“Can you imagine?” Gaudet produced a fan, flicking it open with a movement of his wrist, as coquettish as any king’s mistress. “One overheats just picturing it.”
“That is not quite what I was thinking.”
“You are very broad-minded.” Gaudet smiled slyly, devilment just edging out misery. “For an Englishman.”
“Is that a compliment?” William peered at him. “Or a criticism?”
“Oh, let us go to this carnival,” Gaudet said. “Antonia adored such things. It will be our tribute to her boy. Should I wear my suit? Or perhaps a dress, in true masque spirit.”
“Suit.”
“You are right, of course—one cannot wear a dress without a wig.” Gaudet frowned, tapping the fan against his chin, feeling far happier now his mind was on less serious matters. “And you do not think that my suit might stand out at a country fete?”
“Less than a dress would.” William peered at him, their gazes meeting for one moment. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Then I shall change.” Gaudet stretched his arms above his head, gaze still settled on William, on the strong jaw that seemed always so set, so British. “And so must you.”
“Into what?” William’s face crumpled into a frown and Gaudet tutted, wondering what barbarians were gathering on the other side of the English Channel. He did not reply but shook his head, moving to unpack the suit and jewelry, the makeup and scent. “These are clean enough, don’t you think?”
“Then I shall dress”—Gaudet scooped up Papillon and dropped her neatly into William’s lap—“for both of us.”
“Good.” William peered at the poodle. “Stop staring.”
She did no such thing, eyes bright and beady as the long, long minutes passed and Gaudet went about the elaborate business of dressing. Shoes were buffed, jewels shone, stockings inspected for snags before he even thought about applying his powder and patch, let alone choosing which elaborate knot to use in his cravat. It hardly mattered whether he was visiting the pleasure gardens or the back yard of a tenement, one must look one’s best if going out to celebrate, it was all part of the fun.
“Shall I have a nap while we wait?” William asked after a time. Gaudet ignored him, too busy ensuring his hair was just so, his rouge balanced. “The fun will be over before we even leave the house at this rate.”
“Did you say something?” Gaudet glanced over his shoulder, pausing in his inspection of the powder he had patted to his cheeks.
“I said get on with it!”
“Wear your diamond,” Gaudet instructed, tucking William’s handkerchief into his coat pocket before, with a carefree swish, he pulled it out some way. That same careless gesture resulted in the handkerchief sitting just so, as though he had been dressed by the most expert valet society had to offer. He was not just a master playwright, after all, but a consummate creature of fashion as well. With a final glance to the mirror, Gaudet declared, “Come along, Guillaume, Pap and I are ready to leave and you are taking forever.”
With a sigh, William righted himself, the diamond produced from a pocket before he told Gaudet, “You’ll need to tie it.”
“See how fine your kerchief is on a Frenchman?” He took the diamond and turned his attention to William’s cravat, eyes narrowed in concentration.
“I am glad that it meets with your approval,” came the dry response, William’s gaze fixed resolutely over Gaudet’s shoulder
“There.” He patted William’s chest lightly, hand lingering for a perfectly decent moment. “Perfect.”
“Perfect,” the Englishman murmured in response.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thanks to Gaudet’s unfathomably detailed preparations to leave their sanctuary, when he and William finally reached the ground floor the house was deserted, the rest of the party having long since made their way toward the delights of the carnival. The chaotic rooms stood empty, yet everywhere were signs of life and a family who lived it at full pace, the aroma of roasting meat still in the air, unclaimed until later.
“It looks like,” William informed the decidedly decadent Frenchman, “we are going by ourselves.”
“We shall enjoy the evening stroll,” his companion said, opening the door onto the early evening dusk.
On the near horizon, a bright bonfire burned, the sound of music and cheer rising up from the village to fill William with trepidation.
He cast a glance at Gaudet, wondering when things had suddenly become slightly complicated. “A walk. Excellent.”
