La Flamme (Historical Romance)

by Constance O'Banyon

  Sabine tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "What a pity."

  "If you knew Garreth, you would understand how he could take another's guilt and make it his own."

  "Has he not remarried?"

  "There have been women, but—" Stephen threw up his hands. "I should not be boring you with this."

  "I was not bored."

  He took Sabine's hands and gazed for a long time into her eyes. "I shall miss you."

  "And I you. Will you return to Paris soon?"

  He smiled, thinking of all the things that could never be between the two of them. "Of course. I try never to stay away from my friends for long."

  "Perhaps," she said, daringly, "you should bring your friend, Garreth, to France. No one takes life seriously in Paris."

  "What a splendid notion. Perhaps I shall." He raised her hand to his lips. "Will you think of me while I am away?"

  "As with any good friend, I shall think of you often." As Stephen walked away, Sabine realized that she would miss him dreadfully, for he had brought with him a touch of England and home.

  15

  1636

  The de Baillard Players had obtained international fame, not only in their native France, but throughout Europe. The ultimate honor came when the company was bestowed a royal order to perform at the Theatre du Palais-Royal, where they were hailed as The Royal Acting Troupe.

  King Louis XIII awarded Jacques a yearly income of fifteen hundred francs, but it was said that the lead female actress, La Flamme, received two thousand francs a year.

  The theater was filled each night, and much of the crowd was turned away because it was difficult to gain admission unless you knew someone of importance, or were important yourself. The King's box was rarely empty. He applauded Jacques' genius, and stared with admiration at the female luminary of the de Baillard Players.

  The enchantingly beautiful La Flamme had all Paris talking about her, with her shimmering red hair and mesmerizing topaz eyes. It only added to her mystique that no one knew anything about her personal life, although there was much speculation.

  The Palais-Royal was crowded with those who had come to see the de Baillard Players perform Jacques' new romantic comedy, La Haute Noblesse. Sabine stood offstage, waiting for her cue to enter. She was dressed in shimmering gold, and her red hair was bound and intertwined with precious pearls.

  Ysabel looked her over to make certain everything was perfect. "You will have them at your feet tonight, ma petite."

  Sabine was going over her lines in her mind and answered Ysabel absently. "I have never wanted a man at my feet."

  "That is because you lose interest in the men who are so easily conquered, and well you should. But one day, you will meet a man who will conquer you."

  Sabine gave Ysabel a doubtful look. "I am not interested in any of them."

  To put the finishing touch on Sabine's costume, Ysabel attached a golden rose to her red hair. "You are weary of those who would roll over and play tricks if La Flamme asked it of them."

  "I ask only that they laugh when I play comedy and weep when I play tragedy."

  "You cannot keep yourself apart from life forever. You are young. It is not good that you close your heart to happiness."

  Sabine kissed Ysabel's cheek. "You have said this all before, and you fuss too much. I have you, Richard, Marie, and Jacques, and surely that is enough happiness for anyone."

  In the darkened theater the audience waited breathlessly for La Flamme to make her appearance. In a box hung with red velvet drapes, two gentlemen also waited.

  "You will lose your heart when you see her, Garreth. La Flamme is like no other woman!" Stephen exclaimed. "I saw her perform for the first time two years ago. Now, I'm glad to be numbered among her friends—it's an honor she bestows on very few."

  "An enviable position, I'm sure," Garreth said. "I have listened to your tributes to her for so long that I grow weary of her without ever making her acquaintance. Tonight I shall judge for myself if the woman fits the legend."

  "She does," Stephen said with confidence, a smile curving his lips. "After the performance, you will implore me to present her to you, and I may not."

  Garreth leaned back in the red velvet chair, wishing he had not agreed to accompany Stephen tonight. He had always found playacting tedious. To spend an entire evening watching French actors and actresses would be more punishment than pleasure for him.

  "1 will be glad to quit France," Garreth said in a bored voice, "and I care not for Paris."

