Ianthe and the Fighting Foxes: The Fentons Book 4

by Alicia Cameron

  Fox stood and bowed at his guests but was unable to stop himself from going forward to shake Mr Steadman's hand. Steadman grinned, an expression that Fox, who had known him for years, had never seen. Mr Markham looked intrigued, but Fox, catching his eye, said, 'Steadman had a recent win.'

  'I see,' Markham said. He turned to the enthroned hostess and bowed formally before saying in his open manner, 'I hope your ladyship does not mind me bringing my friend Lonsdale, who is visiting me at the moment. Sir Anthony.' Markham made a gesture of introduction.

  Lady Fox was inclining her head regally in welcome, but Sir Anthony had discovered Ianthe. She was dressed today in white muslin, embroidered all over in yellow daisies. It was a modest dress, with long sleeves and a high neck of gauze, but the sleeves were caught in interesting tucks, bunched together with the same yellow ribbon that adorned her dark hair, the cuffs long and sheer with the edges embroidered stiffly so that they lay like a trumpet-shaped flower against her delicate hands. She looked fresh and lovely, Lonsdale thought. Her dress no doubt from Paris, her face must be from heaven. 'My word!' The foppish young man said.

  'Sir Anthony, Lady Fox!' Markham reminded him, and Lonsdale blushed and made his bow.

  'An honour to meet your ladyship,' he said tardily.

  Lady Fox shot him a withering look.

  Yet another of Ianthe's admirers, thought Lord Fox. She seemed to affect all men this way. Well, Steadman had resisted her — and Audley. He had always thought them sensible fellows. But now Jeffries, with his handsome face and dancing eyes, was sitting beside her, and Markham was at her other side, with Lonsdale making himself ridiculous by leaning across to join the conversation. Markham had the manners to cede his place and sit beside Sally, holding a good-natured conversation with her and making her laugh. He seemed to admire her, too. Perhaps he was another sensible one. Fox saw, though, Markham's eye rest on Ianthe's profile.

  From the point of view of those who did not know, it seemed that Mr Steadman might be entertaining the two Richards ladies equally, no doubt for politeness' sake. Sally was able to see the looks that Steadman exchanged with her mama, and one of them, when Mr Steadman affected to wave a fly from Lady Richard's face, made her red all over. This was, thought Sally with a laughing and wondrous heart, indeed a love match. Would she ever find anyone who looked at her in just that way? Some sad place in her heart doubted it, but she was not sure why. She did not remember feeling quite so sure that she would never find love before now. Outside of London it seemed unlikely, of course, that she might meet someone. However, there had been the optimism of youth to lift her spirits. Surely one day, coming out of an apothecary's shop (like her friend Mary), or falling from her horse (like Lady Davina Markle, who had married her physician) she would meet her destined one, she had believed. But now, this was an empty belief. Mr Markham called her attention and she smiled at him and admitted she had not heard. She found Fox's eye upon her, a concerned look on his face. She smiled at him brightly, but it did not seem to take, for his gaze remained full of sympathy. She looked away at Mr Markham.

  Jeffries, Lonsdale and Markham took their reluctant leave after suggesting a picnic on Friday if the day be fine. The Popper sisters declared their joy at being invited, and only Mr Markham had managed to cover his shock with a smile.

  'It is only your presence, Lady Richards,' said Mr Popper with heavy humour, 'that allows me to give my permission. I should not let my girls accompany such young bucks without chaperonage!'

  The young gentlemen looked imbued with shock and fear at the suggestion that the Popper sisters were eligible. Their ages excluded this, did it not? But as the men turned their heads as one to the sisters, they were met by the horrible spectacle of blushing, giggling females throwing out flirtatious glances under their batting eyelids. As one, Jeffries, Lonsdale and Markham gave a slight recoil. Ianthe shared a look with the startled Fox.

  As they all left the room, Lady Fox to seek her chamber, Ianthe said to the group in the Hall which comprised Studham's residents and Steadman, 'Shall I run after the Poppers’ carriage and say two o'clock for the picnic while you tell the gentlemen to come at one, Fox?'

  'Ianthe,' said Lady Richards, 'you wouldn't.'

  'I am not quite so cruel. But it is a pity.'

