Le Chevalier

by Mary Jean Adams

When her retching stopped, Alex sat back on her heels.

  “Feel better now?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

  He handed her his handkerchief.

  She turned to face him, her powdered wig askew and her face ashen in the dim light.

  “How embarrassing,” she said.

  Two spots of color shone on her cheeks in marked contrast to the pastiness of her complexion.

  “Not so, chérie. More than one man has wound up in the same position after smoking his first cigar, myself included. It is a wonder the habit has lasted this long.”

  Alexandra’s feeble smile tore at his heart, but at least she smiled.

  They sat in silence, listening to the strains of a minuet drifting across the darkened lawns. Mont Trignon settled himself against a rock. A peaceful breeze brought the sharp, clean scent of pine, and he wished she were in the condition to enjoy it with him.

  As he waited for Alexandra to regain herself, he wondered how soon she would expand on her question about his marriage. She had a right to know about Nicole, his first wife, considering he had every intention of making Alexandra his second.

  He picked up a cluster of evergreen needles and fingered their sharp points. He had already proposed a match between them; although on hindsight he realized he had made a fine mess of it. If memory served, he had said something about marrying her if it should become necessary. What kind of cad offered marriage with such a condition? Even now, he cringed at the thought. No wonder she acted as though the proposal had never happened.

  He pulled the cluster of needles apart one by one. He should be glad he still had her friendship after masquerading as Marie and forcing her to reveal her growing regard for him. That betrayal, combined with his abysmal proposal and the discovery of his true profession, had probably made the idea of marriage to him completely out of the question.

  Perhaps she had also decided his proposal had not been sincere. Why else would she think he might still be married?

  Mon Dieu. He threw the shredded pine needles into the shadows. He had a lot of explaining to do and even more for which to make amends.

  Alexandra held his silk handkerchief to her lips again, suppressing a new round of stomach spasms.

  “Can we go home?” she asked, when her stomach stopped convulsing and she could speak again.

  “Of course,” he said, rising to his feet and offering his hand.

  Explanations and apologies would have to wait.

  Alex placed one trembling hand in his and the other on her knee as she struggled to rise. She managed to straighten about half way before her knees gave out, and she sank back to the ground.

  “Maybe if we wait here a little longer,” she said, her voice weak.

  “Would you like me to carry you?” He hid his grin.

  “You would do that?” She looked up at him, doubt revealed in her furrowed brow.

  “Bien sûr,” he replied, reaching for her again.

  This time, Alexandra let him pull her up with both hands. He lay an arm about her waist and steadied her as they made their way to the path. As soon as his feet reached the crushed gravel, he tucked one arm under her knees, bent forward, and swung her up over his shoulder.

  “Chevalier!” Her head bounced against his back as he strode toward the mansion. “I shall be sick again if you don’t put me down.”

  “I do not think so, chérie. It seems to me you quite emptied your stomach back there.”

  Alexandra groaned, and Mont Trignon hoped he had been correct. He did not relish the thought of ruining one of his best coats and his new breeches.

  “But why must you carry me this way?” she wailed.

  “I cannot carry you like a woman when you are dressed like a man, can I now? I have my reputation to think of.”

  Plus, he could get her back to the carriage faster if he carried her over his shoulder. If he helped her walk, they would draw a crowd by the time they made it to the balcony.

  As they approached the mansion, a man called out from the balcony, “Has Monsieur Lourdaud had too much to drink, Chevalier?”

  “Oui, it seems my cousin is a sorry excuse for a Frenchman.”

  The other guests met his response with a round of hearty laughter as Alex groaned again.

  He decided for Alexandra’s sake, as well as Madame Thornton’s, he would carry her around the side of the mansion to the alley where the hired coaches waited.

  “Sir, is your cousin well?” his driver asked, as Mont Trignon deposited Alexandra on the threadbare seat inside.

  “I assure you, he is quite well. He just had a little too much to drink.”

