A Devil’s Cub collection of vignettes. OMC/Sophia, background Vidal/Mary and Justin/Léonie. Part of my Colère de Diable series.
Chapter 1
Miss Sophia Challoner was the loveliest creature Captain Harrison had ever clapped eyes upon. Within half an hour of making her acquaintance, he had determined he would not rest until he got her; unfortunately, Vidal also appeared to have formed the exact same design on the chit, and unlike Harrison, he was possessed with both a title and a fortune to his name.
Sophia had curtsied very prettily when he was introduced to her, and just as prettily declined him the honour of her hand for the next dance. It was evident she knew enough of who he was to deem him beneath her notice; she was aiming high, that much was plain, but if she somehow hoped to trap Vidal into marriage, she was more of a simpleton than he had judged her to be at first glance. Still, if his military career had served no other purpose, it had taught him the value of biding his time until the moment to strike did at last present itself; his sensibilities were not so delicate as to prevent him from pursuing Vidal’s spurned mistresses, as indeed he had done many a time before.
Miss Sophia would be no less ripe for the plucking when Vidal was done with her. Until then, he would have to find some other wench to while away the time.
.
When the news reached Harrison’s ears that Vidal had somehow carried off the wrong sister to France, he could have laughed at the cub’s stupidity and the perfect opportunity he had just presented his erstwhile brother with. It did not take him long to discover that Miss Sophia was livid with indignation at having the Marquis stolen from her clutches; although her relations were doing all they could to prevent a scandal, Sophia herself appeared to have no qualms in publishing her own indiscretions abroad, to the point that polite society began to talk in progressively loud whispers, and even to laugh at the incensed damsel being her back.
It was only when the scores of her assiduous admirers began to thin that Miss Sophia did at last become aware of the consequences of her spiteful proclamations that it was her and not her sister Vidal wanted. Captain Harrison had had the foresight to put in an appearance to the most sought-after events of the season, and was gratified with the rewarding experience of being permitted to dry Sophia’s cheeks once he did succeed in coaxing her out of a bout of solitary weeping.
“They do not deserve you, my sweet,” he whispered insinuatingly at her ear. “Come away with me, and I’ll see to it that you are treated as your beauty deserves.”
“Come away with you?” scoffed Sophia. “A pretty thing it would be if I were to waste my chances so foolishly.”
He smiled down at her somewhat ironically. “I beg leave to inform you, ma’am, that half of London believes you were indeed Vidal’s light o’ love before he tired of you and decided to run away with your sister instead. The other half pities you for being so simple as to permit your less beautiful sister to steal a husband from under your nose.”
Sophia’s eyes flashed, and she made a move as if to strike him; he was quicker and caught her hand before she could do so much as to brush his cheek. “She shall live to regret it, I vow! And Vidal too – Lord, I could laugh to think of him wed to such a spoilsport as Mary!”
“And that’s the real Sophia,” he laughed softly, as if delighted to be proven correct. “You’re not at all the demure damsel you pretend to be for the benefit of the world, and I swear I like you all the better for it.”
“If I am not to become a marchioness, I could think of several gentlemen far richer than you could possibly be who would be more than happy to carry me off to France in Vidal’s stead,” she announced haughtily. “The Earl of Ormskirk amongst them, if you must know.”
“Ormskirk!” he scoffed. “He’s badly done, let me tell you, my pretty. And even less inclined than Vidal to let himself be tricked into marriage.”
Sophia turned about with an angry flounce of her skirts. “If my sister managed to catch the heir to a dukedom, I cannot see why a mere earl should turn his nose at wedding me! But it is no matter – if I am to ruin myself to become someone’s mistress, it would be at least to a gentleman with a better standing than the Duke of Avon’s disgraced ward.”
He bowed deeply. “Much obliged to you, ma’am. It will perhaps interest you to know that, although sadly of no birth, I did come into a considerable fortune upon reaching my majority, and that I enjoy at present the favour of my noble uncle, the present Comte de Saint-Vire.”
Sophia gaped at this piece of intelligence. “Your – uncle?”
“I have the felicity of being her Grace of Avon’s half-brother. I regret to say I also suffer from the grave misfortune of having the Duke as my grandsire, but since his Grace hardly ever let himself be bothered by the connection, it need not trouble you.”
He was pleased to see he had succeeded in thoroughly scandalising her at last. “It is true what they say, then – you are base-born, and a discredit to your guardian’s name.”
“His name!” he mocked. “The Alastairs may rot in hell for what I care, his Grace above all. In fact, I could think of nothing better to spite him than to stir the flames of the scandal he has endeavoured so hard to quench. I bet it will anger Vidal, too – and your sister will not be best pleased either, I wager.”
Sophia’s eyes narrowed all of a sudden. “Are you proposing to run away with me solely to spite your relations?”
“Why not?” was his careless reply. “You said yourself you wish you could pay your sister back in her own coin. And heaven knows Vidal deserves that you teach him a lesson, after what he has done to you.”
“It was all Mary’s doing, I bet – sly, deceitful creature that she is!” exploded Sophia. “If I could drag her name through the mud, I vow I’d do it and laugh.”
“Then come away with me,” he offered once more. “I’ll give you everything Vidal might have given you, and more besides. We could live in Paris under my uncle’s protection, and need never set foot in England again.”
Sophia hesitated, considering. “O’Halloran could still offer for me – Fraser, too, if I’m not much mistaken. I need to think of my future, you understand.”
“As my lady wishes,” he mocked, bringing her fingers to his lips, and took his leave of her.
.
Ten days later Captain Harrison came back to his quarters to find a hastily scrawled billet from Miss Challoner. Sophia wrote that rumours of the town gossip having finally reached her grandfather’s ears, General Challoner had put himself to the trouble of running his late son’s spouse to earth and informing her he would be taking the management of his younger grandchild out of her hands. He then proposed to take Sophia into Buckinghamshire where she would be quite removed from society’s malignant tongues and its temptations alike, and put a remedy to the grave faults in her upbringing by employing a governess and several tutors who would see to her education.
It was fair to say nothing could prove itself to be more disagreeable to a girl of Miss Sophia’s temperament than to find herself buried in a country estate for an indefinite period of time, with no one about save her austere grandfather and a host of preceptors bent on curing her of her purported ignorance. She went on to beg him to rescue her from so horrid a fate, and swore she should endeavour to please him to the very best of her abilities if he were to do so.
Harrison paused at so bluntly phrased an offer, a heavy frown gathering on his brow. “I’ll take good care of you, my girl, never fear,” he muttered to himself, and instantly set about arranging everything for the imminent flight.
Chapter 2
It was only after the first change of horses was accomplished that Sophia thought to ask how soon they would reach the coast. Much to her dismay, Captain Harrison looked down at her with a strange glint in his eyes, and proceeded to inform her they were not, in fact, headed for the coast.
“You promised you would take me to Paris,” Sophia accused him in no uncertain terms, quite forgetting the pressing need to exert her not inconsiderable charms upon her ersatz protector.
“And so I shall, if you still wish it once we’re done,” Harrison assured her. “But I’ve given the matter some thought, and I’ve reached the conclusion nothing would serve our purposes better than an expeditious trip across the Scottish border.”
Sophia regarded him in some amazement. “Are you intent on taking me to Gretna Green, sir?”
“That is precisely my intention, ma’am,” he said cooly. “I hope the prospect of becoming my wife instead of my mistress will not distress you overmuch.”
“But – why?” persisted Sophia. “Why should you wish to wed me when you know well enough you could have me right now, and I would not for the world dream of stopping you?”
A rather odd smile curled his lips, making his resemblance to the Duchess even more pronounced. “Because, my sweet, I find I have no taste for ruining a respectable young female, not even to spite my estimable guardian. And although I have never been permitted to lay eyes upon my mother, I do not desire to continue down the same path as my abominable sire and my no less unregenerate grandparent.”
“You mean you do not wish me to bear your bastard children?” Sophia tittered. “I should feel honoured, I suppose.”
“You do not want to be made aware of the depths of my father’s depravity, trust me,” he warned her. “However, you will permit me to tell you you have very little notion of what men are truly like; and if you thought you could somehow prevent Vidal from taking what he wanted from you once you ran away with him, you were very much mistaken.”
“He wouldn’t have!” gasped Sophia, aghast.
“Wouldn’t he?” shrugged Harrison. “I pray that your sister did not have to find out for herself what my dear nephew – or should I say uncle? – is truly capable of.”
Sophia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It had never occurred to her that Lord Vidal could force himself upon her, or indeed upon her sister; for the first time since being apprised of Mary’s ill-conceived plan to save her honour, she experienced something perilously close to shame upon remembering every spiteful remark she had directed to her sister.
.
Though she did her best to conceal it, Sophia was oddly piqued when her intended bespoke two separate rooms at the inn they were to put up at for the night.
“You need not put yourself to so much trouble on my account, let me tell you,” she informed him over a supper of cold meats and the best bottle of burgundy that could be had out of the landlord’s cellar. “If we are to be married anyway, who is it to know that you took my virtue a few days in advance of the knot being tied?”
He surprised her by taking possession of her hand and pressing his lips fervently to the inside of her wrist. “Do not tempt me, child,” he said huskily. “I am quite determined to do things properly for once in my life.”
Sophia’s breast heaved as she imagined those same lips pressed somewhere very different. “They say you were Lady Emma’s lover, before she married again,” she said unwittingly. “They say she was much pleased with your attentions, in a way she has not been with either of her husbands.”
“She was the first to teach me how to please a woman.” His smile promised all sort of sinful delights, and Sophia was forced to take a sip of her wine to cool herself a little. “I will make you exceedingly happy, my dear, I promise.”
“If you say so,” she feigned indifference, and made a show of shrugging her pretty shoulders.
It was a long time before she could fall asleep that night.
.
The smithy took no more notice of the runaway couple than he had done of those preceding them, nor of those who would undoubtedly follow in due course. The ceremony was over before Sophia could second guess the wisdom of binding herself for life to a man she barely knew, and so far removed from the brilliant prospects she had once envisioned for herself.
Her mamma had thought it prudent to withhold any wisdom she might be possessed of pertaining the marriage bed until her little Sophy was safely tied to her future husband; all she knew of what transpired in more intimate circumstances between a man and a woman came from the few romances she had read, and none of them had been particularly helpful in furnishing her with a clear picture of what she was to expect.
“Will it hurt terribly?” she demanded of her bridegroom who was at that very moment employed in unhooking the little pearl buttons at the back of her dress. “I do not mind a little pain, if only you can be so good as to make it quick; but I do not know that I can endure much of it, or for very long.”
She felt him pause in his task, his fingers tracing the knots of her spine through her stays. “I am not so green as to make you endure my pleasure to the exclusion of your own, my love,” he murmured in so insinuating tones as to cause a molten heat to pool in the nameless place between her legs. “You will have nothing to complain about, I swear it.”
He bent down to put his lips to her neck, and she shivered uncontrollably. “Yet I observe you are taking quite some time to come to the point, sir.”
“Andrew,” he corrected her. “I do not wish to be sir when we are like this.”
“I never did admire the name Andrew,” she said petulantly. “It is rather commonplace, is it not?”
“Nevertheless, you will call me by it, my dear,” he commanded her.
Sophia pouted, but was forced to relent when he ceased his attentions altogether. “Andrew,” she repeated with deceptive meekness, and was rewarded with a kiss so thorough as to make her breathless.
After that, it all became a blur of sensation; before she knew it, she found herself spread out on the narrow bed with nary a stitch of clothing onto her person, her new husband bent upon her in a manner she would have deemed obscene had she not been by then quite feverish with passion.
Once, twice he brought her to the most rapturous of pleasures; only then he permitted himself to take up his rightful place between her legs.
