Sweet Bravado

by Alicia Meadowes

  Flowers arrived from Lord Crawley in the morning with a note requesting the presence of the Viscountess at a party which was to be given for the patrons of the Opéra de Paris. She hesitated, recalling the reactions of both Uncle Maurice and Gordon Danforth toward him. But she decided the problem between the Harcourts and Crawley was not her problem. Refusing to worry about it, Nicole dispatched a note to Crawley. If innuendoes about her and Crawley reached Valentin, all the better. If nothing else, it would wound his pride and give her a little revenge. Yes, Crawley would be a handy diversion. Paris was threatening to be dull, and Nicole had no intention of letting time hang heavy any longer.

  The Marquis came into the salon shortly after she had sent off the message and immediately spied the large bouquet of flowers.

  “What is this?” He approached the table on which the bouquet rested. “Who is your admirer, Nicole?” A hint of sternness had crept into his voice.

  Hesitantly she replied, “Lord Crawley.”

  “What?” he shouted angrily. “The insolence of the man!”

  “Uncle Maurice, it is only a bouquet of flowers.”

  “Sacré bleu!” he stormed, turning a fiery red and flinging his hands in the air. “You do not understand!”

  “I understand that Lord Crawley has been kind to me where many others have not.”

  “Nicole ma chère,” he shook his head angrily. “Crawley, is someone no man or lady can completely trust. He is a gamester with an unsavory reputation. Besides, he has no love of the Harcourt family. Tread softly, my dear.”

  “Uncle Maurice,” she laughed nervously. “You make him sound sinister, and I am intrigued.” Seeing his distress, she added hastily, “However, I shall remember your warning.”

  “That is all I ask, my child. Come, we should have breakfasted an hour ago.”

  Unhappily, Nicole followed, remembering the invitation she had just accepted. How was she to break this to the Marquis?

  When Nicole finally approached the subject of attending the dinner party at Crawley’s, she found the Marquis reluctant but acquiescent. He realized his instinct to shout at her would only stir her to rebellion. The Marquis was beginning to feel that Nicole was becoming too much for him to handle.

  Nicole’s curiosity about Geneviève Lumière and Gordon Danforth was satisfied the next day when her old friend came to visit. Within minutes of her arrival Geneviève was revealing the concerns of her heart to Nicole.

  “Ginny, how serious is it between you and Gordon?”

  “I… I have never felt this way before in my life.”

  “And Gordon?”

  “I believe it is the same with him. But Nicole… his family… there is no… money…” her lips quivered. “And there is this girl… to whom he is practically betrothed.”

  “Oh, dear,” Nicole met her friend’s anguished eyes. “She has money?”

  Geneviève nodded in the affirmative.

  “Has there been a formal announcement made?”

  “No… but there is an understanding.”

  “I see,” Nicole whispered.

  “He… he has gone home to see… if there is a chance… to alter the situation. But I fear it is hopeless.”

  “Oh, Ginny, I am sorry. If only there were something I could do.”

  “There is nothing.” She fought the tears that threatened. “He shall do the honorable thing.”

  “But what of you? You said he would try to alter things.”

  “I know, I know, but Gordon must do what is right. And so must I.”

  Seeing her distress, Nicole tried to soothe her. “I should not have upset you. The power of money to control one’s life is so unjust.” Nicole was thinking of her own marriage as well as the plight of her friend. “There must be some way to resolve this problem for you and Gordon, Ginny dear. Do not despair; he may yet come up with a solution.”

  “I can’t think what it could be,” Geneviève answered hopelessly.

  They parted shortly afterward, each saddened by the circumstances of fate over which they had no control and which contrived to make two lovely young women terribly unhappy.

  A Madame Coupé was sent by Lord Crawley to chaperone Nicole the night of his party. Both Madame Lafitte and the Marquis stifled their protest about her companion until Nicole had gone. Then the Marquis stomped his cane on the floor and exploded vehemently, “Should have known Crawley would provide a chaperone of dubious character!”