“Away you go, Mistress Pap,” Gaudet chirruped, setting the poodle down so she might trot ahead. “She can smell a hog roasting!”
“You seem in better cheer.” William found himself with the absurd urge to take Gaudet’s arm, the only way to fight it being to link his own hands behind his back. Something in the Frenchman’s despair earlier had touched him, cut through his own quiet, long-festering dissatisfaction at life, and he wondered at Gaudet’s attitude to this madness in which they were living. After all, he seemed so chipper now, so able to find cheer in even the most unhappy situation.
It was a hell of a skill.
“If one dwelt on it, one would be in Bedlam.” Gaudet gave a soft sigh. “And none of those who have been lost would benefit from that.”
“That,” William agreed, “that is a fine way to look at it.”
“And besides.” Gaudet glanced to William with a cheeky smile. “Who else would bring such glamor to a village festival?”
“Don’t draw attention to yourself,” William warned, feeling belated misgivings as he studied the playwright. It seemed like a ridiculous request, he realized now, for a man so handsome, dressed in the finest silks and wearing just enough powder to appear as though he wasn’t wearing any at all. How could Gaudet not draw attention to himself? He would catch the eye in a potato sack.
At that, William blinked, wondering at how the sun had affected him. He needed to catch up on his sleep, he decided, admire that bosomy woman and spend less time with playwrights, who definitely were not handsome, just a little showy.
“I intend to pose as a traveling player—any amount of flamboyance will be permissible.” Gaudet’s words were playful.
“You are not to be flamboyant.”
“Look at me, chérie, how could I be otherwise?”
It was true, he realized—the Frenchman would not be able to pass anywhere unnoticed, even the simple handkerchief adding to the overwhelming feeling that one must be impressed. He was handsome, of course, but there was more than that, a magnetism, a presence that made him leap out of any crowd.
It must be hell.
The crowds in the village were a riot of colors and noise, dancing and cheer, the trials of life in a France in turmoil forgotten for tonight, at least. The coachman so admired by Gaudet lounged decorously at a table before the inn, half a dozen clearly besotted ladies hanging on his every word, whilst Dee, Sylvie and their plump hosts strolled through the crowd, greeting old acquaintances and making new. It was almost enough to make a man smile, William reflected, but not quite.
“What do you want to do?” William asked Gaudet, making sure that he and the Frenchman kept their distance from the rest.
“Dance, sing and not go to bed until dawn.”
“And drink,” William decided, craving suddenly the familiar, deadening oblivion of the bottle that had seen him through his darkest days. “Just a little.”
“As you wish.” Gaudet shrugged, dragging him farther into the fray.
It was a world away from the London parties that William no longer frequented, but a flicker of memory passed through his mind unbidden, of the young man he had driven to suicide. He remembered too clearly the cold rock of horror that had dropped into his belly when he had seen the words in print, the newspaper lamenting the sadness of a life snuffed out too soon. They had not named Viscount William Knowles, of course, but all of society knew whose hand might as well have been on the trigger of the gun that had dealt the fatal b
ullet. It was nothing but a silly gambling debt, a lost hand of cards between gamblers, yet William had crowed and hectored, had insisted that the youth pay his debt, pay off this man-about-town, the arrogant peer who showed no mercy to a young man in despair.
He’d had no money to pay…what choice but death or disgrace?
And William’s debtor had chosen both. He had chosen to take his own life rather than admit to Viscount William Knowles that he could not pay the debt.
A damned waste of a young life.
“Whatever it is, forget for tonight.” Gaudet’s voice was soft and William was relieved to find a drink in one hand. His other was grasped quite firmly by the playwright as they passed fellow revelers on their way.
Somehow, without William quite realizing how, he found himself in the center of a crowd of admiring women, all of them focused on the flamboyant traveling theatrical in the bright blue silk suit. Gaudet preened and pranced for them in obvious delight, telling endless tales of his dramatic pursuits, of the celebrities he counted amongst his closest friends.
