Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (43 page)

“Fifteen years, your Grace.”

“Good—God. Has it been that long?”

“Yes, your Grace. My father was the fourth
Duke’s butler and I—I was an under-footman until your Grace asked
me to be valet.”

“Is that so?” mused the Duke. “I wonder what
induced me…” he said more to himself, though the valet heard and
answered him.

“Your Grace said I was the only member of
your grandfather’s household who had a civilized tongue in his
head. My mother was a French Huguenot. I’m sure your Grace won’t
remember her. She was the housekeeper.”

“Indeed?” said the Duke, twisting his
emerald ring to catch the light of a candelabra standing on the
small bureau. “Tell me: in the years you have been in my service
have my—er—exploits ever decided you to reconsider your
employment?”

Ellicott’s face lost its healthy glow. “I
don’t understand, your Grace.”

“There is to be a change in
present—er—arrangements,” said his master in an unsteady voice. “I
thought you should be told.”

“Your Grace need not explain,” said the
valet with polite rigidity. “I will remove myself at—”

“No, no, you oaf!” said Roxton with an
embarrassed sigh. “By all means leave, if that is your wish, though
I would prefer you stayed.”

“Thank you, your Grace. I am gratified my
services are appreciated. I always strive to do my best and will
continue to do my best in the future, so that your Grace need
never—”

“Do stop blathering on at me. I am trying to
tell you something of the upmost importance and you are running on
at me like a fishwife!” scolded the Duke. He caught the smirk that
crossed the valet’s face and frowned. “Tread warily, friend. No
doubt I have provided endless entertainment in the past, but
Mademoiselle Moran—she is not—is not like all the others.”

“No, your Grace.”

“For what it is worth—and I don’t know why I
need tell you this—I love her. We are to be married this
afternoon.”

“I know that, your Grace.”

“Do you indeed?” said the Duke in something
of his old manner. “Then you had best attend to mademoiselle’s
bath.”

“May I be the first to wish you happy, your
Grace?”

“You may. Now go away! Oh, and, Martin…
thank you.”

The Duke was composing a third letter, and
Ellicott had just returned with a tray of refreshments, when
Antonia tiptoed shyly into the closet. She had finished her
toilette, but for the satin slippers and her hair, which she had
brushed free of tangles and let fall to her waist. The valet
quickly absented himself, disappearing into the dressing room to
tidy up, but Antonia’s smile and thanks as he passed her so
disconcerted him that he almost tripped over his own feet.

She did not disturb the Duke, although he
glanced up from the parchment several times to see what she was
doing. She was content to wander the room, careful not to disturb
anything, but interested in everything it contained. She took
particular interest in the contents of the snuff cabinet and knelt
to have a better view of the boxes on the second shelf. All were
made of precious metals or semiprecious stones, and such exotic
materials as lapis lazuli, tortoiseshell, pearl and ivory; one was
made from the lava found at Herculaneum. The third shelf displayed
a number of Chinese fans, painted in gouache on paper leaf. Many
were of silver or gold gilt and enamel, or inlaid with
mother-of-pearl. One was black lacquered with filigree worked
sticks.

“Are these fans very old, Monseigneur?” she
asked, and was surprised to find him standing beside her. “Oh, did
I disturb you?”

He opened the cabinet with a key he took
from the fob pocket of his breeches. “I think most of these fans
date from the early sixteenth century. They are of Dutch-Chinese
origin. I have others in the cabinets in the library that are
older.” He selected the lacquered fan and with an expert flick of
the wrist opened it out to flutter it like a woman. He gave it to
Antonia. “I presume you know how to take care of a fan.”

She scrambled to her feet.

“But it is much too old and too beautiful to
use,” she protested. But he had gone back to his desk and poured
out coffee in two dishes. “I will take very good care of it,” she
assured him.

“Better care than you did poor Vallentine’s
birthday gift,” he said. From a drawer he produced Antonia’s
birthday fan.

“
Parbleu
! Vallentine’s fan. You had
it all the time!” she exclaimed with a clap of her hands. “Poor
Harcourt, he spent a day wandering the Theatre Royal boxes looking
for it. And he confronted M’sieur Garrick who assured him it had
been returned. But Harcourt, he did not believe him in the least, I
know it.”

