by Joan Vincent
“Ah, Madeline, now we may hear the whole of this,” Sir Henry greeted his sister, rising. Retaking his seat after she sat, he adjusted his collar and stock. “Elizabeth was telling me that a high-perch phaeton caused your mishap.
“So many of these young bloods today have no respect for man or beast when they drive those out-landish vehicles. Why, they aspire to join the Four-in-Hand Club without first learning to master a pony cart, much less highly spirited animals. But I draw us away from our subject.” He fidgeted with his waistcoat and cleared his throat. “Pray continue, Elizabeth.”
“As I was saying, this young man came too close to us in his phaeton and locked wheels with our coach. Aunt Waddie decided it would be safer for us on the ground,” she said looking apologetically at her aunt. “What with the rocking and jarring the coach was doing as they attempted to right things, she may have been correct.”
“And this kind, elegant émigré,” Lady Madeline broke in, “was kindly assisting us down, but Elizabeth could not wait until I had introduced myself. She had to step down by herself.” While she spoke Lady Madeline realized what was different about her niece. She was no longer wearing her spinster’s cap. What was it the Frenchman had said about it? she tried to recall.
“If he had not hit me,” Elizabeth took up the tale.
“Hit you? ‘Pon my soul,” Sir Henry exclaimed.
“He didn’t hit her. The coach was jerked about the instant she stepped out.”
“He hit me and I fell,” the young woman insisted. “That was when the box containing your hair powder came open.”
Lady Waddington gave a small laugh. “It was such a scene, Henry. This billowing white cloud. Like snow but not nearly as pleasant.”
“And he had the nerve to insinuate I should apologize,” Elizabeth said, her anger returning.
Aunt Waddie shook her finger at her niece.
“If you had not sat upon his lap so long, the comte could not have said anything to you.”
With a bewildered shake of his head Sir Jeffries signalled for silence. “Let us make some sense out of this,” he said, rising. “You,” he looked at Elizabeth, “you say this man struck you?”
“I suppose it wasn’t actually on purpose... and not much of a blow,” she amended beneath her uncle’s something-must-be-done-now glare.
“You then sat upon his lap... in the street?”
“I did not tell him to fall beneath me,” she replied defensively.
“The comte was most gracious,” Lady Madeline offered. “He tried to catch Elizabeth and didn’t say anything about the powder. Not even when she threw what was left of it in his face.”
Rolling his eyes, Sir Henry lowered his frame slowly into his chair. “Perhaps it would be best if I did not understand the whole of this,” he said, looking from his niece to his sister. “Do I dare ask the man’s name?”
“A French émigré cannot be of too great a consequence,” Elizabeth said in a subdued tone. Her conduct, on the retelling, did not seem as proper as it had at the time.
“He was a very nice gentleman, if somewhat overdressed,” her aunt told Sir Henry. “And titled.”
“Overdressed, you say?” As he rubbed his chin a new possibility occurred to him. “His name?”
“Comte de Cavilon,” Lady Waddington told him.
“Not Cavilon! You didn’t throw hair powder on the Comte de Cavilon... not in the middle of the street... in front of others?” Sir Henry demanded of Elizabeth, now ramrod straight in his chair.
“You know the comte?” Lady Waddington asked shakily, taken aback by her brother’s tone.
“All London knows the man. He is one of the most eligible bachelors in the city, and one of the wealthiest.
“Oh, Elizabeth, such behaviour... and in London.”
“I did not know you cared so about... society... and the power of another’s wealth,” Elizabeth said, her throat tightening beneath the condemnation she read on her uncle’s features.
“It is not his money I care about, dear girl, but his influence in society. Your... ways...” he searched for the proper word and failed, “are accepted in Ashford, but here in London I fear... The comte could make it deuced uncomfortable for you,” he ended weakly.
“I would like to see him try.”
“I would not,” Sir Henry returned sternly. “You are old enough to know the consequences, Elizabeth. We must make amends.” He turned to his sister.
Elizabeth rose, her lip trembling. “I will not have you apologizing for me as if I were some... some spoiled child.”
