Cecilia: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 3)

by Martha Keyes

  He dropped his arms from around her waist and opened his eyes, hardly daring to look at Miss Cosgrove, at the woman he loved but couldn't have.

  "You can have no notion," she said softly, brushing at his forehead softly with her fingers, a smile trembling on her lips, "how long I have been wishing to do that."

  He stifled a groan. He wished he had done it before—wished he had kissed her a hundred times—and yet he knew that this one kiss would torment him forever.

  "This is a mistake, Miss Cosgrove," he said, shaking his head and taking a step back. "I would not risk your reputation this way." He looked at her searching blue eyes and the way they looked up at him with such care and desire.

  “Call me Cecilia,” she said. “And, to be fair, I was the one who risked my reputation. Not you.”

  He clenched his fists, willing himself to look away from her lips, to forget the way his hand had fit perfectly in the small of her back and how her hand had cradled his cheek. "Much as I might wish to stay with you here in this alcove all night, I cannot. You don’t understand."

  She looked at him, confusion overtaking the warmth in her eyes. "No, I don’t," she said. "What is the matter? What troubles you so?"

  His mouth drew into a tight line. What could he possibly say? There was no time. "I am not who you think I am," he said.

  A door opened down the corridor, and his head whipped around. The other men were no doubt making their way to the drawing room.

  "I can't explain it all right now," he said, his neck tightening in frustration. Why had he not garnered the courage to tell her before? "Please," he said in a supplicating voice, "remember what I told you. Know that I would do anything to make you happy and"— he exhaled —"that I am more sorry than you will ever know."

  The sound of muffled voices growing louder met Jacques's ears and he nodded down the corridor toward the drawing room. "You must go," he said, swallowing at the pitiful bewilderment in Cecilia’s eyes as they held his. "Go!" he said, and she whipped around, rushing down the hallway and into the drawing room.

  Jacques walked down the corridor, rubbing his forehead. He almost wished he could persuade the marquess to do his worst and to do it right away. The suspense and tension as he awaited the revelation hung over his head like a leaden weight.

  He stepped into the group of men, coming shoulder-to-shoulder with his father. Neither of them said a word as they entered the drawing room.

  Cecilia stood next to her sister and brother-in-law, but her attention was clearly not on the conversation—her eyes were glazed over and staring blankly ahead of her.

  The hands of the clock continued moving, with no sign from the marquess of any intention of interrupting the conversations being held among the people in the room. When a request was made that Letty favor the company with a song on the pianoforte, she walked over to the piano, only to pause as the door to the drawing room opened to reveal one of the Broussard footmen. He walked over to Mr. Broussard, leaning in to confer with him privately, all the while with Letty sitting at the pianoforte, hands paused on the keys.

  Mr. Broussard frowned and nodded, and the footman left. "Lord Retsford," said Mr. Broussard, standing and walking over to him. He leaned in, putting a hand over his mouth to shield whatever he was communicating, and then looked at the marquess, shrugging as though he didn't know what to make of the message he bore.

  Jacques watched with an ever-increasing heart rate as Lord Retsford's eyes moved to him, triumphant and glinting. Mr. Broussard returned to his seat, and nodded to Letty who prepared herself to begin, only to be interrupted again by the marquess.

  "I hesitate," said the marquess, "to postpone the delight in store for us thanks to Miss Broussard's accomplishment at the pianoforte, but I cannot in good conscience hold my tongue any longer—not when we are all in the company of impostors."

  The air in the room stilled, eyes shifting from side to side in confusion, and Jacques held himself straight, ignoring the impulse he had to watch for Cecilia's reaction. The marquess nodded to confirm his words.

  "Among us here are two people who have duped us all for years—decades even—masquerading as our equals, taking advantage of our kindness when they are, in fact, no better than scoundrels and criminals. This very moment, one of them ingratiates himself with a member of our company, while she, oblivious to the truth, accepts these advances, even returns them, unsuspecting that the man she sits beside is nothing but an actor and a snake—a murderer, even."

