My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  Auguste’s pleasant, open countenance hardened with a resolve as obstinate as his father’s. Indeed, Isobel thought that in that moment he looked remarkably like the duc. She sighed. “I shall try. At any rate, I am glad to see you.”

  He smiled down at her. “And I you, petite soeur. Now, tell me, how goes the singing?”

  “Ah, it goes.” The dark blue eyes lit up with joy and a secret smile played on her lips. “Actually it goes very well. I have a new teacher, a Signor Bartoli, who is well thought of in musical circles and ... he likes my singing,” she finished with quiet pride.

  “Of course he does. You sing like a nightingale, Petite. But what of your pupils, the daughters of the so-important Duke of Warminster?”

  “Shh.” She held a finger to her lips. “No one knows, not even Marthe, that I am no longer there. She thinks I am at the Duke of Warminster’s when I am actually at Signor Bartoli’s. You know, she is almost as bad as Papa is about my singing anywhere except for our friends. But, Auguste, Signor Bartoli has arranged for me to sing at several select musicales and he thinks I can be another Catalani. That is what I wish to be more than anything. I do not wish to be married to the Chevalier d’Entremont or the Comte de Pontarlier or Madame de Colignac’s foolish son and just become Madame la Comtesse or Madame la Duchesse, even if we go back to France and everything returns to the way it was. I do not want that, Auguste, you must see that, you must help me keep that from happening.” In her anxiety, Isobel gripped his sleeve with surprising strength.

  He smiled fondly at her. “Ah, Isobel, always passionate whether you are five and telling Papa you will ride a horse instead of a pony or twenty-five and telling me you intend to be an opera singer. I will do what I can, but if Papa will not talk to me because I am a traitor, then he is hardly likely to listen to me when I tell him he should allow my little sister to become an actrice d’opéra. But come, I see Emily beckoning to us. If we do not return to the carriage, I fear she will die from curiosity. She never could abide being left out of anything.”

  “And she has not changed in the slightest. She knows every on-dit there is to know,” Isobel responded, grateful that her brother had been too distracted to ask the reason for her departure from the Duke of Warminster’s household or how she had happened to engage the illustrious Signor Bartoli to give her singing lessons. Her face flushed as she thought of the answer to both of those questions and, in spite of herself, she scanned the throng of horses and riders again looking for a tall figure on horseback.

  Chapter 22

  Meanwhile, the rider that she vainly sought sat in the shadows of a grove of trees, struggling valiantly to overcome the thoroughly unpleasant sensation that resembled being kicked in the midriff by a cavalry charger. In all actuality, nothing had happened. Christian had entered the park from Park Lane, hoping to catch sight of Lady Verwood’s elegant barouche. Though the previous evening Isobel had blushed and dissembled at his mention of a possible encounter in the park, Lady Verwood had directed a knowing look at him and had nodded ever so slightly.

  He knew he had an ally in the Marchioness of Verwood and that she could be counted upon to do her best to promote an interesting situation between her friend and one of the ton’s most notorious bachelors. Personally, Christian did not understand the attraction of a man who preferred to run his own life rather than put it entirely in the hands of some female, but his sister-in-law had assured him time and again that such was the case. “Believe me, Christian,” she had confided to him before Lady Boroughbridge’s rout, and several times thereafter, “the fact that you never stand up with the same woman twice and that your name has never been linked to anyone’s only makes it all that much more of a challenge. The matchmaking mamas will avoid you like the plague, but their daughters will flock around you like sparrows around bread crumbs in an effort to attract your interest. Any young woman who manages to attach to you, even for more than one dance, will have put a considerable feather in her cap and will be hailed immediately as an incomparable. No young lady worth anything would pass up the opportunity to win such renown for herself, so you may expect to be the center of much attention wherever you go.”