“Look at me, my sweet one,” he instructed her with tender solicitude, and she was rather surprised to find she did not mind the discomfort with his eyes so intent upon her as to make her forget anything existed beyond the unaccustomed ease with which her body opened up to welcome him into her.
So that was what Vidal had wanted from her, she realised – what Vidal had done to her sister instead, though she could scarcely believe that Mary of all people would be capable of giving herself up so wantonly for a man to possess.
She had once told her sister she did not mean to love anyone very much, and that she was sure it would be more comfortable that way; now, with the husband she had never thought she would chose for herself atop her and intent of making her his own, she came to the unwonted conclusion that love did not matter so much as the dearth of pleasures there were to be explored together.
And when he at last shuddered his release buried deep within her, binding her fate to him for the rest of her life, she thought of the shocked outrage she should soon be able to discover upon the face of every respectable matron she knew, and threw her head back, and laughed.
Chapter 3
Hugh Davenant had barely had the time to heave a much-deserved sigh of relief on being informed of Vidal’s marriage to Sir Giles Challoner’s grandchild – the first woman to achieve the nigh-on-impossible feat of managing the cub’s damnable temper – that he was at once plunged into what promised to be another brewing scandal which would invariably cause Justin’s wrath to fall upon young Harrison’s witless head.
The one small mercy in the whole sorry affair was that Alastair and his Duchess had elected to remain in Paris for a few weeks yet; if luck should favour him, Davenant might still be able to catch up with the two runaways and arrange matters more seemly before Justin was made aware of his ward’s latest escapade, though he was under no illusion his Grace would choose to be lenient over what he must view in the light of an unpardonable intrusion on his part.
What truly astounded him as he endeavoured to track Harrison’s progress was that the boy was to all appearances headed for the Scottish border. That Andrew should have so much proper feeling as to carry off the unprincipled minx to Gretna Green had never once occurred to him – nor to the girl’s afflicted parent, whom he had managed to fend off with the greatest of difficulties – and he marvelled that the unholy offspring of Henri de Saint-Vire and Justin’s illegitimate daughter should prove himself to be possessed of better morals than Vidal.
After a long and tiresome journey, he did at last run the two lovers to earth at a small inn over the border. By then, he was in such a foul mood as to forego any consideration for the lady’s comfort in favour of pounding at the door to the bedchamber the landlord had not scrupled to point out to him in exchange for an adequate amount of coin.
“Open up, you damnable fool,” he requested none too gently. “By God, if Justin does not end up having your head as well mine for this week’s work, it will be through no fault of yours.”
When Harrison did at last deign to put in an appearance, he was barely decent, and it was evident he had donned the first items of clothing he could locate in a hurry. “Davenant,” he greeted him with an assumed air of superiority which would have under any other circumstance induced Hugh to laugh to his face. “I cannot conceive what in the world should bring you here at this time of the year.”
“Upon my word, that’s rich! You may be of age and a captain in the army, but I will have you know I am still capable of boxing your ears.”
“I have the felicity of informing you I intend to sell out as soon as I return to town,” Harrison said coldly. “Not that it is any concern of yours – or his Grace’s, for that matter.”
“Have done with this nonsense, boy,” Davenant interrupted him. “Where’s the girl? What, in God’s name, have you done with her?”
Harrison’s hard grey eyes flashed in as dangerous a manner as that of his grandfather. “If you are speaking of the lady who was until very recently Miss Challoner, you will give me leave to inform you she has done me the great honour of becoming my wife. In fact, I consider it a great impertinence that you should deem it appropriate to disturb her thus in our private bedchamber, and will not under any circumstance permit you to see her unless she chooses to.”
“I hope you will both enjoy life on the continent, for I swear Justin shan’t suffer you to remain in England a moment longer than it is necessary.”
“We leave for Paris immediately after my mother-in-law is appraised that the marriage has taken place,” announced Harrison.
It was only by a supreme effort of will that Davenant did manage to resist the impulse to bring the young hothead to a sense of his own folly by thoroughly thrashing his bottom with his riding whip.
“May Heaven have mercy of poor Armand if you do,” he muttered, and took himself out.
.
“Curse his infernal impudence,” ejaculated the Marquis, glaring down at the missive Fletcher had had the foresight to hand him while her Ladyship was still being attended to by her faithful abigail. “Oh, but I should like to strangle the creature – so I could, I swear it.”
“What is it, my love? Have you received bad news from home?”
Hell and damnation, but Mary’s own damsel was far too efficient for his taste. He raised a troubled brow to meet his wife’s clear gaze, and read concern behind her calm demeanour. “My mother writes to inform me that Harrison – my father’s ward, you understand – has had the audacity to elope to Gretna Green, damn his entire bloodline!” He stopped abruptly, wondering how on earth he was supposed to break the news to her.
Mary regarded him for a long moment, a small frown between her brows. “You would not tell me of this unless you though it would affect me directly,” she said slowly. “Pray, let me know the worst – has your adopted brother chosen to run away with my sister?”
Vidal’s lips tightened. “I am sorry for it, my dear. I did not think it would come to that, else I should have seen to it that my father reminded the damnable young pup of his proper place.”
He saw the hurt expression flicker across Mary’s ordinarily placid countenance, and at once experienced the strong urge to run his former playfellow through with his sword. Pistols would not do, he decided, as it would be too quick for what the scoundrel deserved.
“Are they married, then?” his wife ventured to enquire. “We should be grateful for it, I suppose – it could have been much worse, though I cannot imagine why Sophy should have consented to wed an untitled gentleman on so little inducement.”
“Maman says she did it to spite us all,” Vidal acknowledged bitterly. “Your grandfather also seemed to be intent on removing your sister from society and finally seeing to it that she received a proper education, and I think we both know Sophia would rather die than submit to such a horrid fate.”
That did at last succeed in bringing a reluctant smile to Mary’s face. “Poor little Sophy,” she said with feeling. “Is there any chance Captain Harrison could make her a good husband, do you think?”
Dominic paused, considering. “I must confess I haven’t the slightest idea,” he admitted. “Let us hope he does, for all our sakes.”
He put his arms about her and bent down to brush his lips gently to her temple. Mary sighed and went willingly; he set about comforting her as best as he could, giving no more thought to the letter which had slipped through his fingers and now lay in a sad heap on the floor, where it remained unheeded for quite some time.
.
When the Marchioness of Vidal did at last gain admittance to Mrs Harrison’s boudoir, Sophia was being decked for the ball which was to be held that very night at the house of Madame de Saint-Vire and did not immediately acknowledge her sister.
“Your Ladyship will pardon me if I do not receive you with all the proper courtesy that is due to your station,” Sophia shrugged at last, and went on arranging the pearls around her neck to her satisfaction. “Though my husband is unhappily barred from inheriting the family title by the disgraceful circumstances of his birth, I would not for the world disappoint him by being late for this evening’s engagement.”
Tears stung Mary’s eyelids, but she blinked them back with an effort. “I never meant to do you a wrong, Sophy. I swear I did not set out on purpose to steal a husband from you, and I would not for the world have consented to marry Lord Vidal had I suspected him of any warmer feelings in your regard – or, indeed, had your affections been truly engaged, as you once assured me they were not.”
She saw a flash of anger in Sophia’s cornflower blue eyes, and her heart sank further. “No, you did it all to save my honour, didn’t you? Well, I thank you for it, my dear sister, but I’ll have none of your noble intentions. My grandfather would have had me locked up in his decrepit country mansion for all your troubles, while you went about enjoying your bridal tour and laughed at my expenses.”
“How could you ever think that, Sophy?” Mary protested, and she could not prevent her hand from stealing to her cheek. “You are my sister and I love you, though you may not see it that way. I had no notion you would feel compelled to fly from England on account of Grandfather’s plans for your future, and I now wish I had been informed of it so that I might have arranged a more agreeable alternative for your comfort.”
For the first time since her coming into the room, Sophia did turn about from contemplating herself in the mirror. “La, sister, if you imagine me in any way displeased with my choice of a husband, let me tell you that for all his titles your precious Marquis has nothing to my darling Andrew. Why, he would have made the most horrid husband, I am sure of it, and my heart positively bleeds for you, my poor dear.”
She rose from her chair as she spoke thus, and Mary’s eye was caught by the marked plumpness of her figure despite the tight lacing of her stays. “Oh, Sophy,” she exclaimed, other issues momentarily forgotten. “Am I to felicitate you? Mamma mentioned nothing of it in her letter.”
Sophia preened as if she had just received the prettiest imaginable compliment, much to her sister’s surprise. “Andrew is very pleased with me,” she announced with simple pride. “However, I did warn him I have every intention of dancing tonight, and I think it is not so very noticeable as to make it improper.”
Mary paid no heed to the latter pronouncement and went on to clasp her sister’s hands warmly in her own. Sophia went quite rigid at first, then made a cautious effort to return the embrace.
“I wager you did not do half so well in fulfilling your obligations as a wife,” she remarked somewhat pettishly, though she did appear to have let go of most of her resentment. “Although his Lordship must be in want of an heir for the dukedom, I am sure.”
A blush crept unbidden to Mary’s cheeks. “Dominic did not wish me to be encumbered with a child while we journeyed through Italy. It is not impossible to delay it, if – if one knows the way.”
Sophia’s eyes opened very wide at this. “Lord, you must tell me all about it once I am brought to bed with this child,” she said with feeling. “For I haven’t the slightest intention of spending the whole of my married life in this state.”
Mary smiled encouragingly and assured her sister that her husband would no doubt know what to do when the time came.
.
“Oh, but it was most amusing, I assure you,” said the Vicomte de Valmé. He was beginning to enjoy himself immensely and would not have for the world passed on this chance to laugh at his impetuous cousin’s expenses. “I had never known Dominque to be in love before, and let me tell you, it was unlike anything I had ever seen of him.”
“I can still make it the last thing you will ever see,” retorted his Lordship. “I am under oath not to lay a finger on that villain’s witless head, but you, my dear Bertrand, I could easily throw out of that window without breaking my word.”
“You are, as ever, quite abominable, cher Dominique,” the Vicomte sighed dramatically, and turned to his other cousin. “Do you not find him so, my dear?”
“There are no words in the English tongue strong enough to express my opinion of Vidal,” Harrison stated with remarkable coldness. “Nor in the French tongue, for that matter.”
“Is it to be pistols at dawn, then?” mused the Vicomte, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I must warn you my esteemed parents would not take kindly to a duel, and as for Avon, I shudder to think of what he might do.”
“My father knows Harrison of old,” Vidal sneered. “He would not mourn overmuch over his premature demise, believe me.”
Harrison looked down at him – quite a feat for someone who was several inches shorter than the Marquis. “His Grace’s sentiments are of no consequence to me, I can assure you. But I have no desire to give my wife any cause for distress by fighting her unregenerate brother, and I feel sure that my new sister has suffered enough already at the hands of one whose conduct is more in line with that of my reprobate father than that of my no less profligate grandparent.”
“Sophia is as big as a fool as you are,” Vidal said crushingly. “You are aware, I think, that she was prepared to fly to Paris with me to be my mistress with as little inducement as the promise to buy her all the pretty things her shallow heart desired.”
“You need not remind me of your utter lack of morals, my dear nephew,” Harrison replied in his best approximation of his Grace’s hauteur. “I am happy to say I never sought to forcibly abduct a respectable young lady who was only intent on saving her poor sister from ruin; nor was I such a blackguard as to hesitate in offering marriage to the innocent female so imprudent as to agree to an elopement.”
“Innocent!” snorted his Lordship. “The little minx knew well enough what she was about, let me tell you.”
Harrison’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and the Vicomte saw that it was time to put an end to the interview. “My dear cousins, I protest – there really is no call for this quarrel between you, for it seems to me each of you did wed the lady whose character best suits your respective temperaments. What matters how it came about so long as you are both happy with your choice of a bride?”
