Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (28 page)

Only Ellicott had any contact with his
master over those few days and then it was when absolutely
necessary for him to trespass on the couple’s time. One morning he
entered the private dining room to clear away the remnants of a
late breakfast only to realize too late that the lovers had not
retreated to the study for their coffee as had become their custom.
To the valet’s astonishment Antonia was standing upon the surface
of the polished mahogany dining table in her petticoats, parading
up and down in her stockinged feet in front of the Duke; a rapt
audience of one who sat in his shirt-sleeves and black breeches,
long legs negligently stretched out to the nearest upholstered
chair. The little
demoiselle
seemed to be acting out what
appeared to be a scene from a play. And as if all this wasn’t
enough to stun the dapper little valet into incredulous immobility,
his master was laughing; laughing so hard his eyes watered. He was
laughing at the girl’s exceptional mimicry, this final performance
that of the Queen of France, Marie Leczinska, Louis’ nondescript
and very pious, Polish wife.

The Duke was so far removed from the
phlegmatic and aloof aristocrat as to be disbelieved and Ellicott
was convinced drink was somehow involved. As if the events of the
previous few days had not been enough to test the selective
blindness of even the most broad-minded of gentleman’s gentleman,
his master’s unrestrained good humor was the last straw and he fled
the room in panic, only narrowly managing to escape tripping up on
the carpets and gilded furniture. He dared not return until called
upon.

It was late on the evening of the sixth day,
with Antonia fast asleep on a sofa, head resting on a cushion in
his lap, that the Duke put aside the week old English newssheet
he’d been perusing and let his gaze wander about the room.
Something about this room, in fact all the rooms in his apartment,
was not quite right. He’d been unable to put his finger on it. With
the leisure to seek out the reason, the answer presented itself.
What had happened to all his clocks? There was not a single
timepiece to be seen, and he would hazard a guess that when he was
at liberty to check the other rooms, he would find the same to be
the case. It was baffling.

When Ellicott appeared in the doorway with
the coffee things, and his master’s customary late-night brandy,
the Duke enquired in an under voice if the valet was able to clear
up the mystery. Ellicott placed the brandy and a glass in easy
reach of his master’s free hand, while most reluctantly informing
him that mademoiselle had ordered the removal of all the timepieces
in the hotel for cleaning and restoration.

The Duke was speechless. Then he smiled to
himself.

…
if I could alter time, suspend time for
just the two of us, I would do so…

He was all admiration for Antonia’s
cunning.

It was then that he asked not only what was
the time of day, but what was the actual day of the week and if
there was any news of the outside world of which he should be
informed.

Ellicott had been fussing with the coffee
things, setting the silver tray on the low table by the sofa,
careful not to trip over Antonia’s discarded mules, and trying his
best to ignore her existence. Yet he failed dismally and found
himself openly admiring the girl with a silly sentimental smile,
thinking how lovely and unspoilt she appeared in sleep, with her
tangle of honey hair and silk embroidered petticoats in disarray,
and with a hand still clutching an open book to her breast.

The Duke caught him and inexplicably anger
got the better of him.

“You, my friend, remain deaf, dumb and blind
until I say otherwise,” he hissed and was gratified when his valet
staggered back as if from a blow and immediately dropped his gaze
to the carpet. He then repeated his demand to know the time, day
and any urgent news requiring his attention.

Ellicott handed him a billet he had placed
amongst the coffee things. It was from the Comte de Salvan and had
arrived two days ago with instructions it be given to the Duke
without delay. Ellicott hadn’t the heart to do so, despising the
French noble nearly as much as Lord Vallentine did. He then
informed the Duke that Lord Vallentine had returned from St.
Germain the previous day, Madame electing to remain with her
relatives the rest of the week to keep company with one of the old
aunts who had taken a fall from her carriage and broken her foot.
Lord Vallentine had then asked after the whereabouts of the little
demoiselle
, for he had been instructed to take her to Madame
at St. Germain.

With a poker face the valet told his master
he had informed his lordship that the little
demoiselle
had
taken to her bed with an undisclosed contagion but was confident of
her full recovery within the next day or two. He then bowed very
low, a glance at his master’s face before quickly departing, not at
all surprised the Duke seemed to have aged a decade in as many
minutes.

For the first time in six days, in the very
early hours of the morning and with Antonia tucked up in his bed
fast asleep, the Duke left his private apartments with his dogs to
stroll alone in his chestnut grove by moonlight; the Comte’s billet
in his frockcoat pocket.

Lord Vallentine visited Rossard’s on the
second night of his return to Paris and loitered about the various
gaming rooms hoping the Duke would saunter in at any moment, but he
never did. Those gentlemen he fell into conversation with denied
seeing the Duke at any of the usual haunts he frequented in the
city. Was there not talk of his cousin Salvan seeing him at the
King’s Hunt at Fontainebleau in company with his latest mistress
the Comtesse Duras-Valfons?

As he was leaving, Lord Vallentine then
chanced to meet the Marquis de Chesnay in the vestibule and he
repeated the rumor, which caused the fat nobleman to go off into a
peel of roguish laughter. Of course he had seen M’sieur le Duc de
Roxton at Fontainebleau! He had spent an evening of drunken
debauchery with four or five cronies, the Duke of that number.
Where had Monsieur Vallentine been? Was his betrothal turning him
into a mushroom? It was quite an orgy. A pity Vallentine had not
cared to disport himself. But de Chesnay quite understood.
Marguerite was right again. The beautiful Estée tolerated such
excesses in a brother, but not in her future husband. He wished the
much embarrassed Vallentine the best of luck, and as an aside,
informed him the Oriental had been passed over for a red-haired
Cyprian. Roxton, he cooed, was insatiable. De Chesnay tottered away
into the early morning light humming the tune of a bawdy
melody.

