by Joan Smith
THE VIRGIN AND THE UNICORN
Joan Smith
Chapter One
Twilight was falling when they came to take Rotham’s body away. Dinner had been over for some time, but the sun lingers long in June. Miranda watched them from the doorway of the Tapestry Room, which gave a view of the front staircase. Four footmen carried the litter holding the body, with the gray blanket pulled over that handsome face she had grown to love.
Impossible to think those eyes would never open again; those lips would never smile, or curse, or kiss. The covered body was carried gently upstairs, watched by Rotham’s papa, Lord Hersham. The old man’s feet moved unsteadily, and his head was bent in sorrow. It is hard work, burying a son.
Miranda could not believe Rotham was dead. It was like believing the sun had fallen from the sky, or the tide was not coming in. A numbness seized her. She was not even able to grieve yet. That would come later. She would have to learn to live in a world without him.
How could she do it? She would never waltz again without remembering her waltz with him, here in the ballroom at Ashmead just a few short nights ago.
He would be her invisible escort on future trips to the nearby village of Rye, where they had gone last night to break into a house. Every time she mentioned Trudie’s name she would see his lowering brow. As to ever kissing a gentleman again . . . What mere mortal could ever create the thrill that trembled up her spine and lifted the hairs on her arms, that sent her heart racing when Rotham kissed her?
She had never known Ashmead without Lord Rotham; he had been there before she was born. In every society there is one character who dominates, and in the coastal society of east Kent, it was Lord Rotham, the elder son and heir of the Marquess of Hersham.
It was he who brought life to the place when he came down from London with his smart friends. He had balls and hunts, curricle races, and romances past counting with all the local belles. His name was always accompanied by a whiff of scandal. His women, his gambling, his fast lifestyle. Yet as the premier parti of the parish, and an exceedingly handsome one besides, his misdemeanors tended to enhance his reputation rather than tarnish it.
It was hoped at one time that he would offer for Miranda’s older sister, Trudie, but in the end it had turned out to be only one of his flirtations. Of course, it had been aiming pretty high to hope the heir to Ashmead would offer for Miss Vale. Trudie was the beauty of the Vale family, however, and much is expected of beauty. She had satisfied expectations by marrying a baron, Lord Parnham, commonly known in Society as Lord Parsnip as a compliment to his long and pointy nose.
Less was expected of Miranda. She lived in the shade of the blond Incomparable. Her raven hair and dark eyes were her chief claims to beauty. Trudie told her that when she learned to “manage” her eyes and curb her wayward tongue, she would do very well in Society. She knew without having been told that her sister Sukey’s having come down with the measles was only an excuse to send her to Ashmead for a few weeks. The reason was to foster a romance between her and Lord Pavel, Hersham’s younger son. It might even have happened, had Lord Rotham not been there, although Miranda thought it extremely unlikely.
It was strange that Rotham was at home, for all the world knew he had been sent to the great Congress in Vienna as an assistant to Lord Wellington. But the Congress had broken down when Bonaparte escaped from Elba, and in early June Wellington had sent Rotham to England to handle some government business. He had stopped at Ashmead en route and seemed, strangely, in no hurry to continue on his way.
Miranda remembered the day he had returned. She had just arrived at Ashmead that morning. The afternoon had been spent sitting in this same Tapestry Room repairing a thirteenth-century Flemish tapestry. She was clever with a needle, but it took all her skill, for the old fabric on which she was working had been in tatters.
Lady Hersham, a formidable dame of fifty-odd years, was with her, working at her high-warp loom. She was weaving a picture of Ashmead, with Lord Hersham and herself mounted on a pair of white horses riding in the park. She worked from a cartoon she had copied from a wedding portrait done by Gainsborough three decades before.
It was strange that in a mansion where nearly every nook and cranny was hung with at least one tapestry, there were none hanging in the Tapestry Room. This was a work area given over to Lady Hersham’s hobby, one might almost say her life. It was here, surrounded by baskets of silk and woolen threads, by shuttles and bobbins, that she worked at the loom, transposing pictures designed by some of the foremost artists of the day into wall hangings.
