Silver Enchantress

by Patricia Rice

  She touched the shimmering silk with admiration, wanting desperately to wear it so Drake would be proud of her. Perhaps he had bought it for her, meaning it as a surprise. But she knew the sorry state of their finances and could not imagine anyone letting him have it on credit. His uncle possibly. She wished Drake were here. Would he disapprove if she wore a gown he had not provided?

  Shrugging, Eileen allowed the maid to dress her. However it had come there, the gown fit perfectly, and she felt better in wearing it. She did not wish to shame Drake with her dowdiness. She prayed he understood. Men were so odd about these things.

  She should not have worried. When she entered the downstairs hall, Drake scarcely gave her attire a second look. Deep in discussion with one of his uncle’s men, he gave Eileen a perfunctory kiss and wished her good day before disappearing into the mysterious depths of the book-lined study. She could have thrown something at him.

  Instead she accepted the arm of a gallant courtier and, with nose in air, proceeded to take the air in the glorious gardens of Versailles.

  Chapter 16

  July, 1746, Versailles

  The heat of a July day had already built to stifling in her upper story room. Lying in bed, Eileen fought a wave of nausea as she sat up too swiftly at the maid’s rap. Automatically she reached for the pillow beside her—to find it empty, again.

  Her head hurt and her stomach felt as if last night’s scallops had risen from the grave to dance through her innards. She should never have indulged in all that wine, but while Drake spent his time at the gaming table, she could find little other entertainment.

  Groaning permission for the maid to enter, Eileen dragged herself upright. She should not complain of Drake’s occupation with the gaming tables; it was their sole source of income over and above his uncle’s generosity. But she could not live like this much longer. She had no place here, and neither did Drake.

  It had all been a mistake; she could see that now. While the maid brushed and untangled her long tresses, Eileen stared out the window to the emerald lawns of the palace in the distance, trying to clear her head to think. In these last months, Drake had grown so occupied with his legal entanglements and political maneuvering, he had become a stranger to her, except in bed. Now even that was coming to an end. Her complaint of illness earlier this week had prompted him to return to his own chambers so she might rest. He had not returned to her bed since then.

  Sighing, Eileen stood to allow the corset to be strapped around her, holding her breath so the maid could cinch it to the proper size for her new bodice. She did not know where these new gowns came from and feared to ask. Drake surely could not have the coins for the exquisite silks and laces that kept appearing from time to time in her chambers. But whoever sent them would soon have to allow for more width in the seams.

  Gazing down at the results of the maid’s tight lacing, Eileen finally had to acknowledge what she had tried not to think about these last weeks. Her breasts had always been full and high, but the valley between them now had grown narrower and deeper until the filmy bodice barely covered them with any decency. They ached, and she certainly could not blame Drake for that after these last nights alone. The nausea had little to do with a surfeit of wine and much to do with her own ignorance. She had known there were ways to prevent what had happened, but she had not known the details. Nor was there anyone here she could ask. By the time Drake had thought to take precautions, it had obviously been too late.

  The gold silk floated around her, pulled out in a train of pleats at the back, fitting snugly in a deep V in front, her modesty maintained by a stomacher of fine lace. Staring at herself in the gilt-framed mirror, Eileen wondered if the change was noticeable to anyone but herself. The maid had dressed her hair in a simple coronet at the back of her head and adorned it with a frilly cap of lace and matching ribbon, and she appeared as much a lady as the aristocrats below, but she knew she had no claim to such title. Without even the dubious claim to her rightful name here, she was merely the mistress of an exiled English marquess. Without Drake she had not even that position. She had no identity here beyond his. She understood enough of the French court to know without Drake’s protection she was fair game to idle courtiers. The time had come to make some decision.

  With determined tread she headed down marble stairs and gilded halls to the heat of a July afternoon. The house of Drake’s uncle had just begun to stir and no one interfered with her path. She had deliberately chosen to make these hours her own, and she would make the most of them.

  Drake had kept her supplied with pencils and papers and what colors he could find. She could thank him for that much courtesy. She had probably much to thank him for, and only herself to blame for following him here. He had told her not to come. He had known she did not belong here, and he had been right. She had no place among these strutting peacocks, no common interests to share with them. She had only Drake and her painting.

  She had to admit that the lawns and fountains of Versailles made magnificent new subjects for her brushes, but their perpetual perfection had already begun to pall. Seeing the treasures hidden away in obscure corners of the palace had been a breathtaking experience, but she had never been allowed the pleasure of exploring the halls alone. Someday she would like to sneak past the guards and prowl those magnificent rooms without the distraction of a thousand laughing, gossiping people around her.

  But that time would never come. Setting up her easel with purposeful finality, Eileen faced the triumphant fountain of Apollo for what she hoped would be the last time. Tonight she would speak with Drake, and in the morning she would be gone.

  She treasured no romantic notions that he would beg her to stay. Regaining his lands had become an obsession, and she could not blame him for that in the least. What word they had received from Diane had not been reassuring, and the fate of Sherburne’s tenants lay as delicately in balance as Diane’s own. The court had allowed Diane to remain in possession of the Hall and had not given Edmund possession of the title—yet. That would come when Drake was tried and found guilty in absentia. His barristers had postponed the trial these past weeks and more, but surely their excuses must be wearing thin. And still no one had come forward to state Drake’s innocence. No witnesses could be found, no evidence given.

