Chapter 18
Eighteen
Lamartine crouched in the fetid hold of the French smuggler La Chance, cursing the de La Brous and all their ancestors.
He thought he’d struck upon a good thing when he’d bribed two of the ship’s crew to bring him aboard, but he was beginning to have his doubts.
He’d been hiding among barrels of brandy for four days, while the ship’s captain skulked along the coasts of the English Channel searching for a safe landing spot and trying to avoid the notice of revenue cutters.
He was sick of the smell, sick of the incessant pitch and roll of the ship, the constant noise of ropes and chains and cursing sailors.
His traveling suit was stained beyond repair, and he had a suspicion that fleas had taken up residence in his bagwig, which was stowed along with a clean suit of clothes in a canvas bag at his side.
Removing what had once been a pristine linen handkerchief from his waistcoat, he mopped at the oily sheen of perspiration on his brow.
He didn’t feel at all well, his head ached incessantly, and at night he dreamed that his father and the comte stood over him, arms linked, laughing at his failure.
He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and pulled a sea biscuit one of the crew had given him out of his jacket.
Grimacing at the taste of stale dough, he thought angrily that he had not failed.
He would not fail. He was on his way to England with a perfectly forged letter in his pocket.
He would find Madeleine de La Brou and convince her to turn the titles over to him.
It was a pressing matter, he would assure her, at any moment the government might claim possession of Valcour.
He clenched his hands; it would be his Valcour.
The woman would trust him, just as the comte had trusted him.
After all, what did women know of business matters?
And if she did not see things his way, well then, there were ways to make her understand.
As the remainder of the sea biscuit crumbled unnoticed in his fist, Robert Lamartine smiled for the first time in many days.
He would enjoy bringing Madeleine de La Brou around to his way of thinking.
For the first time in his life, Rafe Harcrest found himself grateful for decades of dancing masters and tedious balls.
He moved through the dance without a thought for the steps, his eyes restlessly scanning the guests at the Kensington’s assembly for a familiar mahogany mane.
It was early in the season, but everyone who had arrived in London thus far seemed to be crammed into the Kensingon’s public rooms. Voices rose above the sawing of violins, satin and taffeta rustled in the crush, and feathers and hair turned and nodded beneath the blaze of dripping chandeliers.
Jervis had assured him that Alix and her mother would be attending the party, but he’d yet to catch sight of her. It had been nearly four weeks since he’d last seen her, four weeks of sheer hell. He glanced at the ebony clock on the mantle across from the dance floor. It was fashionably late.
“If you’re going to dance with me, at least you might pretend to make conversation,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Have I told you that you look lovely this evening?” he asked without taking his eyes from the sea of bobbing heads.
“Several times, I believe.”
Rafe glanced down at his sister. Elizabeth was dressed in a cream-colored satin gown, intricate patterns of flowers and birds embroidered in rose and pale green throughout.
Flowers were artfully arranged in her chestnut curls, and a strand of pink-hued pearls encircled her slender throat.
“You do, you know, look lovely,” he said.
“I appreciate the compliments, especially since you chose the dress, but could you perhaps contribute something further to the conversation so that I don’t appear to be mindlessly chattering to myself?
While I do appreciate that intelligence is not a prerequisite to social success, I hope not to appear a total addlepate. ”
Rafe chuckled. “So, sister dear, what do you think of your first assembly thus far?”
“It’s amusing.” Casting a mischievous glance through her lashes she added, “And of course I am adhering to your lordship’s rule of twos.
” In a mock stem voice she said, “No more than two glasses of champagne, no more than two dances with any gentleman, always at least two people with me at anytime, especially if one of them is a male.”
“Well,” he said as they began to promenade, “it’s comforting to know that you have been paying some attention to my lectures.”
“I pay attention to a great many things that might escape another person’s notice. For instance, you have been distracted ever since you returned from France. I’ve discussed it with Phoebe and we’ve concluded it must be a woman.”
“Phoebe Davenport talks too much.”
Elizabeth ignored him, “Phoebe says men always get a bit cross when they’ve been a long time without a woman. Is it some beautiful French lady, helpless in the clutches of the new Republic, waiting for your rescue?”
