by Joan Vincent
“I must have had to walk a complete furlong,” Cavilon’s voice rose in register and volume as a gentleman known to both sauntered past. “You know how I detest exercise of any sort.”
The two walked towards the ring where a pair of blacks were being shown.
“Your report was very valuable,” Tretain whispered in an aside. “I thought you were going to the eastern counties to purchase land,” he continued in a normal tone, hard-pressed to remain serious as Cavilon dipped a shoulder with each step as he sashayed forward.
“I decided that would be... rash.” The comte arched an eyebrow and halted beside a gentleman.
“Land is so mundane.” He fluttered his kerchief in the man’s face. “Isn’t it, Fromby?”
“Put that damned woman’s thing away, Cavilon,” Lord Fromby spat. “Three hundred pounds,” he called to the auctioneer.
The comte surveyed the pair, then sniffed delicately into his kerchief. “The outer one has a spavined front foreleg, Fromby. Best beware.” He drew out the last words in a nasal drawl.
“Haven’t you a petticoat that needs rinsing?” Fromby snorted disdainfully.
“No, but I hear you favour a salt bath for your delicate skin. A shame you couldn’t convince your ‘petticoats’ it was worthwhile,” Cavilon twittered.
Fromby’s heavy, jowled cheeks flamed red as he rose to the bait. He grabbed hold of the comte’s jacket lapels.
“La, my lord. Leveque will be most distressed.” Cavilon hung limp in the man’s hold.
“Who the bloody hell is Leveque?”
“My valet. He will have to press this jacket. You are rumpling it dreadfully.”
“Sold!” the auctioneer’s voice boomed, jerking Fromby’s head towards the ring.
“Wait,” he protested, dropping his hold as he turned.
“The sale is final.”
“You really should thank me.” Cavilon minced the words as he smoothed his wrinkled lapels. “I have saved you days, absolutely days, of worry over that foreleg. It was spavined... ask Tretain here.” He waved his kerchief beneath the angry man’s nose.
“If you were half a man, I’d press your jacket with you in it,” Fromby spat, and stormed away.
“Pressing is exactly what he is suited for,” Cavilon said dryly.
“Don’t you fear you shall try him too far one day?” Tretain questioned as the next animal was brought into the ring. “He may one day fail to be distracted.”
“Then I shall be forced to flail him with my lace.”
“He has friends in powerful positions...”
“What do you think of that mare, Adrian?” Cavilon’s attention had shifted to the ring. “Good breeding there.”
“For a lady’s mount. A lovely chestnut,” Tretain gave his assessment.
The bidding opened and was quite lively for several minutes.
“Hamilton seems set upon having her,” the earl noted. “I hear he has been seen oft with Harriet Wilson of late. Perhaps he means to try for her.”
“Sir, oh sir.” Cavilon waved his kerchief at the auctioneer. “I do believe I would rather like to make a bid.”
A murmur of laughter echoed mutely through the crowd.
The auctioneer glanced about. Seeing who spoke, he doffed his hat and bowed. “My lord would like to make a bid,” he announced to the men watching the proceedings.
“My lord, do ye think ye could be makin’ it now?” he asked with light sarcasm.
“La, oui. Would six hundred pounds be sufficient?”
A heavier murmur ran through the crowd.
“Why are you bidding on the mare?” Tretain began. “Six hundred pounds? Cavilon, have you—-”
“Make that eight hundred. My card, monsieur. Have the mare delivered this afternoon.” The comte sent a boy into the ring with it.
“Come, Tretain, you may take me to White’s. ‘Pon my soul, my good man, you can’t stand about gaping.” He took the earl’s arm and led him away.
“You may spend your money as you wish, Louis, but eight hundred pounds for a mare? Are you thinking of taking that lightskirt back?” Tretain questioned as they rode in his coach towards White’s.
“I am, and for some time to come, going to remain unattached,” Cavilon assured him. “I find women a bore at present. I may reconsider the possibility of purchasing an estate and, of course, shall need mounts for my guests,” he said smoothly.
