Le Chevalier

by Mary Jean Adams

  “Mrs. Thornton, how delightful to see you again,” Mont Trignon said, bowing. Taking the bejeweled hand she offered, he kissed the air above her rings. “May I present my cousin, Monsieur Lourdaud, recently arrived from Paris.”

  “Ah, Monsieur Lourdaud,” Mrs. Thornton exclaimed, holding out her hand to Alex. “So pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Alex stared at the back of the woman’s hand, unsure what to do next.

  “I regret to say my cousin does not speak English,” Mont Trignon said, with a frown.

  “Not a word?” Mrs. Thornton asked, dropping her hand to pick up a monocle in order to give the small Frenchman a thorough perusal.

  Alex bit her inner lip to stifle her smile. She had heard from one of the Thornton’s maids that Mrs. Thornton, although blind as a bat, hated the eyepiece as she considered it unfashionable. Indeed, she must really find a foreigner who didn’t speak English a sight to behold if Monsieur Lourdaud warranted a closer inspection.

  “I am afraid not.” Mont Trignon shrugged as Mrs. Thornton finished her once-over of her new guest. “It is regrettable, but there you have it.”

  “Ah, well, no matter,” Mrs. Thornton tucked her monocle back into the bosom of her dress. “Any cousin of yours is welcome in our home. Since my French is quite deficient, will you please do me the honor of letting him know we are delighted he is here?”

  Mont Trignon turned to Alex and murmured something unintelligible.

  “Ah, Chevalier, yours is a beautiful language made all the more so when you speak it,” Mrs. Thornton said, before moving on to other arriving guests.

  On that score, Alex had to agree. She found Mont Trignon’s voice intoxicating enough when he spoke English, but when he spoke his native French, his words took on the consistency of warm honey. She wanted to let them flow over her.

  “Come, I cannot have my cousin looking at me like that, or people will start to talk,” Mont Trignon said, interrupting her reverie.

  He strode into the room, and Alex had to trot after him to keep up.

  As they passed a servant carrying a silver tray, Mont Trignon grabbed a crystal flute filled with a bubbling blond liquid. Alex waited for him to hand one to her as well. When he didn’t, she snatched her own from the tray just before the waiter disappeared into the crowd.

  Alex hurried to walk beside him. “Do you see Angelina?” she whispered.

  He stopped walking and scanned the room. “No, not yet, but I have it on good authority she and the colonel plan to attend the ball. The dancing has not started yet, so it is still early.” He nodded toward the fireplace forming the focal point of the ballroom. “Let us take a position by the mantel where we can observe.”

  As members of an orchestra filed in to take their seats on the opposite side of the room, Alex followed Mont Trignon to a large fireplace flanked by scrolled rosewood pillars. The heat of the ballroom, filled to near capacity, made a fire unnecessary, but a brass candelabrum on the mantel cast a muted glow.

  Mont Trignon set his foot on the ledge in front of the fireplace, leaned his arm against the mantel, and sipped his drink.

  “Do not stand so close to me,” he whispered, when Alex settled next to him.

  Belatedly, she realized she had stood in the protected crook of his arm as though she were a female companion and an intimate one at that. She shuffled backward to a proper distance and assumed a posture similar to his. She set her foot on the ledge, but even four-inch heels didn’t allow her to lean against the mantel, so she crossed her arms in front of her in a manly stance.

  She caught Mont Trignon’s grin just before he took another sip.

  Alex grimaced as she tasted the golden, effervescent liquid in her glass. It tickled her nose and throat.

  “Augh, what is this?” she asked, scrunching her face.

  Mont Trignon smiled. “Champagne. And although I quite agree with your assessment, the Thorntons have gone to considerable expense to display their wealth. It is important to at least pretend to enjoy it.”

  “That may take some doing,” Alex said, steeling herself to take another sip even though the first still roiled in her stomach.

  She regretted being too nervous to eat more than a slice of bread with honey for supper.

  “Mont Trignon, how good to see you again,” said a portly man in a blue waistcoat and gold brocade jacket as he strode toward them. His perfectly tailored ensemble just managed to cover his impressive girth.

