The Virgin and the Unicorn

by Joan Smith

  “I am to report to Castlereagh,” Rotham replied. “I doubt I will find time to get to Brighton this year. There will be reams of paperwork, whichever way the business in Europe goes.”

  “Would you like to go to Brighton, Louise?” Lady Hersham asked hopefully.

  “Happy as I am here at your lovely Ashmead, I do enjoy a change. Variety is the herb of life, non?”

  She did not wait for Pavel to interpret but continued, “Brighton would be charming in summer. Right on the coast, so near to my beloved France. The Prince of Wales summers in Brighton, I believe?”

  “I hope he does,” Hersham said testily. “If he does not use that Xanadu pavilion of his in summer, I should like to know why we were put to the expense of building it. Dashed spendthrift. Shall I write and ask the Barges to open the house up, Comtesse? We leave the Barges there year-round to keep an eye on things.”

  “So kind,” the comtesse said, her great green eyes misting with tears. “You are the bestest cousins a lady could have.” She rose from her seat and went to place a modest kiss on Hersham’s cheek.

  Hersham did not employ his napkin to wipe away the kiss, but he looked as if he would like to.

  “Harumph. Not at all. The place is standing idle,” he said curtly. “Take the comte with you. You will want a man about the place. No impropriety in it, eh, Mary?” he said, rather commandingly, to his wife. “Just Laurent after all, a brother-in-law. The Barges will be there to play propriety.”

  The comte did not look entirely happy with this, perhaps because it suggested he was no threat to the lady’s virtue.

  “I shall hire a chaperon,” he said.

  “No need to hire one,” the comtesse said at once. “Madame Lafleur would enjoy a little holiday by the sea. You permit, Lady Hersham?”

  “Excellent, the very thing. Take Madame Lafleur with you by all means.”

  “Who is Madame Lafleur?” Hersham inquired.

  “A friend from Rye,” the comtesse replied.

  “That Frenchie who bought Tadwell’s little cottage,” Pavel added. “She and Louise are close as inkleweavers—because of being French, you know. Madame Lafleur has no family. She lives like a hermit, except for seeing Louise and Laurent.”

  “She is a Royalist, Ça va sans dire,” the comtesse added hastily. "The family were friends and neighbors of the Valdors in France, before the troubles.”

  Details of the visit were discussed during dinner. Miranda was sorry to hear that Laurent would be leaving Ashmead. The comtesse’s main concern was that she must get to the village, aussitôt que possible, to order a new summer gown from Mademoiselle Chêne, her modiste. As soon as dinner was over, the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port.

  “You must forgive us, Comte,” Hersham said to Laurent. “Rotham and I have some business to discuss. Pavel will bear you company.”

  As soon as Hersham and Rotham left, Pavel excused himself, leaving Laurent alone. “I have promised to show Miss Miranda my—a book,” he said, and rushed from the room.

  Laurent poured himself a glass of his lordship’s excellent port, lit one of his fine cheroots, and settled back to consider the summer with Louise and Madame Lafleur at Brighton. A smile of anticipation softened the harsh contours of his handsome face.

  Miranda had no difficulty escaping the Blue Saloon. The comtesse had her nose buried in the latest copy of La Belle Assemblée, and Lady Hersham was having her usual postprandial snooze by the grate. When Miranda heard the gentle snorts begin to issue from her hostess’s nostrils, she excused herself and darted to the library, where Pavel was waiting.

  “Papa just closed the door,” he said, with a knowing look. “He don’t usually bother. Let us go and eavesdrop."

  They tiptoed down the hallway to the oak-paneled doorway of Lord Hersham’s study. The door was stout, but as the voice within was raised to an alarming degree, it was possible to overhear part of the discussion.

  “You did what?” Lord Hersham bellowed, in horrified accents.

  Rotham’s reply, uttered in apologetic tones, was a mere mumble.

  “Good God! Are you mad? You will be the death of me yet with your freakish starts. Have you no common sense, no common decency? You have brought disgrace on the name of Hersham. I am ashamed to call you my son. Were you foxed?”

  “A trifle bosky, but—” The rest was inaudible.

