Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (9 page)

“His whore.”

“His mistress?”

“That is what I said. His whore.”

“It is more polite to call her his
mistress.”

“I said so, too, but Étienne will have it
she is a whore,” Antonia told him. “Are they not one and the
same?”

“Yes and no. A woman who is kept by a
gentleman in comfort, her wants and needs attended to in exchange
for her—er—favors, that is a mistress. A whore is something else
entirely.”

“Yes, Monseigneur?” asked Antonia, head
tilted to one side.

Roxton looked up from contemplating the
engraving on his gold snuffbox and was not deceived by her
expression of polite enquiry. Her clear green eyes sparkled
mischief. For the first time in his life he felt an embarrassing
discomfort in the presence of a female. It annoyed him; an uncanny
ability she had made all her own. As if reading his thoughts she
was the one to break the silence between them.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to embarrass
you,” she said frankly. In the next breath she was at the window
and had pulled the curtain back. “Monseigneur,” she hissed. “Did
you hear that? It sounded like a shot! And we are slowing down! Do
you think there are bandits on this road?
Mon Dieu
, but this
is exciting!”

She pressed her little nose to the glass but
not satisfied with this view started to push down the window. A
firm hand threw her back against the seat and a gloved finger was
pressed to her lips.

“Quiet,” whispered the Duke and when she
nodded he removed his hand. He felt in a pocket for his silver
mounted pistol and cocked it.

Another report, louder than the first and
from a blunderbuss, and the chaise came to a standstill in the
middle of the road. The driver had been struck in the arm, he was
certain the bone was shattered and he lurched forward in pain.
There were no other immediate casualties. The rest of the Duke’s
men stayed at their posts, not daring to move. Only the horses
pulled at their bits and stamped their hooves in fear. Across the
path of the chaise were three men on horseback, hats pulled low on
their brow to keep their faces shaded from the moonlight. A
carriage and a carabas travelling in the opposite direction were
halted fifty yards up the road. The occupants were made to stand in
a huddle and kept under watch by two men dressed like their fellows
and brandishing pistols at their captives. All was bathed in eerie
moonlight. The surrounding countryside was forested and dark.

The Duke did not alight until rudely
requested by a thump with the end of a blunderbuss on the chaise
door bearing his coat of arms. He was leisurely in his movements,
maddeningly so, and proceeded to take snuff. All the while he took
stock of the situation; the position of the two horsemen, the large
scruffy bandit who stood close by, and the hold up in the flow of
traffic up the road. His apparent nonchalance confused the brute
closest him for he looked to his accomplices for direction.

“Search the carriage,” was the order.

“I would not,” said the Duke haughtily, and
dusted off a coat sleeve with a lace handkerchief.

The large brute hesitated. He was solid and
tall and good with his fists but this nobleman with his lean
aristocratic features and finery under the well-cut coat was the
taller. He also knew the voice of command.

“Do it, Pierre!” came the command.

The brute grunted, angry at his weakness.
What could this nobleman do to stop him in the face of his
companions? He had his orders. He had also been told not to harm
this nobleman. That remained to be seen; he itched to bruise such
delicate skin. He took a step closer but the nobleman stood between
him and the carriage door.

“If you touch my property I will be forced
to stop you,” said the Duke calmly.

“We want the girl,” called the bandit who
had earlier barked out orders. “When we have the girl you are free
to go on your way!”

“Girl? There is some mistake.”

The leader’s voice became harsh. “There is
no mistake! You have abducted my master’s property! He wants it
returned.”

The Duke appeared indignant. His fingers
curled about the pistol’s trigger. The other hand held up a scented
handkerchief to his thin nostrils and he breathed in luxuriantly.
Although his attention did not waiver from the large brute who
hovered in front of him he spoke to the leader on horseback. “Your
master’s property?” he replied coldly. “The minx! You may certainly
have her. She assured me she had had no other lover.”

All three men chuckled at this, and a lewd
private joke passed between the two on horseback. The leader with
the laughter still in his throat looked back at the Duke.

“’tis a pity to bring your delicious
interlude to a halt, M’sieur le Duc. But you see, you would not get
very far with that one. Her virtue is as well guarded as the
Bastille. You’ve been well and truly duped!”

His companions began to snigger and the
large brute with the blunderbuss strode forward and shoved the Duke
aside with his shoulder. He grabbed the door and wrenched it open
and had a boot on the fold-down step when there was a deafening
report. He lost his footing, staggered backwards, the blunderbuss
dropped from his hand, and he fell lifeless into the mud.

“No, my friends,” said the Duke, “it is you
who have been bamboozled. I have just had her.”

The leader who was momentarily stunned into
inaction by the death of his accomplice glared at the Duke.
“What?!” he thundered and kicked his mount to canter forward. He
did not know what to do next, but a movement at the carriage door
swept aside his hesitation. “Come down from there!”

The sound of a shot so close to the chaise
had Antonia instantly in the doorway, frightened the Duke had been
struck. Seeing him standing very still near to her, a smoking
pistol in his hand brought a smile of relief and she was no longer
afraid. She turned to see the results of his handiwork and her eyes
widened at the dead man lying face up in a muddy pool.

Thus, when the bandit on horseback charged
up to the carriage shouting and waving a pistol she was slow to
respond. What followed happened quickly. Later she was unsure of
the precise sequence of events—only of the blur of movement all
about her, of shouting, and the offensive smell of gunpowder;
falling in the mud, then being dragged to her feet; looking for the
Duke and seeing him safe; he calling out to her but she not hearing
his words because of a last deafening report; a searing pain which
would not go away; and finally, collapsing into the Duke’s
arms.

All was blackness.

