Chapter Thirteen #2
Then she paused. Would not everybody hate a foreign count who was somehow aligned with the French?
The count had not given any indication of it and she thought it highly unlikely, but that did not mean people could not start to believe it.
If there was one thing the ton was good for, it was believing preposterous rumors.
They did not have enough to occupy their days and so gloried in chewing over a story, the more unlikely the better.
What if a story were to go round that Napoleon’s intimates were staying with that precious marquis in that villa the count seemed to be so proud of?
If society began to believe that the count was somehow sympathetic to the French, he’d have doors slammed in his face everywhere. He’d have to pack up and go.
Mrs. Agnes Right thought that if she knew anything at all, she knew how to get a story traveling round. The newspapers had been her right hand in the matter in years past and they could be again.
She would compose a tidbit to set tongues wagging. The Sardinian count was aligned with the French.
“Charlie, I must run out on an errand just now. Keep an eye on things and ensure that Mr. Huberville does not break anything.”
Charlie nodded gravely and she hurried from the room.
“I haven’t touch any of the glass!” Mr. Huberville cried out behind her.
Mrs. Right hoped he kept it that way.
*
Two days had passed and Damiano had no way to discover how Lady Valor had received the Susamelle he’d sent to the house.
He must suppose she would be appreciative of it and that it would set him ahead of Tramondeley.
Continental bakers were far superior to the stodgy English nonsense Lady Tallifer was always trotting out for tea.
Deviled salmon sandwiches seemed to be a favorite.
Lady Tallifer was always going on about the salmon from Scotland, another cold and dreary place.
And then the mayonnaise she so loved. What a revolting thing to put on one’s food.
And of course the rolls at dinner were heavy enough to sink ships.
He could just imagine the consequences if the marquis were presented with such a thing.
Sardinians had a far more refined palate.
And in any case what could Tramondeley even produce from Cornwall? Rude people and a basket of fish?
His fluttering little hostess came fluttering into the drawing room appearing somehow more fluttering than she usually did.
“This is terrible,” Lady Tallifer said, waving a newspaper. “Just terrible, I cannot think what we are to do, too terrible, I cannot think, oh dear oh dear oh dear.”
“Lady Tallifer, calm yourself,” Damiano said. It would not be the first time he’d found himself asking the lady to calm herself. Every minor bump in the road assaulted the lady like a full-blown disaster of epic proportions.
“Calm!” the lady said, sinking into a chair. “How can one be calm at a time like this?”
“A time like what, if you would be so kind to enlighten me,” Damiano said, preparing to hear that the lady’s cook had threatened to quit again.
That fellow was always throwing his apron to the ground and stomping off over something or other.
Lady Tallifer generally chased after him and soothed him.
If anything remotely like it ever occurred in his father’s villa, that cook would not live to see the morning, nor would he expect to.
“This, this, this,” Lady Tallifer said, opening up the newspaper and pointing to it.
“Now, be assured count, I would not for the world believe it. The problem is, the world will believe it. I cannot think where this report has come from, with you being every bit the gentleman and the marquis, well, he is the marquis.”
Damiano became more concerned than he had been, as this was clearly not about the lady’s cook. He took the paper and read the section that was just now punctuated by her stabbing finger.
We have recently received a report that a certain Sardinian count just now making the rounds in Town arrives having concluded a more unsavory sort of business at home.
This count is alleged to have long and close dealings with some who are members of Napoleon’s trusted circle.
Dare we speculate that the marquis may even be entertaining these devils in his villa?
We wonder, if this is true, what brings the count to London?
Damiano dropped the newspaper. Who knew about Monsieur Bernard? He would not go so far as to say that buffoon was part of Napoleon’s trusted circle, but certainly this report referred to him.
He’d come to do a bit of business in England, but was it possible that somebody loyal to the English was doing a bit of business in the environs of his father’s villa?
Damiano had sent Monsieur Bernard out of the villa while he was away so that the man did not end up poisoned.
However, that had necessitated renting him rooms elsewhere.
Was that where the information was coming from?