  “Well, sir,” the driver said, a dubious look on his coarse features. He scratched his chin as if considering how to phrase a protest.

  “Do not worry, mon ami. If my cousin should ruin your lovely coach, I will buy you a new one.”

  “Very good, sir,” the driver said, mollified.

  As Mont Trignon climbed into the coach and sat across from Alexandra’s limp figure, he did not doubt the man relished the prospect of a brand new coach and would head for every hole he could find.

  He pounded a fist on the roof, and Alexandra groaned but did not open her eyes as the vehicle rumbled forward. He hoped she would keep them shut for a while longer. She had asked him to take her home but failed to specify to whose home she wished to go.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alexandra slept when the coach rumbled to a stop outside the Montgomery mansion. Mont Trignon gave her shoulder a gentle shake to wake her.

  “Ohhhh,” she moaned, pressing her temples with her fingertips while squeezing her eyes shut. “Am I home?”

  “Not quite,” he replied. “I felt it best not to leave you alone in the state you are in.”

  Alexandra sat up and peered through the window of the coach. “The Montgomery mansion?” she cried, causing her head to throb. “What if somebody sees me again? My reputation will be in a shambles.”

  “Relax,” Mont Trignon said, snatching her disheveled wig from the floor of the coach and setting it atop her head. He gave it a quick pat in a fruitless attempt to secure it. “It is late, and I will simply introduce you as my cousin once again.”

  He swung open the door to the carriage and stepped down. “Do I need to carry you, or do you think you can walk?” He reached forward, ready to swing her over his shoulder again.

  “No, I can walk,” Alex replied, in haste.

  “Very good.”

  Alex found the smile tugging at his lips annoying as she placed a wobbly foot on the carriage step and let herself down.

  Mont Trignon paid the driver who had been inspecting the inside of the carriage. Alex leaned against a wrought iron fence for support, wondering why he had brought her to his home. Surely he did not think tonight a good night to induct her into his harem. Alex placed a fist over her mouth as a fresh round of nausea washed over her.

  Mont Trignon led the way up the wide granite steps to the front door of the mansion. Alex waited for him to use the brass knocker, certain that the Montgomerys’ butler would refuse them admittance, and they would be forced to go back to her home for the night.

  She smiled, despite her discomfort, when she imagined Mont Trignon making himself comfortable on her short, ancient settee.

  Instead of knocking, however, he produced a brass key.

  “Mrs. Montgomery gave you a key to her mansion?” she asked.

  “Not Mrs. Montgomery.” He grinned. “However, I am on friendlier terms with some of her servants.”

  He pushed open the door and grasped her hand to lead her into the dark interior.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Alex jumped as a shadowy figure with a sallow, hollowed-out complexion called to them from behind a recess below the stairs. She breathed a sigh of relief as the figure lowered the candlestick she held aloft, and her countenance reformed into the plump, youthful face of a downstairs maid.
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  “Nell, I am sorry to wake you,” Mont Trignon said, in a contrite tone.

  Despite his whisper, her head still throbbed in time to his words, perhaps even more so than before the carriage ride. The driver must have taken every back alley and pothole filled street he could find. She had kept her eyes shut the entire journey in an effort to quell the protests of her stomach and head.

  “Not to worry, sir,” the maid said, her course whisper scouring Alex’s nerves. “I expected you back even later than this, but I thought I’d wait up to see if you needed anything this evening.”

  “That was kind of you, Nell. Follow my cousin and me up to my rooms if you would, and we will discuss it there.”

  Holding the candle high, Nell led the way up the stairs to Mont Trignon’s suite of rooms at the back of the mansion. Alex hesitated as they passed his study and headed straight for his bedroom. Of course, that would be where a gentleman would go at this time of night. She adopted a bland expression so Nell wouldn’t think anything amiss.

  As soon as Alex stepped inside, she sank into a wingback chair upholstered in cool damask silk, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. Her temples still throbbed, and despite Mont Trignon’s assertion she had emptied her stomach, she wasn’t so sure.