As darkness fell that evening of Rotham’s death, Miranda could see a wavy image of the Ashmead tapestry mirrored in the darkened window, not quite clear, but insubstantial, as in a dream. She rose and wandered to the window, gazing at the reflection.
The turrets at either end stood out tall and clear, but the crenellations of the roofline looked like ocean waves due to irregularities in the old, uneven glass. The family coat of arms waved proudly in the breeze, announcing that Lord Hersham was in residence. Miranda’s own likeness, closer to the window pane, was life-size, with the castle forming a background in the mirrored image. Her face was a pale oval, with two big, dark circles for eyes. An air bubble in the glass gave the illusion of a perfect teardrop on her cheek, but her eyes were dry. She was beyond tears.
As the present was so painful, she allowed her mind to return to the past, to the beginning of her adventure at Ashmead. She had come down to dinner that evening wearing the jonquil Italian crape gown Trudie had given her. Trudie found its pale color did not suit a blonde, but it looked well with Miranda’s raven hair and dark eyes. It lent her an unaccustomed air of elegance. In honor of the visit, she had bound her curls up in silver ribbons.
“By Jove, I will be falling in love with you if you don’t watch out,” Pavel had said jokingly.
That he said it in a loud voice in front of his parents and the rest of the company was as good as saying he did not mean it. How could Mama think Pavel would fall in love with her when they had been friends forever? Besides, he was not at all handsome and dashing like Rotham.
At eighteen years, Miranda’s own age, Pavel was a lanky, ungainly boy with a sad tendency to bump into furniture and trip over carpets. He still had a few spots, but even if he had been an Adonis, there would have been no romance. She had beaten him in too many races, both on foot and on horseback, for him to consider her a potential bride. She had even given him a nosebleed and seen him cry. He was like a brother.
“What a slow top you are, Pavel,” a lazy, sardonic voice had drawled. “Not in love with Sissie yet after all these years of opportunity? I expected to hear wedding bells ere now. I am half in love with her already. Take care or I shall steal her from you.”
It was Rotham who spoke, of course. Turning, Miranda had seen him lounging elegantly at the fireplace, one booted foot on the fender. He had just arrived and had not dressed for dinner. Obviously he did not intend to, but that was Rotham all over. He cared nothing for propriety. Although he had just completed a long journey, neither his blue jacket nor his fawn trousers showed any sign of dishevelment. His black hair shone like ebony in the lamplight. A satirical smile sat lightly on his handsome face as his dark eyes raked her from head to toe.
“Oh, you are back,” she had said, rather irritably. She did not enjoy being teased in front of people.
A pair of well-arched eyebrows rose in mock dismay. “Is that any way to greet a hero, freshly returned from the trials of the great Congress of Vienna? You would not believe the hardships I have suffered. Nine-course banquets every evening—sometimes two an evening. Waltzing till dawn with the very diamonds of Continental Society, masques, plays, rido
ttos, and concerts past numbering. To say nothing of the flirtations.” He raised two well-manicured fingers to conceal a yawn. “I feel as if I had accompanied the late Pheidippides on his jaunt from Athens to Sparta.”
“Is there any news of Napoleon?” Miranda asked, feigning indifference to this enviable list of delights.
“He is still at large, still advancing inexorably toward Paris, gathering strength as he goes. Nothing succeeds like success. And though you forgot to inquire for the state of my health, Sissie, I am happy to be able to assure you I am fine.”
Lady Hersham scowled at her son. “Is there any danger Boney will root out King Louis?” she asked.
“There is no saying with Napoleon,” Rotham replied. He did not try to pull off his teasing stunts with his mama. She was not the sort of lady to tolerate it. “The Royalists went over to him at Grenoble, the same at Lyon. Louis has fled Paris. The on dit is that the servants are changing the flags at Fontainebleau in hourly expectation of the emperor’s return.”
“Quelle désastre!” the Comtesse Pierre de Valdor exclaimed, with a flutter of her white hands. “What of your great Wellington?”
