Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (3 page)

“I have not the least interest in Louis’
opinion of me.”

“M’sieur le Duc! Please!” Salvan gasped in a
broken voice. “Not so loud. I beg you!”

The Duke paused in the vestibule that led
out into the Marble courtyard to permit a lackey to assist him into
his many-capped roquelaure. “I repeat, what your king thinks of me
or my actions is of supreme indifference. You forget I am of mixed
blood. Only half is French, and that my mother’s. My allegiance is
to a German-born King who sits on the English throne. Regrettable
as that circumstance may be to many, it serves a purpose. And as I
am a peer of that realm, and not this, I need not hold my actions
accountable to your liege lord and master. If my presence at this
court unnerves you, my dear cousin, I am happy for you to
disassociate yourself with my family.” He bowed politely.
“Versailles is no place for those of noble character, such as my
sister.”

The Comte de Salvan tottered outside after
him, a servant with a flambeau quick to follow on his heels. “And
what of the rest of us?”

“Those of us of noble birth and no character
amuse ourselves as best we can. I bid you a good night.”

Halfway across the courtyard two figures
moving in shadow caught Salvan’s eye and he drew in a quick breath.
Instantly, he tried to divert the Duke with some inconsequential
tale about a notorious female and her present lover, all the while
conscious of the raised voices travelling across the expanse of
open air from the dark recesses of the Royal courtyard. But the
Duke of Roxton was not diverted. He listened to his cousin’s
chatterings as he slipped on a pair of black kid gloves then
abruptly changed direction and sauntered toward the voices. His
cousin made a protesting sound in the back of his throat and
followed as best he could in red high heels.

A slim youth, richly clad in puce satin
under a heavy coat thrown carelessly about his shoulders, and a
girl, her gown concealed under a shabby wool cloak too large for
her small frame and allowed to trail in the mud, were huddled under
a red brick archway. In the light cast by a flickering flambeau,
they were in heated discussion, the youth with an arm out-stretched
to the opposite wall to block the girl’s exit.

The Duke did not go so near as to disturb
them, yet he showed enough interest to put up his quizzing-glass.
He was soon joined by the Comte de Salvan, who had hobbled across
the pebbles in his high red heels, was chilled to the bone for
having left his cloak indoors, and was mentally heaping curses upon
his father’s memory for having permitted his name to be forever
allied with a family of heretical Englishmen whom he blamed for all
his past and present misfortunes.

“Permit me to explain,” Salvan rasped,
catching his breath.

“Explain?” purred the Duke. “There is no
need. Your so devoted son is of an age to defend his own
actions.”

The Vicomte d’Ambert despaired of making
Antonia see reason. He gave an impatient grunt and looked away into
the black night. “I tell you it is impossible!” he declared. “What
do you not understand? The moment you leave the palace I cannot
protect you. You have managed to avoid him until now. I say we wait
for word from St. Germain. When we know how your Grandfather fairs
something will be contrived. I promise you.”

“It is you who do not understand,
Étienne!”

“Antonia, I—”

“My grandfather is dying,” Antonia announced
flatly. “He has gone to St. Germain to die, not to hunt or debauch
but to die. He is old and infirm and his time has come. So be it.
You think me unfeeling to speak the truth? Well, it is best I
understand how it is and not allow silly expectations to fill my
head. And do not tell me otherwise! Do not say I must hope because
I know you only say so because I am a female and think to shield me
from the truth. Such gallantry is wasted on me, Étienne.” When he
kept his silence and refused to look at her she tried to rally him.
“Do not sulk. You know what I say is the tr—”

“—the truth?” he repeated angrily. “Yes, it
is the truth. I wish it was not so!”

“If you would convey me to Paris then I know
I could make my own way to London. Your father will not find me in
Paris, it is too big a city, and I have the money Grandfather gave
me—”

“—to what?” The Vicomte threw up a hand in a
gesture of hopelessness. “It is madness, Antonia. You, a pretty
girl alone in Paris with not even a maid as chaperone? God grant me
patience! You would not survive a day.”

“So you think? I am not afraid of a big
city. Father and I lived in many strange cities and we enjoyed
ourselves hugely.”

D’Ambert laughed. “Only an ignorant child
would give me such an answer.”

“You are eighteen years old, does that not
make
you
a child?” retorted Antonia.

He ignored the truth of this. “Have you been
to Paris?”

“What does that signify?”

“Have you ever taken a diligence on your
own?”

“No. But I am not so spiritless as to shy
away from using public conveyances.”

“And once you took the diligence to Calais
and by some miracle boarded a packet for Dover, what then? Assuming
none of these journeys put you in the slightest danger—another
miracle—what then? You have never visited England. I doubt you can
speak the barbaric English tongue.”

“Wrong! I can,” Antonia announced proudly.
The Vicomte’s sneer made her blush. “It is a very long time since I
used the English tongue with Maman, but—but—I can
read
Grandfather’s English newssheets. And it is not as if I do not
understand what is being said. That is the least little
problem.”

“That is very true for no sooner set down in
a Parisian street than one of a thousand scoundrels would abduct
you. Before nightfall you would be clapped up in a brothel and your
favors sold to the highest bidder by a fat bawd. Is that what you
want?”

“No worse a fate than what will befall me
should I remain here.”

The Vicomte’s mouth dropped open at this
statement, but there was nothing he could say in answer to it. He
knew very well his father’s scheme and it sickened him. He blamed
the Earl of Strathsay for all his present troubles. The old man
should have left Antonia in Rome with a strict governess until his
return. A convent better befitted girls of her breeding, where they
were safe from lechers such as his father. But what convent school
would take her when she stubbornly refused, in the face of her
grandfather’s wrath, to embrace the one true faith?

