“My lord!” The slender, wasp-waisted macaroni at his side protested in horror. “How can you say such a thing? Why, Mademoiselle was superb! She was a veritable siren, a ...”
“Exactly.” Christian cut him short as he winked at Isobel. “But one expects nothing less from Mademoiselle Isobel.”
“Thank you, my lord.” His bluntness had had a most steadying effect on her. It reminded her that they were friends, that she could trust his opinion, no matter how badly it was stated.
The dandy shot Christian a venomous look and turned away as Christian edged closer.
“Are you pleased? You certainly caused quite a stir.”
“I think so, but then I am new to the audience, and anything new is bound to attract a certain amount of attention.”
“So young and yet so cynical,” he teased.
“You forget, my lord, that I have spent a great deal of time among the members of the French court. Exiled they might be, but they are courtiers nevertheless, and in that milieu, novelty, flattery, and reputation, are the driving forces. One can fall in favor as quickly as one can rise. I have seen it happen time and again.”
“Too true. But though it is fashionable to be seen at the Countess of Morehampton’s, one is not invited unless one has a good understanding of music, so, to a certain extent, praise expressed here is more valid than praise expressed elsewhere.”
“Which is precisely what I have been telling her,” Emily chimed in. She and her sister had been invited at Isobel’s request and had been trying to make it to her side since the moment she had made her last bow. They now appeared to flank her like two guard dogs, ready to spring to her defense should anyone fail to give Isobel her due.
“She will soon be all the rage and our drives in the park will become nothing more than a chance for her to acknowledge her admiring public.” Emily fixed Christian with a meaningful stare. She had observed the look in Christian’s eyes and the conscious expression on Isobel’s face that her friend tried unsuccessfully to hide, and Emily had barely been able to refrain from hugging herself in delight. So he was interested in Isobel. She had thought he might be, and she was now going to do her utmost to see to it that the two of them were thrown together as often as she could manage it.
Isobel jumped at the sound of Emily’s voice. She had been so mesmerized by the look in Lord Christian’s eyes and her own happiness at seeing him again that she had entirely forgotten her two companions. “I beg your pardons. Jane, Emily, may I present Lord Christian Hatherleigh. Lady Mordiford and Lady Verwood are old family friends. It was their mother who offered us shelter when we first came from France and who introduced me to the Duchess of Warminster.”
Christian’s eyes twinkled as he caught sight of the speculative expression on Emily’s face. There was no doubt in his mind that she had already linked him with her friend and, oddly enough, this incipient matchmaking pleased rather than annoyed him.
Chapter 19
It was in the interests of carrying out this scheme of throwing Lord Christian and Isobel together that Emily insisted that Isobel accompany her to Bond Street for a shopping expedition the next day, followed by a lengthy drive in the park, and Isobel, though she could think of many more useful things to do with her time than saunter along the fashionable thoroughfare, was grateful for Emily’s genuine interest in seeing that her friend enjoyed fresh air and lively conversation.
“Now tell me,” Emily began in her usual direct fashion as the door of a shockingly expensive millinery establishment closed behind them. “What do you hear from Auguste these days? I always thought he was so dashing and so gallant. He was the hero of all my girlish fantasies, and I am sure I cried my eyes out when he left for France. Has your papa forgiven him for throwing his fortunes in with the Corsican monster?”
“No.” Isobel sighed. “And I dare not mention his name to Papa because it upsets him so. The doctor says we should keep Papa as calm as possible because his heart is weak. Auguste has been able to get word to me from time to time, but I worry, now that the Allies have nearly arrived in Paris. I have no idea what has happened to him. I do not know if he is in Paris now with Marmont or if he is with Bonaparte himself, for Bonaparte has fled the city and will continue to fight, but who can be sure.”
Indeed, no one was sure of anything these days, and the little community of émigrés that formed the de Montargis’ circle of acquaintances was in a fever of anticipation.
