by M C Beaton
The body against hers seemed to go very still. “And where did you learn such interesting words?” said Lord Philip, raising himself on one elbow to look down at her.
Constance racked her sleepy brain, but at first she could not remember. “I think I heard someone saying them—at your sister’s party in Kensington,” she said at last. “Probably the Comte Duval. He is the only Frenchman I know. Oh, yes—I remember now. He was talking to a friend—an English friend.”
She looked up at him anxiously. In the pale dawn light, his face looked very set and stern.
“You said you loved me, Philip,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I love you too. I’m afraid I fell in love with you that first night I saw you.”
The green eyes glinted down into her own. Lord Philip traced the line of her swollen lips gently with one long finger.
“Then prove it, Constance,” he said in a teasing voice. “That is, if you are not too tired.…”
Chapter Nine
Mrs. Mary Besant sourly turned down the corner of her card to show that she had called in person, handed it to her groom to deliver to Lord Cautry’s butler, and then ordered her coachman to drive her to Lady Amelia’s.
“Four o’clock, my dear,” she cried to Amelia as soon as Bergen, the butler, had retired, “and they were not even out of bed!”
“What do you expect?” snapped Amelia. “They only got married yesterday.”
“But I thought up such a good idea to embarrass her…” began Mrs. Besant, but was interrupted by her beautiful friend.
“I’m not interested,” retorted Amelia pettishly. “They’re married and that’s that. I never waste my charms on lost causes.”
“But you wanted her dead,” wailed Mary Besant.
“Not any more,” yawned Amelia. “I have other fish to fry.”
In another part of London, rage against Constance was also dying out. “I shall just have to make the best of things,” said Lady Eleanor to her husband. “If I had not given the reception or had stayed away from the wedding, Philip would never have spoken to me again, and family comes before all else. We Cautrys must stick together, and she is now a Cautry.”
“Quite, my dear,” said her husband, signalling wildly with his eyes to Mr. Evans to provide him with some excuse to escape.
“But she must be taught as to how to go on,” went on Lady Eleanor. “She has, after all, not been used to such a grand social position. Yes, yes, I think a little schooling from a woman of the world like myself would not come amiss. What is it, Mr. Evans?”
“I have some business papers which require Mr. Rider’s signature urgently,” said the secretary.
“Oh, very well,” said Lady Eleanor with an imperious wave of her hand. “You may go to attend to them, Mr. Rider, but you stay, Mr. Evans. I have some errands I wish you to perform.”
“Really, Eleanor,” bleated her spouse. “I should think one of the footmen…”
“I said I wanted Mr. Evans, so Mr. Evans shall do it,” said his wife testily. “I am surprised that you should dare to argue on such a trivial point, sir. I wish you to take a message to Lady Philip, Mr. Evans. I shall inform her I shall be calling on her on the morrow. I no longer bear the child any ill will. But then I was always famous for my charitable nature!”
Bouchard, the lady’s maid, nipped quickly up the area steps. My lady had not appeared from her bedchamber and Bouchard wished to buy herself a few ribbons. As she reached the corner of the street, she was surprised to hear herself being addressed in her native language, and swung round in surprise. A very elegant gentleman with a thin painted face and snapping black eyes made her a very low bow.
“Good afternoon,” he said again, in French. “I believe I have the honor to address Mademoiselle Bouchard?”
Bouchard gave a nod of assent.
“You see, I am a friend of the Cautrys,” pursued the gentleman. “My name is Duval, le Comte Duval.”
Bouchard, highly impressed, sank into a deep curtsy, unmindful of the muddy pavement.
“I heard that one of my countrywomen had taken the position of lady’s maid to Lady Philip and I felt obliged to find out if you were well-suited.”
“Indeed, yes, milord,” said Bouchard, highly gratified. Just wait till she told that frosty-faced butler about this!
“But then,” went on the comte smoothly, “I believe her ladyship has some knowledge of French so that should make you feel more at home.”