  Eileen had no heart for Apollo rising from the waters. Instead of sunshine and sparkling waters, her fingers ached to paint darkness and shadows. Nothing had turned out as she had thought. She would have been satisfied to live in a cottage and paint leaves for a living, but Drake would never be happy with so simple a role. All his life he had yearned to take on the responsibility of the Sherburne estates, to carry out those practices he and his father had argued over for so many years. Then just when he had thought to see his dreams come to fruition, they had been torn from his grasp. He was a man who would fight to the death for what was his, and not measure his losses.

  A shadow covered her canvas, and with annoyance Eileen glanced up to the intruder. The Comte d’Avignon stood admiring her handiwork, though she suspected his gaze had only just discovered the subject of her painting. It fell more frequently on her person, and she had devoted much time to discouraging these attentions. She not only found him physically repugnant but intellectually and morally lacking. She was no saint, but the rumors of his debaucheries left Eileen with the desire to cleanse herself whenever she left his presence.

  “You are quite talented, mademoiselle. I would like to display some of your efforts at my home in Paris. I am known to a number of artists there who would be interested in seeing your work.”

  He spoke English with only a slight accent, but Eileen responded in execrable French. “Thank you, monsieur, but I paint only for my own pleasure.”

  Her cold tones did little to discourage his confidence. “You are being modest. It does not become you. You are a beautiful woman with a marvelous talent. In Paris you could exploit your assets to the fullest and enjoy a life of ease and pleasure. Why hide yourse
lf behind modesty?”

  “Sir, I resent your intrusion. Please leave me.” Eileen refused to so much as look at his sagging, wig-framed face. He was a large man, not corpulent but physically imposing. She suspected corsets kept the rest of him from sagging as his jowls did. She wished him to hell for disturbing these few moments of privacy.

  A cold hand came to rest on her nape and played with a wisp of hair that had escaped its pins. “You are not stupid, I think, ma cherie. Your amour has grown restless and will soon seek greener pastures. I can be of great assistance to you in keeping him or revenging him, as you please.”

  Cold horror stole along Eileen’s spine, and she rose hastily, packing up her paints. “Au contraire, monsieur, I can take care of such things without your help.”

  Before the comte could object, a cold voice of steel cut through the argument.

  “I believe the lady has asked you to leave, Francois. I’d suggest you listen to her in the future.”

  Eileen swung around. Drake stood with hand on hilt of his sword, his cheek taut with anger as he glared at the older man. Without their usual laughter, his eyes looked bleak and cold, and he appeared perfectly capable of severing the comte’s offending hand. Avignon had a reputation with a sword, but not the hasty anger of a younger man. He nodded arrogantly.

  “We are discussing art, Sherburne. I suspect your appreciation is a shallow one. Good day.” He strode off, swinging his gold-handled cane, the gold braid of his tailored coat glittering in the sun.

  “The old roué,” Drake muttered, releasing his sword. “You should not encourage that bastard, Eileen.”

  “Encourage!” Eileen swung on this hard-faced stranger with the ferocity of anger and disgust. “The next time I shall take a knife to his corset strings and see if that encourages him! You are a fine one to talk, my lord. You leave me alone to the company of the likes of that one while you dally with the king’s mistress, and you tell me not to encourage the bastard! Go to hell, Drake Neville!”

  Irrationally leaving her easel but grabbing her bag of paints, Eileen stalked off, ignoring Drake’s shout behind her.

  Drake glared after her departing figure, refusing to chase after her. He knew full well she could take care of herself, but the sight of Avignon’s hands on her had raised his unreasoning anger, one that haunted his nights and swallowed his days. He had to get Eileen out of here before he killed someone.

  With more than enough time to think on it, Drake knew what he must do, but persuading the willful brat would not come easily. And he had certainly not stepped out on the right foot this morning. Her temper had grown shorter than his lately, making it nigh impossible to carry on a rational conversation. But he would have to tell her soon.

  Watching Eileen’s golden skirts disappear from view, Drake felt the ache of loneliness. The little enchantress had wormed her way into every fiber of his being. Without her he would be an empty shell. To give her up would be akin to carving out his heart, but it had to be done. Neither of them could go on like this. It was only a matter of time before his temper would outrace his reason, and he would kill one of those fawning bastards hanging around Eileen like cats around cream. He had not the time nor the patience to protect her, and, in any case, he could not remain here. He could not take her with him where he was going, either. There was only one place he felt safe in leaving her. She would hate him for it, but there was no other choice. The letter had already been sent.

  Eileen had sent her own letters long ago and sorely regretted her hastiness now. When it had just been herself to protect, it had seemed the most expedient solution. Now she had this tiny seed growing within her, and the complications were overwhelming. Perhaps her letter had never arrived. She had heard no reply nor seen any results. It would be just as well if it had never been sent.