The Marquis shot his cousin a quelling look. “Like I said, I have given my wife my solemn promise that I would not touch the man her sister had accepted as her husband, and I am not about to go back on my word, regardless of how tempted I might be to do so.”
“What truly astounds me is that you dare to speak of your honour as if you were indeed possessed of any,” Harrison observed with pointed sarcasm. “However, I own I would not have suspected an Alastair of so much proper feeling as to offer his hand in marriage to the lady whose reputation he had undeservedly sullied, and I have every hope that the lady in question might succeed in the nigh on impossible feat of redeeming your Lordship almost into respectability – as my revered sister did once accomplish with the man who was my guardian.”
“You are not to speak of my mother thus,” Vidal spluttered, looking for all the world as if he was about to turn sick. “I forbid it.”
Harrison’s smile became very sweet, and there was that something in his eyes which made even the Vicomte shudder with uneasiness. “Whyever not, nephew mine? You know as well as I do that Léonie is in truth my sister, though we do not come from the same mother. Indeed, as your uncle, you are wont to respect me more, and my wife with me also.”
“The hell I will,” ejaculated Vidal, though it was to be seen he was more discomposed than he cared to admit. “Mary and I are for Calais as soon as this wretched ball is over, and I trust I never need to set eyes on either you or your precious Sophia for as long as we all three shall live.”
“Tell that to your Marchioness, and see how she takes it,” recommended the Vicomte. “Oh, but that Mary is a sensible one, I have always said so – though how could you ever induce her to accept you as her husband is what I keep asking myself.”
“You too may go to the devil, Bertrand,” retorted the Marquis, and promptly betook himself elsewhere.
“That went well, I think,” laughed the Vicomte, and took snuff.
.
Pausing only to discard her hat and cloak Léonie slipped at once into her husband’s apartments. His Grace of Avon was sitting up in bed reading, wrapped in a silk banyan as magnificent as she had ever seen on him, and she threw herself in his arms with the same enthusiasm as when they had first been married.
“I trust you had a pleasant journey, ma mie,” he said urbanely, and she could not resist the temptation to press one more kiss to the back of his hand.
“Quite tolerable, as you always say, Monseigneur,” she answered with mock gravity, though her roguish dimple betrayed quite lamentably. “You are not angry with me, Justin, n’est-ce pas?”
“I cannot conceive why I should be angry with you, my dear,” he said blandly. “On the contrary, I am all admiration for your sense of familial duty, for I know very well how tiresome you find your lamentably frivolous sister-in-law.”
Léonie pouted. “She has improved a little since her marriage to Andrew, I think. But any woman who is brought to bed with child has all my sympathies, no matter how detestable I might find her.”
Her husband regarded her impassively for a long moment, then tweaked one of her copper curls between his long white fingers. “Dare I ask if everything went as smoothly as could be hoped for?”
“Mais oui, Monseigneur – for all her airs and graces the girl was braver than I thought she should be, and she has presented my brother with a little son who is all a Saint-Vire, though you will allow me to remind you he is your great-grandchild also.”
“Ah, bah,” said his Grace. “If I may be permitted to borrow from your vocabulary, my love.”
The irrepressible dimple quivered. “You do not at all like to be reminded of your advancing years, I think.” She began on the task of undoing his buttons, and he did nothing to prevent her. “But I have a very good notion you will like the name my brother has chosen for my little nephew, for I can tell you it pleases me, oh, much.”
His Grace of Avon laid back more comfortably against the pillows, his hands travelling unerringly to the curve of her waist in a way that made his wife sigh with pleasure. “I should have advised any sensible man against naming his offspring after an imp of a page who was in truth the most impertinent child I ever had in my service,” he observed pensively. “But I believe that for all his faults Harrison could not be accused of having good sense.”
“You are very fond of Léon the page still, I think,” she said, a small knowing smile curling her lips, and did not scruple to silence him with a kiss.
A These Old Shades/Devil’s Cub collection of vignettes. Background Justin/Léonie & Justin/Hugh. Content warning: non-graphic depiction of miscarriage and stillbirth, implied/referenced past rape and general consent issues. Part of my Colère de Diable series.
One
The announcement of the birth of Avon’s son and heir had been received in polite circles with the liveliest curiosity, and instantly set the more malignant tongues wagging. The Duke’s precipitous marriage to his former ward – a girl twenty years his junior, and with such an extraordinary tale attached to her birth – had attracted no little attention; that the lively young Duchess had succeeded in presenting her noble husband with a boy less than a year into the marriage was even more astonishing, and perhaps a little too convenient according to some.
However, that was nothing to the scandal which threatened to break out as soon as their Graces removed to their London townhouse with not one, but two infants in tow. Avon’s enemies – of which there were many – took great pleasure in enlarging upon the Duchess’s supposed indiscretions; for it was whispered that while the infant Marquis had black hair such as his father’s, the other child had flaming hair same as her Grace’s, and must perforce be the result of an illicit affair the sprightly young damsel had been carrying out right under her husband’s aristocratic nose. Respectable dowagers whose daughters had suffered the grave injustice of being spurned by his Grace – and several other ladies who could, if they would, claim a much more intimate acquaintance with the Duke – took the greatest of pleasure in relaying the imagined particulars of Avon discovering himself on the receiving hand of the same treatment he had been in the habit of dealing out to his former light-o’-loves, and furiously disowning his firstborn in favour of the infant he had somehow succeeded in siring in between the assiduous visits of his wife’s secret lover.
“For she is French, you know,” one of the dowagers whispered meaningfully to her bosom friend. “They cannot contain themselves, or so I am told.”
“Fiddle,” Lady Fanny said crushingly when the town gossip finally reached her ears. “I have seen the child with my own eyes – he is five or six months old at the least, while my sister-in-law was brought to bed not two months ago.”
In truth, she could scarcely approve of Léonie’s determination to adopt the child – whom Lady Fanny had been reliably informed was both low-born and base-born, though she was not privy to the entire truth as to his parentage and the exceedingly painful circumstances of his conception. She had a shrewd notion that Justin was not best pleased about his duchess’s latest whim, and would not be at all surprised to see him exert his considerable authority on her for the first time since their marriage.
“He has his reasons,” Hugh Davenant observed with maddening calm – though his mouth was set, and his glare fierce enough to make the group of gossiping gentlemen to their right lower their voices and abruptly change the topic of conversation. “Have you ever known your brother to act against his own interests?”
Lady Fanny shuddered. “Pray, do not remind me, Hugh. I am very fond of Justin, but one could not accuse him of unselfishness.”
“I wonder,” said Hugh, half to himself, and tossed off the rest of his wine.
Two
Those close enough acquainted with the Duchess of Avon and her delightful espièglerie could not have guessed at the secret sorrow she carried with her always. When she had been brought to bed with Dominic, she had had as easy a time of it as could be hoped for, and no one, not even the doctors, had anticipated the trouble which was to come.
Despite her strong constitution and excellent health, Léonie had borne through three miscarriages in as many years; and when the time had come for her to raise her husband’s hopes once more, she had made a prayer to le bon Dieu that this time she should be allowed to hold her child in her arms. It was, however, not to be; on a chilly winter morning she was delivered of a still-born child – a little daughter, whom she would carry in her heart always – and for a time was laid so low as to make her devoted husband fear for her life.
“It is mine fault.” Justin spoke haltingly, as though begging her forgiveness. “I should never have permitted it.”
“It is God’s will,” murmured Léonie, in a voice so unlike her own that he felt compelled to go down on one knee and press her hand to his lips in mute supplication.
No one, not even her Monseigneur, could persuade the Duchess to partake of any sustenance that day, nor for two more that followed; on the third day, his Grace was approached by a quivering nursemaid, informing him that his Lordship had not been seen since the morning, and that in vain they had attempted to extract any information from Master Andrew as to his Lordship’s whereabouts.
Avon raised an eyebrow in mild disapproval, and the poor nursemaid threatened to succumb to a fit of the vapours as she contemplated the hideous fate which undoubtedly awaited her. The Duke, however, evinced only the mildest reproach before dismissing the unfortunate creature and taking himself at once to his wife’s apartments.
He was not altogether surprised to find Vidal clutching onto his mother for dear life, peppering her face with kisses much in the same manner Léonie was always wont to do with her little one; what did in effect astonish him was that the boy, though scarcely turned four, had bethought himself to tempt his ailing parent with the tray of food which had been sitting untouched at her bedside.
“Un peu plus, maman, s’il vous plaît,” Dominic pleaded, and was at once rewarded with a tremulous smile from his mother.
“Eh bien, mon enfant,” Léonie nodded, pressing her lips to the boy’s unruly curls. When she raised her gaze at last to meet her husband’s some of the old light was back in her eyes, and he was moved to heave a sigh of relief in spite of himself.
“It is very well, mignonne,” he said in reply to her unspoken question, touching his fingers to her cheek for just a moment. “I will make it plain to Nurse that Dominic may come and go as you please.”
“Merci, Monseigneur,” murmured she, and accepted the spoonful of broth her son was valiantly trying to feed her. Conscious of a most singular sensation at the back of his throat, his Grace of Avon bowed very low and retreated.
“Is she any better?” Davenant ventured to ask some time later, as they were both settled in the library with a glass of burgundy each.
“I have every hope she shall be, in time,” Avon conceded, and for once in his life permitted himself to accept the comfort offered by an old friend.
Three
Hugh Davenant had become a permanent fixture in Avon’s household long before either Vidal or Harrison could think of questioning his rôle as unsanctioned guardian of Satanas’s progeny. Neither of the lads remotely suspected so respectable a figure for what he, in truth, was – the Duke’s longstanding lover, acknowledged by her Grace with whom he shared a deep bond of friendship.
Quite early on into their marriage, Léonie had candidly admitted to her husband that she had known of his tendresse for Davenant almost since the beginning; and although she should not have liked to share her cher seigneur with another member of her sex, she could think of no objection to his more intimate liaison with his dear friend Hugh continuing as before.
Hugh had been amazed at first, then as outraged as a man of his temperament could be; however, it had not taken long for Léonie to convince him that she was indeed in dead earnest, much to his and Avon’s mutual satisfaction. Justin continued to be as much in love with his gamine bride as ever, but some of his urges could not be satisfied by their joining – though Davenant knew it was not uncommon for her Grace to come to her husband’s bed masquerading as Léon, the page.
The marriage had thus prospered for many years, with Davenant as the unofficial third member – unacknowledged by society, yet no less indispensable to their Graces’ happiness. Hugh was godfather to both Dominic and Andrew, and the only soul admitted into the dark secret of the latter’s true descent.
It was Davenant’s professed opinion that both lads had the devil in them, and Avon should do well to send them off to Eton as soon as may be; Léonie, on the other hand, would not part so easily with her little one and the boy whom she had raised from his birth, and had pleaded with her husband to delay their departure a few months yet. Justin, for his part, could not see why he ought to provide for the base-born child of his most detested enemy, though he happened to be his own grandchild also; his good friend Armand, however, having divined something of the boy’s parentage had offered to pay for his education himself, and it was thus settled that Harrison should share Vidal’s lessons until they were both old enough for Eton.
The incident, such as it was, did happen on the eve of Dominic’s thirteenth birthday. Andrew had been in a foul mood all week, crazed with jealousy for his not-quite-brother’s title and the brilliant future ahead of him for no other merit than the mere accidents of his birth; in a fit of Saint-Vire madness, he could think of nothing worse than to insult Vidal’s mother to his face – though he was in truth quite fond of Léonie, and had come to regard her in light of the mother he had never known.