Lord Vallentine returned from supper at the
house of a friend and enquired of Duvalier if Madame had retired
for the night. The butler, an exceptionally discreet and haughty
man of his vocation who had been with the Duke since his master was
a young man and thus considered himself above all others, was not
accustomed to being greeted with a ‘hey-ho’ and a cheerful grin. It
disconcerted him. Lord Vallentine always did so and it affected
Duvalier to the extent that his face froze over. Tonight was an
exception. The butler was worried and it showed on his thawed
features. His lordship saw this and frowned.

“What’s to do?” asked Lord Vallentine
bluntly. “Has M’sieur le Duc returned from Versailles?”

“No. That is to say, Monseigneur has not
returned from Versailles as yet, m’sieur.”

“He’s late, ain’t he?”

“He is sometimes so,” answered the butler
stiffly.

“All right! All right! I’m not some ignorant
oaf.”

“M’sieur, I was not implying—”

“No need. I know what you were implying! Did
he say he would return at a specified hour?”

“Yes, m’sieur.”

“So he is late!”

“Two hours—”

“Two hours, eh?” murmured Vallentine. He
took the butler aside, away from the ears of the porter and a
lingering footman. “Any word?”

“Monseigneur’s valet returned on horseback
with a note for Madame,” confided Duvalier.

“He with her now?” he asked and at the
butler’s shake of the head rubbed his cleft chin. “I think I’ll see
Madame.”

“Very well, m’sieur,” answered the butler
and would have said more but Lord Vallentine dashed up the stairs
without further ado. Duvalier watched him go with a small smile,
knowing what awaited him. Seeing the porter gaping at him his
features froze over once more and he retired to the pantry to await
developments.

Madame’s maid admitted his lordship to the
decidedly feminine boudoir which smelled heavily of Madame’s
perfume. The furniture was gilt and upholstered in palest blue
flowered damask. Estée reclined on a chaise longue, a heavy silk
robe over her night chemise and kid slippers on her stockinged
feet. She had an arm across her brow and clenched in her hand was a
crumpled piece of paper. The light was dim and cast shadows up the
fabric wallpaper.

Lord Vallentine had to squint to see.

“What’s amiss?” he asked.

Estée saw him, burst into fresh tears, and
buried her face in a chintz cushion. Vallentine hurried forward and
knelt at her side. He sent the maid away with a jerk of his head.
She scurried off, but only to the other side of the door, leaving
it slightly ajar so she could clearly hear the conversation.

“Look at me, love,” he said soothingly and
patted her hand. “It is no use talking into that pillow, it don’t
understand, and I can’t if you don’t look at me.”

Madame sniffed. “You are horrid to come up
here when I must look dreadful! My face has run and-and my eyes are
red and—Oh! Lucian!” she burst out and threw herself into his
lordship’s arms.

He was happy to hold her, in fact had she
not been crying he would have kissed her. But she was crying into
his shoulder staining a perfectly good silver-threaded waistcoat,
and that he could not abide. Besides, he felt rather stupid not
knowing how to stem the flow so he sat with her in this way for
several minutes until her hysterics finished of their own accord,
then he gave her his dry handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she said in a tiny voice.
“Please call Hélène to fetch up some burgundy.” When he came back
she was sitting up, away from the candelabra where the shadows were
kinder on her blotchy face. “Read this,” she commanded and thrust
the crumpled paper in his hand. “It’s from Roxton. I don’t know
what devil has possessed him! He has not been himself this past
month or more, and now this! I know one can never gauge his moods
and he can be insufferable and contemptuous, but of late I know he
has been brooding. Now I know why!”

Lord Vallentine smoothed out the paper over
one silken knee as she spoke and read the familiar script. Frankly
he could not understand why Estée was making such a fuss. “Who’s
the guest?” he asked casually.

“Guest?
Guest
. You are as shameless
as he!”

“Steady, Estée,” cautioned his lordship. “I
object to being put in a box with your brother. He is my closest
friend but that don’t mean I care for the way he lives. But then
I’m not judging him either. As far as being shameless—”

“Don’t pretend to be such a blockhead,
Lucian! You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Be that as it may,” stated his lordship,” I
don’t know what you see to object to. He only asks that you prepare
a room and engage one of the chambermaids as tire-woman until a
more suitable arrangement can be organized.”

“Suitable arrangement!” scoffed Madame. “He
has finally dallied with the wrong sort of female and is being
brought to account for it! That will teach him to rape and
pillage—”

“Estée!” gasped his lordship. “May the
burgundy arrive pronto! You’re in need of it! Roxton don’t go about
rapin’ and pillagin’, and you know it! And he is an altogether too
slippery fish to be caught by any feminine hook dangled in front of
him, however tempting. Why are you so upset? He says it will be
only for a day or two—”

“Then why does he write in the next sentence
I am to engage Maurice—
Maurice
. Paris’s finest mantua-maker
no less.”

Lord Vallentine shrugged. “No idea. Still it
can’t be that much of an inconvenience, surely?”

Madame was about to tell him exactly what
sort of inconvenience it was when Duvalier came into the room with
a bottle of wine and two glasses and set them in front of his
mistress. He poured out then left with a bow and the merest of
glances at his mistress who ignored his existence.

“I will not have a room prepared and I will
not engage one of the maids to act as tire-woman! And I refuse to
summons Maurice to dance attendance on one of Roxton’s whores! Do
not gape at me, Lucian! You know perfectly well that is what she
must be or she would not be in my brother’s company without benefit
of chaperone and a decent cloth to her back! And do not think you
will get any sense out of his servant. They are all the same! Sly
closed-mouthed barbarians!” “Ellicott ain’t a barbarian. He’s an
Englishman who can speak damn good French.”