by Unknown
"Ventre a terre, milord?" Her eyes danced wickedly.
"No, most definitely not," he declared. "With sober decorum. I am hoping that the sight of you correctly dressed and escorted will dispel all memories of a hoyden galloping through the park at dawn."
"That does not sound at all amusant, sir."
"And driving with the Chevalier D'Evron is amusing?" he inquired.
Danielle frowned, but her lips curved. "I do not yet know, milord. But I shall find out, shall I not?"
Justin swung his riding crop at her departing rear and Danielle skipped with an indignant ouch. She stuck her tongue out at him over her shoulder before gathering up her skirts and taking prudent flight in the direction of the drawing room.
Linton shook his head with a rueful smile. There could be no possible objection to her driving,with D'Evron. He was perfectly respectable and received in all the best houses. He was known to be quiet and sober to a fault and not overly enamored of the Season's round of gaiety—a sensible man in short. So why then did Justin feel this sense of unease? But as he had agreed long ago with Pitt, Danielle required the lightest hand on the strongest curb—a hand so light that she would be unaware of the curb. He would draw back on the reins only when it was evident that he had no choice, and in a year or so she would be sufficiently established, matured by motherhood perhaps, to have her own hands on her own reins. Linton frowned at the last thought. He was in no hurry for his brat to grow up too quickly—her childhood had lacked the usual elements of play and security and she was entitled to some playtime now. But, nevertheless, it was a little strange that she had not yet conceived. However, she was barely eighteen and if her body was not ready he could afford to wait awhile before setting up his nursery.
Since Danielle was otherwise occupied, Justin decided to pay his visit to Margaret Mainwairing. The ride to Half Moon Street was a pleasant one on this crisp March afternoon and the earl was conscious of a degree of pleasure in the prospect of his ex-mistress's company. Margaret was a sensible woman and, while her companionship could never be as stimulating as that of his wife's, she could be restful. She had not Danielle's ready wit and sense of fun, but, in spite of her self-imposed seclusion from Society's larger gatherings, kept herself well informed as to the latest on dits and had considerable perspicacity. Justin
was intensely curious as to what had led her to such an indiscretion as last night's urgent message— something of moment, undoubtedly. Margaret was always the soul of discretion.
A lad ran to hold his horse as he dismounted outside the small pretty house on this quiet unfashionable street. It was a street for indigent widows, young married couples, and young sprigs making their first forays into society without sufficient means. Margaret was far from indigent but had no wish for grandeur. She also had no wish for the genteel seclusion of Kensington—who would visit her in Kensington? Half Moon Street was both well placed and respectable, entirely suitable for the retiring widow of a gentleman of respectable lineage and moderate fortune.
"Good day, Liza." His Lordship smiled at the maidservant who took his hat with a bobbed curtsy. "Is your mistress at home?"
"Abovestairs, my lord." Liza tried to hide her surprise at this unexpected appearance. My Lord had not visited Half Moon Street in over a year and the reason for his absence was no secret to Lady Mainwairing's household. Had he already tired of his bride?
"Will you not ask Her Ladyship if she will receive me?" Linton put up his glass and examined the maid with a raised eyebrow, his voice gentle.
Liza blushed and made haste to her mistress's boudoir. Justin looked idly around the small, well-remembered hall. Everything appeared in order: visiting cards on the silver tray on the piecrust table, the smell of beeswax and lavender that he always associated with Margaret's house.
"My Lord Linton. How delightful in you to call." Lady Mainwairing almost ran down the straight staircase, hands outstretched in greeting.
Justin raised them both to his lips as he bowed. "Your servant, ma'am."
"Pray come into the parlor. Liza, you will bring the claret for His Lordship." She moved swiftly to the left of the stairs, Justin following, and whisked into the bow-windowed parlor overlooking the street. "My friend, I am truly grateful. I have been at my wits end, or I would never have written to you in such a fashion."
Justin closed the door behind him. She looked drawn and tired and every day of her thirty-seven years, her pale complexion unrelieved by the lavender silk gown. He felt only friendship and a deep regard for her. "Tell me how I may help you, Margaret."
Margaret, if she had cherished any hopes of a lingering passion in her erstwhile lover's bosom, now relinquished them. This was not the cynical, world-weary lover of their past. He looked ten years younger now that the full lips had lost their cynical twist and the blue black eyes carried no boredom, only interest and more than a hint of humor.
"She is good for you, the little de St. Varennes," Margaret said involuntarily. In earlier days, Justin would have responded to such a personal comment with an instant stiffness and a sardonic set down. Now he simply smiled and Margaret gasped at the transformation. Before she could say anything further, however, Liza appeared with decanter and glasses.
Justin took an appreciative sip, reflecting that Danielle would also approve. It was a reflection, though, that had no place at the moment. "How can I help you, Margaret?" he repeated.
"It is Edward."
"Edward?" Margaret's son, Justin knew. "Is he not at Oxford still?"
"He has been sent down." Margaret paced the room, plucking at her sleeve, her face averted.