  'Yes, there is no denying they will put a damper on it.'

  Fox was looking strangely pleased. 'It will stop you two flirting at any rate,' he said severely to the younger ladies. 'I never saw such a display. No wonder my stepmother thinks you two fast.' He looked at Lady Richards. 'And as for you, Cousin Emma, I do not consider you a good example.'

  Steadman turned to his beloved at this ordering. 'Up with you now to change your boots! Hurry!'

  'Yes, Mr Steadman,' breathed Sally's mother, happily obedient, and Sally shook her head but followed her.

  'Sally and I should go with them and provide cover. Are you going to join us, my lord?'

  'No. I believe I have had all the company that I desire today.' He glanced at Ianthe and said off-handed, 'I didn't think much of that fellow Lonsdale's waistcoat. So many fobs and seals that he jangled.'

  'Oh, it’s the fashion you know,' said Ianthe airily. 'You must account him handsome, however.'

  'I have never been an admirer of black hair,' said Fox.

  'Well, what an unhandsome thing to say!' cried Ianthe, her fingers touching her own dark curls. 'Don't you think so, Mr Steadman?'

  Fox was blushing. 'I meant on a man—' he began.

  'I have to agree with you, Miss Eames,' said Steadman, ever serious. 'Most unhandsome.'

  With two bland sets of eyes upon him, Fox looked from one to the other. 'Devil take both of you,' he said, and marched to his study.

  Ianthe turned to Mr Steadman. 'It is really too easy.'

  'Fox's temper is ever a tinder box.'

  'Yes, but he considers himself passionless. It is most diverting.' She smiled again, but more intimately. 'May I just say congratulations, Mr Steadman, on gaining the prettiest and most warm-hearted lady in England.'

  'I have never considered myself a fortunate man,' said Mr Steadman looking down on her, 'until that dinner at Audley.'

  'So quickly?' blinked Ianthe.

  He smiled, turning as he heard the Richards ladies come down the stairs.

  Sally linked her arm through Ianthe's. 'We are to get lost in the shrubbery while they discuss the wedding.'

  'Let me just put on my boots,' said Ianthe. 'Go ahead to the South Walk,' she said louder, for the sake of the servants, 'I shall catch up with you there.'

  She came back down the stairs having added bonnet, half jean boots and spencer to her ensemble, as it was a fine day.

  She put her head around the study door and said, 'I am going now. Are you sure you do not wish for the exercise?'

  Fox looked up, still moody. 'No thank you,' he said shortly.

  It was a decision he was to rue.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Dangerous Frenchman

  The Comte d'Emillion-Orsay had been silent and still long enough. His meetings with Ianthe had not gone as smoothly as he would have liked, but she had never, even in her extreme youth, been easy.

  She had been a lovely child that it had been his amusement to flatter and tease. He had witnessed her first conscious blushes, her blossoming into womanhood. It had been a fascinating display. Their paths crossed, but infrequently. Sometimes it was months until he saw Joseph's family again, once a full year. Each time he blinked when he saw Ianthe. The changes wrought on her were, every time, more lovely. Though an innocent, she became a knowing one. He still remembered how womanly she had looked when she was but fifteen, turning his compliment back with that rebuke 'Tell it to la duchesse.' He had been shocked and thrilled at once. He had just then decided to possess her.

  But for all Joseph and Cherie ran an unusual household, they nevertheless paid all attention to les convenances where their girl was concerned. It was impossible to be alone with Ianthe. He ha
d been extremely discreet in his affairs in the years after Ianthe's rebuke. She would brook no romance if she heard of another woman, he had known it. But the comte's life was as complicated as Joseph's. He did not often adopt other names, his particular serviceability to the royalist cause was to remain in positions of interest where he might be party to useful information. These snippets he could pass perhaps to Joseph or others of his ilk. Sometimes, though, he found himself seeking out the Eames household (though it never bore that name) wherever they were, for no good business reasons. Joseph was a bon vivant, an amusing rascal, but not a man to be crossed. Antoine had to tread carefully.

