Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (2 page)

“Honor it?” shouted Salvan. He went up to
the bed, causing the Chevalier to cower, and lowered his voice, for
he knew the walls between the apartments to be thin. “How dare you
question my honor!” he hissed. “A Salvan’s word is never in
question! You tell me I will have my
lettre de cachet
, and
so I tell you I am doing all I can to steer Roxton away from Madame
de La Tournelle’s orbit! Your task is the infinitely easier one,
Charmond. Have you any suggestions on how to oust a consummate
lover from an eager woman’s bed? Have you? No! I thought as much.
And do not spout drivel at me that it is you who wants this favor.
It is Richelieu who directs you is it not?”

“M’sieur le Duc de Richelieu?” blinked the
Chevalier.

“Very well! Play out your game!” spat the
Comte. “I know you have little interest in the de la Tournelle. Or
to put it correctly she is not the sort of female to interest
herself with an insignificant worm such as your—”

“M’sieur le Comte! I object most strongly to
your tone. Have I been of insignificance to you? No! Charmond he
has been most valuable to M’sieur le Comte!” The Chevalier blew his
nose vigorously and looked offended.

The Comte sighed. “As you wish, Charmond.”
He went to the looking glass in the corner and critically surveyed
himself from powdered campaign wig to the sparkle of his over-sized
diamond shoe-buckles. Ever the conceited nobleman, he was
well-pleased with himself and this improved his mood, as did the
thought of seeing the beautiful
demoiselle
at the recital.
“I grant you have been helpful to me. But do not tell me you are
interested in Marie-Anne de Mailly de La Tournelle. That I will not
believe! It is Richelieu who wants her, or wants her for the King,
and hopes to rule Louis through her. So he thinks. Whatever! His
gyrations do not interest me.” He glanced at the Chevalier. “I will
tell you why you want Roxton tumbled out of Marie-Anne’s bed:
jealousy.”

“Jeal-ous-y?” It was the Chevalier’s turn to
screech. Instead he coughed and wheezed until his face turned the
color of blood. When he could speak again he said, “How can you say
so? What do I care for Roxton’s conquests? I admit, my dear Salvan,
I find it unbelievable that such a one as he is so sought after in
the bedchambers of Versailles and Paris. Yet, he is! His reputation
equals Richelieu’s. Some say it surpasses his conquests. What
female has not thrown back the covers for M’sieur le Duc de Roxton?
And which ones does he disdain from favoring? Only the ugly and the
virtuous. And as they are one and the same, my dear Comte, the
number is small indeed!”

The Chevalier pulled a face of loathing and
thumped his fist into the coverlet. “Why? Why do our women receive
this Englishman with open arms who dares wear his own hair down his
back like some Viking conqueror? He has a great beak for a nose,
shoulders that are too broad and legs as thick as tree trunks! And
as if to goad us all beyond permission, what does he do?” he
continued in a thin voice. “He does not keep beagles or wolf-hounds
or greyhounds. No! He-he keeps
whippets
. A woman’s toy! He
could very well parade about with two kittens in diamond collars as
have those ill-looking animals at his heels. Ugh! I will say no
more.” He collapsed against the pillows and wiped sweat from his
florid face. “You must excuse me, M’sieur le Comte. I must be
bled...”

Salvan came away from the looking glass and
stood over the Chevalier, his eyes bright with a private humor.
“You lie in that bed sweating like a pig, pouring scorn on my
English cousin, when it is what he does with this,” he grabbed his
own genitals, “and this,” stuck out his tongue and wiggled it, “is
why your heart’s delight prefers the attentions of M’sieur le Duc
d’Roxton.”

“You defend him only because his mother was
a Salvan,” the Chevalier said sulkily.

“As it should be,” the Comte replied
haughtily, adjusting himself. “I cannot answer for his English
ancestry, except it is an ancient lineage. An English dukedom is no
small thing. And his mother, my aunt, was of impeccable virtue and
of a most noble character, and a Salvan by birth. Enough said! Do
not try my patience to its limit, my dear Charmond.” He flicked
open his gold snuffbox and took a pinch. “Your observations of
Roxton amuse me because they are quite to the life, but when you
dig beneath the muck you lose your footing!”