It was good to see the playwright’s mood improved, of course, but William could not escape the thought that he was redundant, neither Gaudet nor the women paying the slightest attention to him. The single drink he had promised himself was followed with a second and a third and he drank them down as though he was parched, gaze fixing on the handkerchief that bobbed in Gaudet’s pocket.
“My good friend, Guillaume,” Gaudet was saying to the women suddenly, seizing William’s shoulder, “is my protégé. Together, we will have the finest theatrical company ever to grace the continent. He is a tumbler by trade.”
“Yes,” William declared. “I am very good at tumbling—especially after more drink.”
His audience laughed, their requests for a demonstration silenced when Gaudet confided, “The gentleman cannot tumble just anywhere, he is an artiste.”
“I am,” he agreed, nudging Gaudet. “Though my talents are nothing compared with this man’s.”
“True, true—what I cannot do with a juggling club isn’t worth doing.”
“He speaks the truth.” William found himself swept along in the story, Gaudet’s silliness unexpectedly intoxicating. “There is no sight more glorious in all the land.”
“The Pope himself was moved to tears by my mastery,” Gaudet declared. “And awarded me the keys to the Vatican in thanks.”
“Will he juggle for us?” one of the girls asked William, breathless with excitement. “If you will not tumble.”
“He is not permitted to,” William told her, voice lowered. “It is against the rules.”
“The rules?” she asked, eyes wide with wonder.
“Oh, yes—and the rules themselves must be kept a secret, so I cannot possibly discuss them further.”
“Even the rules,” Gaudet confided, his hand tightening on William’s shoulder, “have rules.”
“And those rules”—William drank deeply—“have even more rules.”
It all seems so simple with Gaudet, he thought as he closed his eyes briefly. Perhaps they could stay here forever in this moment of good-natured deception, and forget diamonds and sisters and ruined lives. Still, even as he knew he should intervene one song bled into another then, from somewhere, Gaudet was whirling one of the village girls round in a dance atop the table, the entire crowd gathered to cheer him on.
There’s nothing like people enjoying themselves to make you realize how utterly alone you are, William thought as soon as the playwright’s hand left his shoulder. One of his companions had been whisked off by someone else, the other leaning against him in a too familiar fashion, the way she kept helping herself to his drink something William did not agree with in the slightest. He took the bottle back firmly before downing a deep swig, telling himself that getting drunk was not a good idea.
“Guillaume.” Gaudet helped his partner down and offered his hand to William. “Sing with me?”
He couldn’t sing to save his life, he knew full well, but suddenly he didn’t care, instead he accepted Gaudet’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled up beside him. Under Gaudet’s direction his talent mattered little, of course, because nobody was focusing on William with such an exotic creature beside him. The crowd carried the song with them, a riotous and raucous sound that lifted even William’s sorry spirits, until he found he was leaning against Gaudet, certain that everything would be all right if they just kept singing and forgot everything else.
“Look.” Gaudet nudged William as Dee took a fiddle from one of the drinkers, the adoring Sylvie perched at his side.
“Bloody woman.” He shook his head, turning away. Dee could handle himself, he was sure. “More singing. More drink!”
Both were supplied in ample measure, Dee’s accompaniment on the strings was more than adequate and even Adam was convinced to leave his admirers to join a chorus, his female friends clapping decorously at his skilled efforts to carry a tune.
“Is this,” William asked Gaudet, “what having fun is?”
“It is, indeed,” Gaudet agreed, one arm around his shoulders and a party of girls took up the challenge on a table opposite, singing a song of their own with fine style. Gaudet laughed and reached down for a bottle before he said brightly, “Cheers!”
William repeated the sentiment, drinking deeply as he wondered how he had come to this—standing on a table in the middle of a carnival and getting drunk with a French playwright. He realized that he didn’t actually care, because caring would take up valuable time in which he could be laughing, dancing, living.