Waiting for his rescue, indeed. The lady couldn’t even stay put.
She lowered her voice. “Only don’t tell me it’s Anne Dinsmore.”
“You could learn a great deal from Lady Anne.”
“Like how to smile and flatter with one face, and how to savage a person’s reputation with the other?”
“I think you’re being rather harsh.”
“I’d lay odds I’m not, only you never bet.”
He was still considering Elizabeth’s comments when Anne glided up to him. She looked as elegant as ever, dressed in pale blue and lace, a row of bows down the front of her gown and an arrangement of lace and pearls in her hair. Anne smiled at him as he took her hand and kissed it.
“Moreham,” she said in reproving tones, “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for inviting me to visit you in the country.
It was lovely, so restful, and Louisa’s gardens are a wonder.
My only disappointment,” she said with a slight smile, “was your unexpected departure for France. I do hope your affairs there have all been successfully concluded.”
Rafe thought he detected an emphasis on affairs and concluded, but decided to ignore her jibe. She was, he supposed, entitled to be a bit annoyed with him. He looked quickly around the room; still no sign of Alix. He offered Anne his hand. “May I lead you in a minuet, my lady?”
“I should be delighted,” she said, her smile widening.
As they moved through the forms of the dance, Rafe continued to search the crowd for Alix.
Where could she be? Had the prospect of facing a large social gathering with her limited English skills proven too daunting?
He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came to him. His Alix had faced far worse.
His Alix, Rafe mused, it was the way he had come to think of her.
Cole thought he was in love, but he doubted it.
Love was an emotion for impulsive men like Davenport.
What he felt for Alix was... he paused unsure of how to describe what he felt for Alix.
It was, he decided, an urge to wring her neck for leaving him and then to kiss her senseless so that she would never do so again.
Anne drew close, speaking archly about the goings-on among the ton. He nodded politely as she related who had come to town and who had yet to arrive.
He wondered if Alix had fallen ill. She’d looked pale that last day he’d seen her. The crossing, he knew, had been rough on her. He thought of all she’d been through before, her father’s death, the flight from France. If she’d fallen ill, it might explain why he hadn’t heard from her.
But then Jervis had said he’d seen her riding in the park.
Anne took Rafe’s hand as she turned. “I suppose all the gatherings this year will be littered with émigrés seeking to bolster their impoverished fortunes with a bit of English lucre. It’s disgraceful.
Not that I’m unsympathetic to their misfortunes, but still you’d think a more sensible people would have been able to keep a better rein on their commoners. ”
Lady Anne, he noticed vaguely, had changed subjects.
“And their sense of fashion, well, I know it’s supposed to be wonderful, so much more clashing than the English, but I think it’s a tad vulgar. Take Lady Melbourne’s friend, the Comtesse de La Brou.”
Suddenly Anne had his complete attention.
“The woman wears black to everything, and while she may, indeed, be in mourning, those necklines seem to be plunging with something other than despair.” She gave a mock shudder.
“And her daughter, well, you can judge for yourself.” Anne tilted her neck almost imperceptibly towards a couple dancing to their left.
Alix was gracefully circling her partner just a few feet away from him.
She was wearing a gown that matched her smoky eyes, a shimmering blue-gray trimmed in silver.
Her hair was unpowdered and the lights from the chandelier danced along its russet waves.
She wasn’t ill. She showed no signs of decline.
She looked, Rafe thought with a growing sense of outrage, absolutely beautiful.
She was laughing and smiling up at a man whom Rafe immediately recognized as Lord Rothwell.
He frowned; Rothwell was old enough to be her father and had buried two wives already.
The man no doubt was on the lookout for a third to mother his brood of unruly children.
Rafe fought the urge to reach out and pluck the man’s thin fingers from Alix’s slim waist.
Only experience kept him moving through the final steps of the dance. When the music ended, Anne dipped her head and murmured softly. “You seem distracted, my lord, would you prefer to stroll along the gallery?”
“Forgive me, Lady Anne, but I’ve promised Louisa I would keep an eye on Elizabeth. If you will excuse me?” He slipped away unmindful of the waspish look Anne Dinsmore cast at his departing back.