“Forgive me, my dear M’sieur le Comte,” said
the Chevalier with excessive politeness. “I admit I harbored
expectations that Félice would grant me certain liberties. That was
until she caught the eye of your cousin at the
Comédie
Française
. Yet I do not despair of having her, knowing Roxton
tires so quickly of such easy prey. But resentment was not the only
reason which prompted my outburst. Perhaps I will not voice my
concerns at this time. It is late. You have a recital to attend,
and I, I am tired. It is only—well, no, I shall not open my
mouth—”

“Open it! Open it!” ordered the Comte. “Do
not goad me, Charmond! You have wasted enough of my evening and
still I am no nearer to having what I want in my hands!”

“Has not M’sieur le Comte considered the
alternative?” asked the Chevalier smugly. “It would be infinitely
simpler if you were to bed the beautiful
demoiselle
without
consideration for the formalities. Why must you wed her to your son
before you take her as your mistress? Is not your son’s marriage to
the beautiful
demoiselle
the bone that sticks in your
throat? Remove it!
Voilà
. All is as it should be.”

The Comte de Salvan had a great desire to
choke the life out of the Chevalier de Charmond yet he restrained
this murderous instinct. Instead he clapped an open palm to his
powdered forehead and groaned aloud. “Why do I endure this
imbecile?
Mon Dieu
. I am surrounded by fools and
scoundrels!” He stuck his face up close to the startled Chevalier.
“Do you think I did not think of that? Ah! You are too stupid. I
will not explain. Do you think me a man of no honor? I, a Salvan? I
do not go about as M’sieur le Duc de Richelieu seducing unwed
females. Preposterous! There is my unsullied reputation to think
of. There is what I owe my name. That fever, it has entered what
little brain you possess. I am done with you!” He turned on a heel
to go to the door. “I will have the
lettre de cachet
by the
end of this week—”

“Your so English cousin has turned his
satyr’s eye on the beautiful
demoiselle
.”

The Comte stood still. He did not turn or
speak so the Chevalier continued after a pause and a blow of his
red nose. “You think me a dolt and a scoundrel for advising you to
cut through the formalities, but I tell you, my dear Salvan, if you
do not, the girl will no longer be worth all the energies you
expend to have her in your bed—wed or unwed. Roxton has noticed her
and so it is only a matter of time before his tongue—”

“By the end of the week,” Salvan said
without turning and slammed the door.

Had the Chevalier the benefit of seeing the
Comte’s face he would have reveled in the effect of his words. As
he did not he gave himself up to complex musings, and into the
hands of his physician to be bled. He ordered his servant to
scuttle across the palace to a particular suite of rooms to report
all that had transpired between he and his visitor.

The Comte de Salvan repaired to the upper
levels of the palace. Leaving the stench behind he forced himself
to put aside the Chevalier’s warning and to wear his most gay
public face. He tottered up the
Grand Escalier
to the first
floor, crossed the Hercules drawing room, bowing and waving his
handkerchief to all who acknowledged his existence. The opulence of
this large ornate marbled room was a comfort to him and he breathed
easier. He stopped to take snuff with two cronies who lounged by a
Sarrancolin column and searched for his son amongst the crowd of
powdered and beribboned nobles moving into the Appartement.
Unsuccessful, he dismissed the moody boy from his thoughts hoping
to catch sight of the one beautiful face amongst a hundred he
desired to make his own. Alas, she had yet to appear.

He was one of the last to enter the
Appartement. It was crowded and he could hear the orchestra but had
no chance of seeing its members from the back of the room. He spied
the Duc de Richelieu, newly returned from exile in Languedoc, and
close by his side, languidly fanning herself, was Madame de La
Tournelle. She was resplendent in petticoats of blue damask,
embroidered with large sprays of flowers, and showed a pretty wrist
covered with milky strands of pearls. For a long time he did not
notice the Duke of Roxton standing by his side.

“You will not find what you are looking
for,” drawled the Duke of Roxton, quizzing-glass fixed on Madame de
La Tournelle. “That which you desire is not here.”

Salvan spun about and stared up at the
impassive aquiline profile.

“Continue to gawp and I will go elsewhere,”
murmured the Duke. “Mademoiselle Claude has been beckoning with her
fan this past half hour. Sitting next to that frost-piece is
preferable to being scrutinized by you, dearest cousin.”

Salvan snapped open a fan of painted
chicken-skin and fluttered it like a woman, searching gaze
returning to the sea of silk and lace. “To be abandoned for that
hag would be an insult I could not endure,
mon cousin
. You
merely startled me.”

