Le Chevalier

by Mary Jean Adams

  “No, not long at all,” she said at last. “They died just last year of the small pox.” Her voice quavered when she named the dreadful disease that had robbed her of most of her family.

  “How terrible it must have been for you. At least you have your brother to share your sorrow.”

  His words hung in the pre-dawn silence. Even the crickets had retired from their courting rituals for the night.

  “Yes, at least,” she said at last, fidgeting with the edges of her cloak. She pulled it tighter around herself and folded her arms over her chest.

  She looked so forlorn hugging her woolen cloak around her. He found himself aching to pull her into his arms and comfort her.

  He knew, as well as anyone, what a loss of someone dear could do to tear one’s world apart, and she had lost two of the people most important to her. Left with a brother who was neither a comfort nor a protector, she had turned to Nathaniel. But Mont Trignon could tell from the patronizing way her intended spoke to her, he would never cherish her the way a man should.

  Alexandra’s lower lip quivered in the fading moonlight, and only the thought of her fiancé kept Mont Trignon from scooping her into his arms and covering her soft lips with his own.

  Reid had been correct in one respect. Alexandra deserved better than Nathanial.

  But did Alexandra intend to marry the tow-headed rustic with his pained looks and disapproving nature? He remembered the sparks in her eyes when Nathaniel mentioned marriage in front of her brother, so perhaps she had not yet accepted his proposal.

  Intrigued, Mont Trignon had asked Reid, when a discreet moment presented itself, and had been treated to a glare that threatened to set the tavern alight. Josh and Beau, on the other hand, had bestowed several hours of ribald teasing, and in the end, he knew no more than before he had asked.

  “It’s getting late,” Alexandra said, her voice breaking the brittle silence between them.

  In truth, it was more early than late. Deep purples stained the sky as the sun rose on a distant horizon. A rustling in a lone tree along the edge of the street told of sparrows that would soon fill the air with their chittering. It would not be long before the curious eyes of early risers peeked from between curtain slits to gawk at their young neighbor, arriving home in the company of a man.

  This time, as she reached into the pockets she wore about her waist and retrieved her key, he did not attempt to stall her.

  “Here, Mademoiselle,” he said, taking the key from her hand, “permettez-moi.”

  He unlocked her door and then handed her key back to her. Alexandra placed it back in her pocket but made no move to open her door.

  She looked up at him with tentative brown eyes, reminding him of the doe he had once tamed in the forest around his home. After an entire summer of coaxing the shy little animal to trust him, he succeeded in getting her to nibble a bit of grain from his hand.

  “Thank you, Chevalier,” she said, her words no more than a whisper on her lips.

  “Please, Alexandra, call me Trig.”

  Alexandra laughed, a sound more lovely than the sweetest bird song.

  “I will not call you by that ridiculous name.” She paused, a considering gaze on his face. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Perhaps not, but at least you can pronounce it,” he said, waggling an eyebrow at her.

  She grinned, and he thought his heart might skip a beat.

  “You are probably right. I’m afraid my father’s tutelage extended only as far as the sciences. He had no gift for languages, and I speak only one,” she said.

  “I could teach you my language,” he said, before he could consider his words.

  He longed to show her many things; his language was the least of them. At least his brain had not conspired with his mouth to cause him to blurt out the any number of other thoughts on his mind.

  “I would like that,” Alexandra said, surprising him with her enthusiasm.

  As she tilted her head up and smiled at him, the hood of her cloak fell back uncovering her hair and face. The muted light from the rising sun pulled out the auburn highlights in her hair and gave her skin a translucent golden glow. Her eyes shimmered as they reflected the soft warmth of dawn. How could he ever have thought this woman plain?

  His gut ached as her smile filled him with intense longing, and he found it difficult to draw breath.

  Was her passion for life the same as her smile? Did it linger inside her, waiting to be nurtured and unleashed by someone who gave back to her in equal measure? He could give her that if only she would allow it.