The earl rolled his eves and crossed his arms. “I find it difficult to believe you have survived six and thirty years in this world, Louis, mouthing such fustian as that.”
“It is because I never become agitated. Calm, Adrian, one must remain calm.” Before he could continue, the coach came to an abrupt halt.
“Now what?” Tretain questioned, opening the door to look out. “There has been some sort of accident just ahead of us. Looks like some young dandy didn’t keep his high-perch phaeton in control. The wheels must be locked with another coach’s. Let’s see if we can help get them separated.”
“Soil my gloves? Never.” Cavilon arched an eyebrow. “But I will come and observe.”
The earl shook his head as he stepped into the street. Cavilon followed, stepping down from the coach with exaggerated care. By the time he reached the scene of the mishap, Tretain was attempting to cool the argument about who was at fault.
“Young man, come here,” an older lady called from the coach beside which the comte halted. “Sir,” she repeated when he pointedly ignored her. “I say, Elizabeth, he does look French in all that lace. Could you not call him here?”
The name pricked Cavilon’s ears.
“Really, Aunt Waddie, why don’t we remain inside?” a voice he recognized protested.
Cavilon turned to face the coach. “Madam, were you wishing mon attention?”
“Would you be so good as to help us down, sir? I do dislike all this jolting about.”
“Oui, madame.” The comte bowed prettily. He wiped the coach handle first, then opened the door. “You,” he motioned to a beggar boy who hovered nearby, “put the steps down.”
“Aye, sir.” The lad ran forward after catching the coin tossed his way.
“Now, Elizabeth, don’t leave those boxes and tins. They will be tossed all about,” Lady Waddington instructed as she took Cavilon’s upraised hand.
His face remained impassive when she leaned heavily on it, and alighted with deliberate, ponderous movements. “How good of you, sir. I am Lady Madeline, the Marchioness Waddington,” she told him as she released his hand from her tight grip.
The comte shook his fingers delicately. “Mon plasir, my lady. I am Comte de Cavilon.” He made an elaborate flourish.
Cavilon’s upraised hand struck the boxes and tins in Miss Jeffries’ arms as she edged to the second step. The unexpected blow, combined with a sudden lurch of the coach as they attempted to back the teams in order to separate them, jostled Elizabeth. She lost her balance and juggled her burdens in a futile effort to save them and herself from falling.
Cavilon swung about and made a desperate lunge but succeeded only in ending up beneath Miss Jeffries as she fell. A shower of peruke dusting powder from one of the boxes settled upon them in a billowing cloud.
Those in the crowd which had gathered about the accident began coughing and waving frantically to clear the air.
Miss Jeffries coughed and spluttered as the powder settled. Her eyes were flashing angrily when they met Cavilon’s, half hidden by his drooping eyelids.
“La, ‘pon my soul, what a good blend of powder,” he quipped. “What a shame it had to ruin my jacket. Oh, my.” He drew his breath in sharply.
“Are you injured, sir?” Elizabeth asked, her anger changing to concern at his expression.
“I do believe... Oh, my, yes, my lace is torn.” The comte raised his rent kerchief for her inspection.
Disbelief filled Elizabeth as she stared at it. “You are concerned for that?” She grabbed it from his hand and dashed it to the ground. “Just
what were you doing, pawing about in the air like that?” she demanded.
“My dear, the Comte de Cavilon does not paw. Have you never seen a proper flourish? You were at fault in not allowing me to assist you,” he corrected her.
“I... You... I never!” She tossed her head, completely mindless that they were still sitting in the middle of the street.
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth, come,” Lady Waddington urged anxiously, uncomfortably aware of the crowd gaping at the ludicrous sight of the powder-covered pair. “You must rise.” She held out her hand.
“Lady Waddington is quite correct, you know,” Cavilon noted. He pulled a second kerchief from the pocket in his half coat. “I do believe you are putting a dreadful crease in my breeches.”
Miss Jeffries struggled to rise. “Why, you overdressed, pompous—”
Lord Tretain appeared and helped her. “Are you quite all right, miss?” he asked. “Let me assist you.” He tried to take the packages she still held.
