by Martha Keyes
Of course, she was often frustratingly proud and maddeningly foolish, but there was also an ever-growing streak of vulnerability and kindness that had been entirely unexpected after their first interaction. His first judgments of her had been uncharitable. Knowing more about her background and experiences, he found himself sympathizing with her more often than not—even when he wished to shake her and remind her that a gentleman worth his salt would prefer the unaffected, kind woman behind the mask she sometimes donned.
Thankfully, she seemed to be spending more and more time without the mask. And the more time she spent without the mask, the more time Jacques found himself wishing to spend with her.
What a mess he was entangling himself in.
It was with a flicker of joy that Jacques caught sight of Miss Cosgrove that evening. Gone was much of the rigidity with which she had carried herself a few weeks ago, and the enjoyment on her face was more genuine than it was arch or calculated. It pleased Jacques greatly to see.
If his joy was dampened slightly upon realizing that she was so cheerfully engaged in a country dance with another gentleman, Jacques didn't allow himself to dwell on the silly spark of jealousy for more than a moment.
His father stood next to him, looking more like a Macaroni than Jacques could have wished, but nothing could dampen his father's confidence, no matter how often Jacques suggested that he dress with less pomp and pageantry.
The set ended on the ballroom floor, and Jacques noted with a little self-deprecating chuckle how he instinctively stood straighter as he watched Miss Cosgrove's partner escort her back to her mother.
"Come, Father," he said, his eyes still on her. "I don't believe you have yet had the opportunity to meet the Cosgroves."
His father followed him over to where Mrs. Cosgrove and her daughter stood, joined predictably by Letty and her mother.
Miss Cosgrove looked at him with a smile that turned curious upon seeing his father.
Jacques introduced the two Cosgrove women to his father, noting the obvious, admiring light with which he regarded Miss Cosgrove.
"Well," said his father, making a flourishing bow to the women, "I thought I had seen all the most beautiful sights London had to offer, but I see that I was terribly wrong."
Jacques's jaw tightened, and he looked an apology at Miss Cosgrove when her eyes darted to him, unsure what to make of his father. Here he had chastised Miss Cosgrove for making too much of her appearance, only to have his own father call attention to it before she had ever said a word.
Miss Cosgrove smiled politely and curtsied. "You betray your ignorance of London, my lord, by saying such things. Perhaps your son can better acquaint you with the spectacular sights the town has to offer."
Jacque’s father looked at him with incredulity. "I find myself at a loss to understand my own son. With such a charming woman in front of you, what precisely are you waiting for?"
"Why, Uncle," Letty cried. "That's a famous idea! I can hardly imagine anything better than a marriage between my two dearest cousins!"
Miss Cosgrove's eyebrows went up, and her cheeks flushed, reflecting the color Jacques was tolerably sure his own face had turned. He cleared his throat. "I think my father was referring to the set that is forming, Letty."
His father scoffed. "Think again, mon fils."
Ignoring the continuing humiliating nature of his father's comments, Jacques offered his arm to Miss Cosgrove, intent upon apologizing profusely for his father's lack of tact.
When they were far enough out of range that their conversation wouldn't be heard, though, Miss Cosgrove was the first to speak.
"I confess that your father is nothing like I had imagined he would be."
"What, completely lacking in social graces and dressed as though time stopped fifty years ago?"
She laughed aloud. "You are unkind. I suppose I should have expected that the person who raised you would be completely lacking affectation."
He looked at her reflectively. "I am sorry that he fixated upon your appearance. The irony was not lost upon me, having censured you in the past for placing too much importance upon such things."
She shrugged. "I am too accustomed to it to take offense. Indeed, his words would have pleased me considerably even a month ago." She sighed dramatically. "But, alas, I have spent enough time in your company that my arrogance has been reduced to a shadow of what it once was." She stole a teasing glance at him, and it made his mouth feel suddenly dry.
"Would you like to forego this dance in favor of some refreshment?" He watched as her smile faded slightly, a more intent look in her eyes.
