by Martha Keyes
"Yes, Letty. For beauty doesn't endure. And once my beauty is gone, so too will be the admiration."
Jacques found himself leaning farther and farther toward the garden below, straining to hear every word Miss Cosgrove spoke. So, this was what was behind the mask?
"But what use is it to dwell on such a thing?” Miss Cosgrove said. “Your time and energy is much better spent in other endeavors, like learning the steps of a dance well enough that you may enjoy yourself while dancing." She smiled and spun Letty around. "No one can take your confidence or your enjoyment, after all. You must strive to have as much confidence as Princess Caroline, for she is not at all beautiful, and yet people cannot help but like her."
"Except her husband," Letty said significantly.
"Very true." Miss Cosgrove laughed, linking arms with Letty and guiding her back toward the house. "But there is no accounting for the Regent's tastes, is there?"
Jacques smiled and turned back toward the open doors, the touch of guilt he felt for having eavesdropped almost entirely overwhelmed by the appreciation he felt for the scene he had witnessed.
Jacques watched Letty's grand hand gestures with amusement as she recounted her experiences at the ball the night before to her mother, as though she had not observed it all herself.
Where she had entered the ball timid and nervous, she had left smiling and satisfied. Jacques couldn't deny that the shift had occurred after Letty's exchange with Miss Cosgrove in the garden. Jacques had been wary of Miss Cosgrove's influence, but in this instance, there had been a marked improvement in Letty.
"...And I believe that it was fortunate that Jacques was there, for having the Vicomte de Moulinet as my first dancing partner ensured that everyone took me seriously."
Jacques laughed, meeting eyes with his Aunt Emily, who was smiling appreciatively at her daughter.
"I had no idea that my name carried any weight in London," Jacques said, sitting back and sipping his coffee.
"Well," said Letty in the tone of one who was possessed of hitherto-unknown information, "there has been a great deal of mystery surrounding Jacques's identity, I can tell you, for no fewer than five young women inquired after him from me, all wondering how it came to be that they had never before seen such a handsome man—and a French Viscount, no less."
She wagged her eyebrows at Jacques, who merely scoffed. The compliments meant little to him, for he knew them to be shallow and contingent upon everyone's belief that he was truly the Vicomte de Moulinet, heir to the Comté de Montreuil.
"I know," Letty continued, "that everything happening in France has been awful and horrible, but I must admit that I am grateful for the Revolution, if only because it brought us you, Jacques."
Jacques managed a grateful smile. He felt the same way, of course. The Broussards had been a godsend when he and his father had first arrived at Rothwick Park in Dorset, speaking hardly any English, trying to appear as noble émigrés amongst unfamiliar relatives, when the truth was that they were just two Frenchmen from the tiers état—a frightened young boy and his father, determined to make a better life than the one they'd had. The intimate knowledge Jacques's father had of the dead Comte—a result of years of loyal service—had been invaluable in maintaining a persuasive act. And when they had made the inevitable errors, they always had the language barrier and the generous dispositions of the Broussards to fall back on.
"What was it like?" Letty said, her brow furrowing as she reached for the preserves. "During the Revolution, I mean."
"Good heavens, Letty," said Aunt Emily, her eyes flitting to Jacques. "That is hardly a subject for the breakfast table."
Conscience-stricken, Letty apologized to Jacques. "I have just heard so many stories, and it is hard to believe that they are true."
Jacques felt his body tensing. It had been twenty-one years, but he would never forget what it felt like—the oppressive uncertainty of it all, the contagious paranoia of Monsieur le Comte, the constant news of death and change and destruction. "I can hardly confirm the truth of whatever stories you have been told without being acquainted with them. Suffice it to say that we heaved great sighs of relief when we arrived on the shores of England."
"And you never wished to return when it all ended? I think I should miss England terribly if we were obliged to leave."
Jacques wet his lips. These were always the most difficult conversations because they reminded him forcibly of the complete forgery he was perpetrating upon people he had come to love as family. To Letty, it might seem unthinkable that he would wish to stay away from the country of his birth.
But there was nothing for Jacques or his father in France. As émigrés—ones formerly employed by a noble—their return would not have been a welcome one.
He smiled at Letty, pushing the unpleasant thoughts to the back of his mind. "Who could ever wish to leave after spending time with the Broussards?"
Letty's birth, several years after Jacques's arrival in England, had been his first and only experience with a baby. Never having had siblings of his own, he had quickly taken to the idea of himself as an older brother and protector of Letty.
It had been that self-imposed role that had finally convinced him to come to town. Years of questions regarding his intentions to marry had done nothing to prompt him toward seeking a wife—he knew the duplicity it would require would kill him. But upon Aunt Emily's invitation to accompany them to town for the remainder of the season, Jacques had finally taken the time to reconsider his position.
The opportunity to ensure the well-being of the impressionable young Letty, along with the negligible chance that he himself might find a young woman he could trust with his secrets—it had been enough to persuade him to accept his aunt's invitation.
"And what of you, Jacques?" said Aunt Emily, not meeting his eyes as she stirred sugar into her tea. "Were you impressed by any of the young women you met at the ball?"