"That is no great sin," Justin said, puzzled. "I was sent down myself for a term ... a cockfight, as I recall, in my rooms," he mused with a reminiscent grin.
"This is no prank, Justin. Edward has gambling debts that he cannot pay." Margaret looked at him directly, her face haggard as she confessed Society's one unforgivable sin.
"Can you not pay them for him?"
"I have done so, but it does not alter the fact that he is disgraced. He played beyond his means and had
to admit that fact. I settled his IOUs but by then the damage had been done."
Justin nodded. Society would tolerate any peccadillo except one involving honor. But Edward was young, young enough to live this down. "He is but a babe, Margaret, and memories are short. If he remains out of town for the Season I dare swear that by next season all will be forgotten if he conducts himself well."
"But he is not prepared to do so." Her voice was low. "I cannot control him, Justin. His father would perhaps have been able to but Edward is beyond my management. I ... I am greatly afraid that gambling
is in his blood. He will have a respectable fortune when he comes of age, but not sufficient for . . . for this." She looked at him, the blue eyes wide with appeal and glazed with unshed tears.
'There is no fortune sufficient for the true gambler," Justin observed with a frown. Too many families
had been ruined by that unfortunate predeliction. "Is your son in town?"
Margaret nodded. "I do noi know exactly what is happening but I fear the worst. He is a friend of Shelby's . . ."
"If he is running with that crowd, then you may as well consign him to the devil," Justin interrupted harshly.
"Please . . ." she whispered.
"What is it you wish of me, my dear?" Justin strode to her and took the cold hands between his own. "You have only to ask."
"Will you . . . will you talk to him?" At the look of horror in Linton's eyes she went on hastily. "You
have much experience with the young, Justin. You seem to know just how to teach them to go on in the right way . . ."
"You refer to my guardianship of Julian?" Justin frowned.
"My cousin had his share of youthful high spirits, I grant you, but rarely went beyond the line of what is pleasing." He did not add that Lord Julian Carlton's youthful indiscretions would be more readily forgiven by society than those of Edward
Mainwairing. Julian's fortune and lineage far exceeded the respectable.
"I was thinking also of your present circumstance," Lady Mainwairing went on, dropping her eyes. "Your wife is not always the soul of propriety but she is very young and you manage to control . . ."
Justin released her hands abruptly and took snuff from an exquisite enameled box. His eyes were bored, face expressionless.
Margaret made haste to retrieve her mistake. "Pray forgive me, Justin. I spoke without thought. I meant no criticism ... I was thinking only that your position and your experience of guiding the young might help Edward."
"I suggest you buy him a pair of colors, Margaret, and see what a little military discipline will do for him. It would certainly remove him from the company of Shelby and his like."
Margaret stiffened her shoulders. "I do beg your pardon for intruding, Linton. I am most grateful for your kindness in sparing the time to listen to my woes." She managed a brittle little laugh.
Justin sighed and accepted his fate. Why was it that ever since that afternoon when he'd yielded to a ridiculous impulse to rescue a grubby brat from a baker's belt, he found himself unable to resist an appeal for help. He was now to take some wastrel stripling under his patronage. It would have to be done discreetly, of course. Open patronage of his ex-mistress's son would give the gossips food for their crying tongues and then he would have Danny's reactions to contend with. He shuddered slightly at the prospect.
"I will do what I can, Margaret. I may, at least, discover the extent of his gaming and how deep his involvement with Shelby. When I have done so, we will talk further."
"I shall be forever in your debt, Justin." Her smile was watery but so full of genuine gratitude that the
earl felt ashamed of his earlier sharpness. It was a small enough task to undertake for an old friend.
He left her then and turned his horse toward St. James's and his club. It was as good a place as any for discreet inquiry and with any luck he would find his cousin. Jules was close in age to Shelby and would
be more cognizant of that rake's circles than Justin. Had Lord Linton been aware of his wife's whereabouts and activities on that March afternoon, he would have lost whatever scant interest he had
in the affairs of Edward Mainwairing.
Danielle and the chevalier, after a halt at Hoare's bank where Danielle had drawn a substantial sum, left the relatively clean, well ordered streets of central London for the backslums of the East End. The streets narrowed and their progress was slow as the chevalier's curricle drew uncomfortable attention from the area's inhabitants.
D'Evron glanced sideways to his companion and was amazed at her apparent calm. She carried some hundred guineas in her reticule but what the chevalier did not know was that she also carried a small, silver-mounted pistol. The filth, poverty, and hostile curiosity seemed not to trouble her in the least but, again, D'Evron was not to know that the Countess of Linton had once survived in circumstances as bad, if not worse, than those evident around them. The chevalier, in spite of frequent forays into this wasteland of squalor, was still ill at ease and could only marvel at the gently bred aristocrat sitting beside him, expressionless except for her large brown eyes that seemed to take in every minute detail of the scene.
They turned into a reeking alley, barely wide enough for the curricle. The grays stepped delicately over the uneven cobbles where every kind of filth had found a home. Children played in the running kennels, dodged beneath the horses' bellies; sad-eyed women with mewling babes at their shrunken breasts looked at them with the blankness of accepted despair; their menfolk, almost as scrawny, spat obscenities.