  Sharp intakes of breath sounded all around Jacques, and he clenched his jaw. He had been concerned about being revealed for the impostor he was, but he had never considered that the marquess might accuse him and his father of having murdered the Comte de Montreuil.

  "This man"— he said, pointing to Jacques's father —"is not the Comte de Montreuil. And this man"— he pointed to Jacques —"is not the Vicomte de Moulinet. I met them more than twenty years ago when they landed at Dover as servant émigrés in the service of the true Comte. Blackguards that they are, they saw their opportunity and murdered the poor Comte"— more exclamations of shock sounded around the table —"and then used me as their first dupe, pretending to request my assistance in reviving the Comte, when they wished him dead so that they could take his money, his good name, and his title, deceiving us all to this very day."

  Jacques could feel Cecilia's eyes on him, but he had to force himself to meet them.

  She looked at him, incredulity and shock warring in her eyes. "My lord?" she said.

  The marquess scoffed. "Hardly. He is nothing but a commoner."

  Cecilia laughed nervously at the marquess's words. "Impossible." She looked to Jacques. "Tell him it's impossible, Lord Moulinet. Tell everyone that he is simply jealous of you and has been for weeks."

  Jacques said nothing, swallowing as though it would rid him of the emotion threatening to overcome him at the sight of Cecilia defending him.

  "What he says is true," he finally managed, unable to watch her reaction. He moved his eyes to Aunt Emily—the woman who had taken them in and made sure they learned English and had a home until they were able to purchase their own. He saw the same confused horror in her eyes that penetrated him from all sides. "But we are not murderers. That is entirely false."

  "And you expect us to believe you?" said the marquess with a mocking laugh.

  Jacques looked to his father, who stood emotionless and still next to him. He looked to Cecilia, and his heart lurched at the betrayal written in her eyes.

  She shook her head, backing up one step. "And you had the audacity to lecture me about masks?"

  Jacques lifted his palms and then dropped them. She was right.

  "Both of you"— the marquess looked down at the paper he was holding —"apparently Jacques and Hugo Levesque by name—are in violation of the Aliens Act and will be deported after standing before the magistrate."

  Jacques's head swam, his eyes unfocused and the pricks of candlelight throughout the room swaying oddly. He felt his father's arm tremble next to him.

  The marquess lowered the paper, looking at Jacques with a hard stare. "Two constables stand outside this door, waiting to escort you to Newgate. If you are so unwise as to attempt an escape, they have brought instruments to ensure your cooperation."

  Jacques stared ahead, resisting the impulse to apologize to his aunt and uncle. To Letty. To Cecilia. It would only ring false in their ears.

  With a swooshing sound, Cecilia fled from the room.

  He shut his eyes. He would never see her again.

  Footsteps sounded, and Jacques opened his eyes to see the marquess welcome the constables: two bulky men with large cudgels hanging from leather belts at their waists. They grabbed Jacques and his father by the arm, pulling them from the spot they had stood rooted to for several minutes.

  Jacques scanned the faces of the Broussards one final time: his uncle frowning deeply, Aunt Emily's head turned away, and Letty's wide, fearful eyes blinking slowly as she sat before the
pianoforte.

  He would miss Letty terribly.

  19

  Cecilia had not returned to the drawing room after Lord Retsford's revelation. She hadn't been able to bear the thought of meeting anyone’s eyes without bursting into tears—tears of anger, tears of hurt, tears of disgust; she hardly knew what she was feeling.

  It all still felt like a dream. A terrible, impossible dream. She had fallen in love with an imposter? A criminal? A murderer?

  It was too fantastic to believe. If Lord Moulinet—or Mr. Levesque, rather—was a murderer, surely anyone could be one? There was nothing of the murderer about his calm, gentle demeanor. There was no trace of the commoner in him, refined and easy as his manners were.

  And yet, he had admitted the truth of the marquess's revelation—or at least most of it. But what was she to believe from someone whose entire life was a lie and a sham?

  She had sat wordless, staring out of the coach window on the carriage ride back to Belport Street, clenching her eyes shut as her mother talked without stopping of the scandal they had just witnessed.