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. That,” she said vehemently, nodding at the comte, “requires your aid.”
The earl swallowed a grin and held out his hand to Cavilon. Pulling him up, he surveyed his friend with stoic reserve.
“Can our coach be freed?” Lady Waddington asked, wishing to end this episode as quickly as possible, or at least before Elizabeth could vent her ire.
Tretain issued orders which soon accomplished her wish.
“You should never hold your jaw so rigid,” Cavilon said casually to Miss Jeffries as he flicked at the dust upon his sleeve. “It will bring severe lines to your features,” he continued in French, “but then a lady of your age has accepted such a fate.” The comte motioned to the spinster’s cap upon her now powdered locks.
“Apparently no one has pointed out to you that your manners are atrocious, my lord,” she returned with tightly bridled anger.
“Oh, look, Elizabeth. They have separated the wheels. We can go. Come, now.” Lady Waddington took hold her niece’s arm.
“I am not finished, Aunt,” the young woman returned acidly.
“That is what I feared,” Aunt Waddie mumbled. She cast a worried glance at the powder-covered gentleman standing at such an odd tilt, totally unperturbed by the appearance he presented or the threat of Elizabeth’s tone. “I am sorry,” she told him, tugging at her niece’s arm.
“Come, Elizabeth,” she hardened her voice, exasperation grating in it. “You are creating a scene.”
“I... I...” Miss Jeffries stammered and shook free of the hold. “Look at my gown, Aunt.” She gave her skirts a shake and sent a cloud of powder into the air. “He did this to me. Have we received one word of apology?”
“There is no need for that, miss. I understand... the excitement of the accident,” Cavilon graciously excused her.
“You... You impossible... Ohh!” Her eyes fell upon the box which had held the dusting mixture. Picking it up, she flung what remained in it into Cavilon’s face and stalked to the coach. Elizabeth allowed Tretain to hand her in and settled her skirts while her aunt scrambled in and ordered the coachman onward. Lady Waddington flung a “thank you” from the window as they were carried away.
The people began to slowly drift away. They laughed and joked about the fine gentleman’s treatment at the hands of the angry lady.
A smile wreathing his face, the earl sauntered to where Cavilon’s crumpled hat lay. He attempted to straighten it and handed it to his friend. Dryly the earl observed, “I don’t believe you said the right thing this time.”
The comte accepted the hat with disdain. He ordered the beggar lad, still hovering nearby, to collect the boxes the ladies had failed to retrieve. He took them from the boy and gave him a second coin, then joined Tretain, who awaited him beside his coach.
“I shall give orders for the packages to be returned after we take you to your apartments. Somehow I feel White’s isn’t ready for your new white style,” the earl managed, entering the coach after Cavilon. He broke into laughter as he dropped into his seat.
“You should have seen the sight the two of you presented...” he began. “That young woman is a...” Tretain bit back his words at sight of the glint in the other’s eye. “At least,” he offered more soberly, “you needn’t see that particular young lady again. Lady Waddington has been a stay-at-home since her husband’s death. I didn’t realize she had a daughter, though.”
“Niece,” Cavilon corrected, and then brushed at his sleeve.
“Do you really think it was something I said?” he asked, cocking his head, then burst into laughter.
Tretain, joining him, only later recalled that it was the first time in months he had seen his friend truly pleased. Drawing a breath, he teased, “I do think the powder is on rather a bit thick, even for you.”
Cavilon grinned wryly. “Miss Jeffries does have an interesting way of making a point, n’est-ce pas?”
Chapter Seven
“Good lord, Madeline, Elizabeth! What happened to you?” Sir Henry Jeffries exclaimed when his sister and niece returned to Lady Waddington’s home on Mount Street, where they were staying.
“There was an accident with the coach,” Lady Madeline began.
“The coach? My dears, come, sit down.
“Bently, fetch some brandy.” Sir Henry sprang forward to assist them.
“How pale you look. Why, what it that all over your gowns?” He pulled his spectacles from his pocket and gave the two a closer inspection.
“We were not harmed, Uncle Henry,” Elizabeth tried to calm him. “But your peruke powder did not fare as well.”
