My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  Having recalled her mistress to reality, Martha went back to chopping carrots, a secretive smile lighting up her dour face. So the Petite was going to be seeing the English milord at the opera after all. Bon. It was about time she became interested in a gentleman though what would come of all this when they went back to France, the old servant would not hazard a guess, for surely Monsieur le Duc would not want anyone for his daughter, but a Frenchman of the highest nobility. Marthe had seen enough of the world and the devastating changes that could occur overnight that she asked for nothing more than someone who could make her mistress happy. Certainly, the package that had just been delivered had done precisely that.

  Isobel was so touched by the gift of the music that she was barely able to express her thanks that evening when Lord Christian, resplendent in an exquisitely cut coat and intricately tied cravat appeared in the Barfords’ box. “It was extremely kind of you to think of me, though there was not the least need for it,” she stammered, frustrated by her inability to find just the right words to convey how much his gesture had meant to her.

  The glow in her eyes was all the thanks Christian had been hoping for though it rather pleased him that her cool self-possession seemed to have deserted her for once. It had come as a rather unwelcome shock to him to discover how upsetting the idea of her return to France was to him, but even more upsetting was the distinct possibility that she might not be as affected by this prospect and the thought of never seeing him as he was. He had sent her the music in the hope that he might learn from her reaction something about how she felt about him. Judging from her halting speech and heightened color as she thanked him, Christian could see that she was not accustomed to receiving presents from gentlemen. Good. “I am delighted that it pleased you. I wish I were able to do more to help you toward your heart’s desire, for though I enjoy being able to speak with you here, I should be a great deal happier to see you down there.” He nodded in the direction of the brilliantly lit stage.

  “Why thank you, my lord, but you have already done so much toward that end. Signor Bartoli has helped me to improve a great deal and it now truly seems like a possibility instead of a dream.” Isobel glanced anxiously at Jane and Emily, but neither one appeared to have overheard. They had applauded her appearance at the Countess of Morehampton’s, but Isobel was not at all certain they would have felt the same way about seeing their friend on stage at the opera.

  “If you do not return to France.”

  “If I do not return to France,” she echoed somberly. Isobel was silent for a moment, but she soon recovered to inquire in a brighter tone, “But you, my lord, what will you do now that Bonaparte is very nearly beaten once and for all? You once told me that you fought to end the war, and therefore, you must feel some reward in seeing this accomplished, but now what will you do? I cannot picture you becoming a Bond Street beau or rusticating at a country estate.” A provocative dimple hovered at the corner of her mouth.

  “Ah.” It was Christian’s turn for serious reflection. What would he do? He had joined up in order to avoid the very pursuits she now mentioned.

  “There is always India, I suppose.” She paused to consider the idea. “Affairs always seem to be in an uncertain-enough state there to need experienced leaders and it would offer you opportunity for adventure.”

  “Yes, there is India.” How well she understood him. Most women, most people, in fact, assumed that the life of a fashionably bored man-about-town was the pinnacle of perfection, the life everyone was striving to achieve. The very idea of it was one that had always filled him with horror. However, haring off to India, or some other far-flung colony did not hold the appeal for him that it once would have. Conversations like this one had made him see how pleasant it was to share things with a congenial companion. How very enjoyable life might be if it were shared with someone sympathetic and understanding, someone like Isobel.

  Christian shook his head slowly. He must be going soft in his old age to be entertaining thoughts such as these. Lord, he was sounding practically domesticated, and it was all the fault of Old Duoro. If Wellington had not stopped beating the French on a regular basis, he might still be out there leading cavalry charges and bivouacking in one inhospitable place after another. True, he had lost his taste for the glory of it all, but it was the only life he knew. He glanced up to find Isobel looking at him curiously, her head tilted to one side, her eyes questioning, but at the same time sympathetic. Christian smiled ruefully. “That is the damnable thing, 1 do not know what I shall do now. What does one do when one stops being a ... er, barbarian, as you put it.”

  “I never called you a barbarian.”

  “No?” He chuckled. “Well, not precisely, perhaps, but you certainly thought that when I happened in on your practice session at Warminster House.”

  “Intruded, more like.” A flush stole over Isobel’s cheeks as she recalled the lazy amusement in his eyes as they had traveled the length of her body.

  “I did not intrude, I observed. And I was most appreciative.” Christian grinned at the memory. “I still am. You have grown even more lovely since I have come to know you.”

  “I...” Isobel did not know what to say. He was sitting at least a foot from her, but she felt as though she were in his arms. His eyes were warm with admiration, and something else she could not quite identify, something else that made her feel quite breathless as his eyes searched her face. They lingered on her lips in such a way as to make it seem as though he were kissing her, caressing her. Isobel had never known that a single glance could be so intimate, so ... unsettling. Her heart thudded against her ribs as the breath was squeezed out of her lungs. She felt quite dizzy. What on earth had come over her?