  As Joseph took more permanent residence in Paris, under the name de Fontaine, Ianthe had reached the pinnacle of her womanliness. The town was engaged by her beauty. As her father's wealth became more evident, and rumours of a fortune won at play flew around the city, she added fortune hunters to her admirers. Joseph batted them away like flies. But there were those among her suitors some be that gave Antoine d'Arcy pause. De Courcy, for example, was handsome and sincere. M. De Rochefocault was another. The comte still found his moments (easier at public functions where they might dance perhaps, or walk the room) to keep his young love reassured. She was not sophisticated enough to conceal all from him. He saw his effect on her in her blushes, in the tumultuous pulse he felt on her gloved wrist, in the sometimes-trusting eyes she gave him when he said the right words. She belonged to him, he told her. She must wait until he settled things and came for her.

  The truth had been that his finances and romances had both been tangled. One of his mistresses, the wife of a government official, had been suspicious of his motives and it had necessitated much work on his part to soothe her qualms. Exposure and investigation loomed. It was only after the restoration of the monarchy that he could breathe. Les Cent Jours, the hundred days from March 20th of 1815 when Napoleon returned to Paris (after escaping his captivity on the Isle of Elba) and the new monarch had had to flee the city, until the king was able to return on July 18th (after Waterloo), had been terrifying for Antoine d'Arcy. He too, had to flee the country to escape the Emperor's knowledge of those who had betrayed him, moving to Switzerland and living hand-to-mouth among his acquaintances there. He had been in fear of the Emperor dispatching agents to kill his enemies, but it was evident that Napoleon, busy with battle plans, had delayed revenge.

  Again, Antoine relied on his looks, living off a widowed Reichsfreifrau — Baroness — until it was safe to return to the capital.

  Ianthe had greeted him warmly on his return, as had Joseph, but he believed that de Fontaine, with friends everywhere, had heard of his living arrangement in Geneva. Joseph would not judge him, but Ianthe was more difficult to see alone, even for a moment. After being conferred his title as comte, he had nearly approached Joseph formally, so on fire was he for Ianthe. However, his debts were not all discharged, and some attachments still existed in Paris that he must dispose of — one woman with a child she said was his, one married mistress who was now widowed with no need for discretion. It required delicate handling.

  He could still summon Ianthe to his side with a look, even when she was among her swains. He wished to marry her, had never wished to marry any other. The tighter the leash around her, the madder he had been for their stolen moments, for the promise of her.

  He was casually approached in a taverne he went to, was utterly surprised to be so, but his very standing as an enemy of the Emperor was naturally what they needed. His problems, the persistent woman who had his child, and another of a large gaming debt, began to disappear. In truth, he had been afraid of how quickly they disappeared. These people knew everything about him, it seemed. There was, in their leader, a fanatical look of devotion when Napoleon was mentioned. With more riches given him, and other obstacles removed promised him, they began to make a dreadful plan. Antoine's conscience was salved a little by its impossibility. But as the bricks began to be laid meticulously, he feared that it may just be executed. There seemed to be endless resources on hand.

  When Joseph had died in the carriage accident, Antoine had been stunned — and even more firmly caught. A mild suggestion that this might pave the way to his happiness showed that his conspirators knew even more than he had believed. He had been wracked with guilt, briefly. But he had known he had to take advantage of the new situation to succeed. He may have unwittingly instigated the death of her father, but at least he could protect Ianthe.

  Yet again she had surprised him. She had turned him away, as suspicious as her father had been of him in the last month of his life. Joseph had spotted Antoine talking to the wrong person. What he had done to find out more had sounded his death-knell. The fatal carriage accident had followed. In a quiet country lane just outside the city where the Chevalier de Fontaine had been lured, the collapsing axle accident might not have finished him, but the cudgels of the waiting henchmen had. All this Antoine intuited rather than knew. And all this gripped him with fear of his masters.

  It had been necessary to practise his last deception on Ianthe and Cherie. His leader's friend had provided the names he needed. It was for her own good.

  So was today. What he did today was for her own good.

  ***

  Ianthe strode off in the direction of the South Walk, smiling as she thought of Fox's temper. Would prodding his humours ever pall? She did not think so. He was so quick to respond, his counter so predictable. He was a man who had repressed his true nature to such an extent that his newest feelings sprung up like so many jack-in-the-boxes, without his volition. It was most entertaining.

