by Edith Layton
Many stared at the haughty Violet and buxom Rose. Many gaped at the regal duchess and her train of demireps, whose reputations had preceded her here. And many gazed with delight upon the delicious child with the figure of a grown woman and the face, even beneath the paint, of a lovely gamine.
Catherine tried to ignore the sensation they had caused and that her employer was obviously reveling in. She stared about her in shame and despair…until her eyes caught and held one familiar face high above the crowd. A face that she had been unwittingly looking for. He had been watching her, she thought in deeper despair, and there was no doubt in her mind as to his thoughts. The marquis looked at her, at her face, at her neckline. His handsome face was immobile, but the contemptuous disdain in his gray eyes was readable even from across the room.
Chapter IX
“Sinjun,” complained the petite dark-eyed woman, “you have been neglecting me. You’ve been here all night and you haven’t danced with me once. You were not used to be so reluctant to enter my arms,” she said coyly, tracing patterns with her fingertip upon his sleeve.
“Cecily,” the marquis drawled, “you were not used to be Lady Smythe. Now that you are a respectable married woman, you cannot want to pick up our old ties. What would Alistar say?”
“Oh, pooh,” she fretted, stamping one foot—an effect, he noted with amusement, quite lost in the throng of people. “I haven’t seen him all night either. He’s probably off somewhere with that Italian trollop of his. We have a very modern arrangement, Sinjun,” she wheedled. “We each go about our own business, and no one’s the worse for it.”
“Cecily, my dear,” the marquis said, beginning to edge away, “why should you try to reignite an old burned-out flame, when I have seen that devastating M. Dumont there has not taken his eyes off you for a moment?”
The woman wheeled and turned to look for her admirer and, not finding the rapt young face of M. Dumont anywhere nearby, she turned again to rate the marquis for his little jest and found herself standing quite alone.
With an exclamation of dismay, she flounced off to see her husband, to rail at him for his pursuit of foreign females.
“Oh, Lord, Jenkins,” the marquis said in a low voice, when they met at one side of the card room, “for every true rumor, there are a hundred false ones. I have a list of many names now, it’s true, but coming here this night has added nothing. For no sooner do I get on the trail of something, when there is an interruption.”
“Your past catching up with you, lad?” Jenkins grinned.
“There’s that, but I am quite expert at sidestepping. But more importantly, there’s Beaumont. He’s here, and he’s everywhere tonight. He seems to be dogging my footsteps. And whenever I look into his eyes, I see tumbrels rolling. He suspects everything, but can prove nothing. “
“He can do nothing,” Jenkins said, lifting his glass of wine and holding it to the candle’s light. “We’re at peace now.”
“Now. At this moment,” the marquis sighed, “but if the scales tip, I would be first on his list.”
“Whose field does he play in now?” Jenkins asked before draining the glass.
“Ah, now that,” the marquis said, shrugging and then pausing as a waiter came close, “is a neat question.” He took another glass of wine for Jenkins and one for himself, and they toasted each other until the waiter drifted off into the crowd and they were alone again.
The marquis began drinking his wine and then stopped suddenly to stare at his glass. “Now that,” he said, “is criminal, such stuff to be even decanted in the land of the grape itself.” He looked around casually, then continued, now sure of their privacy. “If we discover which pockets he has his hand in, we’ll know for a certainty which way the wind is blowing. Our estimable commissioner…of what is it now? Taxes, water? No matter, our friend Beaumont is an excellent weather vane. He catches every nuance of the winds of fortune. That is how he has gotten and held his own fortune. Be sure that he will never put a foot wrong. In fact, I think that if we were but privy to the workings of his mind, there would be no need to compile all these names. For whatever the fate of France is to be, be sure that Beaumont will know it a half hour before the king himself.”
“Aye,” Jenkins rumbled, “but as he’s not one to give an Englishman the time of day, best keep your ear to the ground.”