  Pavel and Miranda exchanged a look of amazement. “He has gone and got some woman enceinte,” Pavel said, more in envy than disgust. “I wonder who she is.”

  They both applied their ears to the oak again. “That could be a hanging matter,” Hersham said. “It is particularly dangerous with Boney on the loose again.”

  This did not sound like getting some wench pregnant to Miranda. She stared at Pavel. “Surely he has not been carrying on with Bonaparte’s wife! Marie-Louise is at Vienna, is she not?”

  “But that is precisely why I took it!” Rotham said.

  Pavel frowned. “Sounds as if he stole something. What could it be? I wager it is in that trunk he had locked in his room.”

  “You must put it back at once, Rotham,” Hersham said angrily. “Rash of you. If anyone ever found out—”

  “You must not tell a soul, Papa. I had to tell someone. I wanted your advice. You have always helped me in the past.”

  This flattery mollified Hersham somewhat. “Naturally you may count on my discretion. A pity I could not count on yours. Is it really— Let me have another look.”

  After a silence, Hersham continued. “Can you not get it smuggled back to France immediately? No one need ever know you took it.”

  “I haven’t time. Castlereagh wants me in London.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Not yet. Do you think I ought to tell him?”

  “Write him this very night. He’ll know what is best to be done. No fear of his spreading the tale.”

  Pavel said in a low voice, “It cannot be silk, as I first thought. Louise asked him to bring her back some silk if he could get hold of it. There is no point searching his room. Whatever it is, he has it in there, showing it to Papa. Perhaps we can get a peek after they leave.”

  “Could it be the crown jewels of France?” Miranda suggested. She knew Rotham held nothing sacred. He had once mounted a pulpit in a church in Brighton and delivered a sermon, pretending to be a visiting vicar. It had gone over very well, too. “Your papa spoke of hanging. It must be something awfully important.”

  “It could be gold, I daresay.”

  “I doubt two footmen could carry a trunk full of gold. It would weigh a ton. They had no trouble getting the trunk upstairs, did they?”

  “Devil a bit of it. Trotted it up as easily as if it were empty.”

  Hersham and Rotham remained closeted for an hour. After Hersham’s first angry outbreak, the voices became more conciliating. At one point they even laughed.

  “By God, it serves them right!” Hersham said. “Lifting it right out from under their noses. Mary will want to see this.”

  “Do you think it wise to show Mama?” Rotham asked in alarm.

  “Your own mama is not likely to turn you over to the law. Of course she must see it. The chance of a lifetime.”

  Every utterance raised Miranda’s curiosity a notch higher. What could it be? The sound of footfalls was heard approaching the study. Miranda and Pavel scampered back into the library. They listened at the doorway as Lady Hersham was summoned, then ran to the study to hear what she had to say. She did not seem to be much impressed at this once-in-a-lifetime viewing.

  “A shabby-looking thing. I have seen better work than this in my own home,” she said dismissingly.

  “But it is very old,” her husband pointed out.

  “You have really outdone yourself this time, Rotham,” Lady Hersham said. “Take it back, at once, before they send the gendarmes after you. Foolish boy.”

  The mystery was still unsolved when Lady Hersham returned to the Blue Saloon. Nor was it much
clearer when the trunk was carried upstairs by Hersham and Rotham. That they did not ask the servants to carry it suggested Lord Hersham’s idea of its importance. After they descended, Pavel made a dart upstairs to just check and see that Rotham’s door was locked. It was. He discovered by peeking through keyholes that Slack, Rotham’s valet, was in the sitting room with his ears cocked as well.

  Slack came to the doorway when he heard Pavel try the doorknob. “Can I help you, Lord Pavel?” he asked suspiciously. Slack was a dark-visaged, wiry fellow, so devoted to his master that he had forsaken all other pleasures in life. He had neither wife, mistress, nor friends. Looking after Lord Rotham was a full-time job.

  “I was just looking for Rotham,” Pavel replied.

  “You will find his lordship belowstairs, sir.”