  "Then why did you come?"

  "You know well that I came only because of my mother's prodding. She insisted that I needed a holiday. I'm grateful that you agreed to accompany me, thus saving me weeks of monotony. Surely now that we have visited Florence, Rome, Venice, and Paris my mother will be satisfied."

  "Her grace was right, Garreth. You've forgotten how to enjoy life. I am glad that you have finally agreed to visit my chateau. I've been trying to get you here for years."

  "It's a charming house with an admirable setting," Garreth said politely.

  "Let us watch the stage. It is almost time for La Flamme to make her entrance. At last you will see her for yourself, and like everyone else, you will be captivated."

  "Come now, Stephen, I'm not as easily swayed by a woman's beauty as you are. An actress could hardly be my ideal woman."

  Stephen merely smiled. "There was a time when you were susceptible to every beautiful woman. La Flamme is as perfect as a woman can be."

  With little interest, Garreth directed his attention toward the stage, where two actors were dramatizing a duel. They were well practiced, he had to admit, and each was an excellent swordsman, but they were still play-acting.

  Suddenly a woman swept on stage, and there were gasps heard from the audience. She was in a halo of light, shimmering in gold—her red hair like a crown of fire.

  It was La Flamme!

  Garreth leaned forward nonchalantly. "So that is your paragon of beauty. I have known many English women who are more beautiful."

  Stephen was not listening. He was staring at the object of his adoration. "She is magnificent!"

  La Flamme's voice was musical, and she spoke with the clarity of a highborn lady. Her movements were so graceful that it appeared she was floating across the stage, coming alive like a golden goddess.

  Garreth noticed her dove-white throat and her creamy skin that appeared to be shimmering like moon glow. This phenomenon he cynically attributed to the excessive number of candles that flickered on the stage.

  Without realizing it, he became so engrossed with the actress that he heard little of what the other actors were saying. La Flamme knew well how to keep her audience spellbound. She raised her chin, her eyes flashing, and her soft lips curved in a smile, provocative, enticing, entrapping those who watched her.

  "Who can she be?" Garreth asked, unaware that he had spoken aloud.

  Stephen gave him a triumphant glance. "No one knows her true name, not even me. Have you changed your mind—shall I present you to her?"

  "Yes," Garreth said, gracious in defeat. "Can you arrange it?"

  "Confess that she is more beautiful than our English roses," Stephen said smugly.

  "I confess that she looks perfect from a distance, but in talking to her, she will probably prove disappointing— I have oft found this to be true of beautiful women."

  "You are too cynical, Garreth. Be warned that she will not be swayed by your charm. Her life pivots around a child, her brother, Richard."

  Garreth glanced over at the royal box and watched the French king throw kisses toward the stage. "Does she not... bask in the king's adoration?"

  "I don't think she even likes him, but she tolerates him for the sake of the de Baillards. She is a woman of high virtue and strict morals."

  Garreth raised a skeptical brow. "An actress with high morals?"

  "Scoff if you wish, but it's true. She is as pure as an angel."

  Garreth had not t
aken his eyes off the lovely creature. "Then one would ask why she is called La Flamme—a name that would surely suggest a seductress, rather than an angel."

  "A name chosen merely for the stage, I would imagine," Stephen replied. "She is accomplished and adored, dazzling her admirers and then turning them away if they attempt to get too near."

  "La Flamme," Garreth said under his breath.

  Stephen waved an invitation at Garreth. "Would you like to go to her house tonight? It's Marie de Baillard's birthday, and La Flamme is hosting a celebration for her."

  "Yes, I would like that. I shall see for myself if your angel is as virtuous as you say."

  "One does not question La Flamme's virtue. I know of two duels that were fought over her for just that reason."

  "Tell me more about her."

  "She lives with her young brother on the fashionable Avenue Gabriel. Only close friends are ever invited into her domain."