“But not too obviously, of course,” the marquis sighed. “Instead I shall ogle the ladies, drink more than is good for me, game for all I’m worth, and submerge myself in every bit of frivolous gossip. There are times, Jenkins, when I long for no more than a cozy fireside. I grow old, I think.”
Jenkins gave a rude chuckle. “Oh yes. I can just see you there, dandling your grandchildren on your knee, graybeard. But in the meanwhile, until you can delight in such homey pastimes, I notice you’re spry enough at your job. You haven’t taken your eyes off the duchess’s newest doxy all night. Is it that you think she holds the secrets of the succession behind those lovely blue eyes?”
The marquis seemed taken aback for a moment and then drawled in the offhand languid manner Jenkins knew so well, “No, that’s an altogether different game. Miss Prunes and Prisms has arrived in Paris and finally shows her true colors. Or true paints, if you want to be more exact. She’s obviously been after big game all the while. And I’m just curious to see to whom she attaches herself. For there’s a lot to be learned from seeing to whom such a pricey little package delivers. Rose and Violet will ply their trade with whoever has the price of a night’s entertainment. But these more expensive frigates will only sail off with someone who is prepared to come down handsomely for them. I think our little miss will show us the way the winds of fortune are blowing almost as well as our old friend Beaumont.”
Jenkins glanced around the room before saying dryly, “But she hasn’t sailed off with anyone as yet. The last I saw of her, she was trying to blend in with the furniture.”
“She’s only waiting for her opportunity, Jenkins. She’s after more than her weak sisters-in-trade.”
“You are too harsh on her.” Jenkins sighed, shaking his head.
“Still thinking she is but a sweet little miss caught in the coils of misfortune? That’s not like you, old friend. She comes to her first Paris fete, rigged out to the nines, painted and gowned like an actress. Did you see her entrance? She attracted more notice than a queen. The old girl’s beside herself with happiness. ‘The Duchess of Crewe is a succés fou,’ they are all saying. That little rhyme will be the catchword of the season.”
“Look sharp, lad,” Jenkins said, turning away. “Beaumont’s eyes are upon us. He’s talking to that waiter. His men must be everywhere here.”
As the marquis drained his glass and prepared to leave, Jenkins smiled and whispered one farewell. “You have to get your mind back on business. Why don’t you just meet her price and then you will be able to forget about her and get on with it.”
The marquis walked over to the entrance to the great room where the dancers were whirling about together to the strains of a waltz. He watched them as he spoke with a young sprig just out of Cambridge on his first tour, who was chattering away excitedly. It was possible, he thought with a wry grin, to stand and chat with almost anyone at such an affair without even listening to half that was said. A sage nod, a small smile, or an occasional laugh when the speaker seemed to have delivered himself of a witticism was enough. He was the lofty, cynical Marquis of Bessacarr after all, wasn’t he?
As the young man happily prated away, passing on all the secondhand tidbits he had amassed, Sinjun listened with half of his attention. The other half was focused on the amusing little playlets that passed before his eyes.
Lady Devon was playing her husband false with a handsome Austrian. Mademoiselle DuPres was batting her lashes at an old gentleman who had escaped the guillotine and come back to tend his lately restored estates. Mademoiselle DuPres knew, Sinjun thought, that the old chap would now need a wife to help him people his lands again.
And Hervé Richard, who had been a man of substance and power when Bonaparte had led this land, was jealously watching his brother Pierre, who had been a beggar then and who was now a rich man deep in the Bourbons’ confidences. The wheel of fortune had not yet done turning, the marquis thought, and that was why he was here tonight.
The marquis’ eyes narrowed as he followed Hervé Richard’s angry gaze. For his brother Pierre, as stout and overfed as his beloved friend Louis Bourbon, was dancing with Catherine Robins. Pierre smiled and bobbed, his red face beaming, while the girl seemed to be in an agony of discomfort. Was she never done with playacting? the marquis thought violently. She had captured the plum tonight. Pierre was a rich man now, and his presence at court gave him power and influence. And still she acted the shy virgin. But it seemed to be a useful ploy, for Pierre looked delighted with his little prize.
