They were on their way to a house party in Essex, at the invitation of Lady Pennell. Penelope had arranged to stop at this old house in Hampstead, to meet her brother Vergil so they could all travel together.
Under normal circumstances, the countess would not have required such an escort, but this might be a very awkward party. Her husband, the Earl of Glasbury, would be attending. Her family was coming out in force to support her. Her eldest brother, the Viscount Laclere, intended to ride up to stand at his sister’s side too.
“We could watch,” Penelope said. “It is a fencing academy owned by the Chevalier Louis Corbet. Some say it is the best in England, despite the fame of Angelo’s on Bond Street. At Angelo’s fencing is a sport. Here it is said the chevalier teaches it as a skill for war or dueling. We might sneak a peek.”
“Is it permitted? Do women watch at this Angelo’s?”
“Of course not. However, I have discovered that once a woman has walked out on her husband, there is little else that she can do that will really shock anyone.”
Diane had realized some time ago that Penelope considered her new freedom worth a little public censure. Not that she really exploited that freedom. Unlike some women who might brazenly take lovers, Penelope’s sins were of a different nature. She mingled with people a countess normally would not, and embraced as friends others who had fallen far lower than herself.
According to Jeanette, the countess was tainting herself beyond redemption. The people who mattered would more easily forgive a love affair with a married man than democratic friendships. It was just a matter of time before some of the drawing rooms still open to the countess, started closing.
Pen led the way to the house’s entrance and nudged the door open. They followed the sounds of clashing steel to a large chamber off the hall. Peeking around its doorjamb like children spying at a ball, they saw three pairs of men dueling with swords.
“It looks very dangerous,” Penelope whispered. “They are not even wearing padded shirts. One wrong move and there will be blood.”
Diane had not considered the danger implied by their garments. She had only noticed the lack of them. Not only did they not wear padded shirts, they wore no shirts at all. The room swam with the images of six naked, strong torsos.
She had never in her life even seen one before.
“I did not realize that your cousin would be here,” Penelope said. “The gray-haired man he duels with is the Chevalier Corbet.”
Diane had picked out Daniel at once. He faced them, but all his concentration remained on his opponent, as well it must.
“He and the chevalier are clearly the most skilled. My brother’s moves are less daring. More studied.”
Diane was not noticing the various levels of skill. She could not take her attention off Daniel. He appeared very handsome. Unlike the grimaces of exertion on the younger men’s faces, his remained calm, almost cold, as he met the chevalier’s attack.
He looked magnificent. Strong and confident and lean and muscular and . . . wonderful. The lightest sheen covered his skin, and taut muscles sculpted his arms and shoulders and chest. He was not the biggest man in the room, but there was no mistaking that every inch of him was finely honed and potentially dangerous.
Her gaze drifted over those muscles, fascinated by their chiseled hardness. The way his torso tapered to his hips compelled her attention. A flush swept her, and forbidden memories of his caresses in the carriage entered her head.
What would it feel like to lay her palm on that chest? It appeared so hard, and yet surely the skin would be warm and soft. . . .
“Hell, Pen, what are you doing in here?” Vergil Duclairc’s yell snapped Diane out of her shameful speculations.
They had been noticed.
The sparring ceased immediately. Vergil and three other men strode to the side of the room and grabbed shirts.
Daniel did not. He lowered his sword as he looked to the doorway. His gaze caught Diane’s before she could duck behind the jamb.
She felt her color rising. Something in the way he looked at her suggested he had known she was there. Much as she had seen his reaction in the modiste’s mirror, he had seen hers, despite his attention on the chevalier’s sword.
Unlike Vergil Duclairc, he had let her watch.
His expression reflected neither embarrassment nor shock. His eyes merely acknowledged what she was seeing, and the fact that she had not looked away. And still wasn’t.
“Jesus, Pen, what are you thinking?” Vergil suddenly loomed in front of them now, blocking the view of the chamber. His shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, no more than a quick cover to hide his nakedness.
Beside him stood a perfectly beautiful young man with brown hair and a winning smile. Properly clothed, he had been lounging on a bench at the side of the room.
“I had no idea that you fenced without clothes,” Pen said.
“Only when we practice defensive sparring. It is to accustom us to the vulnerability—see here, you are the one who needs to do the explaining, not me.”
“We were just curious about the practices. Thank goodness you were not completely naked, as in Elgin’s Greek metopes. And to think I always assumed that was artistic license on the sculptor’s part.”
Vergil sighed with exasperation. “You know very well that you should have left at once. Furthermore, to bring Miss Albret . . .”
Penelope glanced to Diane. “Oh, dear, I have been remiss. We will go now and wait in the coach. Do not hurry on our account. I insist. Finish as you planned.”
Taking Diane’s arm, she aimed for the building’s entrance. “Vergil can be a bit stuffy. It was always in him, but is getting worse as he grows older. I don’t know where he gets it, since our family is not known for such things. Rather the opposite. He means well, but it can be tiresome.”
