Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (13 page)

Both men were diverted by a buzz of voices
in the doorway. The crowd seemed to part down its center and there
stood the Duke of Roxton, dressed in his customary black and white
raiment, snuffbox and lace handkerchief in one hand, and
quizzing-glass held up by the other to the stark handsome face.
Oblivious to the stares and whispers, he peered about him with one
magnified eye. Close at his shoulder was Lord Vallentine, deeply
conscious of the stir caused by his friend’s entrance and wary of
any who might dare say a word out of place.

Roxton saw his cousin and the Chevalier at
once and sauntered over to their table by a window. He made each
man a magnificent bow. Salvan and Charmond stood staring at him
like two schoolboys caught out by their master for some unspeakable
indiscretion.

“Charmond, what a delight to see you,”
purred the Duke. “We thought you languishing in your bed with a
terminal complaint of the lungs, or was it of the—er—heart? It is
of no consequence. You have risen! What, may I enquire, brought you
back to the land of the living?”

“I am well, thank you, M’sieur le Duc,” said
Charmond stiffly and returned the formal bow with reluctance. “My
cold, it has gone. You, as always, are the picture of good
health.”

“Thank you, Fabrice,” replied the Duke with
an uncustomarily broad smile Vallentine considered dangerous. “I am
blessed with unnaturally good health. I can say I have
never—er—languished in a bed in my life.”

The Comte laughed at this quip and Charmond
bristled. But the Chevalier held his tongue and was polite when
Roxton made him known to Lord Vallentine. The Duke was still
smiling, perhaps a little broader then before, and a glitter came
into the black eyes his friend did not care for when he turned his
attention exclusively to Salvan.

“I thought you still at the masquerade,
Cousin,” he said. “The field is left to our dear friend Richelieu.
What is it at Rossard’s that drags you away?”

“As you do,
mon cousin
,” said the
Comte expressively. “It was quite shocking behavior, his flirting
with Thérèse. And right under your nose! I do not blame you for
spiriting away that so charming lady in the dove mask just to pique
the beautiful Thérèse. I asked myself: how could she prefer
Richelieu’s charms to your own? It is incredible! Ah, the minds of
women, they are a mystery. So fickle and of a jealousy
incomprehensible.”

He accepted a pinch of the Duke’s snuff and
inhaled luxuriantly. “You have the most exquisite blend of snuff in
France and still you refuse to tell me its secret.”

Roxton shut the small gold box with a snap
but the smile was no less broad. “There are—er—treasures—in this
world, my dear, which are best left untouched.”

“How so?” enquired Salvan.

“You desire to know the secret of my blend
of snuff. It is exquisite, I agree. But would it remain so
desirable, so exquisite, its powers to attract just as potent, were
you to learn its secret? And once you had had your fill, what
then?”

“I see your point,
mon cousin
,” said
the Comte with a thoughtful nod, a suspicious glance up at the
black eyes. “But can one become satiated by exquisite and desirable
treasures? It would seem to me the more logical outcome is that
once one knows its secret and has had one’s fill, the only action
is to improve, to go forward, to put all one’s own experience into
achieving an even greater blend.”

“And yet that which was given you pure,
uncorrupted and exquisite, the effort of years of careful
nurturing, you would seek to corrupt because once you have had your
fill it no longer holds you?” said the Duke with feigned surprise.
“That is why I do not give you my secret, dearest cousin. You would
only turn it into a husk of its former self. You fail to appreciate
the essential essence. And you would not cherish, as I cherish, its
unadulterated purity.”

“Claret?” asked Vallentine, breaking a long
pause between the cousins.

The Comte looked unusually thin-lipped and
pale and the Chevalier moved from foot to foot, an eye to the
gentlemen who hovered close-by. Roxton was still smiling, an
unnerving and rare circumstance, and it put his friend on his
guard.

“Best keep to your own blend, M’sieur le
Comte,” advised Lord Vallentine. “Roxton’s rather particular about
holding on to what he considers his. Aye, Chevalier. We aren’t men
to cavil.”

The Chevalier de Charmond shrugged. “I am
sorry, M’sieur Vallentine. I was not attending,” he said with a
weak smile. He had no wish to be drawn into a discussion between
the cousins. “Snuff you say?”

The Comte eyed him with contempt but showed
the Duke a sweet smile. “Mayhap I will contrive to take the
treasure from you, Cousin.”