She nodded. "I should like it very much."
With two glasses of ratafia in hand, they made their way to the nearest seats.
"You and your father escaped from France together, then?" she asked, thanking him as he handed her down into the seat.
Jacques felt his muscles tense slightly, just as they did anytime the past was brought up. "Yes," he said. "My mother died in childbirth, so it was only ever the two of us."
Her features softened, and her head shook slightly. "I am so sorry."
He offered something between a smile and a grimace. "I am sorry, too, that I was never able to meet her. I have heard plenty of stories from my father, of course, but"— he raised his brows and tilted his head —"as you have witnessed for yourself, my father is prone to exaggeration."
Miss Cosgrove shifted her knees toward him and blinked slowly in an expression of feigned offense. "You mean to say that his comments on my beauty were simple exaggeration?"
"That is not what I meant."
"Pray, what did you mean, then?"
It was evident from the way her mouth quivered that Miss Cosgrove was thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture.
"I meant," he said slowly, realizing that there was hardly a satisfactory explanation for his comment, "that you might have noticed how his general manner tends toward excess and overstatement."
She smoothed her dress with a hand in an overly formal gesture. "I thought his choice of clothing very..."
Jacques's mouth twitched as she struggled for words.
"...very..."
"Ancestral?" he offered, his shoulders shaking.
She took her lips between her teeth to stop a laugh. "Precisely."
They met eyes, and he imagined that his own carried the same twinkle as hers, his smile the same joyful shape as her soft, pink lips.
Their time together seemed to end so quickly that Jacques wondered if the orchestra had not selected the briefest songs in their repertoire on purpose—to defy his desire to remain with Miss Cosgrove as long as possible. He tried not to betray his reluctance to convey her back to her mother, but he could have sworn that she, too, looked surprised when the strings strung out their last note.
No sooner was she at her mother's side than she was approached by yet another gentleman wishing for his chance at some privacy with her. Jacques suppressed a resigned sigh, coming to stand next to his father again.
"She's the one, Jacques," his father said, continuing his apathetic scanning of the room.
Jacques let out a scoffing noise. "Thank you, Father. You already made it quite clear to me—and to Miss Cosgrove and Aunt Emily and Letty—that those were your feelings."
His father took a glass of wine from the passing footman. "Don't be a fool, then, Jacques. And don't, for heaven's sake, try to pretend that you aren't giddy over the girl. I was watching the two of you, and a pair of young people more mad after one another you would be hard-pressed to find."
The eruption of hope he felt upon hearing his father's words Jacques set determinedly aside. "If you were in my position," he said, watching Miss Cosgrove and her partner join hands, "could you inflict the deceit upon her that I would be obliged to inflict upon Miss Cosgrove? Assuming that she does care about me in such a way, which is no sure thing."
He watched her say something through a large smile to her partner. Was the smile she offered that man
any different than the ones she bestowed upon Jacques? He would be a fool to assume such a thing, particularly when she was being courted by somewhere in the range of a dozen men, including a Marquess.
His father cocked his head to the side. "I don't know," he said. "But I do not think, mon fils, that she has fallen in love with your title, and you are the same person with it or without it."
"Try telling that to her father," Jacques said under his breath.
His teeth clenched as he watched the determined approach of Lord Retsford, as if he meant to come offer a reminder of his power and position. His expression was curious as he came to stand before them, his eyes moving again and again to Jacques's father.
"Lord Moulinet," he said with a slight nod. "How very good to happen upon you here. Or I should rather say, happen upon you and..." He looked pointedly at Jacques's father.
Jacques wished he could deny the marquess the introduction he so obviously wished for, but to do so would only pique the man's interest more.
"Lord Retsford," he said with a barely civil smile, "allow me to introduce you to my father, le Comte de Montreuil. Father, this is the Marquess of Retsford."
Lord Retsford was performing his shallow bow, but an arrested expression came into his eyes, which he trained on Jacques's father.