  “It is too bad of him to send one such as that to accompany the child. I told her I did not like this venture, but she would not listen,” Madame Lafitte agreed.

  “It is that damn Harcourt obstinacy! If it were not for this gout…” he let his voice trail off as he sagged helplessly back in his chair, his bandaged foot resting on a footstool.

  “Do not worry, Monsieur l’e Marquis,” Madame Lafitte consoled, “Nicole, she is headstrong, but she is a good girl.”

  “Let us hope she uses some common sense tonight,” he growled ominously.

  Nicole found the party to be a large one with many new faces. The main salon was brightly lighted with candelabra and crystal chandeliers. Its white paneled walls and cream satin draperies created an air of opulence. The ladies were dressed in revealing pastel-hued Empire gowns. Ankles were visible as the women whirled gaily about the room with their partners, who were garbed in dark frock coats, tight evening breeches and colorful vests. Nicole began to wonder about her own appearance, for she had chosen a demure evening dress of pink satin in a classical style, with a comparatively modest décolletage. Her only ornament was a diamond pendant from the Har-court collection.

  Guiding her among his guests, Joseph Crawley casually introduced her to a half dozen new people. They were too many to be remembered, but the name of one guest startled Nicole unpleasantly. “Phillippe Beauchamp!” She repeated the name stiffly, barely disguising her displeasure. Her French past was crowding back into her life at a surprising rate—first Geneviève and now Phillippe. The o grinning dandy facing her was none other than her cousin whom she had long ago lost sight of, and would gladly have had it remain so. The Beauchamp family had lived on a small farm outside Beauvais and had allowed their half-English relative, Nicole, to spend a summer with them, but it had not been a happy time and in the following years the visit was not repeated.

  “Ma chère cousine Nicole,” he fawned over her hand.

  Phillippe had been a nasty child who found pleasure in tormenting his young cousin. His simpering cries of delight on discovering her were transparently false.

  Lord Crawley observed the exchange with unconcealed interest.

  “Mon Dieu, you have grown into such a beauty.” Phillippe leered greedily at the diamond pendant at her breast. “I am grateful to the kind fate that has brought us together like this.” Nicole snatched back her hand as he continued, “We must not lose touch again. It would be a great pity, non?”

  “I am afraid that we will have little opportunity to resume our acquaintance, cousin. Once my husband’s tour of duty is completed we will be returning to England,” she replied, attempting to dampen his enthusiasm.

  Phillippe shrugged. “Well, you are here now and I must make the most of what little time there is. We shall dance, oui?” Before Nicole could protest he swung her onto the dance floor.

  “That was extremely rude, Phillippe,” she cried angrily.

  “Vraiment? Then I will apologize, chère cousine.”

  “You were rude to his lordship more than to me.”

  “Who? Joseph? Au contraire! He will understand my desire to be with you after all these years.”

  “There were a number of years you forgot all about my existence,” she reminded him tartly.

  “But, chère Nicole, how could I see you? I was out of the country so much of the time during our Emperor’s reign.”

  “Doing what?”

  “This and that.” He laughed uneasily. “But let us not talk of the past, but of the present,” Phillippe insisted.r />
  “As I mentioned previously, I do not think we will have much opportunity…”

  “But, of course, your marriage to the Englishman,” he seemed to sneer. “Tell me, ma chère, why are you not in Vienna with the Viscount?”

  How did he know so much about her, she wondered angrily.

  “That is our affair!” Nicole replied coldly.

  “Pardonnez moi if I intrude. It was an innocent enough question I assure you.” He watched her closely.

  She lowered her eyes not wishing to continue the conversation and murmured something indistinctly. They finished the dance in silence.

  “Merci, Phillippe, but pray excuse me. I must speak to Lord Crawley.” She spoke hastily walking away without allowing him to reply.

  Later that evening Nicole met the aged artistic director of the Opéra de Paris, André Volent, his prima ballerina Natalya Lavronsky and her partner Rudolph Ostrosky who invited her to have supper with them. While Ostrosky went for food, Monsieur Volent complained about the plight of his troupe.

