“All right then. What is it you want? As long as it doesn’t involve marriage, I am at your service.” A wry smile touched his mouth.
“I would have you take that terrible sword away from here. On your next pirate voyage, you must throw it in the sea, so that we are all safe from its curse!”
Chapter 2
London, England
As Zoya boldly drew aside the heavy drapes, sunlight poured through the windows and illuminated the lavish bedchamber. “My lady, the day advances! You must curb your fondness for sleep in favor of more disciplined habits.”
“Mmph,” came a muffled protest from the tester bed as Antonia Varyshkova lifted her head and blinked against the bright light. “You, of all people, should not scold me, Zoya.”
“If not I, then who? I have devoted myself to you from the moment of your birth—as your wet-nurse, nanny, and now as your lady’s maid.” The older woman continued to frown, but her tone had already softened. “Who else in this city of foreigners cares enough to tell you the truth?”
Antonia turned her face against the silken pillow, wishing that she could remain in the protected cocoon of her afternoon nap. She had been dreaming that she was a little girl, long before the shocking death of her father in a duel. Sunlight bathed the garden of her family’s palace home on the banks of the Fontanka River, in the heart of St. Petersburg. Her mother, Baroness Galina Varyshkova, poured tea for her father from a magical-looking samovar of Tombak bronze. Antonia had been laughing, throwing a stick for their little dog, Gleb, while her older brother Mikhail played blind man’s bluff with a group of cousins.
“I want to go back to sleep,” she murmured now, “where there is no death or sadness.”
“Listen to me. You are young and beautiful,” Zoya said, smoothing chestnut curls back from her brow. “All your life you had a vibrant, joyful spirit. Perhaps you have suffered pain, too much pain for one so young, but you cannot continue to hide.”
A fierce, familiar wave of grief broke over Antonia. She wished that the face of her beloved nurse had not become a heartrending reminder of the tragedy that had taken her beloved mother from her world.
So great was Zoya’s devotion, she had risked her own life to save Antonia the night a fire had broken out in the baroness’s dressing room. No sooner had the array of priceless gowns burst into flame than the fire was dancing madly from room to room. Antonia had awakened to terrifying smoke and heat, but then Zoya was looming over her, sternly determined.
“Get up!” she had ordered. “Hurry!”
As the big woman half-carried her to safety, Antonia had been horrified to notice flames licking up the back of the cape Zoya had thrown on over her bedgown. Amid a chorus of screams from every corner of the palace, Antonia choked on the smoke, gasping for breath until tiny broken stars danced before her eyes.
When she regained consciousness, Antonia found herself outside in the snow, wrapped in a rough woolen blanket.
Zoya had been there beside her, loyal as ever, but holding scoops of snow against her own face, which was partially shielded behind the charred remnants of her cape. Antonia was too traumatized to wonder what it meant. Only later, after learning of the death of her own mother, did Antonia see that Zoya had been badly burned. The fire had climbed up her cape during their flight from the manor house and the lower half of her face was now a patchwork of red scars.
“Don’t think back,” Zoya said now, gently. “I have a splendid gown laid out for tonight. Cloth of silver and priceless Mechlin lace! Have you forgotten that you are to attend a rout at Rayne Hall in the Strand? It is the home of the wealthy ship owner, Sir Humphrey Rayne!”
Antonia frowned. “I still don’t know why I have been invited.”
“Of course you do. Captain Ormond, whose ship will take us across the sea to your brother in the Virginia colonies, sent a note requesting that you accompany him. The captain is very handsome and I like his strength,” Zoya said firmly. “He has promised to look after you not only at the ball tonight, but until you have been safely delivered to your brother.”
Antonia heard the false gaiety in Zoya’s voice, but she knew she should not protest. What good would it do to say that she had no interest in balls, in handsome men, or even in a promising new life? She was only traveling to Virginia because her brother, Mikhail, was the last person surviving in her immediate family and her Uncle Leonid had hired Captain Ormond to take her to him. But she could not say any of this to Zoya. It would only worry her more and she had been through enough in recent months.
“Of course you are right, dear Zoya.” She sat up on the edge of the bed, smiling sleepily in the sunshine. “The prospect of the rout is very exciting and I know that you’ll make me beautiful.”