  “We have missed you at cards, sir. I hope we can entice you to play a game with us this evening when you tire of dancing with all of the lovely ladies in attendance.”

  “Ah, but you know me, Monsieur Thornton,” Mont Trignon grinned. “I shall never tire of dancing with the ladies.”

  He gave Alex a scandalous grin, which she chose to ignore by pretending to enjoy her champagne.

  “However, I will endeavor to join you for a round later if you would be so kind as to permit me,” he concluded.

  “So very good of you, sir. And please bring your young friend here.”

  “Monsieur, permit me to introduce my cousin, Monsieur Lourdaud, recently arrived from France.”

  “Ah, sir, it is my great pleasure to meet you, and I do so hope you will join us. Tell me, what is your game? Faro? Whist?”

  “Monsieur, I am afraid my cousin does not have a gift for your language,” Mont Trignon explained.

  “Well, one doesn’t need language to play cards, does he now? Only money.” Thornton laughed at his own humor, his belly threatening to pop the buttons on his waistcoat.

  Mont Trignon turned to Alex and said a few words in French. When he finished, his gaze stayed on her face, and she assumed he waited for a response.

  “Sacré bleu!” she said, repeating the first two French words that came to mind even though she had no idea what they meant.

  With any luck, Thornton spoke no French either.

  The chevalier rolled his eyes and turned back to their host. “My cousin says he would be delighted, Monsieur.”

  “Ahh, wonderful!” Thornton said, his jowls wobbling in delight.

  After Thornton left to welcome more guests, Alex and Mont Trignon kept their vigil at the mantel while an endless array of people came to greet the ever-popular chevalier and to meet his curious cousin.

  As the night wore on, word of the little Frenchman’s eccentricities spread, fed no doubt by his odd choice of clothing and inability to speak English. As many people came to see Monsieur Lourdaud as to speak with Mont Trignon.

  Mont Trignon translated what each inquisitive well-wisher said into French, or at least Alex presumed he did. She simply waited for him to finish speaking and then pulled a couple words of French from her limited knowledge of the language. She used sacré bleu again, interjected mon dieu more than once, and even mumbled a few syllables, imitating his languid speech patterns.

  Each time Alex stifled a giggle as he translated her few words into a reply that took far longer to give in English than it had in French. But so enamored were people of his facility with both languages that no one took notice.

  “We’re doing pretty well, aren’t we?” she asked, when the orchestra struck up the first notes of a quadrille and they had a few rare moments at the mantel to themselves.

  “I believe I should have introduced you as my mute cousin,” he replied, with an elegant snort. “I do hope Angelina shows up soon, or we run the risk of meeting someone who truly does speak French and tries to speak with you directly.”

  Just as he said the words, Angelina glided through the double doors, resplendent in a light blue satin gown with a silver petticoat. The shimmering of her dress accentuated the blue-black color of her hair, piled high atop her head and interlaced with gemstones. Around her throat, she wore a strand of pearls that ended in a glittering sapphire of deep blue nestled between the swell of her breasts.

  As if summoned, the colonel appeared at her side the moment she raised her hands to undo the jewel-studded clasp hold
ing her satin cloak about her shoulders. Alex caught what she thought might have been a trace of annoyance cross Angelina’s stunning features as he took the cloak from her, but it disappeared before she could be sure.

  After the colonel handed the cloak to a waiting attendant, he tucked Angelina’s arm into his. She whispered something in his ear, and they walked arm in arm into the ballroom.

  As they strolled around the edges of the dance floor, the colonel stopped to greet a few friends and acquaintances, but he never stayed long. Alex assumed the short exchanges accommodated Angelina’s preferences. She listened to their conversations and gave the occasional sophisticated smile, but in general, appeared bored and uninterested.

  The women in the company of the men with whom the colonel spoke treated Angelina to varying looks of disdain, scorn, and downright loathing with the exception of one young girl who looked to be about seventeen. She seemed fascinated by Angelina and not at all contemptuous—until her mother grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away. Angelina ignored it all and even stifled a delicate yawn behind her ivory-handled fan.