“No, milord,” said Bouchard with a superior smile. “Lady Philip doesn’t know a word.”
“Ah, yes, neither she does,” smiled the comte. “I was thinking of somebody else. Good day, mademoiselle.”
He swept the gratified Bouchard another splendid bow and strolled away.
He need not have worried so unduly about little Constance, he thought. Just as well. The murder of a little companion would not attract such a furor, but the mysterious death of my Lady Philip Cautry most certainly would. Constance was perfectly safe—unless of course she decided to take French lessons.…
Lord and Lady Philip Cautry lay in bed and watched the evening shadows lengthening across the room. Both were feeling debilitated and hungry. Lord Philip felt he could eat a whole saddle of mutton, but he was still suffering from some guilt over his previous churlish behavior and did not want to voice such an unromantic need. At last to his relief, Constance said timidly, “I am very, very hungry, Philip. Perhaps we could…”
“Indeed, yes,” he said, smiling down at her. “I could stay here with you for the rest of my life, but I feel we shall starve to death if we don’t eat something.”
Constance sat up and yawned, stretching her arms high above her head. The covers fell from her body, revealing two perfect white breasts to her husband’s fascinated gaze.
“Oh, my God, Constance, my sweetheart,” groaned her husband, dragging her down against the length of his body. “I want you again.”
And that was the mistake which led to the first row.
Both emerged from the highly passionate tussle some time later, exhausted, hungry and nervous.
At last seated again in the dining room, with her husband looking strangely elegant and remote and facing her down the length of the table, Constance suddenly felt as if she were dining with a stranger.
When the servants had retired, she searched around to make some sort of conversation. “Have I any money?” she asked at last.
“As much as you like,” yawned her husband. “Why?”
“I am badly in need of some new clothes,” said Constance.
His eyes mocked her. “I much prefer you without clothes,” he teased and then looked with surprise and some irritation at the painful blush spreading up his wife’s neck and face. He did not realize that despite her experience of the bedroom, Constance was still very shy out of it. He was feeling overtired and his nerves were on edge.
“You had better let me choose clothes for you,” he added.
“I shall choose my own clothes,” said Constance with a half laugh, for surely he must be joking.
“Nonsense,” said Lord Philip. “You are no longer a companion but a lady of fashion, and must dress accordingly. You have not had the necessary experience in choosing dresses suitable for the ton. I shall advise you.”
“You’ll what?” said his wife, her eyes blazing. Constance was also feeling exhausted and nervy. “And where did you gain your experience of women’s clothes, my lord? In the brothels of Covent Garden?”
“It is as well there is a table between us, or I would give you the smacking you deserve for that piece of cheap impertinence,” said Lord Philip.
“You! Smack me! How dare you, sirrah!” gasped Constance.
At this interesting point, the door opened, and Masters the butler appeared with his retinue of footmen and started to serve the next course.
The newly marrieds smouldered at each other down the length of the table until the servants had retired.
“I think,” said Lord Phili
p haughtily, “we should forget the previous conversation and pretend it never took place. It was very ill-bred of you.… Oh, what is it now, Masters?”
“A letter for my lady,” said the butler, presenting it to Constance.
He then retired again from the room as Constance broke open the seal. “It is from your sister! Let me see… wishes to call on me tomorrow… feels it incumbent on her to advise me as to the proper behavior for a Cautry.” Her eyes grew quite round as she read on. “One springing from such a lowly position as myself should… Impertinence!” raged Constance.
Now Lord Philip thought it a prime piece of impertinence himself, but his sister had only been repeating, in a way, what he had just said himself. “Well, you can’t really blame her…” he began, unforgivably.
“To think that I ever let you touch me!” raged Constance. “Your mind is as starched as your cravat.” And before he had time to reply, she ran sobbing from the room.
Lord Philip took a hearty swallow of wine and then stared moodily at the decanter. Such emotional scenes were disgracefully ill-bred. No, he would not apologize. He fueled his bad temper with a few more glasses of wine, unfairly accused Masters of watering it, howled for his carriage and slammed out of the house.