  “You see, our company has been struggling for so many years. Ever since the fall of the House of Bourbon in‘93, support has been meager. Since Louis XIV established the Royal Academy of Dance in the 1600s, dancers have always enjoyed royal patronage. No more, however,” the grey-haired maestro explained. “This… new aristocracy does not understand the arts.”

  “But you have received public recognition.”

  “Recognition, perhaps, but what good is that without financial support?”

  “I didn’t think. I suppose your expenses were exorbitant?” Nicole questioned.

  “But of course. We need to develop a new ballet, one for our times—for our audiences. What does this generation care about Greek myths!”

  “I see—to capture the imagination of the young you need to develop a new style,” Nicole replied enthusiastically.

  “Precisely. That means new costumes, new music, new stories… and above all money.”

  “Maestro,” Rudi interrupted as he placed platters of assorted appetizers on the table. “You promised, no unpleasant reminders about our debts, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Please, André,” moaned Lavronsky. “Do not spoil a pleasant evening. Order some champagne from one of those idle footmen, yes?”

  “Try one of these shrimp diable or stuffed tomatoes,” Rudi prompted the maestro.

  “Very well, I will not bore the Viscountess with our financial troubles.”

  “But you are not,” she assured him. “I want to know all about the company.”

  “Ah, a true angel,” Rudi pressed a quick kiss to her hand. “Nevertheless, we will not talk of our problems.”

  “Then tell me about yourselves. How did you manage to get here from Russia during these difficult times?”

  Rudi laughed, “You sweet innocent!” She blushed indignantly. “You must promise not to divulge our secret if I tell you.”

  “No, of course not,” she promised.

  “Those are our stage names. We both are French.”

  “Speak for yourself, Rudolph. I, at least, have a Russian grandfather,” claimed Natalya.

  There was much friendly bickering, and Nicole was quite diverted by the tales of their adventures in establishing their company. For the remainder of the evening they were her constant companions, and it was not long before she found herself offering them her financial support and promising to visit them at rehearsal the very next day.

  Nicole left the party expressing her gratitude to Lord Crawley for having provided her with the opportunity of meeting such entertaining people. Crawley was pleased with the results of the evening. Although he had remained unobtrusively in the background, the Viscountess of Ardsmore was being drawn into his plans for her.

  Vienna, too, was a scene of unfolding drama. The city was almost giddy with the constant whirl of social events acting as cover for the secrets of nation-making. All restraint was cast aside in the mood of extravagant pleasure seeking.

  At a typically festive ball at the Countess Aldenberg’s castle, Tessa Von Hoffman made her appearance in Vienna creating a small stir by wearing a shocking gown that did little tp conceal her obvious charms. Her bosom was all but bare, and the gown so heavily damped that it clung to her limbs revealing more than it concealed. She paid little attention to the admiring male glances cast hopefully in her direction, since Tessa had a specific target in mind for that evening—the Viscount Ardsmore! He, too, was present. As soon as she discovered his burnished blond head towering above the others, she made straight across the room for him.

  “Valentin, Liebchen, I have been searching everywhere to find you in this mad crush. Come, talk to me.” She placed a soft hand on his arm.

  Good God! Valentin thought with a start of guilt. What the deuce am I to do now? He had more than he could handle already. “Tessa, my dear, I am surprised to see you in Vienna.” His words were cool.

  “Don’t you know by now that wherever you go, I am sure to follow?” She smiled provocatively. “Come, mein Schatz, there is a petit salon where we can be private.”

  The Viscount had no choice but to follow her. He owed her that much.

  “Sit here beside me, mon brave,” she beckoned invitingly.

  “Tessa, my dear…”

  “Hush,” she interrupted putting her arms possessively around his neck and pressing herself to him. “Kiss me first.”