“He has alerted troops in the Low Countries,” Rotham replied.
The comtesse’s husband had been killed in a mysterious, accident two years before. It was hinted, though never made entirely clear, that he had been engaged in some espionage business for King Louis. Since his death the comtesse had been a guest of the Hershams. She was a second cousin of Lady Hersham. It seemed strange that she spoke with a French accent, as she had been born and raised in England and had, in fact, never been off the island.
Trudie had told Miranda it was an affectation adopted after the comte’s death as it proved an effective aphrodisiac with English gentlemen. It sounded quite natural to Miranda as she had not known Louise when she spoke proper English, before marrying Comte Pierre.
The discussion turned to the doings of Bonaparte, with the comtesse expressing her wrath at this Corsican upstart. She had hoped to regain her late husband’s castle in the Loire Valley when Louis was returned to the throne. “Vineyards of the most magnificent, Rotham,” she explained. “Our Chenin Blanc makes a wine that holds its taste for a hundred years. You would adore the Chateau Valdor.”
“I would adore any place where you are, Louise,” he said with an exquisite bow. “Ça va sans dire. Whether I shall ever see those vineyards is a moot point. There is no denying Napoleon Bonaparte is the greatest Frenchman of his age, perhaps of any age. I suggest you cultivate a taste for sherry.”
“He is not a Frenchman, that one!” the comtesse exclaimed. “Corsican upstart! He is no more French than—”
“Than you?” Rotham suggested mischievously.
“I am French by marriage,” she laughed, but with an angry sparkle in her green eyes. “A good wife always assumes her husband’s nationality, along with his name, n’est-ce pas?”
“C’est vrai,” he smiled, “and with just a little work, you will also assume the proper accent. Charming.”
Despite his jibes, Rotham’s doting smile made clear that he found no real flaw in the comtesse. Pavel also admired her. Nor were her conquests limited to gentlemen. Miranda thought she was the most glamorous female she had ever seen. She was cool, she was charming. She could tease and flirt one minute, and the next minute she would be gazing soulfully into space, thinking of Pierre. A deep sigh alerted the comtesse’s audience that she now required a moment to remember.
Louise spoke of being “poor as a church mice”— fracturing English clichés was one of her linguistic skills—but she certainly did not look poor. She possessed an enviable wardrobe. Like a Frenchwoman born, she had found “a little French modiste” who dressed her in the highest kick of fashion for mere pennies.
The various jewels that decked her white satin throat had been smuggled out of France sewn in the lining of Pierre’s coat. His mama had thoughtfully arranged this before she and her comte were carried off to the guillotine.
Louise had a younger brother-in-law whom Miranda considered a potential husband. The Comte Laurent de Valdor—it seemed all the sons of a comte were called comte—did not actually make his home with the Hershams, but he visited them so often, and for such lengthy periods, that it was a mere courtesy to call him a guest. He was at Ashmead that June, waiting to hear from London about a position as curator of the French collection at the British Museum.
“Watch out for Laurent,” Trudie had warned her, which was an excellent goad to romance. “His pockets are to let. He might decide to marry your ten thousand, Miranda. Though, of course, he is the heir to Chateau Valdor now that Comte Pierre is dead, so perhaps he is worth keeping on the string.”
Thus far he had shown little interest in her or her dot. Like Pavel and Rotham, he was a member of Louise’s court. Miranda reluctantly admitted that the pair were admirably matched. Both so handsome. Comte Laurent’s black hair and sultry eyes provided a magnificent contrast to Louise’s golden curls and green eyes. Her vivacious, Gallic manner enlivened his brooding austerity.
The party took on a more staid tone when Lord Hersham joined the group in the Blue Saloon. He was a tall, lean gentleman whose face was lined from the rigors of keeping Rotham in check.
“So you are back, Rotham,” he said, with no evidence of pleasure. “What news from Vienna?”
Rotham abandoned his lounging position and went to shake his papa’s hand. His graceful motion revealed a set of broad shoulders, a lean body, and a strong, well-muscled leg. Miranda, sitting near the doorway, overheard Rotham’s reply, although it was delivered in a confidential tone.