  Cupping her elbows in his palms, he drew her closer until the tips of her toes touched his. When she did not resist, he lay his palm on her cheek and settled his lips on hers.

  He breathed her scent as he kissed her, glad for the solid iron railing pressing into the backs of his thighs and steadying him as his head swam.

  She wore none of the fashionable perfumes of Paris. The heat rose from her skin and combined with the aroma of the tavern’s vegetable stew and the yeasty smell of beer, comforting and arousing him at the same time until he was dizzy with wanting her.

  A sudden realization grounded his swirling senses. Alexandra did not kiss him back. A bit unusual as a Frenchman, Mont Trignon had not plotted ways to win a kiss from every woman he met. But even the few he had kissed had always responded.

  When he pulled away, her wide eyes filled him with shame.

  “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, that was unforgivable.” His hand still cupped her cheek, and his gaze caressed her lips.

  “Unforgivable?” Alexandra whispered.

  It sounded more like a question than a statement, but he could not be sure.

  “Yes, to kiss a woman when she is promised to another,” he said, trailing his finger along the delicate skin of her jaw line and savoring the satiny texture.

  Her eyes hardened, and she pulled away from his touch. “I assure you, Chevalier, I am not promised to anyone.”

  Hope leapt in Mont Trignon’s breast.

  “Then perhaps I have a chance, yes?” He gave her his most dazzling smile—the one that always worked for him when he wanted something from his sisters.

  Alexandra’s narrowed eyes suggested it would not work as well with her.

  “Chevalier, it is inappropriate for us to be standing here on the stairs in the middle of the night.”

  They had been doing more than standing on the stairs, and the moon had long since dipped below the horizon, but he did not think it wise to comment.

  “Then perhaps we should go inside?” he said, with a suggestive wink.

  “That would be even more improper!” Alexandra said, her voice a mere squeak. “I barely know you.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle, I only jest with you,” Mont Trignon assured her. “My only intent tonight was to see you home.” He depressed the latch on her door and swung it open on creaky hinges. The rising sun did little to illuminate the long gloomy hallway beyond. “I will wait until you have your light.”

  True to his word, he did not follow her inside but leaned against the door jam, one long leg crossed over the other as he watched her. Her hands shook as she lifted a candle from a side table just inside the door and lit it.

  “You see, sir, I am safely inside, and I have my light. You may go now.” The slight tremor in her voice belied the haughty dismissal.

  “Very well, chérie, au revoir.” He smiled, maintaining eye contact as he swung the door shut.

  He turned and descended her steps to the vacant street below, a whistle escaping his lips.

  He had surprised himself by kissing her like that. He had not initiated a kiss with a woman since Nicole’s death. Women who still considered him a catch despite his lack of encouragement had stolen a few from him, but those kisses had left him cold despite the enthusiasm with which they were bestowed.

  He gave a soft snort as his thoughts drifted over the many women, from courtesans to courtiers, who had invited his attentions. The co
nfidence some women had in their ability to entice a man never ceased to amaze him. Still, he had hoped one of them could awaken the feelings he once had toward Nicole, but each stolen kiss only left him emptier inside.

  He grinned, remembering Alexandra’s lips, warm and pliant, beneath his own. Perhaps stolen kisses were better when one was the thief.

  He stuck his hands into the pockets of his coat as he strolled toward his rented rooms in a far more fashionable part of town.

  He found Alexandra’s insistence of the impropriety of the situation endearing, but not because of the words. He had heard similar ones before, uttered in French, but intended more as an artful invitation toward a dalliance inside instead of on the front steps.

  Alexandra held genuine concern over the decency of talking with a man on her front step in the middle of the night. Much like the country in which she lived, she carried an air of being fresh and unspoiled, yet with so much potential.