“Ahem.” A polite cough turned all three’s attention to the door.
“These packages just arrived, my lady,” Bently announced and motioned to the footman behind him. “This card was with them.” He held forth a silver tray.
Lady Madeline picked up the gold-engraved card gingerly, having recognized the parcels as those left behind after the accident. “Take them away,” she commanded and turned her eves to the card. “It is from Comte de Cavilon’s.” She looked to her brother, and then turned it over, dismayed.
“What does it say?” Sir Henry asked anxiously.
“I do not know. It is in French. Elizabeth?” She held the card out to her niece.
Taking it, the young woman forced herself to focus on the writing. “His script is as dainty as his lace,” she noted.
“But what does it say?” Lady Waddington asked.
“He says... says he sends his greetings and hopes that we were not... were not unduly ‘settled’ by the accident.” She paused, considering his words. “Oh, don’t you see, Aunt, he is making a joke on me.
“Nonsense, it is quite good of him to be concerned.”
“Madeline is correct. You are being far too sensitive, Elizabeth,” Sir Henry said, his relief apparent. “What has happened to your common sense?
“I shall have to thank the man for trying to assist you. He is an odd sort, but most speak well of him. Good friend of Tretain’s, too. Oh, you recall the Tretains of Southhamptonshire? Home estate is Trees. By the oddest chance I encountered Tretain’s wife today,” Sir Henry continued with the particulars of the meeting.
His words passed over Elizabeth unheard. You wanted to be distracted, she thought, and you could have come upon no one more different from your rogue than this Comte de Cavilon. Her conscience nudged her guiltily. Mayhaps I was a bit unkind. If ever I do meet him again, I shall be more gracious, Elizabeth mentally promised and turned her attention back to her uncle’s story.
* * *
“Ah, my dear, you should not be awake at this late hour.” Lord Adrian spoke severely as he entered his wife’s chambers and found her reading in bed. A smile came to the earl’s features as he sat at her side. “But I am glad you are.” He kissed her gently. “How are you feeling?”
“Quite well. I found the note you sent rather interesting and had to remain awake until you explained it. What did you mean about the peruke powder?” Lady Juliane asked, reaching up to straighten the collar of his dressing gown.
“That was why I am so late. I took Louis to his rooms. He was quite an awesome sight, completely powdered from peruke to the buckles of his shoes. When his appearance was repaired we went to White’s. The news of the incident had travelled like a fox who hears the hounds draw near. I knew we would never get away, so I sent the note,” Tretain ended, certain the matter was now entirely clear to his wife.
Lady Juliane smiled. “Once more,” she said, “only this time begin before you come to the hair powder,” she commanded softly.
“... That young woman has the manners of a harridan,” Lord Adrian ended his second explanation.
“It sounds to me like she had ample provocation for her behaviour,” his wife defended the unknown young woman. “I cannot imagine Louis acting in such a reprehensible manner.”
“I did think it strange that he tolerated the incident as he did. You know he can get over-involved with his mannerisms and goad someone who is being too
pompous or righteous. Miss Jeffries struck me as neither, but he certainly baited her.”
“Jeffries? How did you learn her name? It did not sound like proper introductions were made.”
“They weren’t. I did wonder how Louis knew her name. He even knew she was a niece to the older woman. I am certain Lady Waddington only had time enough to mention her own name before the fall occurred.
“Oh, well, Louis has been out of sorts of late and this has cheered him. He seemed much more like his old self this eve.” Tretain chuckled.
“But tell me, what did you do today.”
“I did the shopping I had mentioned. While I was out I happened to meet Sir Henry Jeffries.”
“That’s why the woman’s name sounded familiar.” Tretain snapped his fingers. “Old Sir Henry... how is he?”
“Doing very well. He is visiting here with his sister. Brought his niece with him also,” Lady Juliane noted. A sly smile appeared on her lips.
“There is something you are not telling me, Juliane.” The earl eyed her carefully.
“Only that I invited the three of them to our ball next week,” she laughed.
“Good, I shall enjoy a visit with Sir Henry.”