  "So there is no man in her life?"

  "No. There are those who suspect that the child La Flamme calls brother is really her son, but I do not believe it. Some people say that she's from a great noble family, while others believe that she fled from an affair of the heart with a noble prince, perhaps the father of the boy. It's obvious the king admires her, and has showered her with honors."

  Garreth glanced at the royal box. "I could well understand if she does not return his affection—the popinjay. It's my guess that she is under his protection."

  "No, she's not, Garreth. Why should she need the king when she is more adored than he is? After each performance, she is showered with flowers, precious jewels, and she has even been offered a palace by an enamored Danish prince. She keeps the flowers, and returns the rest with her regrets."

  "You begin to weary me with your constant devotion, Stephen. I cannot imagine you being satisfied with merely being her friend."

  "Tonight, you shall be one of the few ever allowed into her home. So you can be glad I am her friend."

  Ysabel pulled aside the drapery and looked out the window at the line of coaches making their way down the drive. She lived with Sabine and Richard, which gave her at last a family to care for, and a home.

  "Sabine, it looks like all Paris will be in attendance tonight. Will not Marie be pleased?"

  "Oui. I believe even King Louis will be attending."

  Ysabel moved to Sabine and began lacing her gown. It was a frothy creation with white lace and white pearls decorating the hem and sleeves. The lace collar was modestly high. Her only jewelry was her mother's locket that had been reclaimed from the goldsmith in Dover by Jacques on one of his voyages to England.

  "Please go downstairs and greet the guests, Ysabel, while I tell Richard good night."

  The old woman nodded. "Do not leave me alone for long with all those handsome young men. They come to see you, not me."

  Sabine took a last look at her hair. "Tonight is for Marie. She was as excited as a child about the party."

  Sabine left her dressing room and went across the corridor to Richard's bedroom. She found him curled up on his bed, reading by candlelight.

  She took his book and glanced at the title. "History of England?"

  "It's fascinating," he said, coming to his knees. "Do you know what I remember most about England?"

  She smiled and sat on the edge of his bed. "You were very young when we left—what can you possibly remember?"

  "The smells; like rain on a spring morning—a hillside covered with wildflowers. Even the musty smell of the stables and kennels."

  At nine, Richard was a striking youth and reminded her of their father, at least physically. But he was not hard or forceful, as their father had been. He was patient and possessed great kindness, and it was a pity that he lived such a solitary life.

  Her heart contracted as he went on sadly. "I have been trying to remember what my father looked like, but his image is unclear. I have heard you speak of my nurse, Thea, but I do not remember her—is that wrong?"

  Sabine bent to kiss him on the forehead. "No, dearest. You were so young when we left. Some day I will tell you all about our life in England." She moved across the room to close his draperies. "Do not read more than another hour in this light. It isn't good for your eyes." She smiled to herself, thinking how like Thea she sounded.

  Already Richard's interest had returned to his book. Sabine quietly left, closing the door behind her.

  Richard had made her think of England tonight, and she was overcome with homesickness.

  Oh, what she would give to smell the wildflowers at Wood bridge and to walk through the marble halls of her home. She pushed the thoughts of England to the back of her mind.

  Home was a fanciful dream, and she wondered if they would ever return.

  16

  Music wove its way through the house and up the stairs. With her foot on the top step, Sabine was almost knocked over by Richard's two golden Afghan hounds when they joyfully came bounding up to her. With a dog on either side of her, she patted them both and then grasped a collar in each hand, continuing her descent.

  Garreth paced the room with a scowl on his face. France was not like England. Here, the nobility moved freely among actors and actresses. The hostess, who had not appeared yet, was apparently playing the old game of grand entrance. Somehow that disappointed him—a flaw in her character. But then she was an actress, and she would no doubt play her part on- or offstage.

  He saw Stephen conversing with several people, apparently enjoying himself. Garreth turned away from the tables that were heaped with food, deciding to go outside for a breath of fresh air. He regretted the impulse that had brought him here tonight.