"Yes," he said slowly, "I knew you looked familiar. And I know that name, too. We have met before, have we not?"
Jacques's father shook his head cheerfully, but as he looked at the marquess, his smile flickered slightly and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly—just for a moment.
"No," he said, "I don't believe I have had that pleasure."
"Hmm," said the marquess, "I could have sworn..." He studied the Comte's face again and then straightened. "Well, no matter, it will come to me, I am sure." He looked at Jacques. "I am determined, after all, to become better acquainted with you." He bowed politely with a hint of a sneer at Jacques, and then walked off.
Jacques felt his body relax. "What was that?" he asked, turning to his father.
But the color was draining from his father's face. "Jacques," he said slowly, his eyes still staring unblinking at Lord Retsford. “Is that the man who has taken you in dislike?"
Jacques nodded, feeling fear suddenly creep through his veins, coursing toward his heart. "Why? What does it matter?"
His father turned his body slowly away, clenching his eyelids shut. "He was there," he said.
"He was where?"
"At Dover. When we arrived."
Jacques felt himself begin to sweat, a cold sweat that made his gloves cling to the skin on his hands.
"Do you remember?" his father said urgently.
Jacques only shook his head.
"The young man who helped me in the room of the inn with Monsieur le Comte?"
A memory, long since forgotten in the chaos that ensued afterward, struggled to the forefront of Jacques's mind. A man, crouching down next to his father over the Comte's body.
Jacques's eyes bulged, and he looked toward the marquess. There was no mistaking him now. He was much older, yes, but the youthful man was still recognizable underneath.
Jacques swore, tearing his eyes away.
How could his father have told him time and again that there was no one to fear, no one who could possibly know of their deception? Not even a servant, he had said only that morning. And all the while, their greatest threat was from a marquess—a marquess determined to ruin Jacques's reputation by any means possible.
Their only hope was that the marquess wouldn't remember the interaction.
What a meager and dim hope it was.
15
For what seemed like the fiftieth time that evening, Cecilia quashed an urge to look for the Vicomte de Moulinet. If she was being quite honest with herself, the chance of seeing him and of dancing with him was the only reason she had agreed to come to Lady Heathcote's ball. It was insufferably hot, and the London crowds were beginning to draw thin.
She had a suspicion that the only reason her own family had not made the journey back to Dorset for the more pleasant seaside breeze was due to the continuing presence in town of the marquess—and her father's persistent hope of him asking permission to pay his addresses to Cecilia.
While she in no way shared this hope with her father, she had not dared to bring up the subject of leaving town—not when it would mean the end of her interaction with Lord Moulinet. Nor did she have the courage to tell her father that the marquess's attentions had waned considerably. It seemed that any time he did approach her or ask her to dance, it was with an ulterior motive: to get under the vicomte's skin.
But the vicomte was not anywhere to be seen at Lady Heathcote's ball.
Cecilia's heart dropped suddenly. Surely he would not have left town without informing her of the fact?
She scoffed at herself. He owed her no such thing. But she had not been able to quench the hope of his returned regard that had been burgeoning inside her.
She tried to sound disinterested as she said to her mother, "Have you seen Aunt Emily and Letty or the vicomte? I expected them to be here this evening."
"No," her mother said, clearly less troubled by their absence than was Cecilia, "I have not seen them. Nor have I seen Lord Retsford." Her voice held great disappointment, and Cecilia could only be glad that her own relief was unnoticed due to her mother's complete fixation upon surveying the crowd.
It was only moments later that Lady Caroline arrived at the ball, soon making her way to Cecilia's side. She looked thinner and more gaunt than she had at their last meeting—a change which would undoubtedly be attributed by the ton to her rejection by Lord Byron.
Cecilia had assumed that Lady Caroline had the best of all worlds, in many ways. Marriage to a man who would inherit a Viscountcy, close connections with Devonshire House and the Prince Regent himself, complete disregard for public opinion, and, added to it all, a determination to follow her heart wherever it led. And it seemed to lead quite determinedly to Lord Byron.