“Who knows,” the Comte de Pontarlier had crowed gaily to Isobel as they sat together at another one of the Comtesse de Sallanches’s eternal salons, “in six months’ time I may at last be able to consult a French tailor.”
“A great relief to you, I am sure.” Impervious to the acid note in Isobel’s voice, the comte had nodded happily. Isobel could not work herself up to the same level of excitement and it pained her to see her friends, their faces worn by years of suffering and worry, acting as though a return to their beloved France would eradicate the years of their exile and restore them to their original selves. There was no one to whom she could turn, no one in whom she could confide these misgivings, for Jane and Emily, though sympathetic listeners, were so preoccupied with their families and the Season that it was difficult for them to project themselves into the larger events taking place in the world and Marthe, loyal servant that she was, would not listen to a word of doubt or uncertainty that might reflect on the royalist cause. When Isobel had even ventured to hint that they might be returning to something rather different from their previous glory, the old woman had snorted in indignation. “Non, mademoiselle. Monsieur and the king will see to it that everything is comme il faut when we return. You will see.”
In fact, there was only one person Isobel knew to whom she felt she could speak with the expectation of receiving a rational response and that was Lord Christian. He had seen enough of the world to be able to understand her concerns.
Fortunately for Isobel, he had taken Emily’s obvious hint and was now to be seen riding in the park at the fashionable hour along with the rest of the ton. For several days he and Ajax had endured the crush with no success, but patience was rewarded and the minute Emily’s barouche entered the park, Christian, recognizing its occupants, maneuvered his way to them with such skill that Isobel could not help remarking on it.
Christian smiled and patted his mount’s neck. “As an old cavalry horse, Ajax is accustomed to coping with indescribable crowds and confusion. To him, this is all very tame and I am afraid that he blames me for having made his life so dull.”
“Rather he should blame the Duke of Wellington and the Allies. But you, my lord, must be glad that the conflict you fought to end is nearly over. Or do you think Bonaparte will be able to rally?” Isobel’s anxious expression bespoke someone who had more than casual interest in international affairs.
“I think that brilliant though Napoleon may be, his generals are tired of war, as is France.”
“But is France tired of him? Is it tired enough of war that it will welcome back the old regime?” There was no mistaking the anxiety in Isobel’s voice or the tension in the hands that gripped the side of the carriage.
A chill washed over Christian as he realized the full implications of her question. “I cannot say, but I do know human nature well enough to know that when the future looks uncertain, the past always seems more wonderful than it actually was, so perhaps the French, after years of revolution and war will look upon the old days more favorably now than they did before. Are you looking forward to returning to your homeland?” Christian told himself that it was none of his concern, but he still could not help himself from asking, nor could he keep the concern out of his voice.
He had not realized until he envisioned London without her how important a role Mademoiselle Isobel de Montargis was beginning to play in his life. True, he did not spend much time with her, but their few conversations had been so deep, they had discussed so many important things, shared their sentiments on topics of such a per
sonal nature, that he felt closer to her than he did to many people he had known all his life. He did not want her to leave. He wanted her to stay and pursue the career that had begun so auspiciously at the Countess of Morehampton’s musicale, and he wanted to be right there beside her, encouraging her and sharing in her success.
“I suppose I am,” Isobel replied slowly, breaking into his train of thought. “But I do not know what to expect. I was so young when we left France that England feels more like home to me than France does. But Papa and all his friends are, and that makes me very happy.” She did not sound entirely convinced of this, however.
“For you, I suppose it will be as foreign as England was for your parents and you will miss such warm friends as Lady Verwood here.” Christian flashed Emily a smile that left her quite breathless. La, the man was attractive. If she were not so determined for him to fall in love with Isobel, she might have enjoyed setting up a mild flirtation with him herself, but there were other fish in the sea and she had quite decided that he was the one who was going to awaken her serious friend to all the delightful possibilities that existed between a handsome man and a lovely woman. In fact, she had even decided that he was going to rescue Isobel from that stiff rump of a father of hers and the drudgery of being a governess, or, to be more exact, the Countess of Verwood had decided that she was going to do her utmost to see to it that Lord Christian Hatherleigh did.