Dominic’s temper, too quick for him even at that age, was roused at once; vicious accusations were exchanged, down to the – fabricated entirely on the spot – claim that Andrew himself was the real heir to the dukedom, having been exchanged in his cradle for his dark-haired half-brother. It was Vidal who drew out his sword first, uttering a furious challenge in defiance of every accepted rule when it came to affairs of honour; Harrison was not far behind, and in a matter of moments the two were engaged in what was for all intents and purposes a fight to the death.
Heaven only knew how it would have ended, had it not been for Hugh Davenant’s providential arrival; with a muttered oath such as had seldom escaped from his mouth before, he dove straight into the fray and caught both miscreants by the scruff of their necks, effectively putting an end to the duel.
“By God, you are fortunate it is I and not Justin who caught you thus engaged,” he ejaculated, narrowly resisting the temptation to knock those two hotheads together. “Go clean yourself up, both of you, and I will perhaps consider not thrashing your bottoms as you entirely deserve.”
“You can’t do that,” Dominic spat out. “I am the Marquis of Vidal.”
“You’re a reckless little scoundrel, is what you are,” said Davenant, unmoved. “Or have you not even taken your mother’s feelings into consideration, should you have come to more serious harm?”
Vidal clutched at his bleeding arm and scowled. “This – this villain had the audacity to insult my mother! I could not for the world let it pass unchallenged.”
“Is it true?” demanded Hugh. “Answer me, you rascal.”
It was Andrew’s turn to scowl, though the effect was quite ruined by the steady trickling of blood down his cheek. “I did not mean it – I only wished to make Vidal as angry as he always does me, with his lordly airs and his better-born attitude.”
“I am better born!” exclaimed Vidal. “It is not my fault you are not my parents’ child.”
“Am I not? Answer me this, then – how comes I look more like your mother than you do?”
Dominic struggled madly to free himself from Davenant’s iron grip. “You are not my brother!” He angrily blinked away the tears which had unaccountably come to his eyes. “Maman is a respectable woman, and would never for the world do such a thing. Tell him, Hugh!”
It was with some considerable difficulty that Davenant refrained from smiling. The Duchess of Avon was many things – and entirely devoted to her Monseigneur, as he well knew – but respectable she would never truly be. “Whatever you two may be, you are most assuredly not brothers,” he told them instead. “I am sorry, Andrew, but her Grace is no more your mother than Avon is your father.”
It was the truth, of course, though not all of it; he would not for the world be made to explain to boys their age that they were simultaneously one another’s uncle and nephew.
“She is more of a mother to me than the one who saw fit to abandon me, then,” Andrew persisted. “I beg you will not let words spoken in anger come to her ears.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Hugh, and released them. “There’ll still be a reckoning to pay for you both, never fear.”
Vidal shuddered and involuntarily retreated a pace. “My father shall have my head for this piece of impudence,” he gasped, and there was very real fear in his eyes.
“If it’s any consolation, he’ll have mine first,” Harrison spoke gloomily, pressing his handkerchief to the gash on his face. “Come, we might as well have Nurse bind up our handiwork before his Grace’s wrath descends upon us.”
Dominic eyed his playfellow-turned-foe quite dubiously; a moment later he shrugged his shoulders, and fell into step at his side.
“Mad,” Davenant uttered under his breath as he watched the ungrateful brats being ushered into the house by a round-eyed lackey. If he knew aught of Alastair, those young fools would be on their merry way to Eton before Léonie had finished drying her tears; and a very good thing it would be, he decided, and went back inside.
Four
The news that Lady Emma Morton, a young widow of means and social standing had taken up Captain Andrew Harrison, the Duke of Avon’s ward, as her lover – a boy of eighteen summers at most, and scarcely out of Eton – created such a stir as had seldom been heard of in late years. It was common knowledge among the ton that Lady Morton had been married to the elderly Earl very much against her will, and that she had fallen in disgrace with his Lordship as soon as it had become apparent she could not provide him with the heir he had hoped for. It was whispered that Lord Morton, who had in his lifetime sired a great many base-born children from a succession of paid mistresses and opera dancers, was disgusted with his bride’s barren state and had in vain attempted to push her into an affair with his much younger cousin so that he might seek to divorce her on grounds of infidelity.
Lady Morton had chanced upon Captain Harrison at one of Lady Fanny Marling’s soirees; although her senior by six or seven years, she had had no difficulty at all in charming the boy into acquiescing to the sort of arrangement many members of his sex would have deemed far too demeaning to even be considered. Andrew, who had neither been born into a title nor a fortune and had moreover grown up in the shadow of Vidal’s consequence, could find nothing at all objectionable in exchanging his financial dependence from his formidable guardian for an infinitely more pleasurable situation; far from being an exacting mistress, Lady Morton demanded nothing of him that he did not willingly bestow upon her – for she was a comely one, and as generous with her purse as she was with her favours.
His Grace of Avon, who had exerted himself to purchase Harrison’s commission merely to please his Duchess, otherwise showed very little inclination to remember or even care for his ward’s continued existence. When Léonie dared at last to raise the subject of her little brother’s scandalous conduct with her husband, she was coldly informed that it was no worse than her son’s numerous dalliances, and that it would cost the boy far less than his opera dancers did Vidal.
“There is too much of my father in him, and me, I should know,” her Grace observed with unusual gravity. “I do not wish to see him unhappy for all that.”
“That is not, thankfully, my concern,” replied Avon, and took snuff.
Léonie tilted her chin up regally. “I have no desire to quarrel with you, Justin, but you know how much I dislike it when you speak like so.”
“If you recall, my love, I did try to persuade you out of your determination to wed me at the time.”
“Ah, bah!” said the Duchess of Avon. “I would have been miserable without you, Monseigneur, as you well know.”
“You flatter me, child.”
“If you must know, I am thinking of sending Andrew off to France for a time,” she charged on, unmoved. “Perhaps there is a chance my uncle can make something of him yet.”
“Pray do so, if you think it will serve,” he bowed.
“I have a very big fear he will refuse to go,” Léonie admitted. “I have it from Fanny that woman is very beautiful, and quite set upon wringing out every last bit of comfort that was denied to her while her husband lived.”
“I cannot conceive why you should wish to deprive your estimable brother of so enviable a position, then,” Avon remarked with faint irony. “Let him amuse himself, my dear – so long as he is not such a fool as to delude himself the lady means marriage, I foresee no lasting harm to the cub.”
“Eh bien,” said her Grace. “You do not like me to say it, I know, but he is your grandson with all.”
“For that, he has my condolences,” offered Justin, and it was evident that he considered the matter quite irrevocably closed.
When the engagement between Lady Morton and Sir Francis Craven was announced six months later, Armand de Saint-Vire declared himself positively delighted to host his old friend’s protégé for a few months. Far from evincing any corresponding enthusiasm, Harrison gave a desponding shrug of his shoulders and did at last permit Léonie to extract a reluctant promise that he should not put her to shame before the head of her family.
“Faith, I’d like to see what cousin Bertrand makes of him,” Vidal laughed to himself, before turning his attention to his latest light o’ love – ravishing in the new dress he had bought for her not two days earlier. Being the heir to a dukedom came with many perks, after all.
Five
It was fair to say that Vidal’s first affair of honour – if one did not count his ill-conceived quarrel with his father’s ward several years prior – was not conducted honourably by either party. In a fit of Alastair recklessness the Marquis, who had turned nineteen a mere few weeks prior, elected to dispense with such formalities as engaging the services of seconds; his adversary, though older and considerably more experienced in such matters, did not scruple to abandon the young hothead who had had the audacity to seduce his innocent sister to his fate.
Vidal did make an almost heroic attempt to crawl back to his horse; his last coherent thought before he succumbed to a dead faint was for his chère maman, and how heartbroken she should be on his account.
When he next came to his senses, he was lying on a cot inside a modest cottage, with several peasant children watching over him as if he were some creature out of a fairytale. “He is awake, mamma!” cried one of the boys. “Shall I go fetch the doctor?”
“Pray do so,” said his mother. “And take your sisters with you.”
There was peculiar meaning to her speech; Vidal, whose head was still swimming unpleasantly, barked out a somewhat pained laugh. “You flatter me, madam, but I assure you I am in no fit case to pose any serious threat to your charming daughters at present.”
“Your Lordship will pardon me if I do not take a member of your family to his word,” was all the reply he got from her; as she bent over him to check the bandages, Vidal did at last catch a glimpse of her face, and what he saw there was enough to plunge him into shocked incredulity.
“Who the devil are you?” he gasped. “And what, pray, do you know of my family?”
Those hazel eyes – almost identical to his father’s – glinted with something like disdain. “I am one of next to no import, my Lord,” she told him firmly. “A mere farmer’s wife. It will perhaps ease your Lordship’s mind to know that my eldest is at this moment on his way to alert her Grace of your late incident.”
Vidal eyed her with considerable mistrust. “Much obliged to you, madam,” he said stiffly, and permitted her to arrange him more comfortably against the pillows.
“Pray, do not consider it, my Lord,” was her curt reply. However, her hands were very gentle as she bathed his feverish temples, and it was not long before the Marquis once more succumbed to an uneasy slumber.
The next time he awoke, it was to the poking and prodding of the village surgeon, while snatches of animated conversation reached his ears through the open window.
“Monseigneur will be furious, I know it,” his mother was arguing. “It is best that he is told nothing until Dominique is better.”
“He’ll find out soon enough, Léonie,” replied Hugh Davenant. “You know he will.”
“Oh, but it was very good of you to take care of my little one,” her Grace declared with characteristic impetuosity. “I know you have no cause to love my family, but me, I am very grateful for your kindness.”
“I hope I am not so spiteful a creature as to visit his elders’ sins upon a mere boy,” said the mysterious woman. “Though I have little doubt he shall turn out just like his father.”
The Duchess let out a somewhat rueful chuckle. “He takes much after his own maman too, I fear. But you need not be made to endure his presence much longer – if the doctor permits for him to travel, I shall take him down to Avon at once.”
As much as Vidal abhorred country life, nothing appeared more tempting at this moment than to be spared his father’s wrath a little longer. “Well?” he demanded imperiously of the little surgeon. “Do I pass muster, my good fellow?”
“Your Lordship has been very fortunate in being spared much more serious consequences from your encounter,” was the prim answer. “As it is, I recommend your Lordship to remain abed a few days yet.”
“Nevertheless, you will oblige me by informing my mother that I am indeed fit to travel,” commanded his Lordship. “Any remaining concerns you might have will be assuaged, I am sure, by my assurance that all his Grace’s carriages are beautifully sprung, and I need suffer very little jolting on that account.”
The little surgeon appeared to be carefully considering the possible outcomes of a refusal to comply with the Marquis’s not particularly amiable request. “As your Lordship desires,” he bowed, and prudently removed himself from the irascible young man’s presence.
“Oh, but you are of a wickedness, mon enfant,” his mother’s affectionate scolding reached him a moment later. “Is it not enough for you defy Monseigneur’s commands at every turn that you go and seek to be killed in a duel?”
“I am very sorry, maman,” Vidal made his apologies with for once genuine contrition, bringing her hand to his lips. “I promise it will not happen again.”
“Fiddle,” exclaimed Davenant. “Don’t waste your time in making promises you know very well you shan’t keep, boy.”
Vidal pouted. “You need not have come, Hugh, and you know it.”
“Need I not? I’ll send your father next time, then.”
His Lordship achieved a shudder. “I beg you do not.”
“We will discuss this later,” interrupted her Grace. “Hugh, if you be so kind, we need to get Dominique in the travelling coach without his wounds opening up once more.”
By the time he had been put into the coach and propped up with cushion, Vidal was utterly exhausted and in a good deal of pain. Still, he managed one final, curious glance for the woman to whom he did, to all appearances, owe his life.