“By force?” said the Duke with interest.

“Oh no, that is too crude,” answered the
Comte. “I am not such a fool as to cross swords with one who is
considered a premier swordsman of France.”

“You flatter me. My friend here is the
premier swordsman of France and England. I am merely his
pupil.”

“Thank you, Roxton,” Lord Vallentine said
beaming a smile.

“Yet,” continued the Duke, who still held
his cousin’s gaze, “I could easily run you through. But no, such a
method is too crude and affords either of us little satisfaction.
Thus to wrest from me what you so desperately desire will require a
more skilful and intelligent plan. Do you have one?”

The Comte paused while a waiter distributed
glasses of wine amongst the small group by the table. His attention
did not leave the Duke’s face though he appeared to be
contemplating those helping themselves to the buffet.

“If I do have a plan I will not tell you!”
he declared with a laugh. “It is a little game you and I play, eh,
mon cousin
?”

Lord Vallentine puffed out his cheeks and
shook his head. He was skeptical. “Pardon, Salvan, but you ain’t
got a hope of outwitting Roxton. Take the advice I gave you.”

The Comte’s ears turned red but before he
could retort the Marquis de Chesnay had minced up to them and stuck
his fat person between the Chevalier and the Duke of Roxton. He
touched the Duke’s arm with the sticks of his ivory fan.

“
Mon Dieu
! It’s Roxton!” he
exclaimed. “And unharmed! Tell us what happened, cher. All Paris
awaits to hear the story from your lips, M’sieur le Duc.”

“There is nothing to tell, Gustave,”
answered the Duke, the smile gone and his face devoid of emotion.
“My carriage was held up. Two worthless cattle are dead. I am
untouched. There is the story.”

“Ah! You wish to humble your efforts in this
drama,” said De Chesnay. “But you were brave, very brave to take on
such cut-throats. You may have been shot. I shudder at the thought!
Yet, you ended their designs so expertly without a mark to your
person, or a casualty on your side. Indeed, we are all grateful
that our roads are made a little safer by your actions. Now mayhap
the canaille will think again before attempting to steal from their
betters. Do we not applaud M’sieur le Duc de Roxton, gentlemen?” he
said looking about the room to receive nods and exclamations of
agreement. He licked his fat lips and smiled spreading wide his
hands. “You see! There is not one amongst us who disagrees!”

“Did I omit casualties on my side?” said
Roxton lightly. “How lax. Yes, there were casualties.”

“Marguerite was right,” gasped De Chesnay.
“There is a woman! I told you so, Salvan. Marguerite, she is never
wrong.”

“Not difficult to guess that when Roxton’s
involved,” murmured Vallentine, avoiding the Duke’s eye.

“My driver, a most excellent whip, was shot
through the arm shattering a bone,” the Duke told them. “I was
forced to leave him in the care of the closest innkeeper. He will
never handle the ribbons again.” He scanned the faces of the group
about him. The Comte was the only one who appeared disinterested in
the tale for he drank from a glass and looked about the room
distractedly. “Gustave, I commend Marguerite. There is a—er—female
involved…”

“Yes? Yes?” uttered the Chevalier in spite
of himself.

“I knew!” announced Gustave. “Marguerite,
she is never wrong.”

“Upon this occasion I wish to Christ she had
been, damme!” said Vallentine angrily. “It ain’t anything to crow
about when a young girl—an innocent—is brutally cut down by a pack
of worthless dogs!” He glared at the Comte whose painted face
quivered. “Sorry, Roxton, it couldn’t be helped. I need a refill,”
he said and walked off, the crowd now gathered about the Duke
parting to let him pass to the buffet tables.

“Is this true?” whispered De Chesnay. “An
innocent girl? It seems incredible!”

“That she be innocent?” sniggered someone in
the crowd.

No one else dared comment under the Duke’s
disdainful gaze.

“Tell us what happened,” said the Comte in a
steady voice. He took snuff with a barely controlled wrist, the
powder falling in a sprinkle over one great upturned cuff. “A girl
you say? This is most interesting.”

“Quite interesting indeed, Salvan,” said
Roxton coldly. “You will be surprised to learn my companion was the
said
demoiselle
in the dove mask.”

“No!” demanded the Chevalier in exaggerated
surprise.

“A girl. An innocent, coldly and brutally
fired upon—”

“No! No! It is not true!”