  Lavinia had been all too accurate in her predictions and he had been dimly aware of languishing looks cast in his direction whenever he made an appearance in the ballrooms or the drawing rooms of the fashionable, world. Though the Duchess of Warminster was highly gratified by her brother-in-law’s status as a much sought-after bachelor, Christian himself remained unmoved by this dubious distinction. However, he knew that the Marchioness of Verwood would see things the same way Lavinia did and would extend every effort to throw her friend together as much as possible with such a notable catch as Lord Christian Hatherleigh.

  Christian had not been in the park long when he spied the deep maroon panels of the Verwood barouche and though he was too far away to make out the coat of arms on the side, the occupants resembled Emily and Isobel. He urged Ajax in their direction, but he had not gone more than a few paces when the carriage stopped and the two ladies leaned over to greet a gentleman of military bearing and superior height. As he observed them, the lady, whom he had now positively identified as Isobel, descended and, with all appearances of delight, threw her arms around the neck of the military-looking gentleman.

  Christian gasped as if the wind had been knocked out of him and a cold wave of some unidentifiable emotion swept over him. So, the Marchioness of Verwood had been promoting an assignation between Isobel and a gentleman, but he himself was not the gentleman in question. Unable to drag his eyes away, Christian watched as Isobel took the gentleman’s arm and, clinging tightly to it, her head nearly resting on the gentleman’s shoulder, she walked slowly along with him, deeply absorbed in conversation. From time to time, she would seem to break off and glance eagerly at her companion as if to feast her eyes upon him.

  When he was at last able to breathe again, Christian gathered the reins tightly in his hands as if to urge Ajax forward, but he could not move. He could not make himself do anything except remain frozen in the saddle watching the couple, all his muscles tensed in concentration. Who was the man? Was he some lover from the past?

  You fool, he berated himself silently, why would she have mentioned a lover to you? Why would she mention a lover to someone who was a mere acquaintance, the brother of an employer who had insulted her to the point that she left his employ. Christian’s intellect told him that it was ridiculous to think that a woman he had met only a score of times, if that, would confide something so intimate to him. However, his heart told him something quite different. His heart told him that every time he had looked into Isobel’s eyes, he had felt as though he were looking deep into her soul. That was what had drawn him to her, what made her so different from other women. And having looked into those eyes, so innocent, so free of coyness or guile, he could have sworn that no lover existed, there was not even the thought that a lover could exist. Had he been so wrong, then? Had Lord Christian Hatherleigh, lover of scores of women on the Continent and in England been duped? Had he lost his touch entirely?

  It was not until the couple had climbed into the carriage and it had rolled off to join the impressive procession of fashionable equipages circling the park that he was able to overcome his terrible inertia and ride slowly back toward his lodgings in Mount Street, too stunned to contemplate doing anything except sit in front of his fire and try to sort out what had happened to him, because something had definitely happened. He had never felt this unnerved in his entire life, not even facing his first cavalry charge at Talavera. What had come over him?

  Even Digby, opening the door for his master at a most unusual time in the afternoon, knew immediately that something was wrong. He had not seen Lord Christian looking that way since they had lost Major Lord Calvert at Vitoria. Then, and only then had he seen his master’s face looking so white and set, his mouth grim, the gray-green eyes so dark they looked like slate. Without a word, he took his master’s coat and wen
t to rekindle the fire in the library, where Christian was already tossing off a glass of brandy.

  Slowly warmed by the brandy and the fire, Christian began to examine what had happened to him and to ask himself why he felt so betrayed by it, so oddly bereft at the thought of Isobel with a lover. For him, she had come to represent a purity, a spirituality that he had not known in any other woman. Perhaps it was her dedication to her music, perhaps it was her independence, perhaps it was the ideals she had expressed when discussing the insular, tradition-bound lives of the émigrés among whom she lived, he could not say for certain, but something about her set her apart from the rest of her sex.