He wished his hands would stop shaking. He
felt hot and damp in his coat despite a bitter cold wind whistling
through the archway. His manservant held a taper closer to cast
light on his pockets whilst he rummaged for a snuffbox. Two pinches
of the mixture and in a short while the shaking would cease and he
would feel calmer, better able to think what to do next. But what
could he do? What was he to do? Never mind Antonia was beautiful
and young; there were many such girls at court. Why couldn’t his
father find another diversion to occupy his time? But the Vicomte
knew the answer. Antonia’s great beauty was equaled by a strong
will and a naïve exuberance for life. And she was a virgin. A rare
commodity in a place like Versailles. Strong attractions indeed for
such a jaded
roué
as his father. And his was not the only
jaundiced eye that had been cast in Antonia’s direction, thought
d’Ambert with a growing depression.

Antonia touched his arm. “So you will take
me to Paris?”

“You know why I cannot. My father has
threatened a
lettre de cachet
.”

“That I will not believe. He is your father,
not your jailer. Why should he do such a thing? You are his only
son. It is unbelievable.”

“Would I lie to you?” he demanded.

Antonia looked at him frankly, clear green
eyes searching his damp face and shook her head. “No. You would not
lie to me, Étienne. He is quite abominable to threaten such a
thing. Would it mean the Bastille?”

“Or any other fortress so named in the
warrant. The stinking subterranean dungeons of Castle Bicêtre, if
it suited his purpose. There everything is complete darkness. A
living death! And at the King’s pleasure. I could not endure
it.”

“He would never send you there,” Antonia
said with confidence, though the thought of such places of torture
made her inwardly shudder.

“Salvan will stop at nothing until he has
what he wants,” said the Vicomte discouragingly. “He wants you and
he says I must marry you. Mayhap—”

Antonia blinked. “But I do not want to marry
you at all.”

“You could do worse than marry into my
family!” Étienne flared up.

Antonia chuckled. “Oh, do not look so
offended. When you pull that face you remind me of the Archbishop
of Paris.”

He blushed and smiled. “I am sorry. It is
just—If it was not for my father’s schemes perhaps you would
consider?”

“No,” she stated. “I do not love you,
Étienne. I am sorry. When I marry it will be for love. My father
and mother married for love and I will not settle for less.”

The Vicomte bowed mockingly. “M’sieur
d’Ambert thanks mademoiselle for her frankness. Mademoiselle has a
most novel approach to marriage. Perhaps it is my person which
offends? I am not tall enough? Too young? Do you prefer brown eyes
to blue? Or does mademoiselle look higher? My name and lineage are
impeccable, but I will only inherit the title of Comte. Perhaps it
is a tabouret you crave? Yes! It is a Duke you want! Eh?”

“Now you are being childish,” said Antonia
without heat. “It is when you are like this I dislike you.” She
went to walk off but he blocked her exit. “Let me pass, Étienne. It
is late and Maria will scold me if I do not return before she goes
to mass.”

“Childish, am I?” he demanded and caught at
her arm under the cloak. “You, who go at the beg and call of a
whore—”

“Maria is no such thing!”

“No? She is your grandfather’s
mistress?”

“Yes...”

“Yes?”

“She loves him, Étienne.”

“You are a child. A whore is a whore. Maria
Casparti is a whore! A Venetian
whore
.”

“Let me go! You are hurting me!”

“Perhaps little Antonia has a particular
nobleman in mind?” taunted the Vicomte with a sneering smile,
twisting her arm. “Is that why she so easily dismisses me? Let me
think who might take your fancy…”

“You do not even care for me,” said Antonia
in exasperation. “Only three weeks ago you were ears over toes in
love with Pauline Alexandre de Rohan. She is a very beautiful and
accomplished girl and I know if you had pursued her your father
could not have objected to such a match. She cared for you
too—”

“Perhaps mademoiselle prefers men to boys?
Is it my age you cavil at?” goaded the Vicomte. “Someone of my
English cousin’s vintage and reputation intrigues you, does he not?
Once you asked many questions about him and I know you sneak off to
watch him fence cork-tipped in the Princes’ courtyard. I have had
you followed. My English cousin is very good with his sword. He has
one of the best wrists in France. He has also slept in every
woman’s bed in this palace!”

“What of that? So have three-quarters of the
gentlemen at court!”

“I am not of that number,” stated the
Vicomte haughtily.

Antonia smiled up at him. “Foolish Étienne.
That is what I most admired in you from the first. Now please let
me go. I am certain you have bruised my wrist.”

He gave an embarrassed laugh and squeezed
her wrist before releasing her. “My temper is very bad,” he said
with a shrug. “Do not anger me and I will not hurt you, foolish
Antonia. If you have a bruise I am sorry for it. Mayhap tomorrow we
will hear from St. Germain. Unlike you I do not despair of good
news—What is it?”

Antonia had heard the echo of high heels
across the deserted courtyard and seen the Vicomte’s manservant
give a start. She scooped up the cloak which had fallen from her
shoulders at d’Ambert’s rough treatment and hastily threw it over
her gown, not caring that the mud and grime of the cobbles splashed
her petticoats.

“Listen, Étienne,” she whispered. “If we are
caught—”

“Too late,” he answered and stepped into the
pale orange light.

The Vicomte watched the glow of a flambeau
brighten as it crossed the courtyard, and three figures emerged out
of the darkness. His whole being stiffened and he pulled Antonia
behind him as he greeted the intruders with a stiff bow. He dared
not look at his father who stood at the Duke of Roxton’s shoulder.
“Good evening, M’sieur le Duc,” he said politely.

Before the salutation could be returned the
Comte de Salvan jumped at his son. “What are you doing here?” he
demanded in a falsetto whisper. “Did I not warn you? Do not meddle
in my affairs! You will ruin everything! Everything.”