* * *
“Softly, boy,” cautioned Jean-Philippe Beauvisage as he led young Pierre DuBois up Rayne Hall’s circular marble staircase, winding through the scented crush of guests. “Try to control that insolent monkey.”
“I still do not understand why we are here,” protested the cabin boy. “When I agreed to leave France and serve you on board Pursuit, I thought you intended for me to see to your possessions and comfort on board ship. I did not understand that you meant for me to accompany you on every scandalous adventure, to dress up as a page and carry an ill-behaved monkey, to—”
“Discretion, if you please,” Beauvisage interrupted. “Just because you are the son of our château’s revered stable master, and you have been dogging my footsteps since you first learned to walk, you do not have leave to speak to me impertinently in our new situation. I am your captain now, and you are my lowly cabin boy…”
Pierre’s face washed red. “No! In my heart, it can never be thus,” he cried. “I must look after you and, perhaps more to the point, be your voice of reason.”
“Kindly remember that I am in charge,” Beauvisage insisted, though he knew full well the youth would not obey him. “You are here tonight because I do not have a proper manservant. It’s far more diverting than sitting about on board ship, throwing dice with the unwashed crew, don’t you agree?” Arching a dark brow, he glanced back to see the cabin boy roll his eyes. He found it rather difficult himself not to laugh at the sight of Pierre wearing a suit of gold silk, a tightly curled white wig, with a blue-jacketed monkey teetering on one narrow shoulder. “And, your appearance helps to reinforce my evening’s persona. No one must suspect that I am a…”
“Pirate?”
“Pirate is far too strong a word,” he protested. “I prefer ‘sea rogue’. It has just the right jaunty ring to it.”
“Oui, m’sieur, as you say.” The youth paused, as if attempting to suppress a smile. “However, if we are to sail with the morning tide, there is a great deal to be done.”
“We won’t linger here.” Beauvisage flashed a grin. “However, when I heard of this rout, I could not resist the opportunity to have a look at cousin Humphrey. He turned up at my parents’ wedding like an evil fairy, bearing a gift with a curse to my unsuspecting mother.”
Pierre reached out to touch the ancient hilt that was nearly lost amid the folds of his master’s wide-skirted coat. “But, do you mean this sword? It’s cursed?”
“Probably not, but he certainly thought so.” Jean-Philippe glanced around the cavernous, gilded reception room as he spoke. “Sir Humphrey meant to put a spell on Maman, I’ll wager, just because of some familial jealousy. The British are like that, you know, always secretly feeling inferior to the French.”
Pierre blinked at this piece of information, but before he could reply, Beauvisage continued, “Ah, I think I have sighted our prey in that alcove, taking refreshments.”
They had only gone a few steps when, passing a huge mirror, Jean-Philippe glimpsed his own reflection and nearly gave a shout of laughter. No, there could be no danger that cousin Humphrey or anyone else would mistake him for a pirate this evening! He was instead the image of a Macaroni, a tulip of fashion newly arrived from the Continent. The effete s
tranger who looked back at him from the mirror wore a tall powdered wig, a dangling sapphire earring, tiny black patches on his whitened face, a coat of salmon-pink silk, excessive amounts of lace, and high, red heels on his buckled brocade shoes. The stage was set.
“Ah!” he cried as they approached the alcove. “Could this be my cousin, our host? Sir Humphrey, I bring you felicitations from my chere maman, Danielle, Marquesse de St. Briac.”
Sir Humphrey Rayne held a glass of claret in one be-ringed hand. Jean-Philippe quickly scanned his appearance to sort out the key elements: corpulence, dissipation, shrewdness, and even vanity. Clad in purple silk, Sir Humphrey reclined in a padded chair, his gouty left foot elevated, his enormous stomach encased in a brocade waistcoat. A gilded, Chinese-red sedan chair, complete with two liveried chairmen, waited nearby at its owner’s pleasure.
“Indeed?” Sir Humphrey murmured with a sniff. “And who might you be?”