“Oh, I think it will be very interesting,” she continued. “I am especially looking forward to meeting his niece... and to seeing you introduce her to Louis.”
Tretain cocked his head suspiciously.
“I did neglect to mention the ladies’ names, didn’t I?” Juliane remarked, attempting to assume a serious air. “They are Lady Waddington... and Miss Elizabeth Jeffries.”
“Make certain there is no hair powder present,” the earl laughed.
“As you wish, my lord.” Lady Juliane pursed her lips. “But don’t you fear our ball will be dismally dull, then?”
Tretain drew his wife into his arms. “Minx, I wonder if it will be safe to let you attend it,” he said gently. “Let us leave Louis to his just deserts... and you to yours.” His lips claimed hers as he drew her into his arms.
Chapter Eight
The theme of the Tretains’ ball on the first May eve was appropriately that of a May fair. Bunting and streamers of all colours abounded in the grand ballroom. The entire area was ringed with potted tulips, hyacinths, daffodils, and violets, all in full bloom. Large vases of roses stood on pedestals beneath the wall sconces, and boughs of newly leafed oaks completed the sights and aromas of spring.
Lady Juliane had dressed earlier than usual so that she could make one last inspection of the ballroom’s decor before the guests arrived. Pausing just inside the huge double doors, she scanned the room.
Lady Tretain walked to the centre of the room while a footman, who had just finished lighting the many candles in the wall sconces and overhead chandeliers, left. Laying a hand on the gaily painted red-and-white-striped pole, she glided about it to survey the total effect of the decorations. A smile of satisfaction came over her face. An even brighter smile filled her features when her eves lit on Lord Adrian.
“My dear,” Tretain scolded lightly, “you should be resting. The evening will be long enough as it is.” He approached her slowly, openly admiring her.
“The most beautiful woman in London shall be at my side this eve.” He bowed. “A dance, my lady?”
“But there is no music.”
“We shall make our own,” Lord Adrian said, holding out his hand.
Lady Juliane curtsied deeply and accepted. They began to dance slowly about the ballroom. Halfway through the movements of the set they kissed.
“La, such happy domesticity,” the Comte de Cavilon’s droll voice disturbed them. “Mayhaps there are virtues to the wedded state I have overlooked,” he noted with a demure air as he approached them with his peculiar swaying walk.
With feigned shock, Lady Juliane put a hand to her breast. “‘Pon my soul, the man sounds serious. I will have to warn all the eligible ladies to beware.”
“Certainement, if they are as lovely as you.” The comte took her hand and kissed it. “Très belle.”
“I feel absolutely sinful wearing this,” Lady Juliane fingered the sea-blue French silk gown, the material a gift from Cavilon. “Even though you insist it was not smuggled into England.”
“I promise you, my lady, it was handled by no common smuggler,” Cavilon smiled.
“Women,” he turned to Tretain. “Why must they be such questioning creatures?”
“That is what makes us interesting,” Lady Juliane returned. “I have a delightful surprise for you this eve.” She flashed a large smile.
“Something tells me you had better beware,” the earl told Cavilon. “When a woman gets that tone, it can only mean...”
“My lord. My lady.” Their butler Homer stepped into the ballroom. “Coaches are arriving.”
“To your duties.” The comte waved them off. “I shall inspect the wines and make myself comfortable.”
“You had better... while you are able,” Tretain tossed over his shoulder as Lady Juliane hurried him from the ballroom.
* * *
Lord Adrian and Lady Juliane were respected and liked by the majority of London’s beau monde. Their social affairs were always well attended, and this eve the crush was even greater than usual. The heat of the many candles, the large number of guests, and the exertions of the dance drove many to the cooler evening air of the veranda, which ran the length of the ballroom’s outer wall.
The many doors leading to it stood invitingly open. Comte de Cavilon led Lady Juliane through one of these at the conclusion of the second set of country dances.
“Your ball is an enviable success,” he commented as he led her to a nearby bench. “I have been commanded to see that you rest.” The comte motioned for her to sit.