  In less than a quarter of an hour, the colonel and Angelina made their way through the crush of people to the double doors on the opposite side of the room. The colonel looked over his shoulder as though he were doing something he shouldn’t and then ushered Angelina out into the night.

  “She certainly moves fast,” Mont Trignon said, setting his champagne flute on the mantel. “Come, we have to catch up to them.”

  Alex hurried after him as they wended their way through the crowd, only just remembering to set her own glass on a side table as they reached the other pair of French doors opening onto a balcony that wrapped around the outside of the ballroom. Beyond, the extensive grounds of the mansion spanned out until barricaded by a dark, wooded area shielding the mansion from its neighbors.

  Although a town residence, the Thorntons’ wealth allowed them to create a country haven in the midst of the bustling city. Paths led from the stairs of the balcony to a white gazebo, well-lit by oil lanterns hanging from the ends of wrought iron hooks. Several guests had retired to the gazebo to enjoy the night air and the peace of conversation away from the stifling heat and noise of the ballroom.

  The light from the lanterns shone onto the crushed limestone gravel of several pathways extending from the gazebo like rays of the sun into the dark beyond. Alex could just make out a pond encircled by a path and a dark grove of trees beyond the reach of the soft light. Here and there, smaller, unlit shelters and benches lined the path. From the occasional flashes of shimmering light as satin gowns caught moon rays, Alex surmised these darker places were the favored spots for more clandestine rendezvous.

  They watched as Angelina and the colonel sauntered past the gazebo and down one of the darker paths. They made no great haste, and to anyone observing their progress, they appeared to be a couple enjoying the fresh evening air and each other’s company.

  “Hurry, we must not let them out of our sight,” Mont Trignon said, his voice more than a whisper, but low enough so only Alex could hear him.

  Alex walked by his side, trying to match his long strides on the crushed gravel with her shorter legs and impractical shoes. She imagined they must look the odd pair, a couple of gentlemen strolling down a secluded path toward the places where lovers met.

  Much to the relief of her sore feet, she slowed her pace in order to leave plenty of space between herself and Mont Trignon.

  The path wound through the grove of trees where a few couples had ventured out to settle on the secluded benches nestled in the shelter of dense thickets. Those they passed were too engrossed in their own doings to take notice of anyone on the path. Mont Trignon appeared not to notice them either, while Alex tried her best to keep her head turned away from the more overt displays of affection.

  At last, Angelina and the colonel seated themselves on a bench lit by a soft sliver of moonlight filtering through the branches overhead.

  Mont Trignon pulled Alex behind an oak so they could observe unseen.

  Alex set her hand on the rough trunk of the tree and leaned forward to peer at the couple. She gasped when Mont Trignon slid an arm around her waist and leaned over her. She sucked in a breath as the underside of her breasts brushed against his forearm. His thighs weren’t touching her bottom, but the heat of him caressed her skin through the rough woolen fabric of her mustard-colored coat.

  “It appears not all Americans are prudes, eh, chérie?” Mont Trignon whispered, his breath caressing her ear.

  Why did he have to say something like that when he held her like this? She recalled the last time he had spoken of prudish Americans, when his naked form had been outlined against the sliver of moonlight shining through the curtains in his room. She steadied her breathing against the arm he had wrapped around her lest he discern the effect the memory and his nearness had on her.

  “Apparently not,” she whispered, watching Colonel Montgomery wind a wisp of a curl from Angelina’s coiffure around his finger. “Are balls like this in France?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

  “Quite so,” he whispered, his breath brushing the side of her ear. “And perhaps even more so,” he added, his voice laden with innuendo.

  What did that mean? The blood rushed in Alex’s ears as images of herself occupying a secluded bench with Mont Trignon leapt to mind.

  Alex bit her lip to try to keep herself from asking the question foremost in her mind, but her curiosity would not be denied. “Have you ever had a…meeting such as this?”

  “I was a married man from a young age,” he replied.

