by Unknown
of good, Molly. The air in this place is quite fetid and must be most unhealthy. I shall send my lord for vinegar and scent to dispel the atmosphere. In fact, I cannot imagine why I did not think to do so before." So saying, she left Molly's chamber to give her husband the requisite orders which he received with a nod of comprehension and wondered why he had not thought to take such an elementary precaution himself.
They arrived at the parliament house in the middle of a vociferous debate. The long low narrow building was poorly lit and far too small to handle the haranguing tongues. Justin and Danielle squeezed into the public gallery that could accommodate a bare three hundred souls and Danielle gazed in fascination at the scene before her. She had visited both the House of Lords and the House of Commons in London under the auspices of Pitt and lint on. Nothing in this disorderly tumult remotely resembled that well-regulated process of debate, except for the seating where members sat across from one another separated by a gangway. There were three members on their feet simultaneously and the president, who held the position for but two weeks at a time, was quite unable to maintain order. As the voices rose in a floodtide of rhetoric, not one of them could be heard clearly.
"It is a madhouse," Danielle whispered.
"Yes, but do not say so aloud," her husband warned. "It is not always thus and some worthwhile legislation is coming out of this."
Danielle accepted the rebuke and lapsed into willing silence, concentrating on what was being said and forming her own impressions until she began to make sense out of the tumult. Her ears pricked at the comments of her fellow spectators, and she concentrated on those around her. It was what she did best, this picking up of unconsidered trifles, gauging the mood of groups and drawing her own deductions. It was what Pitt would want of her and why Justin, who could not do this himself, had accepted her companionship, once it had become a fait accompli, with only simulated annoyance.
Once back in their chamber he listened to her and shared his own impressions before they joined the court at dinner, Danielle having first procured a cup of bouillon for Molly by dint of shameless and lavish bribery.
Dinner was a long and tedious affair, the food ill-prepared in the poorly equipped kitchens that had not been required to feed the court since Louis XIV had built Versailles. It arrived at the table cold having been brought vast distances through draughty corridors, and the conversation for the most part was insipid. Justin fared better than Danielle in this last, since he was at least able to talk politics with those courtiers sensible enough to have an opinion. Danielle, on the other hand, was obliged to listen to the malicious gossip of bored women and their complaints at the discomforts of the Tuileries. There were
few who evinced an intelligent interest in the state of their nation; they had never been encouraged to do so, after all, in the pleasure-oriented world of Marie Antoinette's court.
It was toward the end of the meal that she became aware of the interested scrutiny of a pair of pale eyes. Their owner was a stranger to her, but that was not surprising since the composition of the court was constantly in a state of flux. As her eyes met the stranger's, he smiled, the expression lightening the long, aristocratic face. Danielle smiled back and the man murmured something to his neighbor.
"Who is the gentleman in the blue velvet?" Danielle asked Madame Cloury beside her. "He wears his
hair in pigeon's wings. I have not seen him before."
Madame Cloury glanced across the table casually. "Oh, that is the Comte de St. Estephe. He rarely honors us with his presence." The plump white shoulders lifted, the movement causing one full breast to pop free of a neckline so low it barely qualified as such. Quite unconcerned, madame tucked the errant flesh away again. "He is a dour creature, St. Estephe," she continued. "His wife died in childbed some years ago. She was a poor little dab of a thing and petrified of her husband. It was said that he used her dreadfully and he is always so dark looking I am sure it was true." She shuddered deliciously and dropped her voice. "Two years ago, his mistress cut her wrists and died. It caused such a scandal but no one could implicate St. Estephe, you understand. But since then he has spent little time at court and takes his mistresses from the demimonde and they, naturellement, must take their chance."
Danielle, in spite of her distaste for the game of character assassination, was intrigued. The man looked innocent enough, although his eyes were cold and reminded her of those of a gaffed fish. But the smile had appeared warm and friendly enough. He could hardly be held responsible for the thin lips and fishy eyes that had accompanied him into the world. He was perhaps a year or so older than Linton, she decided. His dress was simple to a fault amongst this glittering throng. His only jewelry was an enormous sapphire on his index finger and his hair, while correctly powdered and curled, was a far cry from the massive creations around him. All of which put Danielle quite in charity with the man. She was wondering how best to contrive an introduction when the queen rose from her place in the center of the long table on the dais, signaling the withdrawal of the ladies. Danielle resigned herself to the inevitable hour or so of simpering chat and indifferent performances on the spinet before the gentlemen, flushed with port and cognac, would decide to join them.
Roland, Comte de St. Estephe watched her leave, a tiny smile curling his lips. He stroked his angular chin thoughtfully and glanced up the table to where Justin, Earl of Linton, sat, twirling his port glass absently as he leaned back in his chair— perfectly at ease, it seemed, except for those shrewd blue black eyes that were everywhere. They had also watched the departure of the young countess and the look they carried interested St. Estephe mightily.