“I must speak to you, Papa. An urgent matter—”
“Boney has not beaten us?” Hersham asked sharply.
“No, no. It is not so serious as that.”
Boxer, the butler, a comfortably padded man of middle years, appeared at the door and announced, “Dinner is served.”
“Can it wait until after dinner?” Hersham asked his son.
“Yes, of course.”
“My study. We shall skip port this evening. I take it you want privacy for this discussion?”
“The utmost privacy.”
Hersham’s face was grave as he gave Lady Hersham his arm to lead the procession to the dining room. Rotham accompanied the comtesse. Miranda found herself in the unusual position of having two gentlemen waiting on her. Pavel beat the comte to her side, and the comte followed in behind them.
She always wished, when she went to the dining room, that Lady Hersham had chosen some other tapestry than the hunt to decorate the room. That pack of hounds, forever lunging for the poor fox’s throat, always robbed her of appetite.
“I say, Sissie,” Pavel said in a lowered voice as he held her chair, “did you hear what Rotham said to Papa? There is something afoot. I wager Boney has won the war, only Rotham don’t want to upset the ladies.”
“No, it is not that. Your papa asked him.”
“What can it be?”
“I have no idea.” They exchanged a look of mutual understanding.
“Right, we shall listen at the keyhole after dinner. Make some excuse to leave Mama and Louise and meet me in the library. I wonder if it has something to do with that trunk Rotham had taken up to his room. I heard him tell his valet to lock his bedroom door. Rotham never locks his door. I shall try to get hold of Cook’s key chain and have a look. It’s rather exciting, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
It was always exciting at Ashmead, especially when Rotham was at home. Miranda had been sorry when he had not offered for Trudie. She thought he would have made an excellent brother-in-law—a terrible husband, with his flirting ways, but an excellent brother-in-law.
Chapter Two
Lady Hersham set an elegant table. Such a quantity of silver, crystal, and fine china were only brought out for special occasions at Wildwood, Miranda’s home. A simple family dinner at Ashmead was always like a party.
The talk was
by no means festive, however. They discussed the Congress of Vienna. The comtesse regretted that she had not been there.
“I have so many friends who would have been happy to give me rack and manger,” she said. Then she recalled her dead husband and required a moment’s silent gazing at the horrid tapestry. “I do not regret missing the parties—mais non,” she continued. “Only the chance to wind Talleyrand’s ear and recover the family estate.”
“Heh heh, I think you mean bend his ear, Louise,” Pavel said, on cue. He had elected himself her official interpreter.
“But yes! That is my meaning precisement.” She smiled.
Rotham’s eyes narrowed in interest. “The Congress is not over,” he said. “You might get a tweak at Talleyrand’s ear yet, Louise.”
Lord Hersham gave him a damping look. “Don’t be an ass, Rotham. Louise cannot go now, when it is four pence to a groat the cannons are roaring already. Boney may even win—there is no saying.”
Comte Laurent scowled; the comtesse clutched her heart and gasped, “Do not say such things, mon cher cousin. He must not win.”
“Of course he will not win,” Lady Hersham announced. “Still, there is no point sticking our heads in the sand. There will be fighting in Europe. If Louise finds it a trifle dull here in the country—”
Louise took instant objection to this. “Pas du tout! I adore the little lambses and cow. So—how you say—bucolic?”
“What did you have in mind, Mary?” Lord Hersham asked his wife. He was not amused by the comtesse’s annoying manner of speech, nor indeed by anything else about her, especially her proximity to his extremely eligible son and heir. His wife knew it well; they thought as one on this matter.
“I thought Louise might like to use the Brighton house for a few months,” Lady Hersham replied. The comtesse’s eyes lit up like a bonfire. “Brighton should be lively in this season, and the house is standing empty, since Rotham has taken up this Congress business. You will be remaining in London, Rotham?” she asked. It had just occurred to her she might be tossing her eldest son to this enticing she-wolf.