  At the Countess of Morehampton’s musicale, clad in her plain, but elegant dress of pink satin, her hair simply done, her only ornament the pearls around her neck, Isobel had seemed as beautiful and remote as an angel among the chattering, overdressed throng of fashionable women. And that was how he thought of her—as something better, finer than the rest of the females of the ton, someone who had thought about life, someone who had set goals for herself beyond marriage and children, someone who was striving for perfection rather than a wealthy husband. And now, in the space of an instant, she had lost that special unattainable quality that had set her apart. She had become attainable, and she had become attainable to someone else other than himself.

  That is the damnable part of the matter, you fool, he muttered savagely under his breath. You want her to remain aloof and apart from the rest of the world except from you. And now what are you going to do about it? He had to see her. That much he knew. He could not let her disappear from his life without knowing why. Did she have that special sympathy and understanding that had touched him so deeply for everyone? Surely she did not. Surely the interest and concern he had seen in her eyes whenever they talked about his life had been for him alone.

  All of the many women Christian had known had been adept at making the man they were with at the moment feel important. Some of them had even been skilled enough to make several men feel that way at the same time, but no one had touched his soul in the way that this woman had. He had to know if it was real, or if it too was an act, albeit a very clever act.

  He had to see her. Once he had settled that in his mind, the next thing would be to take action. Never one to brood over anything, Christian resolved to deal with the problem immediately. Setting down the empty brandy glass, he strode over to his desk and riffled through the unopened stack of invitations that had arrived that day. Ordinarily he would have tossed them all into the fire the moment they arrived, but since he had met Isobel he had gotten into the habit of saving them, sorting through them, and selecting ones where she might possibly be appearing.

  At last he found one card for a ball at Carlton House given in honor of the émigrés. With the Allies now in Paris, suddenly all the world was remembering those who had fled France more than a decade ago, and the Regent was not to be outdone in recognizing Louis XVII now that Csar Alexander was finally referring to him as the King of France. Surely the de Montargis would not miss such an important event as a ball at Carlton House?

  Having decided upon a plan of action, Christian was left with nothing to do but wait with as much patience as he could muster. As he did in times of stress, he sought relief in physical activity, which he found boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s.

  Chapter 23

  They had dropped Auguste off at the Stanhope Gate and proceeded toward Manchester Square. All the way home from the park, while Emily chattered on about who had been seen with whom, and whose carriage dress was done in last year’s style, Isobel had sat clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap in a state of silent agitation. She had not realized quite how much she had missed Auguste until she had seen him standing there, his dark curls ruffled by the breeze and his brown eyes warm with affections for his petite soeur. She had not realized until that moment just how much she missed being part of a family or how lonely she had been after he had left and her mother had died.

  Now, having discovered this, she was not about to let it slip away again. But what was she to do to recapture it? Her father was a man of principle and honor above all else; he would never go back on his sworn word that he would not allow a traitor to the king to enter the de Montargis household. How was she ever going to make him change his mind? Isobel was not even sure whether or not he secretly missed the son who had been the pride of her father’s life until he joined Napoleon’s army. Once Auguste had agreed to fight for le Monstre, he had simply ceased to exist for the Duc de Montargis.

  The Verwood carriage halted in front of the house in Manchester Square. “Thank you, Emily,” Isobel murmured distractedly as she allowed the footman to help her down. She remained standing on the pavement, collecting her thoughts for some moments as the carriage rolled away. Then taking a deep breath, she opened the door and slowly climbed the stairs to the drawing room.

  The duc was seated at his desk, gazing out of the window. “Papa?” Isobel hesitated, trying desperately to choose the words that would make him see that it was time to welcome Auguste back into the family. The duc remained immobile, staring out the window. “Papa?” she began again.

  Her father turned around. His face, usually so grave was taut with some emotion she could not read, his pale blue eyes strangely alight with excitement. “Le Monstre is beaten at last! He is gone. France will live again,” he exulted. He rose, his lean cheeks flushed as though he had a high fever, and waving one hand over his head as though brandishing a sword, he exclaimed, “They will see. La France never gives up. We shall return to the land of our fathers. We shall triumph after all. The years in exile have only made us stronger.”

