Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (5 page)

“I passed on your compliments to Salvan. He
has promised to come to Paris as soon as his duties at court
permit. Soon you will be up on all the gossip at Versailles. He
always has a store of scandal at the ready.”

“Still hanging about is he?” grumbled Lord
Vallentine.

“Why do you pull a face?” asked Estée.
“Salvan is our cousin and often visits when he can.”

“I don't like the fellow. His paints and
powders annoy me, as do his pleasantries. Damned overbearing!”

“You have a personal grudge against M’sieur
le Comte de Salvan?” enquired the Duke, putting the dish back on
its saucer. “I assure you, my dear, he never seeks to interfere in
another man’s gallantries. Unlike the Duc de Richelieu, unless, of
course, the—er—lady permits.”

“Is that not gentlemanly of him?” Estée
teased Lord Vallentine.

“He hasn’t done me any harm—yet,” replied
his lordship darkly, and in English.

The Duke offered him snuff. “Nor is he ever
likely to, my dear Vallentine,” he answered in his native tongue.
“You either lack the necessary confidence or you are
casting—er—aspersions upon the virtue of a lady. The former I can
do nothing about. The latter, if it be so, is an insult, and that I
am quite capable of dealing with.”

“You have a nice turn of phrase.”

Roxton bowed his head. “I aim to
please.”

“Accept my apologies.”

“As always.”

Lord Vallentine smiled at Madame and
reverted to the French tongue. “Forgive us, Estée. There are some
things I find too difficult to explain in French.”

“No?” she said and sipped at her coffee.
“When you speak in English with my brother it is because you do not
want me to understand at all. Me, I find that very unfair! You will
have all the time in the world to do so when I retire. But, if you
were talking about the court please tell me. If it was politics, I
do not care in the least to know.”

“They are one and the same, eh, Roxton?
Though I prefer the halls of Westminster to the stifled intrigues
of Versailles. There is something far more sinister about that
place. Too much muck-raking under all that glitters! Don’t know why
you bother with it, Roxton. Plenty to do in Paris without getting
mixed up in the goings-on out there.”

The Duke looked up from admiring his emerald
ring. “It can’t be helped. It is in the blood.”

“A poor excuse!” scoffed his lordship.
“You’re an Englishman to the marrow. Eton schooled and Oxford
educated thanks to your grandfather’s influence. ’tis a pity your
sister wasn’t sent to England with you.”

“And leave Maman?” said Estée with alarm.
“It was horrid enough when my brother was wrenched from Maman’s
arms when Papa died. He belonged here with us. This was where he
was born and raised. This is what Papa wanted for us. He did not
like England. He wanted us to be French, just like Maman. I am
French. My brother is too.”

Vallentine sat bolt upright, spilling coffee
over into the saucer. “Roxton ain’t French! He ain’t even a papist!
His father wasn’t either, whatever you say.”

“It is a great shame,” sighed Madame, a
twinkle at her brother.

“Shame? Now listen, Estée—”

“Something is troubling you, Roxton,” said
Madame, ignoring his lordship’s heated outburst. “You are
constantly looking at Papa’s ring. Why?”

“Tell me, Vallentine. What color are the
Lady Strathsay’s eyes?”

Lord Vallentine looked puzzled. He shrugged.
“No idea.”

“Lady Strathsay?” asked Estée. “I do not
know in the least. I have not seen her in many years. The old Earl,
her husband, he is finally dying.
Malheur
! It is quite an
occasion, this event. Has he been moved to St. Germain? Tante
Victoire says he has gone there to die.”

The Duke shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Tante says he refuses the confessional
until he has had word from the true English King, and he has sent
his mistress of fifteen years away. I feel sorry for the woman.
Tante says she was more devoted to him than any wife. Not that Lady
Strathsay has the right to be called his wife, never living with
him these past thirty years.” Madame gave a long sigh. “Poor man,
to have such a wife. And she our
cousine
! I am glad she does
not visit. I would not wish to play hostess to one such as
she.”

“The old man must be close to eighty,” put
in Vallentine. “Will you have done fidgeting with that damme ring,
Roxton! You’re blinding me. Strathsay dying? Well, well! That will
soon put another nail in the Stuart coffin. He’s the last of
Charles’s bastards, and the last of the Pretender’s Generals. He
must be close to eighty.”