  Inside his coat pockets, his hands balled into fists as he thought of the indifference Reid showed toward his sister’s safety. A war raged around them, and yet, he allowed her to walk home at night without guardian or chaperone. It might not be his place to say anything, but one day, he would take Reid to task for neglecting his duty. In the meantime, he would do his best to balance his mission and act as her brother’s surrogate.

  The sounds of a city awakening drifted toward him as he rounded the corner onto a main thoroughfare. Horse’s hooves clopped over cobblestones. A smithy’s hammer rung out, echoing off the walls of distant buildings. A shopkeeper hailed a good morning as he carried two tables, one under each beefy arm, to the front of his shop. Mont Trignon smiled a greeting in return.

  For now, Reid Turner, Josh, and Beau Bandy would be useful allies. He had been fortunate to stumble upon them in his quest to track down Alexandra, and his time would be better spent earning their trust than exploring the long-buried desires she awakened inside him.

  His father had agreed he should come to America with the marquis to learn what he could about the advisability of an alliance between the Americans and France. Like many Frenchman, his father would do anything, invest any amount of money, to become even a small thorn in the side of George III.

  Mont Trignon reached down and scooped up a thick stick that had fallen from a nearby maple tree. As he walked, he slashed at the air in front of him, testing its weight.

  He tore off a few of the leafy twigs and peeled back the bark, leaving a trail of debris on the bricks behind him.

  Josh and Beau Bandy were not good at pretense. He had cracked their defenses easily enough, and they were all too happy to tell their new friend what they knew.

  He gave a small yell and jabbed at the air as though fending off a band of assassins.

  As he reached a more residential area, a young kitchen maid stepped around the side of a brick Georgian townhouse, gave a small squeak when she spied him and dropped her empty basket. She stood wide-eyed and stiff as Mont Trignon tossed his makeshift sword into the bushes, picked up her basket and handed it back to her.

  “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle,” he said, with an elegant bow from the waist.

  She reclaimed the basket with stiff fingers then giving him a quick curtsey, scurried in the direction of the market. Before turning a corner, she glanced back wide-eyed, ensuring he had not followed her.

  Mont Trignon looked around for his sword but then decided he would rather not earn the reputation as the local lunatic, so he stuffed his hands in his pockets and continued walking.

  As he left behind the homes of the merely prosperous and turned onto the wide boulevard that was home to the real wealth of Philadelphia, his thoughts returned to the leader of his small band of confidants.

  He recalled the hard look of the young man—so like his twin sister, with the same intelligent brown eyes, yet so different. His confidence would be harder to earn but well worth the effort.

  Staying close to Reid meant staying close to his sister. Despite his indifference to her safety, Reid used her tavern as a means to distribute his pamphlets.

  But Mademoiselle Turner could prove to be a distraction. He had seen more than one man lose his focus when a woman was involved. His mother had urged him to find a wife, so she could have grandchildren. He had argued his sisters could provide her with a whole houseful of grandchildren, but it had not been good enough for her.

  His father had suggested a wife would be a better choice than a mistress since they did not complicate things so much.

  His laughter bounced off the marble facades of the homes lining the street. He had seen his mother do a fine job of complicating his father’s life on more than one occasion.

  Still, he could see the correctness in his father’s opinion. He ran a hand along the wrought iron fence separating the mansions from the streets and pulled back dew-covered fingers. Until he completed his mission, it would be advisable to keep Alexandra Turner at arm’s length even as he acted as her protector.

  And afterward? Afterward he would welcome the opportunity to introduce her to what the French called la joie de vivre, unless she did something stupide like marrying someone else.

  Mont Trignon smiled as a plan took shape. He lifted the iron fittings securing the front gate to the Montgomery mansion. Only the soft sound of well-oiled metal against metal announced his early morning homecoming.

  Nathanial Brown would make the perfect accomplice. He would encourage Alexandra’s regard for the young man, perhaps even advise him on how to win a woman’s heart—just enough to keep her interested and unavailable to anyone else. In the end, however, he would make certain Alexandra would never agree to marry Nathanial. The boy would simply serve as his proxy until he could wrap up his mission.