“Truly, I do not feel a bit fatigued.” Lady Juliane’s eyes strained to see the latecomers entering the ballroom.
“Are you expecting someone of import? Prinny himself?” Cavilon teased.
“I don’t believe so,” Juliane said, giving him an annoyed frown. “But you are certainly dressed to receive royalty this eve,” she said eyeing his immaculate white raiment. His appearance was startling but ultimately handsome.
White from his moderately powdered periwig to the silver buckles gleaming on his white cloth-covered shoes, the comte was readily noticeable. The French silk of his jacket and breeches was flawless in fabric and fit. His sequined waistcoat dazzled to the eye. Studying his face, Lady Juliane noticed that he had not used as much powder or rouge as had become his habit. Why, even his affectations are not as pronounced this eve, she thought.
“Do you see something amiss?” Cavilon questioned. He flicked his kerchief at an imaginary speck on his sleeve.
“Indeed not, my lord Cavilon,” she smiled. “You are the best dressed gentleman present... but for my husband, of course.”
“Why, thank you, my dear,” Lord Adrian told his wife, joining them with an older man at his side and a woman of like age upon his arm. “You recall Sir Henry Jeffries. This is his sister, the Marchioness of Waddington, Lady Madeline. My wife, Lady Juliane.”
“Most pleased,” Lady Waddington smiled. “It was so kind of you to extend an invitation to us, my lady. Elizabeth—” She turned to motion her niece forward and found no one there. “I don’t understand,” she smiled nervously. “Elizabeth was with us a moment ago.”
“I am happy to learn that Miss Jeffries did come with you.” Lady Tretain glanced pointedly at the comte. “I am looking forward to meeting her.”
“She is a sweet young woman,” Lady Waddington said, also looking to the comte. “My lord Cavilon, I wish to thank you for your assistance at the time of our mishap.
“And you also, Lord Tretain.
“My dear,” Lady Madeline turned hack to Lady Juliane, “they were such a tremendous aid. I am certain matters would have been far more serious had they not been present.”
“Which reminds me,” Sir Henry spoke up. “It was not necessary for you to send
me a box of peruke powder.” His eyes twinkled merrily as he studied Cavilon.
“But of course it was,” the comte drawled. “As Lady Waddington says, the matter would have remained serious if we had not been present. I could do no less for the diversion than replace your powder. Let us forget it,” he dismissed the subject.
“I told Elizabeth you were a bloody good sport,” Sir Henry chuckled. “Haven’t laughed so much in years,” he admitted. “Don’t judge the girl too harshly. She tends to fly into the boughs but is a good sort. Bit down of late, worried about her brother and all. Brought her to London to cheer her.”
“Poor Elizabeth.” Lady Waddington sat beside Lady Juliane. “The most shocking incident happened to her two months past. A villain forced his way into the coach which was bringing the dear girl to my brother. Well, of course, this nearly frightened her to death. Fortunately no harm came to her, but she has been most unsettled ever since.”
She sighed heavily. “It is most natural for one with her delicate sensibilities.”
Tretain, saw Cavilon surreptitiously scan the ballroom, and noticed his mouth twitch as if fighting off laughter. He asked, “Where did this unfortunate incident occur?”
“I do believe I shall try to find Miss Jeffries,” Cavilon said before answer could be given. Excusing himself with a flutter of his lace, he gyrated away.
The simple gown Elizabeth wore was easily noticeable among the more elaborate dresses of the other women present. Taking two goblets of champagne from a passing footman, Cavilon headed towards her.
When he was but a few paces from his quarry, Elizabeth saw him. Her jaw clenched determinedly, and she walked hurriedly away, disappearing in the crush of dancers pausing between sets.
“La, I just knew you ladies were hoping for some refreshment,” Cavilon remarked, handing the champagne to two very startled dowagers. “My compliments, my dears,” he drawled, bowing exaggeratedly, and followed Miss Jeffries.
Elizabeth, using the skills she had garnered and honed to perfection in evading the suitors set upon her by Sir Henry and Lady Madeline, succeeded in evading the comte.
