by Louise Clark
Tonight, at the Duchesse d'Arden's ball, the assembled guests would be mostly émigrés, and Stephanie had no doubt that the fashions paraded there would be more striking, the champagne just a little crisper, the laughter and talk a trifle more brilliant, than at a party where the English predominated. The knowledge gave her no pleasure, however, for beneath the sparkling surface lay only an insubstantial longing for a return to the old ways. Few of her countrymen who had fled France would do more than plot counterrevolution from afar to ensure the future they desired. Most would simply complain, growing bitter while they waited for someone else to take the necessary steps.
An unwelcome guilt tightened her mouth into a straight, unhappy line as she contemplated these vaguely disloyal thoughts. She blamed her hardening attitude on the Earl of Wroxton and their disquieting conversations since his arrival from the country. He was a different sort of person from those she was used to. He did not bother to brag about his abilities; they were there and that was enough. He expressed radical opinions, but with the cool logic of a man whose emotions were not involved. Yet, at other times, he would plead his case with an intensity that indicated a passionate belief in what he was saying. Always, his utterances would draw Stephanie into a determined defense, creating a lively discussion that, inevitably, made her stop and think. Stephanie had fallen victim to this particular trait often enough to have noticed the pattern, but she was not yet able to read beneath it. This enigmatic characteristic fascinated her and made the Earl far more interesting than the superficial countrymen she met at parties such as the one being given by the Duchess d'Arden.
With the Earl dominating her thoughts, Stephanie was uneasily aware that she was in danger of losing the fragile links that still bound her to her homeland. Before his arrival she had clung to her memories of France, especially her short, but intense period at court, and had consciously decided to seek a marriage partner amongst the émigré nobility in London. The decision seemed to fulfill the promise she had made to her father when he sent her away, six months previously.
She thought back to the day he had taken her aside and told her he had made arrangements for her to leave France. Details of that day were burned on her memory. The weather had been fine, mild for October, coaxing them out of the musty halls of the chateau to walk along the manicured paths of the Tuileries Gardens. She remembered vividly the fading flowers on rosebushes that needed pruning, the crispness to the air that penetrated her fine muslin gown. Even the pattern of the cloth—tiny blue forget-me-nots—lingered in her mind's eye. She had thrown a short, sky blue silk escharpe-cloak over her shoulders for warmth, but the garment was little more than a broad scarf with a high collar and long front ends—fashionable, rather than serviceable. As she walked beside her father, she had envied the warmth provided by the close-fitting coat and single-breasted waistcoat he was wearing. Fashion was unkind to women, she had thought with vague resentment, little realizing that in a matter of days she would find out for herself how it felt to be dressed in a man's costume. As they traversed the groomed paths, her father had told her that she was to go to England to live with her godmother, Madeleine, Countess of Wroxton.
He had kept his voice low, speaking only when he was sure they could not be overheard by someone lurking behind one of the thick hedges. The precautions were more than the insubstantial fears of a worried man. Gossip was a way of life at the Court of King Louis the Sixteenth, and the courtiers were not above turning on one of their own in their endless attempt to secure the favor of the King. The Marquis de Mont Royale, known to be one of the liberal nobility, was a lone voice of compromise around the King and therefore a prime target for those who wished to supplant him in the monarch's favor.
Stephanie knew that the precautions were necessary, but she could not contain her surprise at his announcement. "But Papa! My home is here in France. With you!"
"Stephanie, I do this for your own safety. It is not that I wish you far away in England."
"Papa, how can I be safer amongst strangers than at court? His Majesty is guarded at all times. If there is danger, we will be protected."
The Marquis's expression twisted in dry skepticism. Instantly, memories of the previous two years assaulted Stephanie. Her father had taken her from the convent in Paris where she was being educated when mob violence had erupted in the summer of 1789. Afraid that Paris had become too dangerous, he had brought her to the security of Versailles. There, he had reasoned, she would be safe.