Jacques's thoughts immediately turned to Miss Cosgrove, a fact which caused his nostrils to flare in vexation. Kind as she may have been to Letty, she had made it abundantly clear that his true identity would not be a welcome revelation.
"I was too busy monitoring the dancing partners of Letty"— he cocked a teasing eyebrow at her —"to pay much attention, I'm afraid. I hope each one of them realizes that it is my approval—not Uncle Matthew's—which will be the more major hurdle they face in obtaining permission to pay their addresses.”
Letty laughed but looked at him through narrowed eyes. "I beg you not to scare off all my suitors, Jacques. It would be infamous of you if you did."
Jacques shrugged and sipped his coffee. "Take care who you encourage, and I shan't be reduced to using intimidation or brute force." He winked at her.
He teased her, but he was far from at ease regarding Letty's time in London. Aunt Emily had become more lax with each child, and Letty was the youngest. She hadn't even remarked Letty's absence when Miss Cosgrove had taken her to the garden. The combination of a susceptible young mind, a sizable dowry, and a sweet disposition was a dangerous one.
Jacques could only hope that Letty would heed his counsel and, failing that, that the counsel she received and the examples she looked to follow merited the attention.
If Miss Cosgrove's instruction in the garden was a true indicator of the counsel she would offer Letty, Jacques would have less qualms about Letty looking to her for guidance or spending more time in her company.
He tried his best to ignore his own desire to seek out more of Miss Cosgrove's company himself. That could hardly lead anywhere good.
It was only a matter of persuading himself of that fact.
4
Cecilia adjusted the sleeveless spencer she wore over her walking dress before taking her bonnet from her maid Anaïs. She had been impatiently waiting all morning for her assignation in the park with Letty, having left the ball with a promise that she would advise her on a few matters—help her know how to get on better in the ton as someone only newly ou
t.
Normally, she would have looked on such an outing with little relish, but she had some hope that she might see Lord Moulinet there.
She had been reflecting almost without ceasing upon her interaction with him at the ball—about his criticism of her, his impatience with the affectation he supposed she adopted.
She had been furious when they had parted ways—at the presumption of him instructing her on...well, anything really. This French, country-dwelling Vicomte.
But it had not taken long for Cecilia to realize that under her anger lay hurt and, if she was quite honest with herself, even a bit of hope.
He had been right, after all—much as she wished not to acknowledge it. He had taken her confidence, her never-before-challenged ability to charm any gentleman, her talent for guiding an interaction precisely where she wanted it—leaving a man wanting more when the set was over—and he had smashed it all to oblivion.
If Lord Brockway had been impatient with her flirting and teasing, Lord Moulinet had rejected it out of hand. And when she had lost control of her temper, hurling insults at him, he had incomprehensibly shown the first signs of approbation.
Never had she lost mastery of herself in public or in front of someone she particularly wished to please. And while there was certainly embarrassment at the fact, there was also the memory of the changed light in Lord Moulinet's eyes—the interest her tirade had sparked, followed by the way his eyes held hers at the end of the dance with apology and something like a soft challenge.
She was simultaneously impatient and terrified to see him again.
The muffled sound of the front door bell ringing came to Cecilia's ears. "That will be Letty," she said, leaving her bonnet strings untied and hurrying from the room.
She came up short in the corridor, avoiding a collision with her father who smiled at her and said, "Off to the park, eh?" He raised his brows significantly at her. "A rendez-vous with some eligible gentleman, perhaps?"
Cecilia forced a smile. Had her father ever talked to her about something besides her marriage prospects? "Just with Letty."
"Oh," he said, somewhat deterred. But his smile reappeared. "Perhaps you will see Lord Retsford while you're there? I understand he is becoming quite marked in his attentions?"
"Yes," Cecilia said, trying to keep the distaste from her voice.
"I admit," her father said with a shake of the head, "that I was cast down when I heard of Lord Brockway's engagement—for I think he would have been quite the catch—but Lord Retsford!" He smiled at her through mischievously-squinting eyes. "It seems you were right not to accept Brockway after all, for Retsford is a much bigger fish."
Cecilia forced another smile at her father. Had she known that her choice would have been between Lord Brockway and Lord Retsford, she would have been much wiser in her behavior toward the former.
"Take care you don't scare him away, now," her father continued. He pinched her cheek. "You just continue looking beautiful, and I am certain it will only be a matter of time before he is here requesting an audience with me."
He patted the cheek he had pinched and continued down the corridor, humming with a pleased smile.
Cecilia's nostrils flared, and she stood still for a moment—the only movement the over-tight clasping of her hands—until she finally exhaled and walked down the stairs to meet Letty.
Letty was chatty and vivacious as they made the walk from Belport Street to the park. Cecilia found herself having to slow the pace her feet wished to take to their destination.
They had only just entered the park when they caught sight of Lord Retsford, a fact which made Cecilia squeeze her eyes closed in frustration.
In theory, the Marquess of Retsford was exactly the type of peer Cecilia had been intent on marrying: titled, wealthy, and even charming when he wished to be.
But he was also a rake, and much older than the brilliant match Cecilia had been dreaming up over the course of the season. His indiscretions had come to Cecilia's ears long before he had begun paying her attention.