  “Nell, this is my cousin Monsieur Lourdaud. He recently arrived from France but took ill during the voyage.”

  “Oh my,” Nell said, her wide eyes showing alarm.

  “It is nothing to worry about,” he reassured her. “It is simply le mal de mer, or rather, how do you say it? A seasickness? He never got used to the sea. A few days on land, and he will be fine.”

  “Very good, sir,” the maid said, relief evident in her voice.

  “However, I did not expect him to be staying with me tonight,” Mont Trignon continued, “so I did not clear it with Madame Montgomery. I am sure my cousin’s rooms will be ready tomorrow, but I could not turn him out onto the street tonight. Not in his condition.”

  “Certainly not, sir!”

  Despite her headache, Mont Trignon’s ability to weave a tale spiced with his strongest, most alluring French accent enthralled Alex. Perhaps as astounding, Nell appeared willing to believe anything he said. She would have shaken her head, if it didn’t ache so. She opened her eyes just enough to view their interchange through veiled lashes.

  “I would appreciate it if you would not tell Madame Montgomery about Monsieur Lourdaud’s presence. I will have him out of the house by tomorrow when Madame goes calling.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir,” Nell said. “Is there anything I can get for you or your cousin tonight? Maybe something for your cousin’s illness?”

  “That is very kind of you, Nell. I hate to put you to any trouble, but I believe my cousin could use a bath,” Mont Trignon suggested, eyeing Alex’s sprawled form.

  “Say no more, sir.” Her grin showed two dimples in her chubby cheeks. “I will wake my brother and have him bring up the tub and some hot water. Shall I have him bring it to your bedchamber?”

  “Oui, that would be fine,” Mont Trignon replied.

  Alex closed her eyes again.

  “And I’ll bring you up a pot of tea, and perhaps we have some biscuits left over from supper.” Nell sounded enthusiastic now, and Alex’s head throbbed in time to each syllable.

  “You are so thoughtful, Nell.”

  Alex opened one eye just in time to see Nell blush, bob and scurry out of the room.

  A moment later, Nell and a young man with a heavy step hauled a brass tub into the bedroom. She winced and closed her eyes as they set it down with a thud in front of the fireplace before departing.

  She had just drifted off into a fitful sleep when the brother’s heavy tread sounded on the stairs once more. They would be lucky if he didn’t wake the entire household, she decided, as he tromped up and down the steps to fetch buckets of hot water from the kitchen and pour them into the tub.

  “Would you like a fire lit, sir?” the brother asked, once he finished filling the tub. “It seems there’s an early chill in the air tonight.”

  “Oui, that would be wonderful.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll bring up some fresh logs straight away.”

  Oh, please no, Alex thought as his boots thudded on each step. Only a short time later, his steps pounded in time with the pulsing of her temples as he traipsed back up, clomped into the room and dropped his heavy load on the floor.

  The grate scraped against the stone floor of the hearth, making her teeth ache. Then the smoky odor of wet wood filled the room, causing her stomach to do a few flips.

  Just as Alex thought the torture would never end, Nell’s brother returned to his bed. Nell reentered the room, her shuffling gait graceful in comparison to her brother’s. Alex opened one eye and watched her set several towels on a stand by the tub. Then she brought in the promised tea and biscuits.

  The steam rising from the biscuits suggested Nell had made them from scratch instead of pinching leftovers from the kitchen. The soft smell of flour and real butter wafted over Alex, and her stomach gave an ominous rumble.

  When the maid took her leave, Alex opened her other eye.

  Mont Trignon stood below the portrait of the beautiful Christiana, one hand on his hip, his brow furrowed as he assessed her. She assessed him in return. Despite the late hour, he looked as though he were ready for a night on the town. His buff breeches hugged his muscled thighs. His russet-colored coat emphasized his broad, well-shaped shoulders and underscored the golden tones in his hair.