The anguished cry came from the back of the
crowded room, and all powdered heads turned as one to see to whom
the voice belonged. One of their number pushed through to the
Duke’s side.

“She must not be hurt! Tell me she is not
hurt!”

“What are you doing here?” the Comte
demanded in a choked whisper. “How dare you set foot in Rossard’s
dressed like that! You are a disgrace. A disgrace to your
name!”

The Vicomte d’Ambert stood panting. He
ignored his father and looked only at the Duke. His face was
smeared with dirt and mud caked his jockey-boots. He had not
bothered to remove greatcoat, sword, nor gloves. He had bounded up
the staircase without a word to the porter and footmen in the
vestibule, and searched all the rooms for his father and the Duke,
two of the servants hot on his heels.

“I have just come from your hôtel, M’sieur
le Duc,” he explained breathlessly. “I was turned away without word
if she be there or not. Tell me of this hold-up! I knew nothing,
nothing of it until now! I swear it to you! Tell me she is
unharmed! Please, I beg it of you!”

De Chesnay turned to the Chevalier. “Another
player in the game,” he murmured. “It becomes complicated. What is
this boy to this girl?”

“I wish I might do so, my dear d’Ambert,”
said Roxton softly. “It would be a lie.”

The words had hardly died on the Duke’s lips
when the Vicomte spun about to glare at his father with
uncontrolled anger. “It is your fault!” he raged. “You and your mad
schemes! She would not now be lying with a hideous wound if you had
let her be! She’d not have run off if you hadn’t pursued her like a
hound to a deer!” He broke into an hysterical laugh. “When I think
of what you’ve done to her—”

The sharp stinging slap across the face was
quick and unexpected. It served its purpose. The youth was
instantly deflated. A chair was pushed under his legs and a hand
pressed his shoulder to keep him seated. Lord Vallentine thrust a
goblet of claret under his nose and made him drink. When the
Vicomte dared to glance up from under his brows he found the room
was empty of spectators and the door was closed. Two discreet
footmen guarded the entrance either side of the doorway. The Comte
had his back to his son and stood in the window nursing his hand
which still smarted from the blow he had inflicted.

“Father—forgive me,” murmured Étienne and
hung his head when the Comte did not answer him.

“My boy,” said the Duke, and held out a
silver snuffbox to the Vicomte, “you dropped this.”

“Thank you,” said d’Ambert and pocketed the
box. “I ask your forgiveness, M’sieur le Duc. I-I was overwrought.
I did not mean what I said—I—Is she—is she badly hurt?”

“Yes.”

The Vicomte put his head in his hands.

“He’s taking it a bit hard,” whispered
Vallentine in the Duke’s ear. “Knew her did he?”

“I shudder at your use of tense, Vallentine.
He knows her. I find I am wanting my bed. Today and tonight have
exhausted even me.” He put a hand on the Vicomte’s shoulder. “She
will be a month abed, perhaps longer. When she is well enough to
receive visitors you are welcome.”

“Thank you, M’sieur le Duc,” said the
Vicomte with a shy smile. “I want to see her very much.”

“I forbid you Roxton’s house!” declared the
Comte. “Now go home and await me!”

“As it is my house, my dear, it is hardly
your place to forbid even the street-sweeper should I wish it,”
drawled the Duke.

“Allow me to deal with my son as I see fit,”
said the Comte frigidly. When his cousin swept him a low bow, one
he could only interpret as insolent, he willed himself to remain in
control. “Pardon, M’sieur le Duc.”

“Please, my dear,” said Roxton with a quick
unsympathetic smile which caused Lord Vallentine to choke back a
laugh, “you need not explain. The episode is one which has caused
you—er—deep anxiety. Rest assured the villain will be brought to
account. Justice will be served. As for the girl, she will mend,
given plenty of rest and every attention.”

“You go to a good deal of trouble on her
behalf,
mon cousin
,” said Salvan. “I do not seek to
interfere in her convalescence but should she not be with her
people at such a time?”

“It is no trouble at all to help a young and
very beautiful girl. You of all men know that, Salvan,” replied the
Duke. “And, rest assured, she is with her—er—
people
. Good
night, gentlemen.” He bowed to all, satisfied his cousin was on the
brink of a demented rage and the son close to nervous collapse. He
was half-way across the room when he heard the Chevalier hiss
loudly,