  A slow smile stole over Christian’s face as he watched her lips part. So she felt it too. It was all he could do not to crush her to him, to cover her lips with his, to plant kisses down the smooth white column of her throat. Lord, he wanted her in a way that he could not remember ever having wanted a woman before. She stirred his soul, she touched his heart and mind in a way no woman had ever managed to do and now he was lost.

  He had known he was lost the moment he had heard her singing, had seen her at the pianoforte pouring all her energy and passion into the song that rose from her lips. He had known it then, but had not admitted it to himself until now.

  Isobel remained transfixed by the look in his eyes, unable to move or to think about anything except the way the light from the stage accentuated the lean, strong lines of his face and the broad outline of his shoulders. She had never really noticed a man in quite that way before, had always concentrated so much on what was being said that the physical appearance had never made any impression on her. Now it seemed she could think of nothing else. How broad and strong his chest looked under the closely fitted coat. The firm lips and piercing gray-green eyes only added to the powerful physical impression he made, and one knew instantly that Lord Christian Hatherleigh was a man to be reckoned with. Despite her own considerable height and proud carriage, Isobel felt small and weak in comparison to this man and she suddenly had the maddest urge to cast herself against his chest and feel the strength of his arms around her.

  The crash of cymbals and the blare of a trumpet brought her rudely to her senses and, hot with embarrassment at the direction her thoughts had been taking, Isobel glanced hurriedly around, but neither Emily nor Jane had seemed to notice a thing, being too involved in their discussion of Lady Silverton’s outrageous décolletage and the audacity of Lord Wilford, who seemed to have brought his mistress with him to the family box, for surely that overdressed person next to him was no one he knew socially.

  Isobel heaved a sigh of relief and turned her attention back to the stage before her. Try though she would, however, she could not lose herself in the music as she ordinarily did. No matter how much she studied the style and range of each singer, no matter how hard she concentrated on visualizing herself in their roles, she was aware of nothing else but the man beside
her and of the fact that his eyes never left her face during the entire performance.

  Christian remained seated next to Isobel throughout the rest of the opera, and if the other occupants of the box noticed this unusual circumstance, they never let on by so much as a glance that they were conscious of his interest in their guest. In fact, he did not leave the ladies until he had handed them all into Lady Verwood’s carriage.

  Isobel was the last to climb in and he held her hand just a fraction of a second longer than was necessary, looking deep into her eyes. “Thank you. I hope to see you in the park soon.”

  “I hope ... that is, I do not know,” she responded, incapable of retrieving her hand from that warm and reassuring clasp. Once again, his eyes were fixed so intently on her that she felt as though he were kissing her. She wished he were kissing her. Again, a hot wave of self-consciousness enveloped her. Where were these thoughts coming from? She had never entertained such thoughts about a man in her life.

  But as the carriage rolled away, Emily offered her own explanation for Isobel’s erratic behavior. “La”—she fanned herself as she lay back against the squabs of the carriage—”I vow that man is handsome enough to make even the coldest of hearts beat faster. Those eyes, they look right through one. And the smile is enough to melt one’s very bones. Small wonder the matchmaking mamas do not want him anywhere near their impressionable daughters. But you, my dear”—she directed a sly smile at Isobel—“seem to have made quite an impression on Lord Christian Hatherleigh for a change.”

  “I? Oh no. It is merely that he knows that I can carry on an intelligent conversation about music and the opera.”

  “If you ask me”—Emily turned to her sister for confirmation— “he did not hear a note, for his eyes were fastened upon you the entire time. Were they not, Jane?”

  “I did not notice, for my eyes were directed toward the stage,” Jane responded firmly. Then, seeing that their guest truly was being made uncomfortable by the entire conversation, she changed the subject slightly. “But tell me, what did you think of the performance, Isobel?”

  Flashing a grateful smile at her, Isobel was opening her mouth to respond when the hideous realization came over her that indeed, she had not heard very much of the opera at all after Lord Christian had come to sit beside her. Gathering her wits about her, she was able to make enough credible observations to deter any further discussion of Lord Christian Hatherleigh until they reached Manchester Square.

  Once inside her own bedchamber, however, she was unable to put aside the memories of the evening and the strange, breathless feeling that had come over her every time he had looked at her. She did not know whether she hoped to see him in the park the next day or not. On the one hand, the restless, excited feeling was quite delicious. On the other, it was rather unnerving, for she found herself wanting more and more of it. At first, a sympathetic glance had been enough to gratify it, then a touch of the hand.

  Now, she was wondering what it would feel like to be held against the powerful chest and encircled by those strong arms. Where were such ideas coming from?

  Resolutely, Isobel thrust these upsetting thoughts aside, and as she climbed into bed, tried instead to recall the music rather than the man sitting next to her, but she was not at all successful, for as she fell asleep, she could hear a deep voice murmuring. You have grown even more lovely since I have come to know you.

  Chapter 21

  Even if Isobel, beset as she had been by confusing emotions as Lord Christian had helped her into the carriage, had not paid attention to his remark about seeing her in the park, Emily had, and she made certain to send a footman around to Manchester Square the very next morning to inform Isobel that she would be calling to take her for a drive in the park the following day, and every day after that while the weather was good.