He sat in his curricle and stared at the swishing tails of his horses. He was one of the few aristocrats in London who did not have the tails of his horses docked, considering the process which involved the amputation of several vertebrae in the tail and the searing of the bleeding stump with a hot iron, an inhuman practice. It was almost dark, and already the flambeaux were flaring and smoking outside the neighboring mansions.
A nagging feeling of guilt tormented him and made him even angrier. Thinking of Constance, he suddenly remembered scraps of the Comte Duval’s conversation she had overheard at his sister’s.
He remembered how the comte had been courting Fanny Braintree. His anger had found a refreshingly new direction. He set his horses in motion and headed towards Whitehall to consult a certain gentleman at the Foreign Office.
It was two in the morning before Lord Philip arrived home. It had been a stormy meeting. Fanny Braintree and her choleric father, the General, had been summoned to the Foreign Office. Fanny Braintree had wept and fainted, and recovered and wept and fainted again. She had not given any information to the Comte Duval, she had insisted, terrified that her father and these austere gentlemen should find out that she had parted with her virginity as well as her papa’s state secrets. The General, at last convinced of his daughter’s innocence, had led her away. Fanny was to be sent off to relatives in Scotland, however, to remove her from the dangerous comte’s notice.
Lord Philip was commissioned to keep a close watch on the comte. He was not to tell anyone of his suspicions, even his wife. Philip had demurred at this. Surely it would be all right if Constance knew. But the severe gentlemen of the Foreign Office firmly believed all women to be born tattletales. Lord Philip’s duty to his country must come first.
He wearily climbed the stairs to his wife’s bedroom. The door was locked. He was too tired to feel the slightest twinge of anger, and removed himself to his own rooms to sink into a long and dreamless sleep.
Constance waited, sitting up in bed and staring at the door, hoping one minute that he would go away and the next, that he would try to force the door. As the silence lengthened and she realized he was not coming back, she too fell asleep and dreamed of being hunted across endless muddy fields by Lady Amelia and Mrs. Besant.
Despite his exhaustion, Philip woke early—early for London Society, that is—at two in the afternoon. He remembered Amelia was giving a party that afternoon, and decided to attend so that he could begin to study the comte and perhaps discover the name of his English accomplice.
He was informed his wife had not yet come downstairs. He scribbled her a letter, ate a hasty breakfast, and made his way to Manchester Square. Still tired after his amorous labors of the day before, he did not yet miss Constance, and almost persuaded himself that he had behaved very well indeed.
Constance appeared in the morning room about ten minutes after his departure and read the letter that Masters handed her.
“Dear Constance,” she read, “I regret I have a social engagement at Lady Godolphin’s this afternoon. You may buy a new wardrobe and tell the dressmakers to send their bills to me. P.”
No word of love. The letter that Lord Philip had thought magnanimous in the extreme was ripped to shreds. That he should leave her so soon to go dance attendance on Lady Amelia was well nigh past bearing.
Constance was roused from her fury by a discreet cough from the doorway. “Excuse me, my lady,” said Masters. “Lady Eleanor has called.”
“Tell her I am not at home,” snapped Constance.
“Very good, my lady,” said Masters.
Constance crossed to the window and observed with satisfaction the angry flush on Lady Eleanor’s face as her groom returned from the doorstep to the carriage with the tidings that Lady Philip was not at home.
Lady Eleanor sourly turned down her calling card and handed it to the groom, who returned to the house to give it to the butler. Then he was called back by Lady Eleanor who substituted it with another card with the corner unbent. Lady Eleanor had obviously decided she did not want the upstart Lady Philip to know that she had called in person.
Her carriage rolled off and Constance turned from the window feeling rather flat.
Well, she would go shopping and entertain herself by buying a pretty wardrobe. Then her haughty, overbearing husband would find she had excellent taste.