Not ten minutes later the Comte de Salvan,
very bright-eyed and full of bonhomie, pirouetted into the
vestibule. If de Chesnay made Vallentine feel uncomfortable, seeing
the Comte’s laughing painted face as he acted the part of the great
courtier he deluded himself he was, brought the bile up into his
throat. Not only de Chesnay and Salvan, but the whole heady
atmosphere of Rossard’s sickened him. But it was not his betrothal
which had soured such entertainments for him but the knowledge the
Duke remained indiscreet and cared nothing that his appetites
continued to provide amusement for the nobility.

And what the Comte de Salvan announced to
his lordship was so depressingly expected that Vallentine muttered
not more than two civil words to the little nobleman before he
dashed out into the street needing fresh air and a clear head. It
made him all the more determined to discover the whereabouts of the
Duke, for he could not believe out of hand what the Comte had told
him. He would not believe it until he had heard it from the Duke
himself.

On the way home in a chair Vallentine told
himself over and over that the Comte’s affected display of
self-congratulation was merely that, a display. It was
inconceivable Salvan should get his way. And so by the time he
stepped out under the hôtel’s portico he had convinced himself that
the Comte’s announcement of another betrothal in the family, a
betrothal very dear to his own heart and one he Vallentine must
keep to himself until he Salvan could inform the little
demoiselle
of her great good fortune, was a great pile of
horse manure. He didn’t want to believe it and he wouldn’t believe
it, not until he saw the betrothal document with his own two tired
eyes.

A sleepy porter helped him off with his
greatcoat and sword and he went up to the second landing,
candlestick in hand. He was about to take himself off to bed when a
footman came out of the library and glanced expressionless from
Vallentine to the door and back to his lordship. The servant’s
wordless look was enough for Vallentine to shove the candlestick at
him and quietly enter the library.

He took out his pocket-watch and read six of
the clock. There was still a good fire in the grate and one
candelabra burned, casting light over the mantle and a couple of
chairs close to the fire. The rest of the long room remained in
shadow. A silver tray by the Duke’s favorite chair held a crystal
brandy decanter and three empty claret bottles. Thus, he was not
surprised to discover a pair of booted legs sprawled out upon the
hearth, one white, ruffle-covered hand slowly swirling brandy
around in a glass. What did surprise his lordship was the brooding
intensity in the lean face and the glaze to the black eyes that
stared unblinking into the flickering light of the fire.

Vallentine thought it best to hail his
friend as if it was only yesterday he had seen him.

“Hey, Roxton! I had a run of luck at
Rossard’s this evenin’. You should’ve been there. Took ten thousand
livres off a green-horn from London. Don’t know what the silly
fellow was doing at such a place. But I suppose he’s pretty flush.
His friend told me the pater owns Northumberland. Name of Harcourt.
I’m certain you know his father. Anyway, good luck to him I say!
Damme, who’d want such a windswept corner of ol’ England. Mind if I
join you in a drop?”

He poured out a brandy and leaned his
shoulders against the mantle and cast a concerned look at the Duke
as he drank. He wondered if his friend had taken ill. He was chalk
white, despite putting away three of the best. He decided to play
straight.

“Salvan was at Rossard’s,” he said
seriously. “He was mighty pleased with himself, too. He was
struttin’ about like a prize Dartmouth cock. Where have you been
for the last couple of days, Roxton?” Vallentine demanded suddenly.
“I’ve lost shoe leather tramping about Paris like a damned
fresh-faced tourist. Damme! And I come home to find you missin’ and
Antonia struck down with flu. Well, I’m told the poor little thing
has flu but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’s just taken to
her bed to avoid Salvan and his morose son. Don’t it just choke you
up that those two circle her like vultures round carrion?”

“Taken on the rôle of brother’s keeper,
Vallentine?” asked the Duke. “I do as I please when and where I
please. I am not accountable to you, my sister, or Mademoiselle
Moran. If you must know I have been rather—er—preoccupied.”

“I can see that. You’re three-quarters
foxed!”

“No. Seven-eighths,” responded the Duke
placidly and raised his glass. “Do you want to know with what, or
should that be with whom, I have been preoccupied?”

“If it concerns a female then I ain’t
interested,” his lordship muttered angrily.

“Ah, Vallentine, there was a time when that
was all you—”

“Look here, Roxton, this ain’t the time to
be flippant!”

“My dear, I am being perfectly serious. And
I have drunk a goodly quantity of claret to justify the seriousness
of a forthcoming celebration.”

“Celebration? What celebration?”

The Duke gave a tired sigh. “I am home to an
inquisition,” he murmured. “The cause for celebration, my dearest
Vallentine? A betrothal. But not yours, another’s.”

Vallentine threw up a ruffled wrist in
annoyance and turned to look into the fire. “Well I ain’t
interested in any of that. I want you to tell me how it is Salvan’s
got somethin’ to crow about.”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“He told me a whole lot of pap I don’t want
to believe. So I’m askin’ you for confirmation,” Vallentine said
quietly.

The Duke took a long time to answer him.

“Antonia is formally betrothed to the
Vicomte d’Ambert,” stated the Duke. “There is a marriage contract,
drawn up by Salvan’s lawyers, signed in Strathsay’s own hand, and
witnessed by two premier peers of France. Even
Sa Majesté
has seen fit to give it his royal blessing. Thus it is legal, it is
final and it is irrevocable. Is it Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Jesus!” thundered Lord Vallentine. “It—It
can’t be true! You’ve got to get to the old man and make him change
his mind. Do whatever you have to. Threaten him if you like. I’ll
come and lend a hand. He’ll see reason, and if he don’t, then we’ll
use a little persuasion—”