“Let that be a lesson to you,
mignonne
. It is not customary for young ladies to offer
their fans to members of the acting fraternity. Such actions only
cause—er—unnecessary speculation. Nor do they wander about in bare
feet,” he added, running his quizzing-glass down to her stockinged
toes. “You’ll catch your death,
chérie
.”

“But I am wearing stockings, Monseigneur,”
she assured him with a lift of her petticoats.

“So I see,” he said. “I hope you will not
make a habit of showing your lovely ankles to the world.”

Antonia frowned self-consciously. “I have
never shown any person. Except you, Monseigneur. Did I offend
you?”

“Not in the least,” he smiled and beckoned
her to sit beside him on the window seat. “Do you feel better for
your bath?”

“Very much,” she said. “My feet, they are
still quite tender. But the footbath Ellicott prepared was very
soothing. He is very thoughtful, Monseigneur. And just as in Paris
not once did he ask an impertinent question or-or look at me
askance for being in your rooms. I like him.”

“Ellicott would turn pink with pleasure to
hear you say so,” he said. “I am only sorry you did not have the
benefit of your maid’s assistance to dress. And by the pinning up
of that stomacher her services were sorely needed. Stand there and
let me look at it.”

Antonia put aside her fan and dish and
dutifully stood before him. She tried to inspect the sit of the
stomacher, her chin on her shoulder. “I was good at dressing myself
when I lived with Grandpapa. He never did find the time to engage a
maid. Sometimes Maria’s tire-woman would help. But since you gave
Gabrielle to me I have become very lazy I think. The trouble is, I
never can do anything looking at a reflection. My fingers become
thumbs and more often than not, if I am affixing a brooch, I will
prick my skin rather than gather up the fold of fabric.”

When he had secured the hooks of the
stomacher into the correct eyelets on either side of the bodice she
held out a diamond and pearl brooch. “Thank you. Could you please
now pin this on at the shoulder here. It helps hide the scar, you
see.”

“I will try,” he said softly and waited for
her to brush the hair off her shoulder. Yet, when he attempted to
slip the point of the pin into the damask near her breast he
fumbled at the touch of her warm skin, and the brooch fell with a
clatter to the floor. “Antonia, I—I am sorry. I—”

“It is not important,” she responded
cheerfully and scrambled to pick up the brooch. “As it is only you
and me, I need not worry about it. Would you care for another dish
of coffee? I find I cannot abide tea. I have tried it but it does
not agree with me.” She took his dish and refilled it and came back
to the window seat. “Some persons are persuaded tea-drinking leads
to immoral behavior, so they will not indulge themselves in the
habit. That is a silly notion,
hein
? How is tea different
from coffee? One comes from China; the other is from Persia. I
would have thought the Persians far more immoral than the Chinese.
You only have to read Herodotus to know that.”

“Antonia, listen. What I said the day I made
you leave me—I did not mean a word of it,” he confessed, gaze on
the contents of the porcelain dish he held. “My conduct was
appalling. I am not proud of myself. But circumstances such as they
were… I felt compelled to get you away from France… Every day since
then I have bitterly regretted sending you from me…”

“But you wanted to protect me from M’sieur
le Comte.”

“Protect you? And such a fine protector you
must think me!”

“I am glad you did not call Étienne out, or
allow Theo to do so. Étienne is not very well in his head, is he,
Monseigneur? And he is addicted to opiates.”

The Duke’s eyebrows went up. “You know
that?”

“But of course. I’ve known almost from the
first. Papa he took a measured dose every night. Sometimes, when he
was too ill to administer it himself, I would give it him. But
Étienne, he takes vastly too much. But I do not think it is only
opium which causes his attacks of rage.”

“No,
chérie
. He has his mother’s
affliction.”

“Madame de Salvan was considered a great
beauty in her day, was she not, M’sieur le Duc?” she said in a
small voice, watching his profile intently. “Madame your sister
confided that at one time you hoped to marry her.”

“Did she indeed? Estée has ever been the
polite one in the family. No, I never offered Claudine-Alexandre my
name, only my bed. I am sure that does not shock you.”