Danielle stepped down from the curricle, hoisting her velvet skirts to her knees, revealing the well chosen, sturdy riding boots. She splashed through the stinking soil of the kennel saying not a word to the chevalier as she beckoned an emaciated scrap of tattered humanity. "You will hold the horses, mon petit." She handed him a shilling and the bright gleam drew a sharp breath from the watchers in the street. A group
of men advanced as one body. Danielle did not stop to think whether they were threatening herself or the child. The group found themselves facing a silent controlled figure holding a pistol. They backed away and the chevalier decided that he need have no guilt about embroiling the Countess of Linton in these affairs. Aristocrat she might be, gently bred she was most certainly not. Was the so impassive earl aware of this side of his child bride?
D'Evron dismissed the interesting question. The chevalier was a pragmatist with a job to do and he used what tools were available. If they proved to be sharper than he had expected, so much the better.
He rapped on the half open door with the silver knob of his cane. Receiving no answer, he stood aside to allow Danielle admittance. The narrow dark passage stank of boiled cabbage and fish heads. The stench of poverty and Danny's nose wrinkled with remembered distaste as she returned her pistol to her reticule.
The man who emerged from a door at the end of the passageway looked well enough fed; brawny shoulders—their muscles turning to flab and the broken nose of the ex-heavyweight. Little piggy eyes, Danielle thought. But the eyes widened as they took in the sight of this lady. She was still holding her skirts high to avoid soiling them on her boots and her expression of distaste had Mr. Barkis rubbing his hands obsequiously as he asked how he could serve my lady.
"You may take me to your tenants," he was informed. "After I have spoken with them, I will speak with you."
The little eyes narrowed speculatively. Mr. Barkis had recognized the chevalier, but he was of no account, just another emigre frog eater of no power or influence. The lady, on the other hand, was icily English. If she had an interest in that pathetic group upstairs then perhaps there was something to be gained.
"Of course, my lady." He bowed low. "If you will be pleased to follow me." He opened a door without knocking and Danielle walked past him without acknowledgement. D'Evron followed, closing the door firmly in Mr. Barkis's face.
It was a small room; a minute fire of sticks and lumps of charcoal tried unsuccessfully to throw off some heat. There was no furniture, except for three thin pallets on the floor. But some effort had been made to sweep and dust.
A woman with pinched cheeks and a hugely swollen belly held a baby of about a year, three others tottered, crawled, and sniveled around her. Danielle bent to pick up one infant who was showing an unhealthy interest in her unsanitary boots. She wiped his nose on her cambric handkerchief and smiled
at the child's mother.
"Bonjour, madame. Je suis Danielle de St. Varennes." It seemed simpler to introduce herself thus in the circumstances. When she accosted Mr. Barkis she would be the Countess of Linton.
Madame Duclos knew the name, what Parisian did not? Amazement flashed in the weary eyes but it
died under the smiling regard of this young girl who was now sitting on the floor with the little Gerard in her velvet lap.
"The chevalier has told me something of your circumstances, madame. I am here to help you if you will permit . . . non, petit chou, you may not have that." Laughing Danielle removed the painfully thin baby fingers from her bracelet. "Votre mari, il nest pas id, maintenant?"
"My husband is looking for work, milady." Madame Duclos looked nervously at the chevalier who smiled his encouragement. Haltingly she told the pathetic story of panic and flight, the long days of waiting for the passports, the sums expended in bribery, the need to leave everything behind except what cash and material goods they could carry easily. All their assets had been tied up in the small but growing shoemakers in St. Michel. The Ducloses had been solid, comfortable members of the bourgoisie, no great aspirations for wealth but contented with their lot. Jean Duclos had seen the danger clouds on the horizon and had thought only of his young family. They were neither aristocracy nor peasants, could identify with neither rich nor poor and, as a result, could well be amongst the first victims of the tide of insurrection that was still an ill-conceived bu
bble—a mountain spring waiting to trickle down the steep slope to become a part of the wildly rushing river. He had thought he was doing the right thing by removing his family from potential danger, only to find that a hostile land had no succor to offer.
Danielle listened to the story, controlled hergrowing rage at the treatment they had received since
reaching London, and asked a very few pertinent questions.
"When do you expect to be confined, madame?" It was her last question.
"In one week," Madame Duclos answered.
Danielle looked around the room and imagined giving birth. Children underfoot, petrified witnesses to their mother's pain and labor; water that could not be brought to the boil on the tiny fire; dust, dirt, blood, and agony. But for every Madame Duclos there were a hundred others. She could not rescue them all with her wealth and privilege and it was better to settle for what she could do. She could pay for the midwife, for heat, food, and a roof. There was no time to remove the family to Danesbury before the baby arrived and she certainly could not people Linton's estates with French refugees. After madame was confined then she could find room for this family, but if the rest were to be helped, she must accept the limitations of what she could offer.