“Jean-Philippe Beauvisage, at your service, Cousin.” He swept forward in an elaborate bow. When Sir Humphrey squinted back at him, Beauvisage realized that the man’s eyebrows had been shaved, and crescents of furry mouse pelt had been glued on in their place.
“Is that your monkey?”
“Indeed. I never go abroad without Roland, but I prefer that he travel with my page…to protect my exquisite coats from his antics, don’t you know?” No sooner had he gestured for Pierre to bring the recalcitrant monkey forward for a better view than the little fellow leaped into the air and landed hard on Humphrey’s elevated leg.
Their host let out a furious yowl of pain and one of his mouse-skin eyebrows flew off. “Are you trying to kill me? Get that rodent off me, this instant!”
Pierre scrambled forward to retrieve Roland, scolding him under his breath and Jean-Philippe bit back a smile. “My ardent apologies, sir! Shall I challenge the naughty monkey to a duel?” He brought the gladius out of its scabbard and brandished it in the candlelight.
“Don’t be a fool—” came Sir Humphrey’s incensed reply, but he broke off suddenly, reddened jowls trembling as he gaped at the ancient Roman sword poised just inches from his face. After gasping for breath for long moment, he hissed, “Where the devil did you get that sword?”
“What—this old relic? Do you not recognize it?” Beauvisage struck an attitude and schooled his painted mouth to form a perfect O. “La, sir, it’s a family heirloom! I thought you might enjoy the sight of it, but perhaps I was mistaken.”
Just as Humphrey opened his mouth to speak, a tall gentleman with a prominent, deeply cleft chin, emerged from the crowd. The newcomer held the arm of the most enchanting woman Jean-Philippe had ever seen. For a moment, he was struck dumb, but then Pierre poked him in the back.
“Greetings, Sir Humphrey!” the tall man shouted over the din. “I believe this may be the finest rout you have given this year!”
“Ah, thank you, Ormond,” Sir Humphrey blustered. “Good of you to come. You do mean to introduce your lovely companion, do you not?”
“But of course! I have the honor of presenting Miss Antonia Varyshkova.” Ormond brought her forward and she curtseyed to her host, her wide, silvery gown billowing out. “Daughter of the late Baron and Baroness Varyshkov, of St. Petersburg. Baron Alexandre Varyshkov lost his life a decade ago in a notorious duel over a gambling debt and you may have heard of the fire that more recently took her mother as well as the family palace.”
Watching the scene unfold, Beauvisage was caught off-guard by a torrent of unfamiliar feelings. He knew an urge to kneel before this princess who wore her gleaming chestnut curls in a simple, lightly powdered style that heightened the piquant, luminous beauty of her face. Surely, no woman’s eyes had ever been greener, so thick-lashed, tilting slightly upward at the corners and filled with palpable sadness.
At that crucial moment, Pierre’s knuckles jammed into Beauvisage’s back again, bringing him back to reality. What the devil had come over him? Had he lost his mind? Perhaps the bloody gladius was under a spell after all.
As introductions continued, Sir Humphrey was forced to mutter, “This, it seems, is my French cousin, Jean-Philippe Beauvisage. His mother belongs to the French branch of the Rayne family.” Glancing up, he continued, “Beauvisage, you have the honor of meeting Captain Tobias Ormond, who owns and commands Conquerer. It is the only ship that can compete with mine, but Ormond refuses to let me buy it. I have lost too many profitable accounts to him. If you have any dreams of sailing a vessel of your own, you could learn a great deal from this man.”
With an effort, Jean-Philippe suppressed an urge to lift his ridiculous cousin out of the chair, bandaged foot and all, and toss him out the window. Instead, he pasted on the most supercilious smile he could manage. “Faith, how fortunate I am to meet such a hero as you, Captain Arland!”
“Ormond,” the tall man corrected instantly.
Beauvisage ignored him. “And I am even more privileged to know my lady Antonia.” Wishing that he weren’t costumed as a fool, he stepped forward, lifted her slim hand, and dared to press his mouth to it in a lingering kiss. Raising his eyes just long enough to burn her own, he noted with satisfaction how quickly she glanced down. Her lashes fluttered once, tellingly.