“No. I much prefer to be told the
truth.”

“However much that may hurt?”

“Yes, M’sieur le Duc.”

He kissed her hand and stood up. “What else
did Estée tell you of Claudine-Alexandre?”

“N-nothing. Étienne he told me a little. I
know she poisoned herself when he was only a boy, and that somehow
he blames you because you and she were lovers.”

“The boy has the situation confused. He
blames me because my affair with his mother was well known. But
that happened before he was born.”

“But your letters to her…”

“Fabricated by my dear Tante Victoire and my
cousin Salvan,” he said dryly. “It is so much nicer, and far less
complicated, to blame Claudine-Alexandre’s suicide on a broken
heart than on a broken mind. And convenient to lay the fault at my
door. Claudine-Alexandre never made a secret of her—er—infatuation
for me. After our affair ended she continued to write to me. I
returned her letters unread. It does not do to put ink to paper. I
am not so foolish. What is it,
mignonne
?”

Antonia shook her head. She was thinking of
her own letters to him, and it angered her that she had been just
as foolish. He seemed to read her mind.

“Your Grandmother, in her misguided wisdom,
kept your letters from me,” he said, and smiled crookedly when she
looked up quickly. “I have them now, and read them all. You must
not condemn her too harshly. She did not think it—er—healthy for
you to correspond with one of my reputation.”

“She is a fool!” said Antonia angrily and
dismissed her grandmother from her mind. “When I was at Versailles
and knew you only by sight and reputation, Maria Casparti warned
me—”

“Your father’s mistress was concerned for
your welfare,
mignonne
.”

Antonia ignored the sarcasm. “No, it was not
that she worried about me, Monseigneur. She never thought you like
M’sieur le Comte de Salvan. But it concerned her that if it was
discovered Étienne was in truth your son there would be a big
scandal and you would again be banished from the Court as happened
when the Comtesse de Salvan died. And then you would not be able to
help me at all—Monseigneur, Étienne he looks nothing like Salvan.
At first I did not believe Maria, until one day I saw you giving
Étienne a fencing lesson in the Princes Courtyard and then I truly
began to wonder if you were his father. I am certain Étienne
wonders too. He has your sister’s blue eyes and there is something
about him that reminds me of you… And then when Lady Paget showed
me the family portrait in the Gallery and I saw your father I was
certain Étienne he is your son.”

The Duke took a long time to answer her.
“You forget my mother was a Salvan, thus Salvan blood runs in both
our veins. That is an adequate explanation.”

“But he is not Salvan’s son. He has Hesham
blood,” she persisted. “Claudine-Alexandre she wrote and told you
the truth just before she died, did she not? That is why Salvan and
his mother hate you so. That is why they have conveniently blamed
you for her death.”

“Yes. Such is the sordid reputation of the
women at Court, and Claudine-Alexandre was no exception, that their
children can only ever be certain of their mother,” he said to
dismiss the subject, and she did not push him further.

She watched him shuffle papers on his desk
and after a silence between them said, “May I ask a question,
M’sieur le Duc?”

“Ask anything you care to. I cannot
guarantee you will be pleased with the response.”

“I have never understood why Lady Paget—Lady
Paget and Grandmamma are such good friends,” said Antonia as
casually as she could manage. “I love Grandmamma because it is my
duty to do so, but I do not like her, Monseigneur. But Lady Paget I
like. She is not selfish and vain and she does not always want her
own way. She is sensible and kind and rather handsome in a majestic
way. I like her very much.”

He turned to look at her. “That is not a
question, Antonia.”

She held his gaze. “Do you—Do you like
her?”

“Kate and I are very good friends,” he
answered, and had to smile to himself when she frowned and looked
down at the twisted lock of hair between her fingers.

“She reminds me a little of Madame de La
Tournelle. You and she were also very good friends.”

“Come here, ma belle,” he coaxed. “I don’t
know what you have been told, or by whom, but I tell you this in
good faith. Kate and I have not been lovers since before this last
visit to Paris. As for the divine Tournelle, she was a passing
interest; someone to relieve the tedium of court for a little
while. Does that ease the mind of my grand inquisitor?”