At first, she had been flattered—everyone knew that Lord Retsford was enamored of his current mistress and very particular in the young women to whom he condescended to pay heed. But the truth was, she disliked his attentions and his compliments. They were too familiar and yet almost indistinguishable from the things she had heard from dozens of other gentlemen. And the light in his eyes when he said them?
She suppressed a shudder.
"Is that Lord Retsford?" Letty said in an awed tone. "I have never met a marquess!"
"Come," Cecilia said, guiding Letty to turn into the other lane, hopeful that he might not have noticed them.
But it was too late. She heard his footsteps growing louder behind them, followed by his familiar voice greeting her.
She clenched her teeth and then turned toward him with a smile. She had to be wise—it wouldn't do to ostracize the marquess. Little as she relished the thought of marrying him, she had known for some time that it was highly improbable that she would be able to marry someone she loved—if she was even capable of the emotion at all.
Her parents had long expected her to put her beauty to the best advantage possible.
"What a wonderful surprise, Miss Cosgrove," Lord Retsford said with his wide, charming smile. His hair was brown, but gray hair peppered his sideburns. His eyes moved to Letty, and one of his brows quirked up.
Cecilia grimaced. Introducing Letty to someone with Lord Retsford's reputation was not something she took any pleasure in. It was precisely to warn Letty against figures such as the marquess that she had agreed to walk with her in the park.
But Letty was wearing the shy smile that made her look both young and alluring, and the marquess's responsive half-smile needed little interpretation. He was determined to meet her.
He looked to Cecilia to perform the introduction, and she smiled through clenched teeth, wishing she could decline the service without offending him.
"Lord Retsford," she said, trying to keep a bright tone, "allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Letitia Broussard. She is only recently arrived in town."
He put out a hand, and Letty placed her hand in his with a shy, lashed smile as Lord Retsford placed a soft kiss on it.
Cecilia suppressed her irritation at the bold gesture. It was a terrible combination: Letty's naïveté with Lord Retsford's wide experience and calculated charm.
He walked with them for a few minutes, addressing himself primarily to Letty. Cecilia was torn between various emotions: relief that she was not obliged to talk with him, a slight feeling of pique that he was almost ignoring her, and dismay that he seemed to have latched onto Letty as some kind of target—whether for harmless, light flirtation or something less benign, Cecilia didn't know.
Based on her shy smiles and the healthy blush in her cheeks, Letty was enjoying her conversation with the marquess, and Cecilia was keenly aware of how he brought the conversation to an end before Letty seemed ready.
Cecilia knew the tactic well, as it was one she had often employed, but it exasperated her to see it employed on Letty.
As they slowed to bid Lord Retsford good day, Cecilia's eyes lighted upon the only sight less welcome than that of Lord Retsford: Lord Moulinet. Her heart fluttered and dropped simultaneously at his appearance, watching him stride toward them with his lips pressed together and brows knit.
Being new to town, Lord Moulinet was unlikely to be familiar with Lord Retsford, but Cecilia couldn't help but feel he would be displeased with the new association if he had been familiar with the man.
"We wish you a very pleasant afternoon, my lord," Cecilia said hurriedly, hoping to speed the marquess's departure.
Lord Retsford bowed to them and walked off in his confident gait in the direction of Lord Moulinet.
"Jacques!" Letty said as her eyes fell upon her cousin. "How fashionable of you to be here."
He smiled humorlessly, his hard eyes flitting toward Cecilia. "And of you," he said to Le
tty. He shot a backward glance at the retreating figure of Lord Retsford. "And meeting all the rakes in town, I see. How kind of your cousin to introduce you."
Cecilia bit her lip. So, he did know the marquess's reputation. She found herself wishing she could explain how it had come about.
"How unkind of you, Jacques!" said Letty in agitation. "He is no rake! Lord Retsford was very kind and attentive."
"I am sure he was," Lord Moulinet said dryly. "That is what I was afraid of. You mustn't entertain the attentions of men like Lord Retsford, Letty, however kind and attentive they may be." His voice was stern and unyielding.
"Well, if that isn’t outside of enough," Letty said in a sullen voice. "I don't know why you should have taken the marquess in such dislike, but if Cecilia is friends with him, then he must be perfectly respectable, of course."
Lord Moulinet's gaze shifted to Cecilia, and heat crept up her neck and cheeks. She felt her chin lift, almost without her permission.
"Whatever Miss Cosgrove's opinion of Lord Retsford"— his eyes lingered on Cecilia before moving back to his cousin —"I beg you will not encourage his attentions, Letty."
Letty gave only a non-committal "hmph" before saying, "You are determined to be disobliging today, aren't you? I suppose you mean to refuse to accompany Mama and me to the Cosgroves for dinner tomorrow as well?"
Lord Moulinet opened his mouth and then closed it again.
Cecilia didn't know whether she hoped that he would confirm or contradict Letty's words. So far, her experience with Lord Moulinet left her feeling deficient. And, even more frustrating, she found herself wishing to rectify whatever had led him to view her in such a negative light, while her pride demanded she teach him a lesson.