  Flinging her bag to the floor of her chamber, she stared at the small writing desk in the corner. Threatening Lord de Lacy had not been an intelligent thing to do at all, but she had been desperate at the time. She did not know for certain if de Lacy could force Edmund to admit Drake’s innocence, but she strongly suspected de Lacy could do almost anything given enough reason. Threatening to expose her uncle as a murderer and rapist seemed sufficient reason.

  But it had been a stupid, stupid thing to do. She had burned all her bridges behind her. She could never return to Summer Hall now. He would be waiting for her. She had worked too hard to keep the Summervilles out of this to bring ruin upon them now. De Lacy would not find her in Versailles, but she could not stay here any longer. She had to consider what was in the best interests of the child. Drake’s child.

  Eileen sat down abruptly on the bed, still shaking with the wonder of it. She had vaguely known what came of lying with a man, but she had given little thought to the consequences. The idea of having a child had always interested her, but the reality added new dimensions. She wished to know more, but she could talk to no one here if she would keep Drake from knowing. That she had resolved to do already. He had too many burdens to carry still another.

  She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Things had been so much easier when she had only herself to consider. She disliked hurting her aunt and uncle, but Drake would probably be relieved to see her go. Perhaps she could find some way to write the Summervilles after the child was born. They would worry, elsewise.

  Thinking these thoughts, Eileen drifted off to sleep.

  Drake found her there a while later. He relaxed as he gazed down into the innocence of her sleeping features. He missed waking beside her, turning to find her copper hair spread across the pillows, her soft breath stirring the hairs along his arm as he reached for her. She always came willingly, even from the depths of sleep, but he dared not try that now.

  Gently sitting on the bed’s edge, Drake bent to loosen her gown and corset so she might sleep easier. These late nights must have been taking their toll for her to sleep during the day. Or perhaps, like himself, she slept poorly alone. It would not do to linger on that thought.

  Eileen stirred as the corset came undone, but she did not wake. It would be so easy to remove her bodice and wake her to his needs, but Drake kept stern control over these urges. He had spent weeks worrying when she showed no sign of her monthly flux. He had tried to protect her from that fate, but no method was flawless. So he’d been relieved when she had declared herself “ill.” Now that he knew her to be safe from the final humiliation, he must send her away. He had no other choice.

  Rising from the bed, Drake kept his fists clenched to his side. Someday he would make his cousin pay for this. But before that day came, he must clear his own slate.

  Eileen stood beneath the magnificent ceiling painting in the Salon of Hercules and did her best not to crane her neck and gape in awe. As magnificent as Louis’s court might be, she could not appreciate it while balancing a glass of champagne in one hand and fending off amorous suitors with another. If somehow she could rid the palace of these multitudes, she might have time to admire the impressive artwork on the walls and ceilings. Drake had assured her that the works of Veronese in this room were masterpieces of Venetian art, but she could come no closer to the one over the fireplace. A group of bewigged men arguing over whether Charles Stuart had escaped or would return to Paris stood on the hearth. The painting on the opposite wall was hidden behind the elaborate and outdated headdress of a marquise. Sighing, Eileen wandered into the banqueting room.

  She had not seen Drake since he had escorted her here earlier in the evening. Except for the opportunity to explore the artwork, she would have preferred to be left behind. What purpose had she at a court reception if he did not need her by his side?

  Remembering her state of undress when she had woke from her nap, Eileen hid her reddened cheeks by studying a sculpture on a table. Surely only Drake would have dared to unlace her like that, but why had he stopped there? Had she become so little to him that she presented no further temptation? Could what she had mistaken for love die so easily?


  It would not do to dwell on it. She must be grateful she had retained her independence. These poor women who could not exist without a man at their sides must lead hellish lives. With a cynical glance to the king’s latest mistress, Jeanne Poisson—now the Marquise de Pompadour—Eileen moved on. The woman had done everything but throw herself at the king’s feet just to claim the position of mistress. Perhaps Louis really did love her, but Eileen doubted such an emotion touched the heart of that calculating lady. It would be wise to stay in La Pompadour’s good graces.

  For herself, she preferred the freedom of the countryside. It would not be easy, but she need only depend on herself once she was in the forest. The surge of loneliness that thought engendered prompted Eileen to face the crowd once more.

  She regretted the move instantly. The Comte d’Avignon bore down on her, accompanied by a middle-aged man in a long, flowing wig and an air of distraction. Drake did not know what he did when he left her alone like this. She had learned to fend for herself at an early age, perhaps, but not in the polite parlors of society. She had no sophisticated escape from lecherous aristocrats. She wished for the jeweled girdles of medieval times so she might keep her dagger at her side. This revealing gown of bronze silk and lace concealed no hiding place.

  “Ah, my pet, I have someone here you might wish to meet. Monsieur Boucher, Mademoiselle de Lacy, the young artist of whom I have spoken.”

  “Ah, oui, mademoiselle.” Monsieur Boucher bent over her hand, but his mind evidently strayed elsewhere. Eileen watched as his gaze searched among the crowds around her.

  “You know of Boucher, of course, do you not?” the comte demanded. “His work is well-known in Paris, and he once taught Madame Pompadour. The king may commission him for her portrait.”