Isobel remained thoughtful, savoring the warm feelings she got from knowing that she was understood, that there was someone who would not dismiss her misgivings about the return to France as either absurd or traitorous.
“If you return to France, will you continue with your music, mademoiselle?”
How easily he identified another of her worries about the possible return to France. “Naturally I shall. Just because I am in another country does not mean I shall change my interests.” Isobel wondered if she sounded as falsely optimistic to him as she did to herself. If the truth were to be known, she was dreading the possible restoration of the ancien regime more for this reason than for any other. The prospective loneliness of a strange land did not bother her as much as the thought that if she were restored to her position as the daughter of a wealthy and powerful member of Louis XVIII’s court, she could have no reason to become an opera singer, no need for the money or the acclaim it would bring, and, therefore, nothing that would counter her father’s and their friends’ certain disapproval of such a course of action. She had seen enough of Louis XVIII’s household at Hartwell to gain a sense of the stifling and rigid etiquette that prevailed in the king’s entourage. If it were dull and regimented in England, where poverty, at least, kept the ceremonial atmosphere from being too excessive, how much worse it would be once he had returned to Versailles or to the Tuileries.
“Ah”—Christian spoke softly enough so that only Isobel could hear—”but there you will be invited to sing like some clever child performing. Everyone will applaud because of who you are and what your family represents rather than because your accomplishments command attention. Surely that is not for you, not after your triumph the other evening.”
“But that too was before friends, and though they were friends of the countess, they honored her by honoring me.”
“That is not quite the same thing, for the only connection you have with the Countess of Morehampton is that you are a performer recommended to her by Signor Bartoli. To the audience, Mademoiselle Isobel de Montargis was nothing, except that you were French, and therefore not one of them. It would be the greatest of pities should you be forced to leave now. Perhaps I should speak with Signor Bartoli, and between the two of us, we could make sure that you were on the next program to be held at the Hanover Square Rooms.”
“Oh,” she breathed, entranced by the very possibility and touched by his confidence in her, “but I am not nearly good enough. Why, Madame Catalani and the Knyvetts were there not long ago. I do not think that after...”
“And so was Mrs. Vaughan and Miss Travis, who cannot compare with you. No, we must plan something to follow your introduction at the Countess of Morehampton’s, both to satisfy the interest and curiosity raised by your appearance there, and to keep you from fretting over what will happen in France.”
The anxiety in the dark blue eyes looking up into his faded somewhat, but Christian could see that she was still uneasy. “I am sure that, while things will not be the same for your family and friends as they were a quarter of a century ago, much of the bitterness will have been forgotten. I have spoken with enough French prisoners to know that. Those who were most violently against the ancien regime fell victims to the revolution themselves long ago.”
“But I am not sure that I wish for it to be the same. Of course for Madame de Sallanches and Madame de Saint Veran, I wish an end to their sadness and their suffering, but to return to a world where birth, and only birth determines one’s lot in life is not... not... to my liking,” she finished lamely. And beyond all that she had spoken of lay a fear that Isobel could not even acknowledge to herself—what would happen to Auguste should the king be restored? Would everyone think, as her father did, that he was a traitor?
“It would seem that you have become infected by our own more free and easy ways.” Christian’s tone was teasing, but inwardly he was delighted at her lack of enthusiasm for returning to France. Perhaps it meant she would miss him just the tiniest bit.