  "I cannot say I am surprised," she had said, "for I always felt there was something not right about him. And his father? What kind of true Comte would dress in such a vulgarly colorful manner?"

  Isabel's hand had found Cecilia's, and she had squeezed it gently.

  Cecilia tossed and turned all night, unable to suppress the memory of the moments she and Mr. Levesque had shared in the alcove, his words sounding over and over again in her ears: "You must know that what I feel for you is real."

  How could she believe such a thing? And even if it were true, what then? He was nothing but the servant of a dead French comte.

  When she awoke in the morning, her head throbbed, and she put a gentle finger to the swollen bags under her eyes.

  She pulled up the linens over her head, wishing she could sleep forever, wishing she could avoid the necessity of facing her emotions and untangling them.

  She needed to occupy herself with anything other than her own problems.

  She sat up in bed, Isabel's words coming to her: "Perhaps it is your turn to return the favor." She hadn't spoken with Lady Caroline since the episode at Lady Heathcote's. How was she faring?

  Pulling back her bedcovers, Cecilia slid out of bed and walked to the small éscritoire next to the window. She sat down and dipped the quill in the ink, letting the feather brush her cheek until finally putting the quill to paper and scrawling away.

  Cecilia's mother would heavily disapprove of her plan, worried for the damage it might do to her reputation and prospects. But Cecilia was tired of worrying over such things.

  It would do Lady Caroline good to take air with Cecilia, and it would surely do Cecilia good. Of course they would attract attention—the town was still gossiping about what Lady Caroline had done. No doubt the discovery of last night's revelation would quickly put the episode out of everyone's thoughts in favor of the new scandal the town was always craving.

  Whiling away the time until she would receive a response from Lady Caroline, Cecilia sat in the morning room, fidgeting with the tassels of the gold pillow she held and staring blankly at the window across the room, when Letty walked in unannounced.

  Cecilia looked up in surprise, and Letty rushed over to her, untying the ribbons of her bonnet and pulling it from her head. "Cecy," she said in her most dramatic voice. She sat down beside her and enfolded her in an embrace.

  Cecilia returned it but soon drew back, her nose wrinkling. "Letty, you smell of spirits!"

  Letty laughed, setting her bonnet down beside her.

  "Letty," said Cecilia suspiciously, "why do you smell of spirits?"

  "Nevermind that, Cecy," Letty said impatiently. "I have come to talk to you about Jacques."

  Cecilia turned her head away. "What is there to discuss?"

  "What is there to disc—” she blinked at Cecilia, uncomprehending. "We cannot allow them to ship him and my uncle back to France, Cecy!"

  "He is not your uncle, Letty," Cecilia said, her voice more biting than she had intended.

  "Perhaps not by blood," said Letty, thrusting her chin out, "but certainly he has treated me more like an uncle than your father."

  Cecilia said nothing, only letting out a frustrated breath. Letty was right. The connection she had to the Levesques was undeniable.

  Letty looked at Cecilia, her eyes narrowing, and her forehead wrinkling. "You don't even care what becomes of them, do you?" She shook her head in disgust. "And here I've been thinking you were in love with Jacques." She stood, snatching the bonnet from beside her and staring at Cecilia as she took two steps back and turned toward the door.

  "Letty, wait," Cecilia said.

  Letty turned toward her, her shoulders down and her chest thrust out in defiance. "What?"

  Cecilia’s shoulder came up helplessly. "What can we possibly do? They are murderers."

  An impatient huff blew through Letty's nostrils. "Of course they aren't."

  "How can you know that?"

  "Because I know them." Letty's neck stretched to its full height. "And because I asked them."

  Cecilia frowned. "How? Mama says they were taken straight to Newgate last night."

  She shrugged. "I went to ask them myself."

  Eyes widening, Cecilia said in disbelief, "You went to Newgate?"

  Letty nodded again. "Unfortunately, one of the other prisoners spilled his drink on me as I was leaving. I admit, it is not the kind of place I should like to visit regularly."

  "I should think not," Cecilia cried. Her eyes flitted down to Letty's dress. "So that is why you smell of spirits? Good heavens, Letty! What could you have been thinking? It is terribly dangerous, not to mention entirely reckless! Have you no care for your reputation? Or your life?"

