”
She sighed; his caress was delightful. The criminal history of which he had spoken – his being possibly somewhat mad – none of that seemed to matter when he touched her. She looked down at her shoes again. “Monsieur Émile, I am not pretending. This is so dreadful! What did happen? It must have been someone else.”
His eyes hardened while he dropped his hands as though the skin of her face burnt them. “Then you cannot give me an explanation and I have been a fool.”
“I am telling the truth merely, Monsieur Émile…Oh!”
He looked at her almost pityingly. “As you cannot explain how you came to be in Revolutionary Paris, Mademoiselle Sophie, I must come to a clichéd conclusion about your past adventures. You played the ingénue well to take in a cynic such as myself. Alors, I repeat you need have no fear I will tell Madame la Comtesse. Thank you for not enlightening her about my own discreditable past.” He brooded for a few moments, looking at her speculatively.
She stared back at him, resentful under his gaze. Finally he made a dismissive shaking movement and pinched her cheek as though he had a right to touch her. “Now, Sophie, can we understand each other? You know how things are with me. Be kind enough to put me out of my misery. May I be ungallant enough to suggest we discuss the terms of the future relations to which I hope you will agree, before your charms drive me insane quite, and I am led off to Bedlam burbling of them?”
“I don’t understand you, Sir.” This wasn’t supposed to happen to nicely brought up young ladies.
“You have the voice of an angel, which must suffice. Gilles Long Legs has effrontery indeed to reproach you over moral issues, après tout. You must forgive my ungallant abuse; every dissolute scoundrel, ma chére, cherishes the hope of some innocent girl coming to rescue him from himself. Disillusionment is bitter.”
Sophie knew that she should scream or faint. Instead she felt like bandying angry words with him. In a trice he had demoted her from being worthy of being his wife – despite her déclassé status as his aunt’s companion – into being only good enough to be his mistress. She was so disappointed she felt like bursting into tears. Before she gave in to these tears, however, she was going to give him the tongue lashing he deserved.
“You insult me, Monsieur Émile! You insist I was in Paris while I maintain I was not. From this you assume I must have been there due to some disreputable connection and you reason that accordingly, I am unworthy of an honest proposal. How can you speak to your Aunt’s dependant so? You should be ashamed to stoop to such ungentlemanly behaviour, even were my past such as you appear to imagine.
‘I can make no comment upon how true your recollections concerning your own disreputable past may be; you are however, mistaken about mine. You speak of hypocrisy, Monsieur Émile! Were I what you no doubt term a ‘fallen women’ then I would be no worse than a male rake, however much the world may choose to apply one standard to women whilst winking at immorality in men.” She stopped through lack of breath.
During her outburst, his expression changed to one of astonishment. He drew back as if stung, blinking. Evidently, no other women had told him such home truths before. In her passion of disappointment, Sophie was glad to have been the first.
He laughed. “Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle Sophie, you are an actress indeed! Rubbish, my girl. It doesn’t do, ma chére, to pretend to me. You are even more adorable when you are angry. We will get on perfectly, if you give up these insane pretences. Tell me what terms you wish, for at the risk of sounding like a stage rake, I must have you. Should you like to live in Dubois Court in Buckinghamshire? I will make over to you an independent income; if my treatment of you ever drops below the standard which you no doubt require, then you may turn your back upon me be
times.”
She winced, too furious to reply. He infuriated her further by running his eyes hungrily over her, much as the Reverend Smythe Jones had gloated over his chops. “Come now, Sophie. Shall I give you a kiss so we can become reacquainted, and to remind you how you do not find me repulsive?”
Her insides quivered. As she paused, lips apart, he began to kiss her at once.
For a moment she responded, overcome with warm pleasure. Coming to herself, she pulled away, trying to recover the situation. He tried to pull her back but she slapped angrily at his hand. He let go and stood breathing heavily and staring at her. He evidently didn’t go in for the use of force, which was the only good thing she could think of to say about him at the moment.
“I don’t accept your terms, Monsieur Émile. It seems to me you should tread the boards also, as a caddish seducer. How many maids have you ruined?”
The moment she spoke, she bitterly regretted the taunt to her old hero. He answered calmly. “None. I have never been the first with any girl.”
“You insist I am an adventuress? My family will confirm I was in England at the time you say we met, having never been abroad in my life.”
He pinched her cheek again, looking pitying. “Ma petite! What else could they say, wishing you to remain in the confidence of Madame la Comtesse? Look…” He reached in his pocket and handed her a necklace.
She was speechless. It was identical to the one which had gone missing from her locked jewellery box some time last May. Unaccountably, a chill of fear ran through her.
Finally, she stammered, “But – how came you by this?”
“You know you gave it me, Sophie.”
“That is impossible – Oh!” She threw her hands up in despair, and made for the door. He bounded across and caught her hands, necklace and all.
That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 9