A question danced on the tip of his tongue, and was swiftly banished as soon as he met Davenant’s admonishing glare. Pressing the woman’s hand warmly between her own, the Duchess thanked her once more for her services and took her leave of her.
Vidal shut his eyes, and did his best to vanish the uncomfortable suspicion from his mind.
Six
Léonie’s repeated entreaties in the run-up of Andrew’s majority that he should on no account inquire into the circumstances of his birth had fallen pretty much on deaf ears. On the very day he turned one and twenty Captain Harrison applied to his guardian, claiming he had a right to the truth of his parentage; that he was a base-born child of the Saint-Vire blood he knew, for although Armand had been at pains to neither confirm nor deny the allegation, the likeness was too striking to be ignored.
His Grace of Avon, who had seldom evinced any warmer feeling for his son and heir than he did his objectionable ward, on this occasion regarded the boy with such coldness as to very nearly prompt him to desist from his intent. “Have you considered, my child, there are circumstances which make obliviousness the greatest mercy that can be bestowed upon one?”
Harrison’s hard grey eyes flashed with the full measure of the Saint-Vire temper. “That’s as may be, sir, but I would rather have the truth, if you please.”
“I do not please,” drawled the Duke. “However, since you will have it, it is incumbent upon me to inform you that you are indeed a bastard child of Henri de Saint-Vire, brother to the present Comte; you are, therefore, her Grace’s half-brother on your father’s side, while on your mother’s side you share the dubious honour of being my twice illegitimate grandson.”
“Your – grandson?” faltered Andrew. “How can I be that?”
“In the same way you will one day find yourself a grandparent through that unfortunate tavern wench whom I was called to provide for, I suspect.”
Harrison flushed and set his teeth. “She was willing enough at the time,” he protested. “And there is only her word that the child is mine.”
“That, I do not doubt,” Avon said coldly. “Nevertheless, it pleased her Grace to be generous with the creature, as mine own sire had once been with the chambermaid in his employ who was shortly to be delivered of your, er, future mother. I believe it all came to be shortly after your estimable aunt’s hand was peremptorily denied to me by my very dear friend Saint-Vire – though that is one sin I cannot very easily lie at his door, regardless of how much I should like to.”
“But my mother,” interrupted Andrew. “What became of her? Is she alive?”
“As far as I know, she enjoys excellent health. At her Grace’s bidding, I did see to it that she was suitably married to a man of her own station, whom I believe she has presented in due course with several children. She does not, however, evince any desire to become acquainted with the product of your father’s villainy, nor does she wish for her children to ever meet with their elder half-brother.”
Harrison’s countenance was perfectly pale when he spoke at last. “So, that is how it is, is it not? My father did force himself upon an unwilling female, who was then compelled to give me up as proof of infamy.”
“That is a fair summation of the circumstances,” said the Duke. “You will perhaps recall both myself and her Grace did warn you against delving any further into the shameful secret surrounding your birth.”
A wild laugh broke out of the boy. “Your concern for my wellbeing is touching, sir – more so since I cannot remember ever discerning any sign of grandfatherly feeling in your Grace’s exalted breast.”
Avon’s brows rose in faint surprise. “I cannot conceive that you should have benefited from it in the slightest. But I beg you do not distress yourself – of all the bastard grandchildren I very likely possess there is not another who has ever, or will ever, enjoy all the privileges you have been afforded solely on account of your consanguinity with her Grace.”
“Much obliged to you, sir,” bowed Harrison. “But I’ll have no more of it, an it please you.”
“You may be my brother-in-law, child,” his Grace observed urbanely. “It does not follow I was ever under any obligation to provide for you, or even less to bestir myself to manifest the kind of affection Vidal will no doubt tell you I am incapable of. It might interest you to know that your Saint-Vire uncle has made generous provisions for you to access upon the reaching of your majority, thereby rendering your continued dependence on my goodwill entirely redundant from now on.”
“Praise the Lord for that,” Andrew exclaimed with feeling. “You may believe me when I say my uncle shall have my undying gratitude for severing the ties of so ill-favoured a connection! Never have I been happier to take my leave of you, sir, and I hope I may never be called upon to do it again in the future!”
He was gone on the word, slamming the door shut with enough force to startle the unfortunate lackey who was at that moment coming down the passage. He would have quit the house with equal haste, had it not been for Léonie anxiously awaiting him at the foot of the stairs.
“Do not tell me you have quarrelled with Monseigneur, mon enfant,” she pleaded with him. “I own it is not pleasant to discover the truth about Monsieur de Saint-Vire – who was in very truth a pig person, as I have said many times – but you are not to visit your anger for his wickedness upon Monsieur le Duc, who has shown much kindness in taking you in and raising you almost as a second son.”
Andrew regaled his half-sister with a derisive look. “I would not say the word ‘kindness’ belongs to his Grace’s vocabulary. There is not the smallest need for your distress, madam – I am not enough of an Alastair for his Grace to concern himself with my affairs any longer, and although the circumstances of my birth prevent me from ever claiming the Saint-Vire name as my own, I would much rather be a bastard nephew of the good Armand than the unworthy ward of the Duke of Avon.”
Two great tears welled up in Léonie’s eyes. “I did all I could for you, mon petit. It breaks my heart to find it was never enough.”
His countenance softened almost against his will. “You yourself are blameless in this matter, madam. Pray do not consider me so ungrateful as to fail to see that.”
“I have loved you almost like a second son,” said Léonie. “Even if you never let me set eyes on you again, I want you to remember that.”
“You should never have been called to do so, madam.” He shook his head gravely. “But you will always have my filial affection, however unworthy of your consideration it must undoubtedly be.”
Andrew drew himself up to his full height, and with unwonted solemnity brought her smaller hand to his lips. “Adieu, ma sœur aînée, et que Dieu vous bénisse!”
In another moment he was gone, leaving Léonie to dry her tears before she proceeded in due course to her husband’s private study. Not by the turn of a hair did any of the lackeys in attendance betray having taken the smallest notice of the painful scene they had just witnessed; when one of the footmen who had not been in the Duke’s employ above a month dared venture an impertinent remark about Captain Harrison’s hasty departure, he was roundly scolded by his Grace’s major-domo and told he should do well to remember he was to mind his own business at all times.
Happy 100th birthday to the great David Attenborough, and let's remember, amid all the recollections of his many contributions to nature and knowledge, that young Attenborough could definitely get it.
it is unfortunate that there's no reason for most people to remember high school chemistry because the best analogy I have found for "the amount of energy that it takes me to initiate a task, which can be higher than the amount of energy it takes to actually complete the task" is "activation energy" and it's not precisely perfect but
yeah. and you can even include "thing that reduces the barrier to doing the task" as a catalyst/enzyme
anyway. unfortunately this does not actually clarify anything for the average person. but #ToMe it works
A These Old Shades ficlet. Background Justin/Léonie. Content warning: non-graphic depiction of rape, period-typical sexism/classism, period-typical attitudes towards consent, unwed pregnancies, and illegitimacy. Part of my Colère de Diable series.
Saint-Vire had been scouring the woods around Avon Court since daybreak, and was growing more impatient with every passing hour. It was imperative he got his hands on the child as soon as might be; he knew well enough that Monsieur le Duc had the devil’s own luck, and the Comte did not dare to trust his own to hold against Satanas himself.
His temper, always quick to rise at the slightest provocation, was fast approaching boiling point. That Alastair had had the audacity to flaunt his page before the eyes of society – he swore under his breath and swung about, very nearly colliding with a peasant girl who had been coming up the path from the opposite direction.
“Your pardon, Milor’,” she curtsied hurriedly. “I did not see you.”
He was about to brush past her with very little deference for common courtesy when some instinct or premonition prompted him to look again. The hazel eyes were unmistakable, even without the raven locks to accompany them, and he very nearly startled as realisation hit him.
“So that’s how it is, is it not?” he spoke softly, and in French. “An eye for an eye, Monsieur le Duc – we shall see how you like it.”
He seized the girl by the waist, and before she could do so much as let out a scream he had covered her mouth with his hand. “Be quiet, you,” he warned her, in English this time. “You lay still, and I shan’t hurt you any more than is necessary.”
Those hazel eyes glanced up at him in mingled terror and supplication. “Your fine father has had the affrontery to take something which belongs to me; it is only right that I should pay him back in his own coin.”
It was over in a few minutes. When he was done, he did not even spare a second glance for the child trembling piteously at her feet as she struggled to cover herself up.
“Now for the business at hand,” he told himself, striding away with brisk determination. “We’ll see who has the luck this time, madame page.”
.
Léonie had set her heart upon removing to Avon immediately as she had discovered herself with child. “It is where you were born, Monseigneur,” she informed her husband with a firmness quite out of keeping with her character. “I think it only right that your heir should be born there, also.”
“It is no matter to me,” Justin saw fit to object. “Besides, I am quite certain you should be more comfortable in London that buried away in the countryside, ma mie.”
“Mais non, Monseigneur,” Léonie had told him candidly. “I liked Avon Court, oh, much – only, you are not to leave me alone in Madame Field’s charge this time, n’est-ce pas?”
“Perish the thought,” said Avon, and promptly summoned Gaston to see to the necessary arrangements.
.
Despite his solemn promise that he was on no account to remove himself from Avon for extended periods of time, Justin was still required to travel to town on occasion to transact some business related to the management of his properties. It was on one of such occurrences that Léonie, striving to escape her growing ennui, managed to abscond from the constant watch of her faithful abigail and the footman whose charge it was to always ensure her Grace’s wellbeing.
As much as she should have wished to ride out in the fields as she had once been in the habit to do, she was not so foolish as to put herself and the child at risk. She would content herself with a visit to the stables, and perhaps a short walk within view of Avon Court; all she longed for was the freedom to be alone with her thoughts, and not always the Duchess of Avon and her Grace.
The woods were as lovely as she remembered, and although they brought back unpleasant memories of her abduction as the hands of her pig person of a father, she swiftly banished them in favour of the infinitely more amusing recollection of the time she had spent in Rupert’s company.
She did not immediately perceive she was being followed, and when she did at length, she caught herself longing for the light sword Monseigneur had given her as a wedding gift, or even the dagger Léon the page had always been in the habit of carrying on his person.
“Who’s there?” she called out instead. “Show yourself, if you are not a coward.”
Much to her surprise, the figure which came forward was that of a girl about her own age, with a hood and cloak wrapped tightly about her. “I did not mean to frighten you, milady. It is only that I have been trying to see the Duke these past two weeks and more, but the lackeys at the door would not for the world let me in.”
“I am Monsieur le Duc’s wife,” said Léonie. “You may speak to me, if you like.”
The girl seemed to hesitate. “It is something of a private nature. I should not wish to importune madame.” She cast about her hands in a despairing gesture as she spoke, and as she did so the cloak fell away to reveal enough of her secret to Léonie’s shrewd eye.
“You can tell me nothing of Monseigneur’s indiscretions that I do not already know,” Léonie spoke perhaps more harshly than she had intended. She had never spared a moment’s thought for the numerous affairs Justin had been in the habit of carrying before he had wed her; it should not matter that he had perhaps done the same with this girl, if it weren’t for the child Léonie was carrying at this very moment.
Angrily, she snatched her hat away, and was surprised to see the girl’s eyes flicker nervously to her hair. “Is madame – French, perhaps? I beg pardon, but you have a great look of that – that man.”
“What man?” snapped Léonie.
“The man who did this to me,” the girl said in a whisper, and promptly burst into tears.
.
His Grace of Avon was not best pleased upon his return to discover that his wife had taken it upon herself to house a peasant girl of no birth and even more inappropriate connections.
“I do not know or care what the child may have said to you,” he informed Léonie in no uncertain terms. “I shall not under any circumstance tolerate her presence under my own roof.”