  His elegance and grace matched the woman whose portrait hung over the mantel. She could imagine them walking side-by-side, her small hand tucked in the crook of his arm, him gazing down at her with his heart-arresting smile.

  “Do you need some assistance?” he asked.

  Alex eyed the steam coming from the brass tub. Did he volunteer to be her personal maid?

  She expected to see the usual teasing light in his eyes, but instead, the only the slight traces of paler color where the sun had not bronzed his skin hinted at laughter.

  “No, I can take care of myself,” she assured him. She pulled herself upright, the sudden jarring in her skull making her grip the carved armrest for support.

  “Very well. I know you probably do not feel like it, but try to eat something. It will help.” He hesitated as though unsure of himself. “Call me if you need me,” he added, before turning and striding out of the room.

  Alone in his bedroom, Alex poured herself a cup of tea and sipped. It had the same tantalizing minty scent she had detected on his breath, and she let the fragrant vapors rising from the amber liquid bathe her face. She took another sip, allowing the tea to bring life to her senses.

  Then she nibbled on a warm biscuit and looked about. They were only rented rooms, but they were his private domain. Being alone in them would afford her an excellent opportunity to discover an intimate side to him.

  But how long did he intend to leave her by herself? She eyed the closed door as she chewed.

  He had ordered her a bath and something to eat, but he had neglected to provide bedclothes for her. Did he expect to return to find her naked, perhaps waiting for him in his bed?

  Visions of herself sprawled against satin sheets, her auburn hair flowing about her, sprung to mind.

  Shaking her head, she popped the last bite of biscuit into her mouth and admonished herself to stop being so dramatic. He hadn’t brought her here for any nefarious purposes. As he had explained, he didn’t feel right leaving her alone when she was ill. More than likely, he had gone to his study, and she would not see him again until morning.

  She eyed the quilted coverlet, unable to deny the surge of disappointment brought about by the more logical explanation for her presence in his bedchamber. Disgusted with herself, Alex pushed herself out of her chair.

  Here by invitation and unlikely to be disturbed, she should use this time to learn what she could about the man.

  She eyed the massiv
e oak wardrobe topped with intricate scrollwork. She didn’t see any keyholes above the curved brass handles. Alex shook her head. Rummaging through his things hardly seemed courteous when he had volunteered to tell her what she wanted to know.

  Besides, what would he do, should he catch her going through his things a second time? She shuddered as she recalled the palpable anger in his eyes. He had managed to hold it in check the first time, but would he be so reserved if he caught her at it again?

  She scanned the room and considered how much she might learn just by observation of those personal effects in full view.

  Curiosity conquered her apprehension, and she walked to his dresser. Pulling her horsehair wig from her head, she set it on an empty wig stand and scoured her scalp with her fingertips to remove the sting of the course strands cutting into her skin. If only her tavern patrons could afford to leave behind a better quality of goods. She chuckled at the thought, relieved to find the pain in her head had subsided to a dull throb.

  She perused the polished oak top of his dresser, but there wasn’t much to give her any real insight into the man.

  A porcelain bowl and pitcher sat atop a lace coverlet. The feminine blue and white pattern provided a stark contrast to the masculine nature of the rest of the furnishings. She surmised it had been part of the room’s original contents.

  To the left of the basin, a silver comb sat beside a well-thumbed book. She picked up the book and studied the cover. Guide pour les Relations Conjugales avec des Illustrations. She set it back down without opening it. What good would it do since she couldn’t read French any more than she could speak it?

  Next, she picked up a tapered candle and held it to her nose. Bayberry. That was as sure a sign of wealth as any. Most of the people she knew could only afford to burn bayberry wax candles at Christmas. Of course, the candles could belong to Mrs. Montgomery.

  A leather sheath at the back of the dresser caught her eye. His sword. The course brown material so closely matched the polished oak of the dresser she had missed it at first.

  She picked it up and balanced it in the palm of her hand, marveling at its lightness. It couldn’t be more than a couple of pounds.