“I agree, Pen. Having just listened to a scold that lasted our entire way here, I have to say that Vergil’s stuffiness has swelled considerably since I last saw him. Although sneaking a peek like that really was scandalous of you.”
The response came from behind them. Diane glanced back to see the beautiful young man following. The humor in his limpid eyes suggested he found scandalous behavior great fun.
Out in the yard, Pen gave him an embrace and a kiss. “Diane, this is my youngest brother, Dante. He is only eighteen but has already lived a lifetime of trouble. I was surprised to see you in there, Dante. It was kind of you to come down from university to stand by me.”
“I am glad to stand with you, but I confess that I had little choice on the coming down part.”
Pen’s face fell. Her sigh sounded as exasperated as Vergil’s had just been. “You mean that you were rusticated? Not again, Dante. No wonder Vergil scolded. What was it this time?”
“Just a small matter.” Dante shot Diane a glance, to remind his sister they had company.
“Since it appears that we have some time before we leave, I think that I will take a stroll in the park,” Diane said.
Pen had become absorbed in her youngest brother and did not object as Diane walked away. Her last sight of them as she turned the corner of the house was Dante speaking with a sheepish expression, and Pen moaning at what she heard.
Diane was well into the woods before she realized that she had never taken a walk in the country before.
The school had been on the outskirts of Rouen, but its surroundings were hardly rural. Outings had been into the city, not away from it. In Paris, and now in London, she enjoyed the parks but never ventured away from the cultivated areas. This Hampstead house might not be circled by farms, but the land was large enough and so overgrown that the setting appeared rustic.
She strolled down paths, surprised that the experience did not startle her more. People spoke of nature as a transforming place. Instead it felt quite familiar to her. Perhaps that was because it was silent and lonely, and her heart was very accustomed to both those things.
Not completely silent. The crack
of gunfire pierced the quiet at regular intervals. Not too far away, someone was shooting at game.
That did not startle her either. She knew at once what the sound meant. She knew that it belonged in this place and that she should not go near it.
She turned onto a new path and saw a clearing up ahead. A cottage came into view as she neared the break in the trees.
She paused. The image of that cottage, framed by tree trunks and hovering branches, was so familiar that her breath caught. She had the odd sensation that she had experienced this moment before.
It was not the first time she’d had that eerie feeling. She knew that everyone did sometimes. This was more distinct than ever before, however. She believed that, if required to, she could describe the cottage completely without seeing the rest of it.
She tried to do that. When her mind failed her, when no obscured details emerged, she laughed at herself and walked on.
The cottage, thatched and old, with plastered walls and visible timbers, appeared well maintained. Someone lived there.
As if summoned by her curiosity, the door opened and an old man stepped out. His clothes were simple but clean, his beard long and white. He noticed her.
“Is the chevalier taking women students now?” He chuckled at the notion as he carried a pail to a well.
“I am only visiting. I am not learning to use a sword.”
“You speak like him. French, are you? Don’t get women here much.”
She moved closer. The sensation of a moment relived, grew. “Who are you?”
He looked at her in surprise, then laughed. “I’m George. I keep the grounds, best as I can with these bad legs. I’ve been here most of my life, since before the chevalier had the place. Hell, I was here when that wastrel had it, before Corbet. Lost it gambling, he did, which I could see coming. Just like I can see those young bloods who come for their dueling lessons probably losing most of what they have to women and cards.” He cranked until the pail emerged from the well. “One bold question deserves another. Who are you?”
A profound disappointment stabbed at her. “I am no one.” It was out before she realized it, a response born of the peculiar desolation suddenly breaking her heart.
She turned on her heel, to be away from this place that made her feel so odd and unknown.
“Do you know your way back?” George asked.
She halted. She had not paid much attention to the paths she had walked. That had been careless.
“Lucky you didn’t get lost. You take the first path that branches right. It will bring you to the side of the woods, and just follow it up to the house. There’s other, faster ways back, but that is the clearest. You stay along the trees this side of the meadow, though. That firing you hear is one of those bloods practicing with pistols on the other side.”
“I thought it was hunting.”
“Not much hunting done in these parts anymore. Too many houses being built. Used to be country here, but the city is closing in.”
She thanked him and followed the path as he had instructed. When it turned to flank the meadow, the sun burnt away the sensation of déjà vu.
She could not see the house, but she aimed toward it, trusting George’s directions. A few early wildflowers dotted the small meadow. By summer, they would blanket it.
She wondered if she would meet the chevalier. If she did, maybe he would invite her to visit again. She imagined herself running barefoot under the sun in this meadow. The fantasy was so vivid that she felt the grass and earth beneath her feet.
The shooting had stopped, but suddenly a crack split the silence. A faint buzz sounded near her ear at the same time. A thud to her left made her snap her head around and cry out.
She froze, stunned. It took several moments to comprehend the reason for her reaction.
A gun’s ball had whizzed past her.
The chill of fear breathed down her neck. The same shock she had experienced after the opera now immobilized her.
A man emerged on the other side of the meadow. He saw her and broke into a run. As he came toward her she saw only blond hair and a distraught face.