  They found him in the Blue Saloon, having a tête-a-tête with Louise. Behind them hung a French tapestry that just suited the lady. It featured beaux and belles at leisure, frolicking in front of a castle. Laurent, having returned from the dining room, was seated apart from the others, near a lamp to get light. He looked on jealously from the side of a journal he pretended to read. As the Hershams were not present, Miranda assumed they were back in the study, discussing whatever it was Rotham had stolen. Rotham was urging Louise to abandon the idea of Brighton and go to Vienna instead.

  “You really ought to be there to put forward your claim to the Valdor estate,” he urged.

  Laurent’s newspaper rustled irritably. The Chateau Valdor would be his one day, not Louise’s.

  The comtesse replied, “But if—how I hate to even think it—if Bonaparte wins, then what is the point?”

  “It is a beautiful trip this time of year, through France. There is no fighting there. I have just passed through it. The chestnut and lime trees are lovely. The inns are clean and cheap.” He spoke on persuasively, “It is entirely peaceful. The fighting will be in the Low Countries. That is where Wellington speaks of meeting Boney. The war might drag on for months, there is no saying. And if Boney wins—when will you ever get to see France? Meanwhile, Vienna is as gay as if no one had ever heard of war.”

  “Are you returning?” she asked, with a knowing gaze.

  “I will learn my fate after I have reported to Castlereagh. I shall try to get to Vienna.”

  The air crackled with innuendo as they exchanged a look.

  “I could not go unescorted,” she said.

  “That is true, but I am sure you have many friends who would be happy to accompany you. Monsieur Berthier spoke of going to Vienna the last time I met him.”

  “That commoner! How can you suggest such a thing!”

  “He is a stout Royalist, I think?”

  “So he says. I could not travel with a bachelor, Rotham. That is not comme il faut.”

  “Not without a suitable chaperon, obviously. My thinking is that Berthier is a well-traveled gentleman. He could act as your courier.”

  Again Laurent’s journal rustled in vexation. Why did Rotham not suggest the obvious—that he, the comte, accompany Louise?

  “I doubt Berthier could afford the trip,” Louise said. “Nor could I, come to that. It would be très cher? she added. Her sparkling green eyes asked a tacit question.

  “Something could be arranged,” Rotham replied. “Berthier is at Hythe at the moment, is he? I know he moves about a good deal.”

  “I do not keep a route of Berthier,” she said.

  Pavel, who had sauntered close to learn how to flirt, said, “I think you mean you do not keep track of him, Comtesse.”

  “Just so. Do you think I would be safe with Berthier?” she asked, returning her attention to Rotham.

  “Surely the question is rather, would he be safe from the temptation you provide?” His eyes slid slowly from her face down to her décolletage.

  She preened in pleasure. “I could not tempt a monk in this old rag,” she said. “What are the ladies in Vienna wearing this spring, Rotham?”

  “None of them can touch you, ma chère Louise,” he replied. “But if you wish to cut a swath, I brought home some rather pretty silks. I have them in my trunk. I thought of your beaux yeux when I bought the emerald green—and several other times as well.”

  “It is silks you have in that black trunk then, is it, Rotham?” Pavel asked. “I wondered at your bringing home an extra trunk.”

  Rotham stiffened in annoyance. He heard the ironic edge to his brother’s voice. He noticed that the Vale chit had both ears cocked as well. Surely they hadn’t gotten into his trunk? No, it was impossible. Slack had guarded it every minute.

  “Among other things,” he answered nonchalantly.

  “I also brought you back some lead soldiers for your collection, Pavel.”

  “Did you, by Jove?” Pavel exclaimed, still young enough to be diverted by this treat. “I hope they are cavalry officers.”

  “Some of the officers are mounted on horses.” He turned to Miranda. “And last, but by no means least, you must choose an ell of silk as well, Sissie,” he said. “I see you in brighter colors. That is not to denigrate your yellow gown, but you raven-haired beauties do marvelous things to rich colors.”

  His eyes made a practiced sweep of Miranda from head to toe. When had little Sissie Vale grown into such a beauty? Her ivory skin was just tinged with rose, high on the full cheeks. A light dusting of freckles over her nose added a provincial touch that pleased him. She wore her black hair swept simply back from her brow, to tumble in a riot of curls behind.