  He walked into the deserted hallway and drew in a deep cleansing breath, glad to be away from the noise. He had lived too long in the country to enjoy such frivolity.

  A movement at the top of the curved stairway caught his attention, and he watched as a vision in white seemed to float downward. It was La Flamme, and she was flanked on either side by two enormous hounds. While he could not tear his eyes away from her, she seemed totally unaware of him.

  Sabine pulled one reluctant dog forward. "Come on, Maurice," she said playfully. "You must go outside before you can return to Richard. "Come on, I have to join my guests."

  Garreth stepped back in the shadow of the stairs, watching as she guided the playful hounds outside. She was shimmering, beautiful, intriguing. He followed her almost against his will.

  Stars seeded the night sky like sparkling diamonds as Sabine walked through the garden, watching Richard's hounds romp and play. She scolded Ginger when she rolled in the flowerbed, then both dogs bounded around the corner toward the front of the house.

  Knowing they would soon return, Sabine waited for them, turning her gaze, as she always did, toward her homeland. "Oh, England, how far away you seem tonight," she said.

  She was startled when an English voice spoke up from behind her. "Your English is quite good, for a Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle."

  Sabine froze—oh, how well she knew that voice! It was deeper than she remembered, but still held the same hint of sarcasm and arrogance.

  Garreth Blackthorn had found her!

  Frantically, she wondered if she dared scream for help—no, she would never be heard above the music and laughter.

  Sabine had known that she would one day face Garreth, but she'd thought it would be at a time and place of her own choosing.

  She attempted to hide her fear as she turned slowly to face him, ready to continue her disguise. She could hear the trembling in her voice when she spoke in French. "Pardon, Monsieur?"

  Garreth emerged from the darkness to stand beside her. "You spoke of England with the yearning of one who is homesick, Mademoiselle."

  Could it be that he did not recognize her? Or, was he only taunting her? She must know. The lie came easily to her lips. "I merely recited a part in a play that I am to perform."

  He stepped closer, and she felt as if her legs would not suppo
rt her. Slowly she looked up at him. He was dressed in formal black, and still clean-shaven, though the stylish gentlemen wore beards and mustaches. As his dark gaze settled on her, she realized how devastatingly handsome he was.

  "You will be performing the play in English?"

  "Perhaps, Monsieur. We have been invited to England by your Queen Henrietta. She is French, you know, and has asked us to perform for the king, but we have not yet decided if we will accept the invitation."

  "An invitation from her majesty—that is an honor." His tone of voice suggested that he was not impressed.

  Garreth stepped further into the moonlight, and Sabine could only stare at him. He seemed older than she remembered, and there was the hint of sadness about him. Though he was no longer the dashing young man she had married, maturity had only made him more appealing.

  Her throat tightened in fear—or was it excitement? Looking into his eyes, she saw no recognition there. Was it admiration she saw? Sabine was confused. What was he doing in her home? How had he found her?

  "I do not know you, Monsieur," she said hurriedly. "If you will excuse me, 1 must see to my invited guests."

  When she would have stepped around him, he blocked her path. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Garreth Blackthorn." He swept into a bow. "I add my invitation to the queen's for you to visit England."

  "This is not a suitable introduction, Monsieur Blackthorn," she said, pretending a haughtiness she was far from feeling. "I do not know what you have heard about me, but you would not have heard that I speak to those who have not been properly presented to me."

  Garreth was not accustomed to women acting indifferently to him. He was intrigued. When she had been on the stage, he had thought her beautiful, but now standing close to her, she was flawless and enchanting. She was all in white except for her glorious flaming hair.

  "Would you acknowledge me if I were introduced to you by a friend we share, Lord Stephen Meredith?"

  "You know Stephen?" she asked innocently.

  "I am staying at Stephen's chateau, and I'm here tonight at his invitation."