There was more drink, more songs, more laughter, all of it making William feel as though, somehow, life might have the occasional chink of light. Gaudet’s joie de vivre was in equal parts irritating and infectious. That braying laugh, the habitual clapping to signal his good humor seemed suited to a night like this, when everyone put their worries to one side beneath the bright full moon.
“I’m not going back to that house,” William found himself telling Gaudet. “I’m staying here all night.”
Gaudet beamed, starting on another song, and William joined in with, he suspected, entirely the wrong words, leaning against his friend as he did so.
Friend? Yes, why the hell not?
“You are happy, chérie?” Gaudet’s gaze suddenly settled on him, green eyes twinkling with mischief and drink.
“I am ignoring everything except you,” he told the Frenchman. “So yes, I suppose I am.”
In reply, Gaudet threw his arms around William, hugging him in a way that felt almost companionable, if he could remember what that felt like after so many lonely years.
“There are too many people.” William didn’t push him away. “I think we are drunk.”
“Gloriously, wonderfully so,” Gaudet confirmed, voice teasing when he asked, “Too many for what?”
He found himself suddenly confused, caught in Gaudet’s gaze and just a little too close. “To think…”
“Shall we adjourn to our farmhouse? We can still hear the music, after all.”
“I said I wasn’t going back there,” William remembered. “Why is life so confusing?”
Gaudet sighed and released his embrace with a sigh of something approaching sadness, yet he covered it with another swig from the bottle, gaze settling everywhere but on William. He had said the wrong thing again, he knew, even as he struggled to explain exactly what he meant.
“My life, I don’t want to go back to my life I—” William gave a sigh and took the bottle from Gaudet, throwing his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “We’ll go back, but only if you sing on the way and pretend that I don’t sound as awful as I do.”
“In everyone’s past, there is something,” Gaudet told him. “It is why we make our futures better.”
“I think…” he peered at Gaudet for a long moment, “my knees have gone numb. Quickly, let us sing.”
“Too late.” Gaudet laughed, looping his arm though William’s as the coachman and hi
s pretty admirers took the stage. “Pap is tired, I shall take her to her bed.”
“Take me with you.” William steadied himself slightly before he stumbled. “But don’t let it stare at me.”
“Then let us away,” he declared, the poodle trotting happily alongside as they began to walk, strolling through the revelers who swayed to the gentle ballad the party were crooning. “She is a she, not an ‘it’. That coachman is a rare sort of devil, though, to chase ladies when we are in the vicinity.”
“He’s welcome to them,” William decided. “All of them.”
“He says he is waiting for the right girl,” Gaudet confided. “And he always comes home alone.”
“I am tired,” William told him, his voice a whisper. “I am tired of being alone.”
“I have had my fun, more my share of it.” Gaudet laughed softly. “All I want now is the one who stays.”
“The one?” William leaned more heavily against him. “Is there such a thing?”
“Yes.”
There was no doubt in his tone whatsoever, William thought, wondering how he could be so bloody sure.
“And I know that, one day, I will find my one. It is precisely why I accept every invitation, never spend a night at home if I can be out and about because what if I don’t, what if I decline a dance or a soiree and I miss them? What if, on the one night I don’t go to Drury Lane, my one does? It is a risk I will not take.”
“What if some missed their chance?” William asked. “What then?”
“Don’t say such a thing.” Gaudet’s voice was gentle and he shook his head. “There must be a little romance left somewhere. It cannot all be chaos.”
“Romance.” It felt like a foreign word, one he didn’t quite understand. “I used to be very good at that. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“I would like to hear all about your romances.” Gaudet slowed to a companionable stroll, arm still through William’s. “I adore my new handkerchief, Guillaume, thank you.”
“I used to party.” William gestured with his free hand as though the cream of society were lined up before them. “And dance and get up to all sorts in corners with ladies.”
The Star of Versailles Page 18
