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 unplanned and surprisingly large losses to the Swintons.
He must be distracted. It didn’t help that the Marchioness of Painswick had 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 to a corner near the pianoforte.
“Marshness,” he said and leaned on the instrument. “You are as ravishing as always.”
She looked at him levelly. “Speaking of ravishing, you owe me, Lord Daventry.”
“Marshness,” hiccough, “the items that I removed—”
She cut him off with a gesture of her hand, her fingers laden with rings.
“We both know, Lord Daventry, that although those things may not have been mine legitimately, I was owed them. Oh, yes, I apologized quite prettily to Prinny and see here—” she pushed her chest forward, showing him a large ruby pendant hanging below her collar bone “—I received quite a gorgeous little gem in exchange. So, all is forgiven, at least between me and him. But you, on the other hand,” and here she ran a slender finger over his hand, “you still owe me.”
“I assure my lady that as shoon as I am capable, she will be the firsht 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 drinking for the night. Right now. Or there will be hell to pay later.” With that threat, she walked away, her hips swaying.
An hour later, the Marquis Dubois limped over to the sofa where James was sprawled and sat rather heavily into a chair 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.”
Then the Battle of Waterloo 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 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.” James stood up and swayed. “Would you like some of this brandy?” He leaned over a decanter that was on the table in front of him. “It’s French, of course.”
The Marquis Dubois accepted a snifter 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 here. I am merely a guest. Like you.”
“Ah.”
The marquis sipped from his snifter.
“I was impressed by your gallantry today, Lord Daventry. 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 nonchalant shrug. “I’ve twisted my ankle many times falling while getting out of my carriage after too much of this stuff,” he held the 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 he had in his chest at the marquis’ suggestion that Catherine might have feelings for him. It was hardly possible that it might be true, of course. She had made it clear that 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 conjuring of that kiss in his head, James suddenly felt very warm someplace a good deal lower than his chest and had to shift his position on the sofa.
“I will be bold, Lord Daventry, and tell you that I think you should pursue the fair Veuve Lovelock. Stir yourself.”
“I prefer to let the ladies stir me, thank you very much, Marquis Dubois. It’s so much easier that way.”
The marquis sat back and put his glass down.
“She will be taken before you know it. Our host,” the Marquis looked around but there was no one near, “and others here. They are greedy, grasping men and you will lose your chance.” The marquis grasped his walking stick and stood. “Bonsoir, Lord Daventry.”
James lurched to his feet and made a sloppy bow. “Good night, Marquis Dubois.”
As he watched the marquis limp across the room and lean over to whisper something in Isabella’s ear, James wondered why Dubois might have an interest in Catherine having a love affair with him.
It was a relief to be in his room with Enfield with the door closed.
First, the issue of the doctor.
“Do you know why no doctor was brought from the village for Mrs. Lovelock when you were fetched 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 Ffoulkes’ 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, ‘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?”
“Sir.” Enfield stopped and bit his lip.
The lip biting was the signal to James to encourage Enfield to be indiscreet.
“Tell me, Enfield.”
Enfield spoke in a low voice as he untied James’ cravat. “Almost all the servants have only been here for a month and have not yet received any wages. Second, this room is a handsome one but there is paint covering the rot of the window frame and there are moth holes in the drapes. The food for the servants is atrocious. The whole downstairs smells of damp—”
“What does all that mean?”
“Things are not as they should be in this house, my lord, not for a man thought to be as rich as Sir Francis Ffoulkes.”
Hmph. James had always heard that Sir Francis was wealthy from his government contracts to supply the navy’s fleet. Was that not true? Had he overextended himself and gotten into trouble now that the wars were over?
“Enfield, let me ask you something else.”
“Yes, my lord.” Enfield knelt to remove James’ boots.
“No, I think I better leave the boots on, Enfield.” 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.
“Were you with my family, my brother, around the change of the century, Enfield?”
“Yes, I became your brother’s valet when he was fifteen. In the year seventeen hundred and ninety-eight.”
“I am sure you are unlikely 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. “I suppose I’ll have to ask my mother.”
Enfield helped James back into his tailcoat.
“And may I ask why you are redressing, my lord, instead of preparing for sleep?”
“I have a vigil to keep, Enfield.”