The news that the Lintons were visiting the French court had brought him hotfoot from his estate in
Dijon to meet his enemy for the first time. He had been waiting many years for the appropriate opportunity. Now, he moved his seat to a vacant one opposite the earl. "Milord Linton, I believe."
"Yes, indeed." Justin's eyebrows lifted in inquiry.
"St. Estephe, at your service, sir." The comte bowed his head, examining the earl's expression intently
for an unguarded flicker of recognition, but there was none. Either the man was a consummate actor or he did not know the story. "My father spoke often of yours," he said musingly. "They were good friends at one time, I believe."
Justin's face was a blank. "Forgive me, comte. My father died some eighteen years ago and I have a lamentable memory."
Not with those intelligent eyes, St. Estephe thought. But Linton looked genuinely apologetic so the comte shrugged and smiled. "Ah, well, it was many years ago that they were friends. Before my own birth, I believe, so it is hardly surprising. But I am most happy to make your acquaintance, my lord."
"And I yours," Linton replied automatically, wondering why he disliked the man after a mere ten minutes in his company. It wasn't just that he had been put at an embarrassing disadvantage—the comte had rescued him from his predicament with impeccable courtesy after all. Perhaps it had something to do
with that calculating gleam in those eyes so pale as to appear almost opaque.
St. Estephe, well satisfied, excused himself and went off to greet other acquaintances in the peripatetic fashion that was considered quite comme ilfaut at this stage of the dining ritual. He was one of the first to join the ladies in the long salon which remained dark and gloomy in defiance of the early summer evening. He made his obeisance to his queen who lightly chided him for being so long absent from court. The comte replied with the acceptable mixture of regret and flattery before turning the conversation adroitly
to the Countess of Linton.
"Yes, she is a taking little thing," Marie Antoinette agreed. "Quite charming and refreshingly naive. We
are enjoying her visit. They are here to settle matters of her estate after her family was massacred . . . Well, we will not talk of such gloomy subjects; they do little to lighten the atmosphere in this dreary
place. Do you care for an introduction?"
"Of all things, Madame."
"You should be warned, though." The queen smiled. "If you pay her too close attention, you will have Linton to reckon with. He regards her with an unfashionably jealous eye. She is very young, you realize."
"I shall take great care," St. Estephe promised, but his heart sang at this piece of information. The challenge would be greater and the revenge all the sweeter in those circumstances.
When the liveried flunky bowed beside the Countess of Linton with the message that Her Majesty wished to speak with her, Danielle rose from the sofa with alacrity. She had been covertly watching the exchange between the comte and 'Toinette and her ears were burning unmistakably.
"Madame." She curtsied deeply.
"I wish to present the Comte de St. Estephe, Danielle. He is most eager to make your acquaintance."
"You do me too much honor, sir." She curtsied again and swam upward, giving him her hand.
"The honor is all mine, my lady." He was in the act of pressing his lips to the small hand in a manner rather more ardent than the ritual demanded when Linton walked into the salon.
Justin frowned. What the deuce was the man doing slobbering all over Danny's fingers? And Danielle herself seemed to be enjoying it; judging by the delicate flush on her cheeks and the musical peal of her unmistakable laughter. That his wife was a natural flirt did not ordinarily disturb Linton in the least. It
was harmless enough and she knew well how to freeze the gallant who stepped beyond the line of dalliance. But the comte made him as uneasy as the Chevalier D'Evron had once done—the sense that
he was not just what he seemed.
Justin most definitely did not want his wife embroiled in undercover adventuring with yet another of her aristocratic countrymen, however innocent and worthy the cause. But he could not remove her from the queen's side until she had been dismissed and Marie Antoinette appeared to be enjoying herself.
Danielle had chosen to play the part of ingenue during this visit to the French court. It was one that provided a perfect mask for what she was really about and people talked freely in front of the little de St. Varennes, who was such a sweet child with her innocent questions and naive observations. The queen found her delightful and was now much amused as the world-weary sophisticate played gently with the innocent who tossed her head coquettishly and blushed prettily. The comte was equally delighted—the child was making it so easy for him. He would turn her head tonight, be cool and distant tomorrow, and repeat the process until she knew nothing but a piqued confusion. The rest should be simple . . .
"Madame." It was Linton's deep voice.
"Ah, Linton. Are you acquainted with the Comte de St. Estephe? He has been amusing your wife quite wickedly."
"I am indeed grateful to you, St. Estephe," Justin said smoothly. Danielle's hand slipped into his and he smiled down at her. The look that the comte intercepted threw that gentleman back on his heels. It was not, then, as he had thought. This was no marriage of convenience between a man of middle years reluctantly accepting the family duty, and an eligible young aristocrat with many childbearing years
ahead of her—a giddy young woman who could be persuaded of the dullness of her loveless marriage
and her entitlement to one brief fling:—
The comte decided that he must avoid jumping to conclusions in future. The game would take rather longer to play, and he must have a care to his hand—something a little more devious than his original
plan which had, after all, been rather crude. No, on the whole, he decided that he was pleased with this turn of events. The St. Estephes had waited close on forty years for their revenge on the house of Linton—a little longer would make no difference.