Then Constance bit her lip. She would have to have someone in attendance and she did not wish to spoil her day by taking the sour-faced Bouchard with her. She decided to take the more congenial company of one of the footmen and rang for the carriage to be brought round. She was vaguely aware that her husband kept more than one carriage. She did not realize he kept seven.
Constance was soon dreamily lost in a magic world of silks and muslins and beads and feathers and bonnets. The sun was setting by the time the last of her parcels was handed into the carriage.
It was then that she spied the familiar figure of Mr. Evans and cheerfully hailed him. Mr. Evans seemed delighted to be recognized by the new Lady Philip. He accepted a place in Constance’s carriage. In reply to her offer to transport him to wherever he was bound, he said shyly that he had a message to deliver to one of Lady Amelia Godolphin’s guests.
Constance had forgotten her rage at Philip and cheerfully agreed to take the secretary to Manchester Square. After all, such a passionate husband would surely be immune to Lady Amelia’s charms.
She prattled on absentmindedly about her purchases and then said, “I am exceeding grand now, Mr. Evans. I even have a French lady’s maid, although I shall have to take French lessons, I fear. It is not good ton to be ignorant of the language, even though we are at war with the country.”
“I think it quite unnecessary,” said Mr. Evans. “No one wishes to speak French these days, Lady Philip.”
Like all shy people who are beginning to emerge from their shell for the first time, Constance became unaccountably stubborn.
“But I should like to learn French very much indeed,” she countered. “I shall ask my husband to hire a tutor for me.”
Mr. Evans grew quite heated, “I am surprised at you, my lady,” he exclaimed. “That monster, Napoleon Bonaparte, plans to defeat England. Our men are dying under the sabers of his soldiers. I would not speak one word of their accursed language!”
But Constance was not paying any attention. The carriage had come to a halt in front of Lady Amelia’s house in Manchester Square. Candles had already been lit in the downstairs saloon and the curtains had not yet been drawn. Close by the window stood Constance’s husband. Lady Amelia was smiling up at him and, even as Constance watched, she put a possessive little hand on his sleeve. Bergen, the butler, stood on the step, watching Constance with scarcely concealed hate. She
shrank back against the squabs.
“Goodbye, Mr. Evans,” she said quietly.
Mr. Evans had been staring at the fascinating tableau presented by Lord Philip and Lady Amelia. He hurriedly made his good-byes after pressing Constance’s hand with a warm gesture of sympathy which brought tears to her eyes.
Lord Philip Cautry had not seen his wife’s carriage outside the slim mansion in Manchester Square, but Lady Amelia had. She did not want to waste any more time wooing a lost cause like Lord Philip, but she had to admit it gave her a delicious feeling of power to notice the stricken look on Constance’s face. Also, her flirting with Lord Philip annoyed Mary Besant.
Mary Besant was feeling obscurely disappointed in Lord Philip Cautry. She would never have believed that he would have left his wife’s arms so soon.
The Comte Duval watched the comedy of manners from his corner of the room. A disappointed wife could be a useful wife, he thought. And Lord Philip had important friends at the Foreign Office. A jealous and bitter wife might be ready to listen closely to her husband’s conversations with important men.
Wellesley’s repeated victories in the Peninsula were shaking the French Empire to the very core. He had begged to return to his beloved France but his directive was always the same. He must remain in England. The Emperor would need friends on this side of the Channel when he finally overthrew the British and marched his soldiers through St. James’s.
Duval mulled over Constance’s lack of French. The attempt to kill her at her wedding had been a foolish risk. The girl suspected nothing. Had she done so, she would surely have confided in her husband. Or would she? thought the comte studying Amelia and Lord Philip. Lord Philip had held the comte in conversation earlier in the evening, practically gloating over Wellesley’s victories and the fact that the Prince Regent had made that infuriating thorn in Napoleon’s flesh an Earl. The comte had smiled and agreed to everything, wondering at one point whether Lord Philip were deliberately trying to annoy him.