  The weather was exceedingly fine the next afternoon as Isobel climbed into the Marchioness of Verwood’s barouche so that Isobel, while admiring her friend’s fashionable Circassian turban of crimson velvet, was glad for the shade afforded by the brim of her straw-colored satin bonnet. Isobel was too preoccupied with her own thoughts on her lessons with Signor Bartoli that morning to notice the secret smile that would keep breaking out on her friend’s face despite Emily’s best efforts to look unconcerned.

  But as they rolled down Oxford Street toward the Stanhope Gate, Isobel’s mind turned gradually from reviewing the difficult piece of music she had struggled over that morning to Emily’s chatter about the previous evening. This brought with it thoughts of Lord Christian, and almost unconsciously she scanned the crowds in the park for a tall figure on a powerful horse, while half paying attention to what Emily was saying.

  The Marchioness of Verwood noted this fit of abstraction with a great deal of satisfaction and correctly attributed its cause to the gentleman who had spent time in their box the previous evening, but her attention was truly fixed on quite another gentleman, tall, slender, elegant, but with a military bearing, who was steadily making his way toward them on foot, his eyes casting about over the crowd as though looking for someone in particular. Emily’s smile deepened as the gentleman recognized them, raised his curly beaver, and hastened to join them.

  “Isobel, my dear”—Emily laid a hand on the sleeve of her friend’s green sarcenet pelisse—”here is a gentleman come to see you, I believe.”

  Isobel looked around. “Auguste! Oh, oh, stop the carriage,” she begged as the coachman, already alerted by his mistress, pulled the team to a halt. Heedless of the throng of carriages and horses, Isobel jumped down and threw her arms around the gentleman’s neck, laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, Auguste, it is you. You are safe.”

  “Mais bien sur, ma petite. Of course I am safe. We de Montargis are men of great ingenuity and fortitude.”

  “But how, when, what are you doing here?” She grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the barouche. “Emily, look, it is Auguste, is that not a miracle?”

  “Of course it is Auguste. He came to see me this morning after having journeyed down to Barford Court and back. Papa and Mama gave him my direction and he came straight to visit me to see if we could arrange a meeting with you. And here he is.”

  “I am sorry to surprise you this way, Petite.” Auguste took her hand under his arm and led her a little way from the carriage. “But I did not know that things would happen so quickly. I was with Marmont in Paris when he surrendered and I could see, in spite of Bonaparte’s desire to continue fighting, that the rest of the marshals, even Ney, were unwilling to march from Fontainbleau to save Paris and continue the struggle with the Prussians and the Russians. I knew the end was near so I asked Marmont for permission to come see you, and Papa, if he will let me. It remains to be seen whether the Allies will ask Louis to be King of France in the emperor’s place. I had hoped on my visit here to speak to those courtiers surrounding Louis to beg him to be moderate in his policies. I believe that France is ready to welcome him back if he is not harsh. However, if he acts as Monsieur does, it will not go well, for people say of the Bourbons that they have learned nothing and forgotten nothing. I was hoping to speak to Papa and convince him to make Louis understand this.”

  Isobel shook her head slowly. “Papa will not understand. He is not so blind as the others perhaps, nor was he so blind as they were in the first place—as a soldier, even a soldier of the ancien regime he was more realistic than the courtiers, I think. But the only France that he will acknowledge as France is the France of his forefathers with Louis as King Louis XVIII of France and Navarre. I know this, for he and his friends have talked of nothing else since the Prussians and the Russians began advancing on Paris. He and the others are old, Auguste, they have been through a great deal, and they do not know how to change, even if they wanted to.”

  “Am I still a traitor in Papa’s eyes, then?” Auguste’s tone was clipped and his eyes hard and bright. “Even though many of us who went back fought honorably for the glory of France, the country of our anc
estors, even though we swore the oath of fidelity to the emperor so we could win back the lands that had been in our families since the time of the Crusades?”

  Isobel smiled sadly and shook her head again. “I know, Auguste, you have never been a traitor to our country or to our family, but Papa...” She glanced at the budding trees in the distance, trying to collect her thoughts, to make her brother see it from their father’s point of view. She had long since given up trying to make her father see Auguste’s side, but Auguste was young, he had lived through times of great change and had learned to be more accepting of those who held different opinions, who had different pasts from his. If she could get him to see it all through Papa’s eyes, perhaps he could ask for forgiveness, perhaps they could be a family once more. “Papa has nothing left but his pride. It is this, and his sense of honor, that have sustained him all these years when he lost everything else. If he were to say that you are not a traitor, it would be the same thing as acknowledging Bonaparte as the rightful ruler of France. To do that would be to fly in the face of his very existence. For if Bonaparte is ruler of France and not Louis, then who is the Duc de Montargis? Do you understand, mon frere?" She fixed him with a pleading glance.

  “I do.” He patted her hand. “But he must understand that what I did, I also did out of a sense of pride and honor—pride and honor that I learned at his knee, I might add. And if he does not accept that, then who am I? Certainly not his son.”