  "Well no one did see me," she said, crossing her arms, "and I hardly regard the danger when my own dear Jacques is set to be tried in two days! Besides," she sniffed, "if you must know, Mama came with me. You know she has always been terribly fond of Jacques, and she was intent on giving him and my uncle the chance to explain themselves. She believes them!"

  “And your father?” Cecilia said.

  Letty waved him away with a dismissive hand. “He would, too, if he would only lend an ear to them for even a moment! But he won’t, and there is no time to convince him.” She shut her eyes, and tears squeezed from them. "Oh, Cecy, we must not let it happen!"

  "Letty," Cecilia said softly, pitifully, "there is nothing we can do."

  "I think if you truly loved him," Letty sniffled, "you would do everything you could to stop him from being sent away. He is still Jacques, Cecy! Even if he was born poor." She shook her head at Cecilia. "I thought I could surely count on you to do something. Or at the very least to be present for his trial."

  Cecilia was the recipient of one last glance full of betrayal before Letty rushed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Cecilia sank back onto the cushions, rubbing her forehead.

  Letty had gone to Newgate to see the Levesques? She couldn't help but admire Letty's loyalty to her cousin and uncle.

  But how could Letty look on the treachery with so little hurt or anger?

  If Cecilia was being honest with herself, Letty's accusations against her had stung.

  The door opened again, and Cecilia closed her eyes and sighed, expecting more of Letty's dramatics.

  But it was the footman, holding a letter on a tray. Cecilia immediately recognized the script of Lady Caroline and opened the note greedily, her eyes taking in the few lines within seconds. She stepped into the drawing room to look at the hands of the clock which showed one in the afternoon.

  She hurried up the stairs, anxious to change into her walking dress so that Lady Caroline wouldn't be left waiting when she arrived in half an hour.

  A short time later, Cecilia stepped quietly through the front door, satisfied that she had not attracted the attention of her mother. She smiled at Lady Caroline, si
tting composedly in the seat of her high-perch phaeton. She looked skinnier than ever, but she was beaming down at Cecilia.

  When Cecilia stepped up into the phaeton and settled in, smoothing her skirt and fixing the tilt of her bonnet, Lady Caroline cocked her head slightly.

  "Oh dear," Lady Caroline said, taking Cecilia's hand. "What has happened?"

  Cecilia sighed. "Do I look so terrible that it is that obvious?"

  Lady Caroline gave her hand a squeeze. "You could never look terrible. Only sad, or tired perhaps?" She inspected Cecilia's face through slightly narrowed eyes. "Nevermind, we shall discuss it all as we drive." She arranged the reins in her hands and then gave them a flick, sending the phaeton forward.

  Lady Caroline took them through the busy streets of the town, saying, "Do not think that I am ignorant of what it means for you to sit up beside me here after what happened at Lady Heathcote's." She took her eyes off the road for a brief, appreciative glance at Cecilia. "You are very kind, Cecilia."

  Cecilia shook her head, uncomfortably aware that it was Isabel rather than herself who had perceived the opportunity to be a true friend. "I am not nearly as kind as you think I am. In fact, I am terribly selfish."

  "If that were true, you would not be sitting beside a woman believed to be mad and obsessed and dangerous."

  They entered the less crowded lane of the park, where Lady Caroline finally relaxed her shoulders and said, "Now, tell me all."

  Cecilia's recounting of the events of the night before sounded jumbled and tangential even to her own ears, but she hardly knew how to convey everything that had happened without clarifying and providing context to Lady Caroline. When she came to the part of the story that included her exchange with Mr. Levesque in the alcove, she tried to gloss over the specifics, but Lady Caroline smiled mischievously at her, unfooled by the vague nature of Cecilia's description.

  When she reached the marquess's revelation, Lady Caroline exclaimed. "How very famous!”

  Taken aback and somewhat offended at the uncomprehending nature of Lady Caroline's reaction, Cecilia doubled back and looked at her friend. Lady Caroline met her eyes and laughed.