“So you have said. He is four and seventy
and it is not age that is killing him, but the pox,” the Duke
informed them. “A fitting end for the Merry Monarch and that shrew
Jane Strathsay’s bastard. Tell me, Estée, what is the color of
Augusta Strathsay’s eyes?”

His sister glanced suspiciously at Lord
Vallentine, but when his lordship could only shrug she looked back
at her brother. “I think they are green,” she said with impatience.
“Yes, they are green.”

“And why do you remember them so
particularly?”

“I wish I knew what you are thinking!” she
said. “I don’t remember them so particularly. It is just that they
are green.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes! That is all!” said Estée with a pout.
She poured out a second dish of coffee for each of them. “They are
green. Vallentine would know better than I.”

“Grass-green? Sea green? A jade, perhaps?”
persisted the Duke.

“I wonder how Lady Strathsay will take the
news of the Earl’s death?” asked Lord Vallentine, hoping to turn
the subject from his friend’s newly found obsession with the color
green.

“Augusta will hate going into mourning.
Black and white does not suit her,” answered Roxton and stretched
out his hand so the emerald caught the light from the chandelier.
“You think mayhap a pea-green?”

Estée rose with a flounce. “You are being
insufferable! Sometimes I do not understand you at all! You were in
London just four months ago, so you can tell us what shade of green
are
cousine
Augusta’s eyes.”

“I would like you to tell me,” he said
softly.

Madame went back to her tapestry. “Augusta
is, or was, but I dare say still is, a very beautiful woman. So.
Her eyes are beautiful also. If I remember at all correctly she has
unusual eyes—slightly oblique, like a cat’s. Most unusual. And with
long dark lashes, which is also unusual for someone with a head of
flaming curls.”

“Don’t recall ’em myself,” mumbled Lord
Vallentine out of his depth. He was restless and stood to stretch
his legs. “Prefer blue eyes m’self. What is it with her eyes? She
ain’t going blind, is she?”

“Of course not,” responded Estée, her cheeks
tinged with color at Lord Vallentine’s guarded compliment.

“I’ll be blinded if you don’t leave off
turning that emerald into the light,” announced his lordship with a
squint. “Hey! Emerald! Emerald green!”

The Duke sighed. “At last Vallentine’s brain
turns a cog. I am aghast.”

His lordship’s face darkened. “I’m right,
ain’t I?”

“You shall collect a sweetmeat from Duvalier
for your efforts, my dear Vallentine,” said Roxton and flicked the
grey whippet’s ear with a careless finger. He kissed his sister’s
forehead and said goodnight. “Come, my children,” he commanded the
dogs. “You too, dearest,” he said to his friend. “I’m off to
Rossard’s. Shall you join me?”

“Certainly. But only if you leave off about
eyes and emeralds!”

“I won’t tax your brain further, only your
skill at table.”

There was a scratch at the door before the
gentlemen departed. It was the butler, very apologetic, and with
the news the Vicomte d’Ambert wished to speak to Monseigneur on a
most urgent matter that could not wait until morning.

“The library, Duvalier. Vallentine, will you
wait?”

“I’ll sit a little longer with Estée.”

“What is the matter?” Madame asked the Duke.
“Not Salvan? Or Tante Victoire?”

“I don’t believe so,” replied Roxton with an
expression Estée always found so infuriatingly hard to read. “Yet,
I should have guessed he would follow hot-foot from Versailles. No
doubt the street urchin sent him to do her bidding.” And he left
the room before his sister and Lord Vallentine could question him
further.

There was a fire in the library but little
light. Only one chandelier cast a glow over the long room of
leather-bound volumes and heavy furniture. The rich burgundy
curtains of velvet were drawn across the windows that had a view of
the inner courtyard with its small garden and stables. One window
was not draped, and it was at this the Vicomte d’Ambert, booted and
spurred, had positioned himself when a footman opened the door to
admit the Duke.

“You wished to speak to me on a—er—urgent
matter?” asked the Duke in his characteristic soft voice.

The youth gave a start and came away from
the window to meet the Duke in the middle of the room. His bow was
stiffly formal and betrayed a nervousness his pale face tried hard
to disguise. “I apologize for disturbing you, M’sieur le Duc. But I
thought an explanation due you regarding what occurred this
evening. I came as soon as I could, before-before—As soon as I
could.”