  He complied but it was a mechanical performance, a repeat of the scene in Paris after he had left Nicole. He had sought out Tessa in a state of angry pride that night, but found, to his chagrin, that Tessa could do nothing for him. Her voluptuous charms no longer had the power to inflame him as they once had. There remained only the cold ashes of a bright flame that had burned fiercely. He did his best to conceal it from the lady at the time, but he realized now that he should have settled the matter once and for all. Madame Von Hoffman wguld not fade out and quietly disappear from his life.

  Tessa drew back from him and observed his perplexity through veiled eyes.

  With a muster of courage Valentin began to explain. “Tessa, my dear, there is something I must say to you.” He looked directly into her eyes without wavering.

  “No, don’t,” she protested, sensing the direction in which he was moving. “It is such a joy to see you again, Liebchen. We will have some gay times in Vienna, will we not?” she pleaded.

  “Tessa, that is what I want to talk about with you,” Valentin insisted. “I am in Vienna with the British delegation. My attendance at these affairs is purely a matter of duty.”

  “And can you not enjoy yourself as well as perform your duty?”

  “I do not seek enjoyment.”

  “Well, then, you are a fool! I know a sense of duty does not keep your wife from enjoying herself!” she flung at him.

  “We will keep my wife out of this if you please.” He was unable to suppress his anger.

  “Your chivalry is admirable. But do you not care that your wife flaunts the Harcourt honor and consorts with your enemy?”

  “Enemy? What are you talking about?”

  “It is common knowledge that she entertains Lord Crawley. Crawley and a troupe of dancers are her constant companions. She cares nothing for your feelings.”

  Valentin stood up abruptly and strode across the room before controlling himself enough to speak. “Tessa, don’t lie to me just to create trouble. If you are…”

  “But, I am not, Liebchen! She and Crawley are causing talk.” Tessa went to him. “Forget her! Let us—you and I—go on as before.”

  The Viscount barely heard her. A black rage stirred in his heart. “We cannot, Tessa. One cannot resurrect what is finished.”

  She read the finality on his face, but she persisted. “Valentin, can we not…”

  “No, I am sorry, my dear, but we cannot.”

  She studied him carefully, then shrugged her elegant shoulders and replied with resignation, “Very well, but do not expect me to cry for you when you come to
your senses.”

  “I would not expect or ask it of you, Tessa my love.” He smiled grimly.

  “Yes, there are limits to my generosity,” Tessa replied, rallying. “I think some champagne would suit us both admirably at this time, n’est-ce pas?”

  “A splendid idea. I will see to it at once.”

  Still seething bitterly over Tessa’s indictment of Nicole the Viscount went in search of champagne. That damn Crawley! He would kill the cur! This blasted tangle had gone too far. But one thing was certain, he would bring his wife to heel and assert his mastery! Of that he had no doubt. He clenched his fists convulsively and pushed his way through the crowded rooms. His instinct to strike out for Paris and take command of the situation was overpowering him. God help that woman when next he laid hands on her!

  Chapter XI

  With Danforth and Perry in England and the Marquis confined to bed because of his gout, Nicole found more and more of her time taken up by her new friends and Lord Crawley. Madame Lafitte was the only objector to Nicole’s entertainments. She tried to persuade Nicole that a ballet company was a most unfortunate association for her, that Crawley was undoubtedly suspect since he and the Viscount were hostile to one another, and that it was tantamount to a rejection of society to choose such questionable company.

  Lafitte’s tirades were doomed from the start, however, for it was these very reasons that drove Nicole into further associations with Crawley and his companions. Madame Lafitte’s pleas for greater discretion fell on deaf ears.

  One afternoon as Nicole sat beside the old maestro watching the dancers work out, he exclaimed, “Mon Dieu! Rudi, extend the leg but do not bend the knee. It is an arabesque not an attitude, for God’s sake!”

  Rudi scowled.

  “Sloppy, my boy, sloppy! Do it again!”

  Rudi hesitated momentarily, but as the pianist struck the chords once more, he responded.

  “He is very good,” Nicole dared to comment.

  “Good, yes, but sloppy. The boy could be great. Unfortunately he does not care enough. No dedication.”