  Married? Alex’s blood ran cold. He was married? More to the point, was he still married?

  He couldn’t be if he had entertained even the thought of marrying her. Of course, his proposal had been contingent upon her safety being in jeopardy. Since then, he had said no more about it.

  Perhaps it wasn’t a real proposal at all. His words came back to her in a rush that made her head swim.

  If we continue, and perhaps even further our relationship in public…

  Maybe his intention all along had been to pretend to marry her as a natural extension of their pretend relationship. As a spy, pretense might come as natural to him as breathing.

  “Which one is your wife?”

  “Hmmm? Which one of what?” he asked, as though he were only half listening.

  “Marguerite, Madeleine, Melanie, Isabelle, or Christiana,” she replied, trying to sound as though she were making casual conversation with the man hovering so close to her his heat melted her good sense. “Which one is your wife?”

  “None of them. Now, hush, chérie,” Mont Trignon said, before she could speak again. “We can talk about me later if you wish. Right now, we need to keep our focus on Angelina and the colonel.”

  He was right, and Alex tried to refocus her attention. She really did. But how could she keep her mind on the pair in front of them when the beat of his heart thudded against her back and his breath fanned across her ear? Curiously, it smelled of mint as though he had recently plucked a few leaves and chewed them. Pleasant shivers trickled down her spine.

  She beat back the sensations he sent coursing through her by reminding herself of the implications of what he had just confided. If none of the five were his wife, did a sixth woman exist somewhere? How could one man keep six women happy at once? Alex squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to erase the erotic images that last thought brought to mind.

  When she opened them again, she glimpsed the colonel kissing Angelina’s hand, then edging closer on the wrought iron bench to settle his lips against her neck. Alex recoiled and nearly gasped as Angelina arched like a swan to give the old fool better access. The man’s moustache needed trimming, and Alex imagined it must have scratched like an old horsehair brush.

  “My Angelina, my angel, you are so beautiful,” the colonel said, his wig slightly askew from his assault on Angelina’s neck.

  Too late to be s
tifled completely, Alex’s giggle came out as a snort. Mont Trignon tightened his grip around her waist and pulled her closer until her bottom did touch his thighs. A moment of lightheadedness had Alex wondering if his arm would support her should she should faint.

  “Colonel, my love,” Angelina said, sitting up straight and pulling herself out of range of his lips. “I wish to talk to you about what is happening.”

  “What is happening?” the colonel asked, sounding more muddy-headed than usual.

  Angelina’s brows furrowed. “From what I hear from the wives of your men, there is a good chance the English will invade Philadelphia any day now.”

  “Don’t you worry, my dear,” he said, taking her two gloved hands in his and kissing the knuckles.

  Just as the colonel looked like he might move his attention from her hand to her cheek, Angelina snapped open her fan and flapped it in front of her face, thwarting his efforts.

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” she replied. “But I confess I would like this war to be over. I grow weary of boycotts and rationing. It’s been ever so long since I had a decent cup of tea. The ladies boil all manner of leaves and dried flowers, but nothing has quite the same flavor as a good cup of Darjeeling.”

  “Tea? She’s thinking about tea?” Alex whispered.

  Mont Trignon pulled her in tighter so her hips were nestled against his. Alex held her breath and tried not to move a muscle in her backside.

  “I do agree with you there, my dear, but there are hardships we all must endure,” the colonel said, patting Angelina’s gloved hand.

  Angelina snuggled closer to the colonel as a couple strolled past them on the path, disappointment washing over their faces as they realized the bench had already been taken.

  “But don’t you wish this war were over too?” she asked, moving away once they were alone again.

  “Well, yes, I suppose I do,” he said, as though he had never thought about it. “But we are a long way off from victory, my dear, despite our success in places like Trenton.”

  “I fear the war is not going our way at all.”

  Angelina sounded like a little girl who had not gotten her way. It was odd. For as long as Alex had known Angelina, she had never been prone to pouting. In public, she played the beautiful temptress, proud and confident. With Alex and her brother, haranguing, yelling, and bullying were more her style.