As the marquis watched, Beaumont, as neatly clad and unexceptional a little man as ever, came up to Hervé’s side and began whispering to him. So Beaumont had some interest in watching the little playlet as well? Beaumont seemed to be consoling Hervé, who everyone knew burned with jealousy of his estranged brother. Now why should Beaumont be interested in Hervé? Sinjun’s thoughts raced. Hervé was déclassé now, abandoned and impoverished. He had not followed his leader into exile, but he was financially and socially as much of an exile as Bonaparte. If Beaumont sought his company, then indeed something was in the wind.
“But, Sinjun, you say nothing. Don’t you agree?” the little lord at his side asked.
The marquis recalled himself with difficulty. “Why, I’m sorry, Peter, I was distracted. What did you say?”
“I don’t blame you. Not a bit. She’s a smasher all right, isn’t she? I wish I had the blunt to interest her,” the young man said sadly, looking over to where Catherine danced.
“Now, now, Peter, she’s too rich for your blood,” the older man laughed. “And mine too, I think.”
“Never say so,” Peter replied, laughing. “Why, good English gold outweighs French any day.”
The two men laughed, and then the younger, seeing the marquis’ distraction, bowed and went off in search of more congenial company. It was good to have spoken with the marquis, for he was a man of the world and one whose name would excite much interest and envy among his friends when he returned home. But he was a strange fellow, after all, so bored that he seemed half asleep, those gray eyes half masted and quiet throughout their whole discourse. Peter essayed the same look as he made his way to the punch and found he almost stumbled against a footman as a result. Practice, he told himself sharply, that would be the answer.
But there was no boredom in the marquis’ eyes as he watched the interminable dance go on in front of him. He watched Catherine dip and sway in Pierre Richard’s arms. Her figure was exquisite and her face entrancing, even under all the paint. The swept-up dark curls revealed her white vulnerable neck. The marquis found that his hands were clenched. There was no use for it. He was interested in her. He had been from the moment he had seen her. Jenkins was right. Though she might be nothing more than a cyprian, certainly less discriminating than any of the wenches he usually consorted with, he did desire her. And his fascination with her was only getting in the way of his mission here. He must have her and be done with it.
In the morning, he knew, when he paid her, all the mystery would be vanished. He would have known all there was to know of her. Or all he wished to know of her. The attraction was strong, and it was dangerous for him to be so attracted. In the past, he had consorted with women whose conversation amused him or whose personalities somehow made the mercenary side of their relationship less sordid. He did not know if Catherine Robins could even read or write, much less make pleasant discourse. He did not care. For he had no wish to be ensnared by a woman ever again. It would be enough to have her, and thereby end the interest he had in her.
For he could neither gather information nor observe dispassionately when she was about. No sooner did he get on the track of some new development that might be of interest to his cause than she would appear and chase all such thoughts from his mind. For instance, he thought angrily, he should not be watching her dance with Pierre Richard and be as consumed with futile jealousy as Hervé Richard so evidently was. He should rather be at Hervé’s side now, listening to his spiteful rage, as Beaumont was. For when a man was consumed by passion, he was often indiscreet, and when a man like Hervé Richard was being indiscreet, there was a chance that there would be a great deal to learn. No, his fascination with her handicapped him and he grew angry at himself. And so, indirectly, at her.
There was only one remedy he could think of. And he knew that before the night was out, he would have taken it. He was not such a coxcomb as to think he was irresistible. But he was experienced enough to know that she felt the same tug of interest that he did. And he did have money, money enough to assuage her conscience for giving up such a potential honey fall as Pierre Richard.
The dance finally ended, and while Pierre executed a courtly bow, Catherine took the opportunity to dip a sketchy curtsy and begin a hasty retreat to the wall where she had been standing before the weighty Frenchman had sought her out. But before she could return across the floor, she was intercepted by another gentleman. He looked much the same as the partner she had just abandoned, except that he was slightly taller, slightly less obese, and dressed in clothes that were far less grand.
