Chapter 16
Sixteen
The rest of the party was quite gay that night. The Swintons were astonishingly good at whist when they partnered each other and quite middling at other card games. James suffered his planned losses to Sir Francis and very large, unplanned losses to the Swintons.
He must be distracted. It didn’t help that the Marchioness of Painswick looked daggers at him throughout the evening. She caught him in the drawing room during a break in the cards.
“Lord Daventry, I must speak to you about your sisters,” she said and took his arm and dragged him into a corner near the pianoforte.
“Marshness,” he said and leaned on the instrument. “You are as ravishing as always.”
“Speaking of ravishing, you owe me, Lord Daventry.”
“Marshness,” hiccough, “the items I removed—”
She cut him off with a gesture of her hand, fingers laden with even more sparkling jewels than when they had last met.
“We both know that although those things may not have been given to me, I was owed them. Oh, yes, I apologized quite prettily to Prinny and see here,” she pushed her chest forward to show James a large ruby pendant hanging below her collar bone, “I received this gorgeous little gem in exchange. So all is forgiven, at least between me and him. But you, on the other hand,” she ran a slender finger over James’ hand, “you still owe me.”
“I assure you, my lady, as soon as I am capable, you will be the first one to know.”
“Capable? You mean sober? I could wait a lifetime for that. And I am not a patient woman, Lord Daventry.” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “I recommend you stop your drinking. Right now. Or there will be hell to pay in Kent tonight.”
She walked away, her hips swaying, her threat still stinging his ears.
An hour later, the Marquis DuBois de Laval limped over to the sofa where James was sprawled and sat heavily next to him, leaning his walking stick against a side table.
The marquis. He was a bit of an enigma. A man of many allegiances.
He had lost his leg fighting for Napoleon.
But after Bonaparte’s first defeat and abdication, René DuBois had sworn loyalty to the new French king, Louis XVIII.
And he had stayed loyal to the French crown even after Napoleon escaped exile from Elba and ruled for the so-called Hundred Days.
The Battle of Waterloo came at the end of those days, and Napoleon was banished to St. Helena, that isolated island in the south Atlantic, twelve hundred miles off the coast of Africa.
After years of war, finally peace. A peace only achieved by imprisoning Bonaparte far away, on an inescapable rock of an island.
René DuBois, the cavalry commander with one leg, was first made a marquis by the grateful new king of France. Shortly thereafter, he was also made ambassador to Great Britain, to the court of King George III and the Prince Regent, who ruled in his father’s stead due to the king’s madness.
“Marquis DuBois de Laval.” James stood up and swayed. “Would you like some of this brandy?” He picked up a decanter from the table in front of him. “It’s French, of course.”
The marquis accepted a glass from James. “Merci. We have met before today, Lord Daventry, have we not?” He swirled the amber liquid in the glass.
James waved his hand in the air vaguely as he collapsed back onto the sofa. “In passing, I believe, at court.”
“Ah, yes.”
James quashed a belch with a fist to his mouth. “I was surprised to meet an ambassador here. Sir Francis made me think this was an intimate gathering.”
“You must not think of me as an ambassador. I am merely a guest. Like you.” The marquis sipped his brandy. “I was impressed by your gallantry today. To carry Madame Lovelock so far in the rain. I didn’t know Englishmen were so robust in their attentions.”
James bristled a little at the implied insult to his countrymen but covered it with a shrug.
“I’ve twisted my ankle many times. Especially while getting out of my carriage after too much of this stuff,” he held his own glass aloft, “so I know it can hurt like the devil. Didn’t want the lady to suffer needlessly. ”
“And I noticed your attempt to provide succor to the same lady’s distress after the unveiling of the painting.”
“Looked like she was about to cast up her accounts.”
The marquis leaned forward. “I think the lady has some fondness for you.”
“Well, I never say no to female affection.” James forced himself into a lazy chuckle. But he was startled by the warm sensation in his chest at the marquis’ suggestion that Catherine might have feelings for him. It was hardly possible it might be true. She had made it clear she despised him.
Except.
Except before she had slapped him.
That kiss.
That extraordinary kiss in the alley. How she had pulled at his hair but so softly pressed her mouth against his. The lips, so sweet and tender, and the hands, so demanding. At the same time.
With the memory of that kiss, James suddenly felt very warm someplace a good deal lower than his chest and had to shift his position on the sofa.
The marquis smiled. “I will be bold and tell you I think you should pursue the fair Widow Lovelock. Stir yourself.”
James leered. “I prefer to let the ladies stir me, thank you very much. It’s so much easier that way.”
“She will be taken before you know it. Our host,” the marquis looked around, but there was no one near, “and others. They are greedy men, and you will lose your chance.” The marquis put his brandy aside, grasped his walking stick, and stood. “Bonsoir, Lord Daventry.”
James lurched to his feet and made a sloppy bow. “Good night, Monsieur le marquis.”
As he watched the gentleman limp across the room and lean over to whisper something in Isabella’s ear, James wondered why DuBois might want to encourage a love affair between Catherine and a ne’er-do-well like himself.
It was a relief to get back to his bedchamber and be alone with Enfield.
First, the issue of the physician.
“Do you know why no doctor was fetched for Mrs. Lovelock when you were brought to the manor this afternoon?”
Enfield assisted James out of his tailcoat and laid it flat in the clothes press.
“My lord, after the luggage was transferred to Sir Francis’ carriage, we did go on to a doctor’s surgery.
I heard only part of the exchange between the doctor and the coachman, but, from what I understood, Sir Francis Ffoulkes has not paid the doctor for the months of care he provided to Sir Francis’ wife before her death a year ago.
The doctor said, and I quote, If it’s just some silly woman’s ankle, I’ll be damned if I ever go to that house again. ”
“I see. How odd. I mean, what an odd thing for Sir Francis to be mean about, don’t you think? Not to pay the doctor?”
“My lord.” Enfield stopped and bit his lip.
Lip biting was a signal to James to encourage Enfield to be indiscreet.
“Tell me, Enfield.”
Enfield spoke in a low voice as he removed James’ cravat.
“Almost all the servants have only been here for a month and have not yet received any wages. Yes, this room is a handsome one, but there is paint covering the rot of the window frame, and there are moth holes in the curtains. The food for the servants is made up of scraps. The whole downstairs smells of damp—”
“What does all that mean?”
“Things are not as they should be in this house. Not for a man thought to be as rich as Sir Francis Ffoulkes.”
Hmph. James had always heard Sir Francis was wealthy from his government contracts to supply the navy’s fleet. But the baronet might have overextended himself and gotten into trouble now the wars were over.
“Let me ask you something else.”
“Yes, my lord.” Enfield knelt to remove James' boots.
“No, I think I better leave the boots on.” James put out a hand to assist Enfield up. “In fact, let me have my cravat back on and my tailcoat.”
“Yes, my lord.” Enfield began to retie James’ cravat.
James lifted his chin to give Enfield access. “Were you with my family, my brother, around the change of the century?”
“I became your brother’s valet when he was fifteen. In the year seventeen hundred and ninety-eight.”
“I am sure you are hardly likely to remember, but do you recall if the family or if my brother and I went to the theater and saw Twelfth Night that year? Or the following year? Or the year after that? Perhaps eighteen hundred, the year I turned ten?”
“I’m afraid you’re right. I do not recall, my lord.”
James rubbed his jaw and grimaced. “I suppose I’ll have to ask my mother.”
Enfield helped James back into his tailcoat.
“And may I ask why you are dressing, my lord, instead of preparing for sleep?”
“I have a vigil to keep.”