  As she achieved the turn into the high hedged walk, she saw her friends, the lovers twenty paces ahead of the younger, who was affecting to regard the blooms on the hedges, about halfway along the long avenue. 'Sally!' Ianthe cried, but it was Steadman who was alerted and saw the arm that halted Ianthe's progress and the yank that took her from his view again.

  'Fox must have decided to come after all,' he told his beloved, smiling, and Emma Richards looked in the direction of his gaze with mild interest.

  'Edward?' she said. 'I do not see him.'

  'I think he led Miss Eames away.'

  'Sally, come and join us, do!' Emma called to her daughter. 'Ianthe and Edward are nearby.'

  ***

  Why she had not screamed, Ianthe could not afterwards have said. But it was Antoine who stood before her and whatever she had told herself, there was unfinished business between them.

  After he had almost dragged her to a spot in a wilderness not far from the formal gardens, he stopped in a little clearing near an open landau whose horses were eating grass in a desultory fashion, their reins tied to a stout tree trunk.

  Ianthe looked down at the restraining hand and the comte, who was wearing a silk scarf over his mouth and a wide brimmed hat, let her arm go. Although she shook, Ianthe looked at him derisively. 'What is this? You look like a villain from the play.' She laughed. 'Does it mean you have come to do me mischief?' She raised her brows, regarding him haughtily. 'What? Abduction? Violation? I am interested to know.'

  'Arrête maintenent, Ianthe!' he said, moving forward to take her in his arms, and throwing off the hat in one move. He grasped her shoulders, but the look in her eyes made him step back. He held her eye and spoke to her in French. 'You loved me once.' Her eyes filled and he took a step forward once more, but she held him off with a gesture. He stopped, but his eyes lingered on the tear that fell from hers. 'I think you do still.'

  She dashed away the errant tear. Her eyes glimpsed movement in the shrubbery. A slight figure in a greatcoat appeared from behind a tree and waved at her. She blinked, but was silent since the hand that waved also put a finger to his mouth. He held up a pistol sideways, but as it was evidently to display it for her information, she was not afraid. He pointed it in the comte's direction, but dropped it, then saluted her. It was over in a second. The figure disappeared, and Ianthe moved to the landau, mounting it — to the comte's evide
nt surprise. The horses showed a vague interest, then returned to their fodder.

  'Let us talk.' She too spoke in French, her native language. He went to unleash the reins, but she said, 'If you please, do not.' She sighed. 'Let us just sit. I will permit you to say what you wish to me.'

  He got up on the seat beside her, but she gestured to the one opposite. She sat with her back to a side squab, her knees pointing towards him, her hands pressed into her lap. He adopted the same pose on the seat opposite, as though he feared she would run if he were closer.

  'You hired a landau rather than a gig. How resourceful. Were we to raise the roof and ride off together?'

  'Yes!' he said harshly. 'We should return to Paris. We could go now. I will send for Cherie, I promise you! She can join us there. We can make her more comfortable than she is here, under Lord Fox's roof.'

  'But I do not wish to go, Antoine.' He did not speak. 'Everything in Paris reminds me of Papa.' Something crossed his face. 'I do not want to go there until I am stronger.'

  'Then we will stay here. I can rent a house. London, or some country place. Then, when you feel you can, we will return to my land in France.'

  'The comte's estate. I forgot.' Ianthe looked down at her hands, still clenched on her lap. 'Won't it be shocking for us to live together?'

  'We will be married, and at once. We could go to Scotland, or you could live with Fenton in London while I get a special licence.' His eyes blazed at her. 'I have already told you, Ianthe. You are mine.'

  'What I wanted to say to you today Antoine…' she gasped, getting up her courage, 'For years I lived as though I was yours, because you told me so. Even after I knew of your other amusements—'

  'Ianthe—'

  '—I still waited for you. But you did not come.' There was an awful emptiness in her voice, a finality that pierced him.

  'I did come,' he protested.

  'Too late.'

  There was silence for a minute. The comte, usually ready of address, wanted to choose his words carefully. 'You talk of other amusements; you think me fickle. That is why you refused me when all I wanted was to protect you at last.'