“As you are always so fond of reminding me, Monseigneur, I am the Duchess of Avon, and I say she is here at my own pleasure.”
He saw the light of battle come up in her eyes, and his mouth hardened. “Léonie, I will have you remember I shall no more brook my wife’s defiance than I did my page’s, or indeed my ward’s.”
“And I say I will not tolerate my husband to turn hypocrite on me, least of all because of my years and my sex,” she retorted with the full measure of the Saint-Vire hauteur. “I know what that girl is, and me, I will not permit that she suffers the horrid fate which no doubt awaits her.”
“My dear, I never pretended to be a better man than I am,” he spoke with faint sarcasm. “No doubt I have a great many base-born children to my name, scattered across England and France alike. I will have no more to do with them than I shall this girl whom you had the affrontery to bring in here.”
“You do not understand, Justin,” Léonie shook her head impatiently. “She is with child.”
Avon’s lips twitched in a rather unpleasant smile. “She would have done well to consider the consequences of her own actions. Her mother was, if remember correctly, handsomely compensated by my esteemed parent for any inconvenience I might have caused her; she might as well try her luck with the family of the man who fathered her bastard.”
Léonie’s lips trembled with sudden emotion. “That is precisely what she did. As that man’s daughter, I have given her my word that I shall take care of her until the child is born, and then we will see what is to be done.”
His Grace appeared to have nothing whatsoever to say in reply to so extraordinary a pronouncement, but his wife saw his narrowed eyes and his fingers clenched hard around his snuff-box. “I will speak to the child,” he acquiesced at length. “Alone, Léonie – do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, Monseigneur.” She dropped him a mock curtsy. “I will be a good wife now, and retire to my apartments.”
“I did not force her mother to take me, if that is what you think of me,” he warned her, though there was uncharacteristic hesitancy to his words.
The Duchess’s big eyes opened very wide. “I never thought that for a moment, Justin,” she admitted candidly. “Though you might perhaps own it is rather difficult for a girl in a nobleman’s employ to deny the son of the house anything he sees fit to ask.”
“Your concern is noted, my dear.” He made her a magnificent leg. “You have my word no son of mine shall ever lay a finger on any of the serving maids under my employ.”
“Bon,” said Léonie, and retreated.
.
Diana had been informed of her parentage by her mother as she lay on her deathbed, and therefore cherished no filial affection whatsoever for her noble father. She had been fifteen back then, and had now just turned twenty; she had lived in her uncle’s home for the past five years, until the latter had discovered the truth about her condition and had no qualms in casting his only niece onto the streets for committing the same kind of indiscretion as his unfortunate sister.
His Grace of Avon, for his part, appeared even less disposed to bestow an ounce of paternal feeling upon the child he had no doubt fathered merely to satisfy his carnal urges. The Duke’s reputation was well known at Avon, and although Diana could not credit the young Duchess’s assurances that he was now an altogether reformed character, she could not but wonder whether he felt any genuine affection for his young bride.
“Am I understand that the Comte de Saint-Vire took you by force, my good child?” his Grace inquired of her in rather frigid tones. “You did not, shall we say, encourage his attentions, nor were in any way compensated for your services?”
Her cheeks were stained crimson with indignation. “Whatever you may think of me, your Grace, I am not a loose woman,” she told him. “I do not know the gentleman’s name, only that he was French, and that he bore a striking likeness to the Duchess. But I believe he was acquainted with you, sir, for he spoke of his – his act – as payment for something you did to him.”
The frown between the Duke’s brows deepened. “However inhuman I may appear to you, I did not for a moment imagine that Monsieur le Comte should take it in his head to exact his revenge upon an innocent. You will permit me to make my apologies for this, my poor child.”
“I thank you, sir, I do not desire your apologies,” Diana said bitterly. “The only reason why I was compelled to turn to your Grace for help is that I had no one else in the world, since my uncle has elected to wash his hands of me.”
“You are aware, perhaps, that – something – could be done to amend the necessity of fostering a base-born child of the Saint-Vire upon the world?”
Diana’s face was perfectly pale as she replied: “I was made aware of that, sir. I cannot consent to it, not even to save myself from ruin.”
The Duke’s elegant eyebrows twitched slightly. “Are you telling me you are prepared to raise the child of the man who forced himself upon you?”
“I do not know that I could. Still, the child does not deserve to die for all that.”
“Do you suppose I should wish to house a twice-bastard child who could only bring scandal upon my name and that of my wife?”
“Her Grace says she will arrange everything,” Diana persisted. “Once the child is born, you need never see me again.”
“You will no doubt forgive me, but I believe I could easily dispense with the pleasure.”
“Oh, I am well aware that you Grace never gave a fig for my existence. You need not fear, I never aspired to the honour of being acknowledged by the noble family of Alastair.”
Avon regarded her with faint amusement. “Your animosity towards me is perfectly understandable, my child; it might interest you to be made aware that you mother knew well enough what she was about – or thought she did, which I will admit is perhaps not always one and the same thing. In any event, my father saw to it that she was respectably married to a good farmer in his employ; should you wish it, I am prepared to perform the same office for you, provided that you are discreet and make no mention of your own parentage, or indeed this child’s.”
“Your generosity overwhelms me, sir,” she curtsied as low as her growing midsection allowed her, and begged leave to retire.
.
The Duchess of Avon emerged from the birth-room quite pale, yet perfectly mistress of herself. Her husband, still furious about her determination to attend the birth of her half-sibling in defiance of his direct orders, could not be brought to acknowledge her presence until she swayed in her exhaustion, and he was at once at her side to deposit her onto the nearest chair.
“I would not have you see that for the world, ma chère,” he told her, and could not entirely keep a note of genuine concern from his tone.
“Ah, bah,” said Léonie. “I am not a coward, me, and my time will come soon enough.”
“I am more and more convinced I should not have permitted it.”
“That is foolish, Monseigneur, and you know it. Of course you need an heir, and me, I should like above all things to be the mother of your child.”
“Nevertheless,” said Avon, pressing a glass of very weak ratafia into her grateful hands. Léonie sipped a mouthful, and turned at once to confront her husband.
“It is a boy, Justin – my little, little brother – and he has red hair, like mine.”
The Duke shook his head gravely. “I feared that it might be so. Is the girl still set on giving up the child?”
“Mais oui, Monseigneur – one could not ask her to always be reminded of what my father did to her – he was a pig person, Justin, and I should have liked to shoot him dead, oh, much.”
“Of that, I have no doubt, ma fille,” he sighed. “Does the child have a name?”
“I thought perhaps Andrew, after my older brother André, who was still-born. Monseigneur, you shall do as you please, of course, but I should so much like for you to take him in as your ward, and that he should grow up together with our little one.”
“He is in very truth a child of the devil,” Avon objected. “You may one day live to regret it, ma mie.”
“I do not see why I should,” said Léonie. “He is as much of a Saint-Vire as your son shall be, and an Alastair, too.”
“You forget you might as well be carrying a girl, mignonne.”
Léonie appeared to give the matter some consideration. “I might, that is true. However, I am very much convinced it is a son, and if I am correct, then I say his name shall be Dominique.”
“Dominic,” his Grace corrected her, pressing her fingers lightly to his lips.
He could not, she realised, drag an unwilling bride to the altar, but if he succeeded in transporting her all the way to Dijon she felt that she would be then in so much worse a predicament that marriage with him would be the only thing left to her.
In Paris the quarrel between Mr Comyn and Miss Marling reaches a much more satisfactory conclusion. With no preux chevalier to offer her his hand in marriage, Miss Challoner does not succeed in preventing Lord Vidal from carrying her off to Dijon.
A Devil's Cub multichapter. Vidal/Mary. Canon divergence.
Devil, he dragged me down
Devil, he dragged me down
Pomegranate seeds and a flower crown
Devil, he dragged me down
Mama's been looking for me, yeah
Mama's been looking for me
Stone-cold summer, dead of spring
Mama's been looking for me
He said, "Will you be mine?" I said, "No, sir"
I begged, "Let me go" and he said, "No, ma'am"
I get what I want, one way or the other
I'll own your heart and soul, my lover
Six feet under
Devil, bargain with me, yeah
Devil, won't you bargain with me?
'Cause I miss the sun and meadows green
Devil, won't you bargain with me?
'Cause the birds, they sing no more
The flowers, they grow no more
If you let me go, I'll come back once more
It's all I'm asking for
He said, "Will you be mine?" I said, "Yes, sir (yes, sir)
If you let me go," and he said, "Yes, ma'am" (yes, ma'am)
'Cause I get what I want, one way or the other
I'll own your heart and soul, my lover
Six feet under
Kore, Kore, Fauna and Flora (hey)
How did you get your throne?
You made a deal, traded daffodils
For a kingdom of ash and bone (bone, bone)
Kore, Kore, Fauna and Flora
How did you get your throne? (Hey)
You made a deal, you traded daffodils
For a kingdom of ash and bone
I get what I want, one way or the other
I'll own your heart and soul, my lover
Six feet, six feet, six feet under
— Julian Moon —
Chapter One: Miss Challoner’s Hopes Come to Nought
‘Oh, very well, ma’am, if you prefer the attentions of Frederick Comyn!’ said the Marquis in a hard voice. ‘Be good enough to listen to what I have to say. I have discovered, through Carruthers, of the Ambassador’s suite, that there is a divine, lately passed through Paris, bear-leading some sprig of the nobility. They are bound for Italy by easy stages, and at this present are to be found in Dijon, where it appears they are making a stay of two weeks. He’s the man to do our business for us. I am about to abduct you for the second and last time, Miss Challoner.’ She made no reply. His eyes reached her face. ‘Well, have you nothing to say?’
‘I have said it all so many times, my lord.’
He turned away impatiently. ‘Make the best of me, ma’am; you dislike me cordially, no doubt. I’ll admit you have reason. But you may know, if it interests you, that I am offering what I have never offered to any woman before.’
‘You offer it because you feel you must,’ said Mary in a low voice. ‘And I thank you – but I refuse your offer.’
‘Nevertheless, ma’am, you’ll start with me for Dijon tomorrow.’
She raised her eyes to his face. ‘You cannot wrest me by force from this house, my lord.’
‘Can’t I?’ he said. His lip curled. ‘We shall see. Don’t try to escape me. I should run you to earth within a day, and if you put me to that trouble you might find my temper unpleasant.’ He walked to the door. ‘I have the honour to bid you good night,’ he said curtly, and went out.
Hours later, a scratch at the door to her bed-chamber heralded Miss Marling’s return. Juliana was still in her ball dress, but the delicate flush to her cheeks led Miss Challoner to infer that Mr Comyn’s promised interview with his intended had met with a signal – and hitherto unanticipated – success.
“It was all a misunderstanding,” Juliana said radiantly. “Frederick tells me we are indebted to you for our present happiness, and I feel like I could never thank you enough for your kindness.”
Despite her present worries, Miss Challoner somehow achieved a smile. “I am relieved to hear it. Mr Comyn seems to me a perfectly amiable gentleman, and very much attached to you; he will make an excellent husband, I am sure of it.”
Juliana held her hands quite warmly. “We shall be on our way to Dijon presently. Vidal has apprised my dear Frederick of the whereabout of an English divine – Mary, what is it?”
Miss Challoner’s face was perfectly pale as she removed her hands from her friend’s clasp. “Juliana, I must beg of you once more – my Lord Vidal is intent on carrying me off to Dijon, and I have little enough hope of escaping without your help.”
“I do not see why you should wish to escape at all,” Miss Marling shook her head. “If you must know, I am quite set upon having you as my cousin – it will be famous, upon my word it shall be!”