“I repeat, your search is fruitless.”

“Ah! You see me scanning faces. I always do
so. It is nothing,” Salvan said lightly. “Did you think me looking
for someone in particular? No! Who—Who did you think I was looking
for?”

“My dear Salvan,” drawled the Duke, “your
son, your most obedient son.”

“D’Ambert? Yes-yes of course my son!” Salvan
said with relief. He turned back to the performance in time for the
final round of polite applause. When the King had taken his leave
Salvan drew his arm through that of his cousin. They walked a
little way off to a corner of the room that was less crowded to
better observe the audience disperse. “That ghastly noise is at an
end, thank God. Were you as bored as I? Don’t answer. I know it!
Where have you been,
mon cousin
? I have missed you in the
corridors of the palace this past week. Do not tell me you are
fatigued with us and stay in Paris? Or are you weary with what is
on offer?”

They bowed to a passing beauty, her hair
dressed in an eye-catching creation of plumes and pearls and her
lips painted a delicious red.

“She tries to catch your attention, Roxton.
Now there is one who could cure your ennui.”

“Madame is not worth the effort.”

“
Parbleu
! How fortunate are those who
can afford to choose.”

Roxton took snuff and flicked a speck of the
fine mixture from a wide velvet cuff. He shrugged. “It is obvious
M’sieur le Comte has not had the—er—privilege of madame without her
skilful paint and uplifting bodice. You are welcome to her if that
is to your taste.”

“No. Not I!”

“No. Your tastes lean toward
the—er—
uninitiated
, do they not, my dear cousin?”

There was the slightest pause before the
Comte let out a forced brittle laugh. He tapped the Duke’s velvet
sleeve with the silver sticks of his fan. “That is as well or our
paths would cross, and that would not amuse me at all!”

“You may rest easy, my dear,” said the Duke
smoothly, quizzing-glass allowed to dangle on its silk riband. “I
have never yet had the urge to play nursery maid.”

Salvan flushed in spite of himself. He
changed the topic immediately. “You saw Richelieu? He has been back
at court this past week. They say he and the Tournelle plan to oust
the dull sister as soon as it can be contrived. De Mailly is
ignorant of the whole! She will see herself banished before she
knows what she is about and—”

“My dear, this is old news,” interrupted the
Duke. “But perhaps it is new to you? You need to spend less time
lurking in corridors and a good deal more between the sheets—”

“As you do?” Salvan snapped before he could
help himself.

Roxton swept him a magnificent bow. “As I
do,” he confirmed.

“Ha! A novel approach. Do not tell me you
expend any energy in conversation.”

“I was not about to tell you anything of the
sort, my dear,” came the insolent reply. The Duke’s black eyes
watched a storm cross his cousin’s ravaged face and he laughed
softly and changed the subject. “Madame sends her regards,” he said
politely. “She asks when next you intend to visit Paris. She longs
to hear the latest gossip of court which I cannot bring myself to
repeat. I said I would petition you on her behalf and beg you go to
her. I beg and have done my duty. I leave it in your hands. Sisters
weary me.”

The mention of the Duke’s lovely sister
instantly transformed the Comte de Salvan, as Roxton knew it would.
He clapped his hands in delight. “Estée has asked to see me? You do
not jest?” he said expectantly, and fell in beside the Duke as he
walked out of the Appartement and crossed the Hercules Room and
went down the staircase. “Is she in good health? Does she pine away
in that dreary hôtel of yours? You are most cruel to her, Roxton!
Such beauty deserves to be admired, to be fawned over, and
cherished. She has not been to court now in seven years or more.
She the widow of Jean-Claude de Montbrail, the most decorated of
Louis’ Generals. If he had not been cut down in his prime Estée
would now be at court.”

“Yes, I forbid her the court. That is my
right.”

“Even in the face of Louis’ displeasure?”
whispered the Comte de Salvan, taking a quick, nervous look over
his padded shoulder. “I cannot forget your private audience,” he
continued with a shudder. “Me, I fainted. I expected a
lettre de
cachet
at the very least. I praise God it did not happen so.
You are still barely tolerated by
Sa Majesté
. He never
forgives or forgets such slights,
mon cousin
. He might
relent a little if you were to allow your sister to return to
court—”