Again came that surge of raw emotion. As a man who had prided himself on keeping his frequent dalliances with women as uncomplicated as they were passionate, this feeling should have caused him to turn and seek the nearest exit. And yet…
“Monsieur,” Ormond exclaimed scornfully, breaking the spell. “Is that your sword? It looks like something one might stumble over in a Roman ruin!”
“Indeed, it could be,” replied Jean-Philippe, recovering his composure. Glancing down, he realized that he still held the gladius in his left hand. “It is a family piece, centuries old, and I was just about to return it to the care of my good cousin, Sir Humphrey. They say that he who is fortunate enough to possess this gladius will discover a priceless treasure.”
They were all watching intently as he presented the sword to the startled Sir Humphrey, who had no choice but to paste on a smile and feign gracious acceptance.
“A priceless treasure, you say?” No longer scornful, Ormond leaned closer and stared at the ancient weapon. “What sort of treasure have you found, then?”
“I won’t bore you with a list, but be assured that my family owns vast estates in France, crowned by a château worthy of a fairy-tale.” With an effort of will, Jean-Philippe feigned the drowsy expression of a fop and flicked open his jeweled snuffbox. It was hell, playing the fool in front of Antonia Varyshkova, especially when he suspected that Ormond was pursuing her himself. Fortunately, it seemed that the strapping captain had now been effectively distracted by the gladius. “Perhaps Sir Humphrey will allow you to have a closer look, Captain?”
“Indeed, I would be honored,” replied Ormond excitedly. “Such a relic must truly be a treasure beyond price!”
Sir Humphrey appeared relieved to have someone else hold the sword and soon the two men were deep in conversation.
Seizing the moment, Jean-Philippe approached Antonia, who was watching with what appeared to be a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “might I escort you to the anteroom where refreshments are served? You look a trifle pale and I feel certain that some food and wine will restore your spirits.”
When Antonia met his gaze, he again saw the sadness in her eyes. “Would that food or wine could perform that miracle, m’sieur,” she replied in perfect French. “However, I am a trifle hungry and would be grateful to take refreshment.”
Beauvisage was elated to lead her away. At the doorway, he glanced back through the glittering crowd to see that his scheming cousin now appeared to be arguing with Ormond, and neither noticed that Jean-Philippe and the Russian maiden had left them.
* * *
Antonia was feeling too light-headed to protest when the outrageously costumed popinjay called Jean-Philippe Beauvisage took her away, promis
ing food. In a nearby gilded anteroom, he brought her a plate and a goblet of claret. Hungrily, she devoured a piece of prune and tamarind tart then drank the wine.
“My thanks, m’sieur. I seems I was in need of food.”
“I’m glad you are feeling better. Your head has cleared?”
“Somewhat,” she allowed. The Frenchman was watching her with an expression of concern. Antonia could not explain that, since the horrific night of the fire, a protective cloak of fog had surrounded her, preventing her from thinking or feeling anything clearly. Instead, she responded with a polite smile.
“I prescribe a further cure of fresh air,” he declared. “You must come with me onto the terrace. The view of the gardens by moonlight should fully restore your spirits.” When she hesitated, Beauvisage tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “You are quite safe in my company, mademoiselle.”
Antonia surveyed him from his high, red heels to his dangling sapphire earring and towering powdered wig. “Oh, I am not worried! Besides, I come from Russia, where I believe women may have more freedom than anywhere else in Europe.”
“Ah yes, I had nearly forgotten Peter the Great’s edicts which brought Russian women out of the shadows,” he replied, nodding. “I visited St. Petersburg some years ago, with my family, and we were all surprised to find the women at Court even more outspoken and independent than those in Paris.”
Antonia felt the burn of tears as she thought of her mother, who had liked to scold her fondly for her impetuous nature. Her pet name for her had always been Myshka, which meant “little mouse”, but as Antonia had grown into womanhood, Mama had declared, laughing, that she was nothing like a mouse.
“Yes,” she whispered now. “I should not be underestimated.”
“I would be a fool to underestimate you, mademoiselle,” Beauvisage said in a low, compelling voice. “The sadness in your eyes may have momentarily hidden your strength.”
“Perhaps we should go back. I am feeling much better.”
Heart of Fragile Stars Page 2