It would be just like that crass little man to get himself drunk at a taverna and take to bragging that he was usually to be found in the villa.
He might well do. Monsieur Bernard was a very full-of-himself individual.
He had long bored Damiano with reminisces of the conversations he’d had with Emperor Napoleon, most of which Damiano believed lived only in his imagination.
He could feel Lady Tallifer’s eyes boring into the top of his head.
He said, “What a bit of nonsense. Who imagines that my father, the marquis, would be so imposed upon? Naturally, the French do not dare it. Lady Tallifer, you know the marquis as your dear cousin. As one who knows him, you know this would be impossible.”
“Of course I know it!” Lady Tallifer said. “But my dear count, this is England. The ton is all too willing to seize on a speculation and make it a fact.”
Of course, that was true. These people did not have enough to do in a day and somehow could not devise more pleasant ways to spend their time than gossip.
He supposed it was the weather that encouraged it.
People were so miserable in the fog and rain that they looked for anything at all to take their minds off it.
“What do you advise?” he asked Lady Tallifer. He was not particularly interested in her advice, nor would he be dependent on it. However, it was polite to inquire.
“Perhaps, oh I do not like to say it,” Lady Tallifer said, twisting her hands together, “but perhaps it would be best if you returned home before this goes any further. Then I can go round and dispute the report and it will all die down over time.”
This, of course, was the very last thing he could do.
Lady Tallifer could not know the consequences of returning home empty-handed.
Returning to the villa with the Mosquito going free and no duke’s daughter on his arm?
It would be a disaster on all sides. The marquis had become less and less able to look upon a disappointment with any sort of equanimity.
His father had also become more and more intemperate with how he dealt with disappointment.
“Lady Tallifer, a di Compressio never, ever, runs from a fight. The only way to turn is to face it all down.”
“Face it all down?” Lady Tallifer asked in her fluttery voice.
“Face it all down,” Damiano said grimly. “This is a ridiculous rumor and must be faced down.”
He was not precisely sure what facing it all down would entail, but the alternative was running and that he would not do. That, he could not do.
“But there is the matter of the prince’s fête,” Lady Tallifer said, her teeth chattering together.
“What of it?” Damiano asked. The prince had invited thousands to his birthday party so of course he had been included.
It was not much of an honor, really. When one invites everybody in London, nobody could feel the honor of it.
It was just like that fat fool to do it, though.
Damiano presumed it would be a tedious display of English vulgarity.
“I am just afraid, well when somebody in the palace reads this, goodness I have never been disinvited to anything in my life, but it may happen…is what I say.”
Damiano felt the insult down to his shoes.
Disinvited? People clamored for him and the marquis to attend their soirees.
Was he to be disinvited by that circus performer who called himself prince?
Was he to be looked down upon by the likes of that precious Brummel who thought he was the epitome of style?
Who was at the bottom of this report in the newspaper?
He must find out. If it was Tramondeley, then that lord would have proved himself more dangerous than he’d originally thought.
Whoever was at the bottom of this seemed to have a network of some kind.
How else could the information that Monsieur Bernard had installed himself in the villa have traveled here?
If Tramondeley was at the bottom of it, that would tip the scales that had been teetering in Damiano’s mind.
He’d been weighing the risk versus benefit of eliminating the Mosquito, but if this was a much bigger operation than had been previously understood…
He must find it out. Once he found it out, he must not hesitate to act.
His family’s estates might depend on it.
In the meantime, Lady Valor would likely see this report in the newspapers. Would she believe it though? He supposed he would find out at that ridiculous Cornwall party.
“Never fear, Lady Tallifer, I will get to the bottom of this affront. I will expose the villain who maligns the marquis with these outrageous allegations. They will, when they are identified, be drummed out of London.”
As he had expected, Lady Tallifer took great comfort in his assurances.
He did not bother to mention that when he identified the culprit, that individual would leave London in a box.
For now, he would go to the Cornwall party and see what he could find out.
He needed irrefutable proof that Tramondeley was heading up some sort of network. Then he could act.