To Cecilia, it appeared a recipe for happiness.
And yet Lady Caroline did not look happy. She flitted from person to person, finally arriving at Cecilia's side where she whispered, only half aware of who she was addressing, "Have you seen him?" Her eyes searched Cecilia's with almost frantic energy.
This was the side of Lady Caroline that inspired more gossip than even her eccentric habit of dressing as a man, and it was Cecilia’s first time witnessing it for herself: the mania of her love for Byron.
Cecilia shook her head, troubled at the state of her friend.
Lady Caroline didn't linger after receiving the answer, and Cecilia watched her progress around the room with disturbed awe.
"Mrs. Cosgrove, Miss Cosgrove."
It was the voice of Lord Moulinet, and Cecilia felt her heart leap. He smiled at her, but it was not his usual smile. There was something missing in it; some kind of sadness, perhaps? His eyes regarded her with an evaluative gleam.
What had she done?
"May I accompany Miss Cosgrove to the refreshment table?" he inquired of her mother.
Her mother nodded distractedly, still intently looking for any sign of the Marquess of Retsford. Glad for her mother's preoccupation, Cecilia took Jacques's arm, her regret at having come to Lady Heathcote's ball completely evaporating in his presence.
He led her over to the refreshment table, acquiring some wafers and a drink for them, and then led them over to a bench. There seemed to be a touch of impatience and a rushed feeling to his movements, and it was with misgiving that Cecilia observed him.
"What is it?" she said, accepting a few of the wafers from him.
"I must speak with you," he said, taking a seat beside her as he drew in a deep breath.
"Of course." She smiled, hoping to conceal her nerves.
His lips formed in a tight line, and he looked down at his glass before meeting her eyes again. "From the beginning of our acquaintance, I have censured you for something t
hat I myself am guilty of."
The sound of a raised voice met Cecilia's ears, and she turned her head. Lady Caroline stood a dozen feet away, face to face with Lord Byron. "Oh dear," said Cecilia. "She has found him."
Lord Moulinet looked over with an impatient glance. "Miss Cosgrove," he said, and she turned back toward him.
Lady Caroline was capable of attending to her own affairs. She lowered her drink to her lap and met the vicomte's eyes squarely and attentively.
He smiled wryly, "I think you cannot be unaware of the regard I hold you in. My father informed me that only a fool could be oblivious to it."
Cecilia felt suddenly as though she had forgotten how to breathe properly, and her cheeks warmed as she averted her eyes, not trusting herself to look him in the eye. "I am a fool, then." She glanced up at him, and her breath caught at the warm look in his eyes. "I had hoped," she said, shaking her head, "but I have given you far too many reasons to hold me in disdain that I didn't dare..."
"Disdain?" he said, incredulous. "How could you think such a thing?" His half-smile appeared, and his eyes moved down to her lips. He blinked twice, straightening himself. "But I cannot in good conscience press forward as I should like without being forthright with you about my circumstances"— he held her eyes intently —"about my origins."
Cecilia laughed nervously. "How grave you are. You have me imagining the very worst scenarios."
"What would be the worst scenario you could imagine?"
She laughed again, trying to lighten the mood and dispel the gloom he seemed determined to bring to the conversation. "I assure you that my imagination can concoct wilder scenarios than you might suppose—ones that would involve such unlikely stories as you being a wanted Jacobin determined on overthrowing the English monarchy, or a secret spy or"— she sputtered —"some sort of impostor."
He said nothing, only closing his eyes and breathing softly through his nose.
Her smile wavered. "I am only jesting, my lord. I am sure that, whatever you have to tell me, it cannot be so serious as you imagine it to be. The esteem I hold you in"— she swallowed determinedly, wanting to see him smile again and feeling the need to reassure him —"my growing regard is not so flimsy as you seem to think it."