Freed from the restraints of the convent, Stephanie found the initial weeks at court tremendously exciting. The gloss of kingly power was still gleaming on her new life when the mob brought its ferocity to Versailles in October of 1789, and forced the King to move his household to Paris.
Even two years later, Stephanie had shuddered at the memories of the multitude of wet, dirty women streaming through the chateau, screaming demands for the heads of the King's bodyguards. Made bold by the power of their numbers, they had touched everything with their grimy paws, taunted the courtiers in their velvets and satins, and terrorized the King and Queen. It had been Stephanie's first actual experience with the savagery of revolution and it had left its mark.
Dragged back to Paris in the wake of the triumphant mob, the King and court settled at the Tuileries palace, a little-used royal chateau unprepared to house several thousand people. Chaos had made their first nights there a horrid ordeal, but slowly the forms and rituals of court life had reasserted themselves and their days had returned to normal. The Queen's ladies simpered and giggled about handsome courtiers. Diplomatic levees were held; gossip was rife, and plotting to attain a position of power around the King was a way of life.
Being young and resilient, the terror of the October Days had gradually faded from Stephanie's mind. She adapted to her new home in Paris and accepted the structure of life at the Court of Louis the Sixteenth. Imperfect as they were, it seemed to Stephanie that the old ways would continue forever.
But forever had coalesced into this fine morning in October. It ended as the Marquis said, "Stephanie, there is no safety in France for people of our sort."
It was not in Stephanie's nature to submit tamely. Despite the deep love and respect she held for her father, she turned smoldering eyes on him. "How can you say that, Papa? Paris has been quiet for months. Even the King's flight to the border in June and his capture at Varennes did not cause a riot!"
Suddenly her father looked older, a man weighed down by fears of a future he could no longer control. "Child, it was his flight—and the foolish declaration he left behind him—that convinced me that this peace is a fragile thing, an intermission to allow all parties to pause and catch their breath before the next act begins." He shook his head. "Once, I thought the new Constitution would be enough to heal the wounds of the past two years, but now I see it is not. Few believe His Majesty will abide by the oath he made to uphold the new laws, and too many others see the revolution as a way to wealth and power. I love you dearly, Stephanie, and I am loath to part with your sweet presence, but I fear violence will become a way of life in the coming months. You must go to England, while there is still time."
Stephanie had discovered that she was trembling, but the cold came from inside her and was all the more cutting for it. "Then you must come as well! If there is danger—"
The Marquis drew himself up, still a handsome man despite his fifty and more years. His deep-set, wise brown eyes were set in a square face, with a sharp determined chin and a mouth that was straight and firm. He dressed with a richness that befitted his rank, and a reserve that spoke of his moderation. Beneath the sapphire blue silk of his coat, his shoulders straightened as he threw off the weight that had bowed them. "The men of our family have served the monarch for countless generations. I will not desert my duty, no matter what reservations I feel."
"Even if it means danger for you?" Stephanie demanded passionately.
He had smiled serenely. "Especially if it means danger, child. My honor
could not allow me to act otherwise."
"What of my duty?" Stephanie asked desperately. "Of my honor? How can I live with myself knowing I have deserted when you would not?"
He had taken her hand and held it gently, but securely, in his. "Your duty, daughter, is to find a fine gentleman in England, marry well, and bring up your children to have a knowledge of their past. You are the future of the de la Riviére family."
But even now, as Stephanie remembered that conversation, her heart rebelled. She did not question her father's definition of her duty to her name and her honor. The role of a woman was to marry, bring forth the next generation, and instil in the children the values of their parents. But Stephanie had too much of the de la Riviére stiff-necked pride running through her veins to submit tamely to the upheaval of the revolution. If her role was to marry, she would marry, yes, and well. But the man she chose must be French, one of the émigré nobility who would one day return to France triumphant.