"I wish for some music," Marie Antoinette declared, suddenly bored now that the appearance of the
chit's husband had put an end to St. Estephe's flirtation. "Danielle, you will play for us."
"I play indifferent well, Madame," Danielle demurred, and a deep frown of displeasure darkened Her Majesty's countenance.
"I should like to be the judge of that myself," she said coldly.
"As you command, Madame." Danielle curtsied and made haste to obey the royal edict.
"Now you may regret your misspent youth and wish you had practiced a little more," Justin teased in a low whisper as he escorted her to the spinet.
"That is unkind, milord." But she could not help a chuckle. "Anyway, it is Toinette who will suffer." She took her seat on the embroidered bench. "Do not stand beside me, Justin. It will only make me nervous."
"I was intending to turn the music for you," he said with a fair assumption of hurt.
"Then you will have idle hands, for I shall use no music."
Justin barely controlled his grin as he wondered what she was about. This conventional gathering would not take kindly to Danielle's extensive repertoire of earthy country songs, particularly if she chose to extemporize as she did at home, much to the somewhat shocked amusement of Jules and his friends. He left her and took a seat where he could see her face without his observation disturbing her concentration.
Danielle thought for a moment, her fingers running over the keyboard as she dug out the memory. Then, with a small satisfied nod, she began to play, singing softly at first and then with increasing power as the memory of long afternoons in Languedoc took over from this grim, stuffy room of as yet unacknowledged imprisonment. She played the songs her mother had played, Cornish folk songs and the songs of Languedoc—the songs of the people, sometimes haunting and plaintive, sometimes filled with the elemental joy of those who lived their lives by the elements.
What was she? St. Estephe gazed in fascination. She played and sang from memory the words of a culture that few in this room had ever acknowledged existed, let alone troubled to learn. And there was
no mockery in her hands or voice. He glanced at the husband who sat smiling, eyes half closed, clearly quite at ease with this facet of his wife. Perhaps the child was not the simpleton she appeared. The
comte looked around the room. In general, attempting to entertain this court was a thankless activity. Conversation scarcely paused and even 'Toinette lost interest after the first few bars. But the de St. Varennes was heard in silence. The applause when she had finished was muted, but when she looked to the queen for permission to leave the spinet she received an imperative beckoning finger,
"Where did you learn those pretty songs, Danielle?"
"From my mother, Madame," Danielle replied. "I am happy that they pleased you."
"They provided a most refreshing change," Marie Antoinette said. "A little light, of course, but that is no bad thing these days. You shall play for us again tomorrow."
Danielle accepted her dismissal with a deep curtsy and even deeper relief. She was now free to leave the salon and did so with a comprehensive look at Justin that told him to follow her with all decent haste.
He did so within the half hour and found her in a silk wrapper pacing the bedchamber like a jungle cat suddenly behind bars. "Justin, if you do not take me out of here for a few hours, immediatement, I shall go quite mad and I am sure you would not care for a wife in Bedlam."
"No, I do not think that would be at all the thing," he concurred gravely and was rewarded with an involuntary chuckle.
"Justin, I am quite in earnest," Danny persisted. "I cannot continue in this way without relief."
"Forgive me, my love, but I was under the impression that this was what you wanted. You went to considerable trouble to achieve this end, as I recall." It was quite irresistible, but Justin regretted the teasing remark instantly as a veritable tempest of shoes, books, and pillows was launched at his head
with Danielle's usual accuracy, accompanied by a torrent of invective that seemed even richer than usual.
"Danny, do stop," he begged, dodging a flying hairbrush that crashed into the wall, narrowly missing the mirror.
"How you can say such a thing after everything I have been through," she
stormed. "All those women, chatter, chatter all the time, and the place is so dirty and it stinks! But you go where you please, talk to whomever you please, amuse yourself. . ."
"Danny, I do not amuse myself. I am merely executing my half of the task whilst you execute yours."
"Oh, yes. That is so easy to say, is it not? Tomorrow, you may stay here and I will put on my britches and visit the Palais Royal..."
"You will not." Her husband was betrayed into a shout of protest, knowing full well that Danny never made idle threats.
"And why not, pray? I should do every bit as well as you, I daresay; probably better since the language
is my own."
"That may be so, but I will not permit it." Odd's breath! One of these days he would learn not to say
that! But before he could soften the statement Danny had dived beneath the bed to emerge in the wink
of an eye and with the heavy porcelain chamber pot which she brandished menacingly over her head.
Justin tried not to laugh as she advanced on him, a slender, scantily clad figure rigid with a determination that he knew he must diffuse. "Danny, if you try anything with that damned pot, I shall use your hairbrush in a manner for which it was not intended." He backed away, watching her warily, and saw with relief the sudden speculative gleam in the brown eyes.