“Is that what it is?” Sir Henry brushed a hand across her cheek. “Why, yes, it does nothing for your looks, my dear,” he noted with a sudden twinkle in his eye.
“It did even less for the Frenchman,” she said and burst into laughter, the last glimmer of her unreasonable anger suddenly gone. “You should have seen him, Uncle. Sitting there in the street in his silk breeches and that heavy brocade coat, lace at his wrists and throat. He even had powder on his face, and his lips were rouged.” She surprised herself with these details, having thought she had noticed little of the man but his foul manners.
“With that peruke on his head he looked like someone belonging in London five and twenty years ago,” she concluded, drawing off her gloves. “No offence meant,” Elizabeth said contritely when she saw her uncle’s grimace and the peruke covering his balding pate.
“When we left him, he had been given a free dusting. And—-” Elizabeth attempted to become more sober, “as poor as all the Frenchmen abounding in this country are, that should have pleased him.”
“Elizabeth,” Lady Waddington said sternly. “Truly, I cannot believe it is you speaking this way. You are generally of a kind nature and the gentleman was good enough to assist us.”
“And insult us,” Miss Jeffries returned, recalling the man’s highly egotistical manners.
“Ladies, ladies.” Sir Henry handed them each a glass of brandy. “Let us drink to... to my powder. Good. Now go and refresh yourselves and then you shall give me a proper explanation.” The stern note in his voice was not to be disobeyed.
Excusing themselves, the pair withdrew to their rooms.
* * * *
Standing before her looking glass, Elizabeth was forced to smile, then laugh, at the image reflected back. The feathers of her poke bonnet were bent askew and coated with a film of white. Her face was streaked, for she had attempted to rid herself of most of the powder on it.
If it were black, I’d look the proper chimney sweep, she joked silently seeing that the chalk and flour mixture had managed a complete covering.
“Why, even my, cap...” Elizabeth began as she untied her bonnet. Her jaw flexed with the remembrance of the overdressed Frenchman’s words about lines coming to her features. Dropping the bonnet to the floor, she stalked to the washbasin and gave her face a thorough scrubbing, then returned to her mirror. Carefully studying her fe
atures, she started when she heard someone enter.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, miss,” apologized young Martha Spense who acted as Elizabeth’s abigail when she stayed with her uncle. “My, what a...”
“An absurd sight,” Elizabeth finished for her, laughing. “Come, Spense, unfasten me. You know, I never realized how fortunate we are that powdered hair has gone out of style. I cannot imagine how my uncle tolerates having his done,” she said, stepping out of her gown.
“‘Twas fortunate no one was injured,” Martha offered, news of the accident having reached below-stairs quickly.
“Yes,” her mistress mused, handing her the frilled spinster’s cap. “After you lay out my fresh garments, you can take these things away. They need more than a simple washing to save them.”
Martha hurried to get new petticoats and a fresh gown from the wardrobe and then slowly picked up the dust-laden garments. Pausing at the door before she left, she gave Miss Jeffries a second glance.
Never before had she noticed her mistress give but cursory inspection to her appearance while all other ladies dawdled hours away. But now her mistress seemed drawn to the looking glass, passing a hand across her cheeks and contemplating herself closely. “I’ll be right back, miss,” Spense offered, wondering if she should stay. The accident evidently had upset her mistress more than she allowed.
“Oh, that is all right. I can manage,” Elizabeth told her gazing into the mirror. When the door closed, she made an impulsive grimace.
“That’s for you, Comte de Cavilon,” she said. “Lines on my face, bah. They will come sooner to yours.” Her thoughts continued on the Frenchman as she dressed.
“It almost seemed,” Elizabeth wondered aloud, “that he recognized me... knew me. No,” she shook her head, “I must be mistaken.”
I would never have forgotten an odious character such as he if I had encountered him before this day, Miss Jeffries thought. She left her room and walked slowly towards the small salon to join her uncle.
* * * *
Lady Waddington paused at the door of the salon, struck by a subtle difference in Elizabeth as she sat visiting with her brother.