Her mouth drooped, the patch emphasizing her despondent expression. The marriage she was planning would be cold and empty of emotion. Such marriages were common in her world, but her parents' marriage had been a love match, defying convention, and she had always assumed that she would make the same sort of union. An unbidden image of the handsome features of Nicholas Prescott, Earl of Wroxton, slipped into her thoughts. He had the keen-edged mind and clear vision that she so admired, making the other men she met pale by comparison, even amongst those French émigrés with whom she had convinced herself she must seek an alliance. Moreover, she knew he was a man that her father would respect. Indeed, the Marquis felt confident enough in the Earl's capabilities to entrust his daughter into the man's care.
But Nicholas was a confusing, complex man. He claimed to prefer the life of a country gentleman, but he appeared to enjoy the fashionable round of parties that made up the London social season. When she was alone with him, he never hesitated to voice his political opinions, yet at parties she had heard him drawl with lazy boredom that politics put him to sleep. Truly, the man was an enigma.
Marriage to the Earl of Wroxton would never be a passionless match, her heart whispered. Do not sacrifice all in the pursuit of duty.
She uttered a little irritated sound in her throat, surprising her maid as she flounced away. "En bien, enough!" she said, more to herself than to the servant.
She drew a deep breath. "I am ready. I am a de la Riviére. I will do what I must."
The maid curtsied. "Of course, Mademoiselle."
Stephanie swept from the room, magnificent in her desperation.
* * *
The elegant ballroom was rather devoid of company, for the last bite of winter had made the evening more suited to remaining indoors beside a warm fire than venturing forth to dance at a Duchesse's ball. Perhaps too, there was a certain reluctance on the part of many members of English society to become involved in the plots and counterplots that made up a daily portion of the émigrés' lot. Only those a little more reckless than the rest were enjoying the Duchesse's fine champagne as they listened to the melodic playing of her excellent orchestra.
Leaning against a pillar decorated with baskets of cascading flowers that must have cost the earth to acquire at this time of year, Nicholas watched the assembly with seemingly detached boredom that covered his very real interest in the proceedings. The crowd shifted with the movement of the dance, and he picked out the slim form of the Vicomte de St. Luc, dressed, as he often was, in the garish splendor of a striped coat and contrasting breeches. This time, the two-inch-wide stripes were a bright leaf-green, his waistcoat a sunny yellow, while his breeches were a plain white. His silk stockings, however, matched the coat and were striped green and white. As the man moved through the steps with the grace of a superb dancer, Nicholas felt his jaw clench with dislike. St. Luc might look and act like a complete popinjay, but beneath the facade was a dangerous scavenger. He would do well to remember that. Deliberately, he relaxed the tense muscles that might betray his true purpose. It would not do to allow St. Luc to know that his security was as transitory as the pose he played.
Still, Nicholas was shaken by the force of the dislike he felt for the man. He turned his eyes away and his wandering gaze caught sight of Stephanie de la Riviére. Looking exquisite in a gown of azure silk, she was dancing with his cousin, Tony Baxter. They made a handsome couple, Nicholas thought idly. Tony had a fine figure and dressed with a certain flair that most Englishmen lacked. Unlike the Vicomte, he was able to carry off the fashionable crimson-and-white striped frock coat, with its high stand-fall collar, a double-breasted waistcoat, and tight, long breeches tied below the knee with crimson rosettes that matched the stripes in his coat. Lace frothed richly at his wrists and throat, and dangling from a black ribbon around his neck was a dandy's quizzing glass. He had disdained to powder his hair, and it gleamed guinea gold in the candlelight. Head and shoulders taller than Stephanie, he made her look tiny and fragile.
Unable to help himself, Nicholas grinned. Fragile she might appear, but Mademoiselle de la Riviére was not fragile. As the movements of the dance brought the young couple together, Stephanie smiled up into her partner's eyes, but Nicholas could detect nothing more in her expression than the pleasure any woman feels in the company of a good looking male. This was good, because Tony, though he had the promise of developing into a fine man, was too young to be able to handle the turbulent, stubborn Mademoiselle de la Riviére.
The Duchesse d'Arden, circulating amongst her guests, paused beside Nicholas to ask him, in French, how he was enjoying the evening. As he straightened politely, he smiled and shook his head to indicate he did not understand, though he spoke French with the ease of a native. The Duchesse laughed and rapped him on the forearm with her fan.