“You do not appear to understand,” Mary said with some asperity. “I am not at all the sort of wife his Lordship would have chosen for himself, even less one who could ever hope to meet with his family’s approval. If you have any feelings for me at all, or indeed for your cousin, I implore you to assist me out of this plight.”
Juliana gave out a little laugh. “If Dominic means to wed you, he shall carry it off, mark my words – and in Uncle Justin’s teeth, too.” She patted her friend’s hand comfortingly. “You will make a splendid Marchioness, I vow.”
“You’d better go to bed, Juliana,” Miss Challoner sighed, and sank back disconsolately against the pillows.
Chapter Two: My Lord Vidal Carries His Point
Miss Challoner had barely exchanged above two words with his Lordship over the entirety of the journey, and that despite Vidal’s impulsive decision to bear her company in the chaise – much to Mr Fletcher’s and Mr Timms’s amazement.
The Marquis did at last lose his tenuous hold on his temper somewhere in the vicinity of Pont-de-Moine. “My family need not worry you,” he snapped, goaded by Mary’s steadfast refusal to engage in any of his attempts at conversation. “Once we are married, I will make sure you are treated with the proper respect that is due to my wife.”
“It is all very well for you to say so, my Lord,” Miss Challoner replied with awful politeness. “So did my father, I am told, before he was disowned by his own father.”
“I do not wish to speak ill of your mother,” his Lordship began somewhat irritably. “Then let us not speak at all, my Lord,” said Miss Challoner, and turned to look out of the window.
.
Upon being informed of the identity of the visitor so greatly daring as to impose his presence under his illustrious host’s own roof, Mr Hammond had been at first affronted, then as disgusted as a gentleman of his temperament and position in life could afford to be. However, the exigencies of his own situation had soon prevailed over his innate sense of decency, and he had given his Lordship his reluctant promise that he should attend him and his prospective bride as soon as was convenient.
For her part, Miss Challoner did approach her upcoming nuptials very much in the spirit of a convict escorted to the gallows. “No need to look like that, my girl,” Vidal observed somewhat sarcastically as he proffered his arm. “We both know your precious sister would sell her pretty eyes to be in your place right now.”
Being reminded of her sister’s folly at the very moment she was compelled to steal a husband from her nearly proved to be too much for Miss Challoner’s composure. “I never really thought you cruel, my Lord, but I own I am beginning to cherish some doubts.”
“You will do well to remember I never sought to deceive you, ma’am,” he said coldly, and led her on.
.
Miss Challoner – no, she was my Lady Vidal now, she remembered with a pang of something which was almost, but not quite like shame – suffered herself to be led back to the inn by her new husband. She could not shake the miserable feeling that in consenting to this ill-conceived alliance she had just condemned them both to a life of unhappiness; there was nothing to be done but to hope that it was not in his Grace’s power to disinherit his son, and as for everything else, she would strive to bear it with as much patience as she could contrive.
When the Marquis paused before the door to her bed-chamber, she felt her courage desert her at last; something of it must have shown on her face, for Vidal’s voice was unusually kind when he addressed her. “I shall not disturb you tonight,” he sought to reassure her. “I will eventually require an heir to come out of this marriage, but there is time enough, and it need not be until you are quite ready to take me of your own volition.”
Mary remembered the alarming glitter in his eyes back in Dieppe, and the deafening report of the pistol as she desperately pulled the trigger. “Much obliged to you, my Lord,” she dropped him a curtsy, and promptly made to retire.
.
Had my Lord Vidal been in the slightest prone to self-examination, he might have stopped to consider the reasons for his own seething frustration when faced with the unwonted restraint Mary had begun affecting in his regards. As it was, he barely stopped to consign Miss Sophia and all the scores of unreasonable females to the devil before throwing himself upon the bed, and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
If his valet was ostensibly displeased in the morning at his deplorable lack of care with his garments, he retained enough sense to keep his objections to himself. No sooner had Mr Timms finished tying his cravat that his master summarily dismissed him; upon being informed that her Ladyship was not yet dressed, the Marquis took himself to the private parlour he had bespoken for his own convenience, and walked plump into what he might have under different circumstances regarded as a scene straight out of a second-rate farce.
His uncle Rupert was standing in the middle of the coffee-room, and appeared to be in the middle of delivering a heartfelt homily to a gentleman Vidal soon recognised as Mr Comyn. A few paces behind them, he perceived his cousin Juliana in the act of being upbraided – insofar as his mother could be said to perform any such familial duty – by no lesser a personage than the Duchess of Avon.
“Thunder an’ Turf,” ejaculated the Marquis, thus obtaining the dubious honour of becoming the undivided focus of attention. “What the devil brings you all here?”
Her Grace at once rushed to him. “Dominique, where is that girl? Juliana tells me you came here on purpose to marry her, and I do not know what Monseigneur will say, but I am very sure that at last you have broken my heart. Oh, Dominique, I did not want you to wed such a one as that!”
“Aunt Léonie!” came Juliana’s urgent whisper, and Vidal turned to perceive his Mary standing in the doorway, her cheeks as white as her tucker as she quietly excused herself and prepared to leave. His Lordship, however, proved himself quicker, and possessing himself of her arm led her forward with punctilious courtesy.
“Maman, Uncle Rupert, I beg leave to present my Lady Vidal, who has done me the great honour of becoming my wife.”
Mary held herself very still at his side, quite conscious of everyone’s scrutiny. She could see the look of reproach in the Duchess’s expressive eyes, and her heart sank further in despair.
Chapter Three: A Family Gathering
Her Grace regarded the quiet, dignified figure on her son’s arm, her disapproval swiftly giving way to wonderment. “Voyons, are you the sister of that other one? But it is not at all credible, I find.”
“Léonie, my dear,” interposed Rupert, noticing at once the dangerous glint in his nephew’s eyes.
“I do not mean to be rude,” the Duchess said candidly. “But I am not a fool, me, and I see now that this child is entirely respectable, and not at all like the sister whom I found detestable.”
Mr Comyn cleared his throat and addressed himself to the lady whom he had formerly known as Miss Challoner. “May I be permitted to offer my felicitations, madam?”
“You are very kind, sir,” Mary smiled rather wanly, doing her utmost to ignore her husband’s piercing stare. “Have I reason to believe you are soon to be felicitated yourself?”
A quick frown creased her Grace’s brow. “Fanny would not be at all pleased, I know it. Perhaps it would be better for Juliana to come back with me, and then we shall think of something.”
“Devil a bit!” Lord Rupert exclaimed. “The chit can’t elope from under Elizabeth’s nose without half of Paris talking about it, Léonie. It’s better she marries quietly and has done with it – Lord only knows how we are going to break the news to Fanny, or to Justin, for that matter.”
“I shan’t leave Dijon unless it be as Frederick’s wife,” Juliana said belligerently. “I do not care what any of you has to say about it.”
“I anticipate Mr Hammond shall be beyond delighted to be called once more to perform his services for a member of our family,” Vidal observed drily, the ghost of a smile touching his lips for but a moment.
.
The cavalcade which set out from Dijon later that day was a spectacle not at all likely to soon be forgotten. The Marquis of Vidal rode ahead of the group, his thunderous mien a stark contrast with the look of ecstatic delight which was plain to see on Mr and Mrs Comyn’s face, who shared the first chaise; then came Lord Rupert’s coach, half of which was taken up by several dozens of bottles of fine burgundy and even finer port his Lordship had insisted they purchase from the baffled landlord. Then came the Duchess’s own chaise – with the Avon crest blazoned on the door – inside which the newly minted Marchioness sat opposite her Grace, striving to put up a placid front for the benefit of the onlookers.
It was not until they were a few miles away from Dijon that Léonie did at last address her new daughter. “Now, tell me, petite – are you quite well? If what you say about your sister is true, I fear Dominique must have behaved quite abominably towards you – it runs in the family, you see, and my son, he can have the devil’s own temper sometimes.”
Mary shook her head with the suggestion of a reminiscent smile. “He has a dreadful reputation, but he is not wicked at heart. He is nothing but a wild, passionate, spoiled boy.”
A sudden twinkle came up in her Grace’s eyes. “You seem to understand him quite well, ma fille – better than most, I say, and me, I should know.”
Mary looked down at her hands folded quite primly in her lap. “You must believe me, madam, I did all I could to talk him out of this foolish notion to wed me. I always knew an alliance between two such as us was out of the question, and I now regret I did not stand firmer in my conviction; had I had any notion of your Grace’s imminent arrival, I should never have consented to be led to the altar in such a rough-and-ready fashion.”
“I wonder,” Léonie said thoughtfully. “You are not at all the sort of girl Dominique is wont to amuse himself with, you see.”
“That I do know,” Mary conceded with quiet resignation. “You need not fear, madam – it is not for me to interfere in my Lord Vidal’s concerns, and he made it quite plain we need see very little of each other once I have presented him with an heir.”
Léonie shook her head, her copper curls bouncing quite engagingly about her face. “That is not at all what I meant to say, my child. But it is not for me, perhaps – Dominique would not take it kindly were I to give away all his secrets. But he is his father’s son, you know – and that is why I have a very good notion it will do quite well after all.”
Although she could not make sense of the Duchess somewhat obscure remarks, Mary thought it prudent to refrain from comment. “I hope his Grace will not take it too unkindly to his son’s marriage,” she ventured instead, all the time knowing it to be a forlorn hope.
“You may leave Monseigneur to me,” Léonie smiled bravely; it did not quite succeed in fooling her daughter-in-law, though not for lack of trying.
.
“You know I shall do all that I can for you, mon petit, but have you considered – what if Monseigneur should be enraged that you have taken it upon yourself to marry this Mary Challoner?”
Vidal’s thin lips were set in a hard, uncompromising fashion. “If it leads to an estrangement between us I am sorry for it, but it cannot be undone now.” He poured some more of Rupert’s burgundy, pausing only to favour Mary with a careless nod as she made her own measured entrance into the private parlour.
Léonie watched on in some amazement the exchange of glances between husband and wife – one defiant, the other mutely reproachful – until Vidal pushed his glass away and stood. “I trust you did sleep well, my dear.”
Something pained crossed Mary’s expression at being thus addressed. “Tolerably well, my Lord,” she answered at length. “Under the circumstances.”
The Marquis’s brows drew together in one of his blackest frowns. “Circumstances be damned,” he said crushingly. “And I would have you remember I did request to be addressed by my Christian name.”
“I do not think it proper, my Lord,” came Mary’s firm reply.
“You are my wife, madam.”
“So you keep reminding me, my Lord.” She dropped him a mock curtsy, unheeding of the dangerous glint in his eyes.
It was only with the greatest difficulty that Léonie managed to conceal her amusement. “I will go and find Rupert now, I think,” she announced, leaving her son and her new daughter to argue in comfort.
“Voyons, la petite is quite capable of holding her own, I find,” she said confidingly, even as Rupert went on inspecting the dinner they were about to be served. “She shall do very well for Dominique, and me, I should know.”
“If you say so, Léonie,” Lord Rupert shrugged, and directed the servants to lay the covers at once.
Chapter Four: The Coming of His Grace of Avon
They arrived at the Hôtel Charbonne early the next day. Tante Elizabeth was as dismayed as a gentlewoman of her temperament could be, but she graciously consented to hosting Mr and Mrs Comyn as they awaited the upcoming arrival of Lady Fanny and her son. Léonie had assured her cousin that she had taken it upon herself to write to her sister-in-law explaining the circumstances of Juliana’s flight, and that Elizabeth would not be called to share in Fanny’s outrage for the perceived mésalliance.
“He is a young man tres comme il faut, that one,” Madame nodded to herself. “It is a pity that they should choose to make a scandal of it, of course, but he is at least quite respectable.”
“While I, of course, am not,” drawled Vidal. “I thank you, Tante.”