  Her figure was coming along nicely. He had always felt she had great promise; now it seemed that promise was coming to fulfillment. But why was she glowering so? It was his little flirtation with Louise, no doubt. He hoped she was not going to be a prude, like her sister. She took the shine out of Trudie. But then Rotham had always favored dark-haired girls.

  Miranda felt again that flare of annoyance at being examined by this acknowledged rake. His eyes burned into her like live coals. He had broken Trudie’s heart, but he would not touch hers.

  “I already have enough gowns, thank you,” she replied coolly.

  His eyebrows rose in astonishment. “I must congratulate you. You are unique in all of Christendom. When did a lady ever have enough gowns?”

  “Trudie gives me all her old ones,” she replied with childlike candor. “Not worn out, but ones she no longer cares for. She gave me this one. It is real Italian crape,” she boasted, holding up the skirt for him to admire the material. “She only had it a month. Parnham did not care for it.”

  “Parnham must be blind,” Rotham murmured, with a last appreciative examination of the gown, and the lithe body in it. Then his eyes lifted to see her pretty face scowling at him. A farouche little creature. She should be taught some manners.

  “He is fussy about what colors Trudie wears,” she said. “He likes her best in blue, to match her eyes.”

  “How unimaginative. Just like Parnham. We cannot deck you in gray, to match your eyes, however. I have a nice bolt of rose. . ..”

  He mentally dressed her in a deeper color to do justice to that raven hair. It shimmered amber and rose and peacock blue in the flames from the grate. She could wear any color—she would even look well in the dreary white gowns of a deb, when she made her curtsey at St. James’s next year in London.

  “I already said I do not want any,” she said sharply. Then she added, “Thank you all the same. When are you going to London?”

  “Soon. Will you miss me?” he asked flirtatiously, as it obviously annoyed her. He expected another scowl and was surprised when she gave a pert grin.

  “But of course I shall! There are no parties at Ashmead when you are not here.”

  He smiled, unfazed. “Out of the mouths of babes! There is nothing so incredible—and disheartening —as the bald truth. I am a mere provider of entertainment, just one step up from a Punch and Judy showman. Now that you have put up your hair and let down your skirts, you must learn the civil way to entertain a gentleman.
I recommend the gentle art of flattery, even when it involves telling a lie.”

  He turned to Louise. “Now there is a project you might undertake, Louise, licking Sissie into shape.”

  Louise gave him a disparaging look. “I do not traffic in lies and flatteries, milord. Miss Miranda deals very well with gentlemen her own age. She is too young to learn how to deal with a vieillard like you. Let the child be.”

  Miranda gave the comtesse a baleful stare that went unnoticed. The comtesse could always make her feel lumpish and young, but to be called a child only because she told the truth!

  Rotham considered this advice a moment, then said, “To show my generosity, you will both have a reward for putting me in my place. The green silk for you, Louise, and a party for Sissie before I leave, so that she will remember me when I am gone, and hopefully regret her harsh words. Cut to the quick!”

  Miranda fixed him with a gimlet eye. With a thought of the trunk abovestairs, she said, “I thought you had to leave right away.”

  “Not right away, but soon. Pleasure before business has always been my motto. We shall throw together a rout for tomorrow evening. You must save me the first dance.”

  “You should stand up first with the comtesse,” Miranda pointed out. “She has a title.”

  Rotham cast a teasing glance on the comtesse. “At least she did not say ‘age before beauty,’ " he said.

  Louise jerked her shawl about her shoulders angrily. “Pierre was much older than I,” she said. “Not that I care a twig about age.”

  “You mean a fig, Louise,” Pavel said.

  She did not reply, but she patted his hand to show her appreciation. “Pavel has the heart of a Frenchman,” she said to Rotham. “In France, the gentlemen are more interested in a lady’s mind than her age. French ladies care nothing for a wrinkle.”

  Rotham allowed his eyebrows to rise to his hair. “You have been misinformed, my pet. Your comprehensive knowledge of French customs is at fault. It has been my experience that, like the English and Austrian ladies, the femmes of France spend a disproportionate amount of time worrying about what their menfolk consider of only secondary importance, viz., keeping up an appearance of youth.”