"Monsieur, you should be ashamed!" she said in attractively accented English. "French is the language of love. Every man should know at least a few words."
"A few words, Madame, I know. But I am loath to admit that you did not include one of them in your fascinating statement."
The Duchesse laughed again. "Naughty, Monsieur!" Her twinkling eyes wandered to the dancing couple Nicholas had been watching before her arrival. Breezily, she suggested, "You must request that your ward teach you the language, Monsieur. I am sure she would be charmed." Her tinkling laughter floated behind her as she moved on to the next guest.
Nicholas grimaced. He hated innuendo, and he found that he liked it even less when Stephanie de la Riviére was the focus of it. The music glided to a stop, bringing his attention back to the dance floor. Stephanie was curtsying to Tony Baxter. He made an elegant leg, then, about to lead her from the floor, he was intercepted by the Vicomte de St. Luc, claiming Stephanie for the next dance. Nicholas's eyes narrowed. He did not like the idea of St. Luc anywhere near Stephanie de la Riviére.
As the orchestra began to play again, Tony looked around in a jaded way, caught sight of his cousin and ambled toward him, deliberately casual. Nicholas paid no attention. His gaze was fixed on Stephanie as she danced with St. Luc. A muscle leapt in his cheek as the Frenchman smiled with oily confidence into Stephanie's upturned face. Damn the man, if he tried...
"Wroxton! Well met."
Reluctantly, Nicholas wrenched his gaze from the couple on the dance floor and turned to his cousin. "Good evening, Tony." Amusement crept into his eyes as he took in the full glory of his cousin's sumptuous clothes. "What a fine figure you cut, Tony. Have you aims of outdoing these French fribbles?"
Tony grinned, not at all put out by the Earl's mockery. "Dash it, Nick, I couldn't let these damned foreigners outshine every Englishman here tonight." He deliberately swept a glance down the Earl's tall form, clad in a coat of rich royal blue velvet, a white waistcoat laced with silver, and black breeches.
"Somber opulence often makes a more telling statement than a garish collection of colors," Nicholas said severely, though he smiled as he spoke. "How have you been, Tony?"
A grimace twisted Baxte
r's too-sensitive mouth. "Bored. Damnably bored."
The remark made Nicholas remember his conversation with his sister, Honoria. As usual, she was right. What Tony Baxter needed was some sort of occupation. "So I gathered when I heard of some of your more freakish pranks."
Tony was young enough to be pleased by his notoriety. "Which ones?"
Nicholas cast him a long look, then returned his attention for a moment to the dancing. St. Luc was still smiling and Stephanie's expression said she did not mind at all. Nicholas resisted the urge to swear as he turned back to his cousin. Raising one black brow he drawled, "Riding a horse backward down the Mall. Arranging a race between crickets, on which a dozen of your mad cronies wagered sums in excess of twenty thousand pounds. I don't mention the incident at the bear-baiting, or the one at the cockfight where you apparently decided to start a brawl."
"Has my father been complaining again?" Tony asked, his attempt at cynical nonchalance belied by the shake of anger in his voice.
"No," Nicholas said carefully. "I have other sources—outside the family—you young hothead!" He studied his suddenly irate cousin. Tony Baxter was everything a fashionable man should be, from his fine clothes to his handsome visage. Unfortunately, he possessed too much restless energy and quick intelligence to find the fashionable life adequate.
Tony gazed unseeing at the dance floor for a moment. When he spoke again, he had retreated behind his jaded facade once more. "You're a dashed bad influence, do you know, cousin?"
"Obviously someone has been holding me up as a pattern card of excellence. Who?"
"M'mother. She keeps saying I should take an interest in the estates." Tony snorted. "As if my esteemed Papa would allow me to fiddle with his management!"
Shrugging off the momentary petulance, he raised the long-handled eyeglass that dangled from a ribbon circling his snowy white neckcloth. "A fine looking woman, Mademoiselle de la Riviére. Is it true her father made her your ward?"