He bowed, and the music struck up again. Before she could leave, he took her hand and led her into the dance. There were gasps and those on the sidelines broke into excited babble as the dancers swung into the first steps. The marquis was not the only one who stared at the dancers now.
And neither was he the only one who made his seemingly unhurried but nevertheless rapid way to her erstwhile partner’s side. Monsieur Beaumont also began to make his way through the crowd to the flushed, angry gentleman. But Beaumont, whose legs were shorter, had to stop after getting halfway there when he saw the marquis lean to speak with his quarry.
“Good evening, Pierre,” the Marquis said pleasantly in his perfect French. “I see that the new young English cocotte is becoming quite an attraction. Even your brother cannot resist her.”
The stout gentleman muttered, as much to himself as to the marquis, “But he is a beggar now. What does he think he is doing? It was only through my intercession that he was allowed to stay on in Paris. For he is my brother, after all.”
The marquis smiled sympathetically, knowing full well that Pierre would never allow his brother to go into exile totally, and thus miss seeing his more successful sibling’s triumphs in society and at court. Just as Hervé had insisted on allowing his Royalist brother Pierre to stay on through his charity, when Bonaparte swept all before him.
“She could not refuse him, poor little sweet,” Pierre said, never taking his eyes from the couple before them, “but I shall tell her, soon enough, that he has nothing to offer her. He forgets himself. It is through my sufferance that he is here at all tonight.”
“Perhaps,” the marquis said with a smile, “he thinks his fortunes are about to take a new turn.”
“What?” Pierre said, distractedly, his attention so focused on his brother, who was whispering into the delightful young woman’s ear, that he scarcely heard the question.
“No, no, never,” he said vehemently, his attention reverting to the marquis. “I keep Hervé and his wife and children in food and necessities as it is my duty as a brother to do. But I assure you, he won’t get an extra sou from me to carry on with a demimondaine. And so I shall tell her, never fear. Hervé shall not have her, never fear.”
“Doubtless,” drawled the marquis, watching Hervé clutch Catherine closer and shoot a triumphant look at his brother. “But I wonder what he is telling her now? Perhaps he feels he will soon be in clover again?”
“Never!” Pierre barked, his little eyes jealously watching the couple’s progress. “For his star is no longer in ascendancy. It shi
nes only on the little island of Elba. Paris is mine now.”
“Perhaps,” the marquis mused. For Hervé’s bid at taking away Pierre’s new plaything was not unusual. The two brothers were famous in Paris for their competitive relationship. The wags had named them Cain and Cain years before, because, as society said, neither one was innocent enough to be called Abel. Still, this was a daring gesture for Hervé to make. And one, the marquis thought, that might not have been made solely out of rage and jealousy. It might have been an ill-advised gesture; however, it might just as well have been only a premature gesture showing that Hervé thought the direction of his fortunes was indeed about to change. It was true, as he had told Jenkins, that one might learn a great deal from merely watching clever demireps. For they seemed to gravitate to money and power and point it out as surely as any compass could show the North Star.
When the dance ended at last, Hervé made as if to delay his partner, for he had seen how quickly she had fled his brother. But Pierre was quick off the mark this time, and as Hervé reached for Catherine’s arm again, Pierre approached his brother and signaled forcefully that he wished to speak to him. While the two brothers broke into low and volatile argument, to the amusement of watchers, the girl made her escape. And when the marquis looked away from the snarling brothers, she was gone.
Beaumont looked about him rapidly and then turned on his heel and went into hurried conference with a footman. But the marquis only strolled away, seemingly aimlessly. He smiled to himself as he wandered off into the direction that he had seen the white flash of her gown disappear. An association with her, he thought, however brief, would be of some real value after all. For his own personal interest now seemed to dovetail with his professional interest in the girl. After they had parted, he might be able to work out some arrangement with her whereby she could report back to him on whichever of the two brothers with whom she finally chose to consort. A word from either camp would suit him well. He would have to be sure that he left her with pleasant memories so that she would be willing to cooperate with him. And he would have yet another partner in his inquiries.