  “Papa, calmes-toi.” Isobel hurried across the room to force him gently back into his chair. The duc had not shown such energy and animation since the evening before he had left with the Comte d’Artois to lead the royalist uprising in the Vendee. She had been barely six at the time, but she still remembered how handsome he had looked in his uniform, how proud and straight he had held himself as, drawing his sword, he had declared to his wife and children, “I shall not return until we avenge the death of our king and queen.”

  But he had returned, a gray, defeated man, and a shadow of his former self, his health badly weakened. He had continued to rally around the Comte d’Artois and to work for the royalist cause, writing his memoirs and making regular contributions to the Courrier de Londres or by translating into French for the Courrier d’Angleterre the acts of the British government published in the London Gazette; however, he seemed to have lost his fervor in the aftermath of the Vendee, until this moment.

  Isobel was alarmed by his flushed face and rapid breathing. Her father was an old man now with failing health, and any excitement, good or bad, presented a threat to a heart weakened by the trials and tribulations of the Revolution. She seated herself on the low stool at his feet. “Now, Papa, tell me what has occurred.”

  “Monsieur sent a boy with a message to say that the Corsican is beaten. He abdicated and the Senate had declared in favor of the king. Louis will be returning to France as soon as he can ready his household. We must prepare ourselves as well. How glad I am that I had not yet contracted a marriage for you. Now you can be married from the Hotel de Montargis with a respectable dowry and all the proper arrangements instead of some poor sort of affair in the chapel at the Spanish embassy here in Manchester Square.”

  Isobel’s heart sank as she felt the stifling walls of the ancien regime conventions closing in on her. How was she going to resist them if she could no longer use their extenuating circumstances and the precariousness of their finances for excuses to do the thing she loved the most—singing. Surely none of the rigidly formal young men her father had considered a worthy match for the daughter of the house of de Montargis would ever let their wives indulge in music except in the most frivolous and decorative fashion. Isobel racked her brains for some excuse to delay the inevitable. “Perhaps, Papa, but we do not even know if it
is possible to return to Paris and the Faubourg Saint-Germain, or if any of the estates are still in our possession. Your health is not strong so we must wait until the weather is good and everything is in readiness for our return. We must write to Auguste to see what he has been able to accomplish.”

  “Auguste! I have told you, you are never to mention that traitor’s name in this household.” The duc’s high color deepened with rage until his complexion looked truly alarming.

  Isobel grabbed the decanter of water on his desk, poured it into a glass, and held it to his lips. “Here, Papa, drink this. You must not agitate yourself so.” She had been afraid it would be like this. The guiding principle in the Duc de Montargis’s life, the one thing that he had never lost, the one thing that could not be wrenched away from him by the Revolution was his honor. And to him, being honorable was, purely and simply, being loyal to the king. It was unthinkable to him that a son of his could have been anything but ready to die, as he was himself, for Louis XVII. The country that Auguste had been fighting for was not France because, to the duc, France was not France until the king had been restored to the throne.

  The duc’s angry flush faded and his rapid breathing slowed as he drank the water his daughter had given him. Observing these encouraging signs, Isobel tried another line of reasoning. “I shall speak to Madame de Colignac to see when she is planning to return, for surely she will leave as soon as possible. I shall ask her to assess the state of affairs and to write to us. Perhaps she could even take Marthe with her to ready things for us.” The vexed topic of Auguste would just have to wait until they had made the long journey to France and she was reassured that her father had recovered from the journey. It might be best to arrange for her father and her brother to encounter one another unexpectedly, for surely when confronted by the son he had not seen in over a decade, the Duc de Montargis would not be so proud as to reject him out of hand. And if the sons of other émigrés who had joined Auguste in Napoleon’s army were seen welcomed back into their families, perhaps her father could be prevailed upon to do the same.