Roxton perched on a corner of his massive
writing table and swung a leg casually. He fixed the young man with
an unblinking stare. “Before I had the story from your father?” he
enquired.

Color flooded the Vicomte’s lean cheeks and
he faltered. “It is not supposed I would be believed above my
father. I must tell you about Mademoiselle Moran and—”

“Excuse me, d’Ambert,” interrupted the Duke.
“I have not the slightest interest in Mademoiselle Moran. Your
father’s interest in her or yours.”

“B-but, M’sieur le Duc,” stammered d’Ambert.
“It is important you know!”

“Why?”

“W-why? Because—because you saw Mademoiselle
Moran and me together. And you are my father’s closest cousin. He
must confide in you at times and—”

“I would greatly object to Salvan confiding
anything in me,” responded the Duke evenly. He offered his
snuffbox.

“N-no, I thank you. I—I prefer my own
mix.”

Roxton took snuff. “As you wish.”

There were several moments of silence, then
the Vicomte could no longer control himself. “You must listen to
me, M’sieur le Duc! It is important. My father, he is your cousin.
I am your cousin. I have no one else I can talk to about this
matter. No one who will not think my father right and me wrong. He
will not see reason. He is a man possessed. A madman! He threatens
me with a
lettre de cachet
. Me, his son! Is that not a
hideous abuse? Is it not?” He broke off to take a deep breath and
realized he had been shouting at his host. “You do not believe me,
do you? Who would believe a father capable of such an action
against a son?”

“It is not a novel solution to a problem, my
boy. Fathers have clapped up their sons for less.”

The youth’s shoulders slumped. He had to
admit this was true. There was a dozen or more of the nobility’s
most ancient names he could think of who at one time or another had
had a member of their family—and that usually an errant son—shut
away in the Bastille for an undisclosed reason. Even that hearty
libertine the Duc de Richelieu had spent time in the Bastille for
refusing to marry his family’s choice of bride. D’Ambert’s blue
eyes surveyed the older man’s face. It was as inscrutable as
ever.

“And what of a father who wishes to marry
his son to an innocent girl to make her his mistress? His mistress
with honor. Ha! It disgusts me!” spat out the Vicomte. “That is
what he intends with Mademoiselle Moran. You know her grandfather
is too ill to oppose my father’s wishes? I tell you she must leave
Versailles—at once! I will have her away from him. You will help
me?”

“With what?” asked the Duke calmly.

The Vicomte was incredulous. “To have my
father desist with his putrid designs! He must abandon this absurd
notion to have her wedded to me and then—If you would only talk to
him, make him see reason. He listens to you. I think also he is a
little afraid of you.”

“You do not want to marry her?”

“I—I am a Salvan,” he said with a haughty
air. “She is a Protestant. Her father was one generation removed
from Huguenot silk merchants.”

“Salvan in need of funds?”

The Vicomte stiffened.

“Yes, it is an impolite question,” drawled
the Duke. “Is he in expectation of Strathsay leaving the girl his
fortune?”

“Yes, M’sieur le Duc. The Salvan estates are
greatly in need of repair. My grandfather was a great player of all
games of chance, as is my father,” admitted the youth. “He does not
have M’sieur le Duc’s great luck nor his good fortune.”

“The fact that I am—to be quite
vulgar—exceedingly wealthy, is a constant running sore for your
father. Then, so is my—er—uncanny luck at table. I can do little
about either.”

“You will help Mademoiselle Moran?”

Roxton shook out his lace ruffles as he
stood. He regarded the youth’s eager face with indifference.
“No.”

“N-no?” uttered the Vicomte. He did not
understand. “Why-why not, M’sieur le Duc?”

“I make a habit of never helping
anyone.”

“B-but I am your cousin! She-she is your
cousine
!”

“I have many cousins. It is too
tedious.”

The Vicomte d’Ambert was stunned. He was
unable to find the words to answer such a flat reply. He watched
the Duke prod the burning logs in the grate with a poker, the
prominent aquiline profile silhouetted in the orange glow, and
wondered why he thought this consummate libertine would offer to
help him. The man’s reputation was as sinister as it was
notorious.