  Mont Trignon whistled as he mounted the granite steps of the mansion and turned the key in the lock. His plan was perfect.

  Chapter Six

  Alex selected a bundle of carrots from an overflowing crate and handed them to the farmer to have them weighed. After she paid the man, she placed the bunch atop the growing pile of fresh vegetables in the woven basket she carried on her forearm.

  C…O…She mulled through the items on her mental list while she strolled between long rows of market stalls piled high with late summer produce. She needed to find a farmer selling quality onions at a price she could afford.

  But just as it had done all morning, her mind refused to stay focused on her chore. Her thoughts were so muddled that, if not for the help provided by her mnemonic method of remembering lists, she would have returned to the tavern with only turnips in her basket.

  At this moment, her thoughts had settled on her new friend, Marie Noielles. It had been over a week since she met Marie at the Lancasters’ assembly, and she had only shared her company for a few hours, but Alex longed to talk with her again. Since her mother’s death, she had forgotten how comforting it could be to spend time with another woman.

  Of course, she had the misfortune of seeing Angelina from time to time, but their conversations often devolved into petty squabbles and tended to leave her tense and exhausted.

  She glanced around at the other market-goers selecting sweet-smelling corn, plump beets, and freshly butchered meats and wondered if Marie had ever visited a market in her life. Probably not. Most likely, Marie had servants to do menial tasks, like the cook with the florid face haggling over a sack of potatoes a few stalls away.

  Even so, she searched the faces of people about her, holding on to a sliver of hope. She could disregard the few men in the crowd and the boys, most of them farmers’ sons, in their filthy overalls and bare feet. Marie might be tall, but in no way could her beauty be described as masculine. Several women in drab, course-woven dresses with fading neckerchiefs carried crying babies or dragged children with dirty faces by the hand through the market. She could eliminate them as well.

  There were only a few lone women: a couple of tall ones with pointed noses and crooked teeth, a fat one with graying hair peekin
g from beneath her cap, several young girls with plain faces and even the occasional beauty hidden beneath the fringe of a cap or a wide straw bonnet. None of them could be mistaken for her elegant friend.

  Alex ceased scanning the throngs and returned to hunting onions; although her mind still dwelled on her friend.

  She so wanted to talk to Marie. She did not know her well enough to burden her with the outrageous thoughts that kept her awake until the sun was high in the sky, but she could still ask Marie about the chevalier.

  Alex stopped at a stall selling red onions and held one to her nose, its pungent aroma filling her senses and making her eyes water. With a nod to the teenage boy in dirty overalls minding the stall, she set it back in the crate and meandered away. She needed yellow onions for the stew.

  She wondered if Marie knew Mont Trignon. They were both French and in Philadelphia at the same time. Not that there weren’t plenty of Frenchmen in America, but a similarity in their bearing hinted at similar backgrounds.

  Then again, Marie was the aunt of a marquis. To Alex’s provincial point of view, they were both upper-crust members of French society, but perhaps they traveled in different social circles all together. Still, even if they did not know of each other, Marie might be able to explain the significance of the title of chevalier and maybe even teach her how to pronounce his name in a credible fashion.

  She stopped at a new stall and picked through stacks of vegetables, but her thoughts were so far away, had she been asked to name the leafy produce, she could not.

  As much as she might want to, she knew she would not dare to confess the full extent of her relations with Mont Trignon to Marie. She had kissed a man she had known little more than a week on the steps of her home in the middle of the night. Just thinking about the scandalous nature of the kiss made her senses reel.

  She had difficulty admitting the kiss had happened, even to herself. In the bright light of day, she wondered if it might have been the figment of some dream stirred up by an overwrought mind.

  A soft breeze brushed the line of her jaw, following the path Mont Trignon’s finger had taken just a few hours ago and sending a sensuous shiver rippling from the top of her scalp to the tips of her toes.