“Are you hurt? Were you hit?” The questions called out as he neared.
She wasn’t sure. She did not think so. She shook her head.
“Thank God. A hare startled me and my aim went wild. No one walks these grounds, so when I heard your cry my heart stopped.”
Her senses returned. “I am quite safe. I do not even think it came close. I cried out because I was startled, that is all.”
He exhaled with relief. “Please allow me to escort you back to the house. Proper introductions will have to wait, but my name is Andrew Tyndale, and I will never forgive myself for my carelessness.”
He appeared solid and honest, and a gentleman. With the worry gone from his face, his expression was contrite and concerned. Diane judged him to be in his late forties.
Allowing him to escort her seemed a sensible thing to do. “Thank you, if you would. I am a little shaken, I will confess.”
As they walked in silence, she sneaked a few glances his way. He was an attractive man, with a strong jaw and deep-set blue eyes. His countenance bore an open quality, as if he did not dissemble much. She guessed that he had been quite dashing when young. The Roman style of his blond hair and the fashionable cut of his coat suggested that he still thought himself so.
She had met many men of his age since leaving the school. Some ignored the passing years and pretended they were still young, which made them more foolish than clever. Others so thoroughly gave in to the march of time that they might have been sixty already. Andrew Tyndale appeared to have struck a balance. He wore his maturity frankly, but his fitness and fashion announced he was not passé.
He smiled at her. It was a warm smile. It gave his face a countenance that inspired trust. “As I said, proper introductions will have to wait, but since I almost killed you, may I know your name?”
“Diane Albret.” She pronounced the “t,” as she had ever since arriving in England. She kept hoping that someone would recognize the name if pronounced that way. To claim her true heritage, she had also been trying to purge her speech of French words and her accent, even if both were considered quite fashionable here.
“You are French?” he asked, indicating, as George had, that the accent still marked her.
“I am English, but I grew up in France.”
“You were far from home, then, during the war.”
Yes, very far from home. She did not know why, but she sensed that he would welcome her confidences on that. He would be far more interested in what that had meant to her than Daniel had been.
“Are you a relative of the chevalier?”
“No. I am here with Lady Glasbury.”
“Ah, now I know why you look familiar. I think I saw you with her at Lady Starbridge’s ball last week. Is the countess a friend of the chevalier’s?”
“I do not think so. We are waiting for her brother to finish his practice.”
“You must mean Vergil Duclairc. One of the Hampstead Dueling Society. That is what they call themselves. Not fencing society, but dueling. They practice for the challenge that will never come, and fantasize that they are corsairs.”
“You are not a member, I gather.”
“I am too old to find fantasies appealing.”
“But you make use of the chevalier’s academy too?”
“His skills are unsurpassed, and he will use the military sabre, as I prefer. I like that he will spar without padded garments. Unlike the young men in there now, however, I keep my shirt on, and carry a fresh one to don when the practice is done.”
He laughed as he made his little joke. She almost did, too, until she remembered that doing so would indicate she had seen them without their shirts.
“The day is fair and the meadow very lovely,” he said, giving her a fatherly smile. “Let us walk across it and up to the house by the path in the opposite woods. There is a charming brook whe
re some crocuses are in bloom.”
“No one else will be shooting, will they?”
“No, and I know how to stay clear of their range if they should start.”
She felt very safe with him, even if he had almost shot her. She wanted to walk across the meadow, so she agreed.
As her hem brushed against dried grass, she decided that she rather liked Andrew Tyndale’s company. She might have one day strolled like this with her father if he were not dead. Andrew Tyndale did not frighten her at all, being so old, nor make her unsettled. He treated her as he might a niece or daughter.
He did not create little eternities in which she forgot how to breathe.
“My apologies for my sister, St. John. Living independently has started her doing some very peculiar things.”
Daniel smiled at Vergil’s exasperation. Doing very peculiar things was something of a Duclairc tradition, and Vergil, with his respect for the appearance of propriety, was the odd one in his family.
“As a married woman, of course, it was not too shocking. Your cousin, however . . .” Vergil tied his cravat in the dressing chamber’s mirror. “I will remind Pen of her responsibilities there.”
“I would not make more of it than it was. I’m sure if your sister had known, she would have never intruded, let alone allowed my cousin to.”
Vergil nodded, relieved to receive absolution for his sister. “Damned decent of you.”
Daniel was not feeling at all decent about the whole little episode. Lady Glasbury’s behavior could be excused. His own could not.
He had known they were there, long before Vergil called out. He had noticed them as he caught Louis’s sword on his own. He had seen Diane watching him. He had been far too conscious of the expression in her eyes.
He had darkly enjoyed every damn second of what had felt like an hour, preening like an animal showing off for its mate.
She was making him ridiculous.
They walked out to the yard where the countess’s coach waited. Vergil walked over to it with an expression that said the countess was in for a little talk, in any case.
It turned out to be a short one. He came back to Daniel. “Your cousin is not here. She went for a walk, to permit my sister some privacy with Dante while the tale of his bad behavior could be told.”
The Seducer Page 13