No sooner had the thought entered his mind than he squelched it ruthlessly. He was a soldier, albeit one who was home for the moment, and a wanderer. Part of the reason he had become a soldier was that he had chafed under the expectations of society in general and the expectations of women in particular, and he had sought to avoid these by being constantly on the move, from camp to camp in pursuit of the enemy. Yet here he was, talking about the prospect of someone else being on the move and he was longing to make her stay. He was hoping to meet her in the park tomorrow, and every day thereafter, as he had today. It was hopes like that, on the part of others, hopes that he had spent so much of his life trying to discourage, that had made him known as an incorrigible bachelor, and, therefore, much to his great satisfaction, had eventually caused the matchmaking mamas of the ton to give up on him.
“Perhaps I have,” Isobel agreed. “Though, in truth, I often feel more English than French, having spent my childhood at Barford Court with Emily and her sister.” She smiled fondly at her companion. “But I should never admit such a thing in front of Papa, who left Paris twenty years ago expecting to return in a few weeks when tempers had cooled, and so, he has lived his life accordingly, ready to return at a moment’s notice as though it were but a brief, unpleasant intermission. Mama, on the other hand, knew that things were changed forever, and she was very grateful to Lady Barford for giving her a home. I believe that she actually preferred the simple, less rigid existence here to the excessive ceremony of court life in France. And as for me, Jane and Emily were the sisters I had always longed to have. Even now, I am excessively grateful to them for drives in the park and evenings at the opera.”
“Then it was you I saw at the opera the other night. Perhaps you are attending again this evening?” Though he tried his best to sound as offhand and as bored as any self-respecting man-about-town, Christian was not able to disguise the eager note in his voice or mask the interest in his voice. Nor could he ignore me faintest twinge of jealousy as she spoke of her gratitude toward her childhood friends who, as far as he could tell, had not recognized her true ambitions, nor had they done anything to promote her very obvious talent.
“I, ah...”
“Of course she will be,” Emily replied with a sly smile that forestalled any response from her friend.
Chapter 20
Though Isobel had protested to her friends during the ride home from the park that there was absolutely no need for her to attend the opera that evening with them, even to her own ears, her protests sounded halfhearted. That evening as she allowed Marthe to fuss over the fall o
f lace around the bodice of her simple white satin evening dress made up some years ago from one of the few court dresses the Duchess de Montargis had brought with her from France, she admitted to herself that it was not the opportunity to evaluate the ability of Madame Grassini, or to learn what she could from the singer that was making her look forward to the evening so much as it was the possibility of seeing Lord Christian.
Noticing the sparkle in her mistress’s eyes and the flush of excitement in her cheeks, Marthe too could have told her that music had very little to do with her mood of eager anticipation. Certainly Isobel had not been in such a flutter of expectation on her previous visit to the opera. A knock at the door and the appearance of a young lad bearing a roll of music tied in white ribbon early that afternoon had aroused the servant’s suspicious and, watching a secret smile light up Isobel’s face as she had untied the ribbon and read the bold handwriting on the note inside, Marthe had no doubt that the handsome English milord who had once called on the duc was planning to be present at the opera that evening.
Isobel had sat for some time gazing at the music and the note that read, “Would that it were you instead of Madame Grassini, but perhaps now that you have the music, you will be performing it next Season. Hatherleigh.” Even if she had not seen the bold “Hatherleigh” scrawled at the bottom, Isobel felt she would have recognized the identity of the sender, for the script was as impetuous and dashing as the man. The Comte de Pontarlier had once sent her some snowdrops on her birthday and one of the young courtiers who made up the Duc de Berri’s retinue had had the audacity to address some flowery verses to her charming complexion, but these gestures had both been more calculated to call attention to the giver than the receiver. Isobel could not think when anyone had given her a present more truly suited to her tastes, more indicative of an understanding of who she was than this. Indeed, it was not until Marthe’s sharp “Mademoiselle!” had called Isobel’s attention to the proximity of her foot to the kitchen fire where she was waiting for water to boil in order to steam some crumpled ribbons that she awoke from her reveries to realize just how much her thoughts were being taken up with Lord Christian Hatherleigh—entirely too much.
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