Mary experienced the sudden and somewhat hysterical impulse to give in to mirth, but she checked it. “A gentleman of extraordinary impropriety, I seem to recall, my Lord.”
The smile in his Lordship’s eyes was quite genuine as he turned to correct her. “Surely you mean a nobleman, my dear.”
Her answering smile did at last succeed in smoothing some of the lines from her face. “Certainly, my Lord.”
Unobserved by all, Juliana and Mr Comyn exchanged knowing glances. “Head over ears, I tell you,” whispered Juliana, and was gratified by her husband’s immediate agreement.
.
The rest of the party was welcomed at the door of the Hôtel Avon by no less a personage than his Grace’s personal valet. “Gaston!” cried out Léonie in a most unladylike fashion. “Has Monseigneur come? Tiens, I must see him at once!”
She was gone on the word, leaving Rupert to shake his head in gloomy anticipation of a meeting with his formidable brother. Vidal tightened his lips and turned to offer his arm to Mary; she looked quite pale, but otherwise composed, and did not betray any of the uneasiness she indeed felt.
“You are an Alastair now, my girl,” the Marquis sought to remind her. “Even my father can do nothing to change that.”
Mary said nothing, only compressed her lips and made to follow.
.
“But you do not understand, Justin,” Léonie was at that very moment pleading with her husband. “She is the very one for Dominique, I say, and the granddaughter of your very good friend Sir Giles. So you see, it is not so bad a mésalliance after all; the child is entirely respectable and in very truth a lady – I promise she shall do quite well as a Marchioness.”
“My love.” Avon raised one white hand to forestall his duchess’s protestations. “You will no doubt allow me to keep my own counsel in this affair.”
“You are not thinking of – of casting Dominique off, are you?” Léonie inquired with disarming candour.
His Grace’s eyebrows rose in faint hauteur. “Surely you must know I would never follow so distressingly crude a course, ma mie. But I will see the child, if you please.”
Léonie pressed his hand to her lips. “Thank you, Monseigneur,” she said, and smiled up at him with perfect trust.
.
Mary sat quite upright, acutely conscious of his Grace of Avon’s scrutiny. She could not shake the uneasy conviction that the Duke had divined far more from what she had left unspoken than from her – abridged, and exceedingly sanitised – account of her time in France.
“I know I have given you no reason to take my word for it, sir, but it was never my intention to trap your son into marriage,” she offered as the silence stretched on uncomfortably. “No doubt I must appear to you no better than a common adventuress.”
“Not in the least, my good child,” drawled his Grace. “I have, after all, had the pleasure of your grandfather’s acquaintance for many years. What truly astounds me is that Vidal had so much proper feeling as to beg you to accept his name.”
“He did not,” Mary said dryly. “Else I would never have consented.”
She could not mistake the glint of amusement in those cold hazel eyes. “When you are better acquainted with my son, my dear, you will find he can seldom be brought to consider anyone’s wishes but his own. What I should like to know is whether you truly desire to throw yourself away so lamentably with a gentleman of Lord Vidal’s reputation.”
The memory of his Lordship kissing her hand surfaced for a moment, and was just as swiftly banished. “Am I to understand you could arrange matters in some other way, sir?”
His Grace regarded her rather enigmatically. “I have the felicity to inform you that my good friend Sir Giles is at this very moment here in Paris, and quite eager for his granddaughter to be restored to his care. Should you decide that marriage with Lord Vidal is distasteful to you, there would be no difficulty in obtaining an annulment; between myself and Sir Giles, we should be able to contain the scandal, and in the meantime, you shall take residence in his Buckinghamshire estate.”
“What of my mother and sister?”
“You need not concern yourself; your grandfather and I will see to everything,” his Grace assured her. “Now tell me, child – what is it to be?”
Mary raised her head to meet the Duke’s gaze, and there was no hint of doubt or trepidation in her countenance. It was the most sensible course of action, she reminded herself quite firmly; there were far worse fates than being made to retire from the world to live quietly under one grandfather’s protection, and she should count herself fortunate she had been granted as much.
Chapter Five: My Lord Vidal Is Amazed
Vidal had stormed and raged on being informed that his father desired speech with his wife alone, and had only capitulated under his mother’s and Mary’s joint efforts to persuade him of the desirability of such an interview. He had then proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon by furiously pacing the length of the library, awaiting his Grace’s summons with characteristic impatience.
He was rather white about the mouth when he was at length admitted into his father’s study, and as little in charity with his sire as could ever remember being.
“You may sit down, Vidal,” drawled his Grace, putting aside the letter he had been reading. The Marquis set his teeth, and schooled himself to comply with this not very amiable command. “It is incumbent upon me to inform you that Miss Challoner’s future is no longer your concern. Sir Giles and I will arrange everything, of course, as is proper.”
“I beg pardon, sir, but I am constrained to remind you that the lady who was Miss Challoner is now my wife,” Vidal spoke harshly, pausing only to tug at his cravat. “Should you choose to doubt my word, you may seek proof of the marriage with a Mr Hammond at present making a stay in Dijon with his young charge.”
“I should not advise you to think me in my dotage yet, my son,” warned the Duke. “The lady in question was so obliging as to volunteer the information that not only the marriage is as of yet to be consummated, but that the ceremony did take place under duress also.”
“It is a damned lie!” Vidal exploded. “Whatever she may choose to say, I did not force her to the altar.”
“Do you then deny you carried the girl off to France against her every will and inclination, only to compel her into an alliance she neither desired nor approved once you belatedly realised your mistake?”
A mutinous look made his appearance on the Marquis’s mien. “I do not.”
“Very well. Miss Challoner assures me she much prefers for this marriage to be dissolved; she shall then travel back to Buckinghamshire, where she will reside in her grandfather’s estate and will lack for nothing. I shall of course have a discreet settlement made to her name, thus ensuring she will live comfortably for the rest of her days.”
“By God, and you shall not!” cried Vidal, jumping to his feet. “I do not care what you may do to me, but I swear it upon mine honour – she is my mine, and I won’t permit you or anyone else to take her away from me.”
“You astonish me,” his Grace said coldly. “I should never have expected you to put yourself to so much trouble on account of your honour alone.”
The Marquis stopped dead, a look of thunderstruck amazement on his face. “Good God,” he ejaculated at last, staring at his father in dawning wonderment.
“My son, you really are the most remarkable fool sometimes,” observed his Grace, and calmly went back to perusing his letter.
.
Vidal did not gain entrance to his wife’s apartments until he had been made to listen to General Challoner’s denunciation of his deplorable lack of morals, sense, and the most basic sense of human decency. The old martinet did even manage to extract the solemn promise that, should his granddaughter persist in her determination to follow him back to England, the Marquis would respect her wishes and consent to having the marriage dissolved.
Mary was at that moment employed in packing her clothes in preparation for the journey, and did not immediately perceive his Lordship’s entrance. Vidal went to her at once, possessing himself of both her hands before she could even think of objecting to his taking such liberties with her person.
“Mary, little love, look at me,” he said in a low voice. “My God, do you hate me so much? I own I did behave abominably towards you, but can you not bring yourself to tolerate me as a husband?”
“My Lord,” she said calmly. “You need not concern yourself with my stupid affairs any longer. My grandfather shall look very well after me, and you will be free to marry a suitable young lady of your own order.”
“You are the only woman I ever wished to marry,” said his Lordship. “And since I’m devilish sure I can’t live without you, I beg you do not constrain me to make the attempt.”
Mary looked up into his face and was met with a look of such tender passion that she barely recognised him. Still, she said: “You cannot possibly mean it, my Lord.”
“My precious girl, I swear it on my honour.”
She hesitated. “Your father –”
“– played me for a fool for failing to realise it sooner.”
“He is very acute,” she observed. “You have a great look of him, you know.”
“And my grandfather’s own temper,” he smiled ruefully. “I should make the devil of a husband, I own.”
“I shall make sure to keep a loaded pistol close at hand, just in case,” Mary said in mock severity, before she permitted herself to be swept into his arms.
Chapter Six: The Marchioness of Vidal
Lady Fanny arrived a week later, and although she could in no way approve her only daughter’s decision to throw herself away with a mere nobody, she stood too much in awe of her brother to express more than the mildest disappointment over the union. After much coaxing and cajoling on Léonie’s part, she did at last consent in offering her considerable experience for the planning of the lavish ball which was to be thrown in honour of both couples.
If Paris did indeed take much delight in the scandal, everybody who was Someone was only too pleased to be sent a card of invitation; the ball was a signal success, as indeed Fanny did congratulate herself in the days to come, and if the scandal was not forgotten, it was at the very least looked upon with the greatest measure of indulgence.
Mr Comyn, whose fastidiousness had already suffered much from the necessity of resorting to anything so underhand as an elopement, resolved to travel back to England at once on purpose of presenting his bride to his family; Juliana, who had had quite enough of Paris’s gaieties, declared herself ready to follow her darling Frederick anywhere, and responded to the Vicomte de Valmé’s feigned protestations of a broken heart with a laugh and a careless shrug of one elegant shoulder.
Vidal, for his part, had welcomed the news of his late adversary’s recovery and the subsequent statement obviating the need for his exile with little enough interest, though with candid admiration for his father’s mastery in always achieving his end. Having discovered himself quite ridiculously in love with his wife, his heart was set upon taking her into Italy for an extended wedding trip; and since his dear Mary could find nothing at all objectionable about this plan, they were to start as soon as their Graces set out for Calais.
“You will take good care of my son, n’est-ce pas?” Léonie enjoined her new daughter just as they were about to depart. “And see to it that he makes no more scandals.”
“I will do my best, madam,” Mary said quite seriously, though there was a twinkle in her eyes. “That is all I can promise.”
“The devil you shall,” laughed the Marquis. “You have made your own bed, my girl, it won’t do to complain now.”
“If we are quite done with these pleasantries, ma mie, it is time for us to go,” his Grace said urbanely. “My children, I bid you farewell.”
“Monseigneur, I do not see why we have to take all of Rupert’s bottles with us,” the Duchess shook her head. “I am quite ennuyée with this wine, enfin.”
“Because I have bought it, my dear,” said Avon. “And my brother’s generosity stretches to far as to allow me the use of as much as one dozen of them.”
“He is a fool, Monseigneur,” Léonie said crushingly. “I have always said so.”
“Without doubt, ma chère. Though you will permit me to remind you it was not I who chose to elope with him to France in so distressing a fashion.”
“I am here, you know,” protested Lord Rupert. “And you needn’t worry, Avon, for I’ll be damned if I let Léonie drag me into another of her mad escapades.”
.
Florence was more magnificent than ever as late spring turned into early summer. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the Marchioness of Vidal was sitting quite comfortably in a secluded spot of the garden of their rented villa.
Her husband, the Marquis of Vidal, was at present stretched out languidly on a blanket at her feet, his head resting in her lap. He made an inarticulate sound of protest when her fingers paused in their careful ministrations, and she put aside the letter she had been reading with a smile.
“My mother writes to tell me Sophia is soon to be married,” she said, pushing his dark hair off his face. “He is not quite a duke, but he is heir to his uncle who remains at present unmarried.”
“How convenient,” murmured his Lordship. “What I should like to know is how your grandfather contrived to arrange so grand a match.”
Mary raised a delicately sarcastic eyebrow. “It would not be the first gentleman to have his head turned by Sophia’s beauty, my Lord.”
“My Lord be damned,” drawled the Marquis. “And you know better than anyone I had no notion of marrying the wench.”
“I am sufficiently well acquainted with your dreadful reputation, my love,” she laughed. “You mother also writes to inquire if we have any thought of returning home.”
“Maman shall have to exert a little more patience, I believe.”
The fingers once more ceased their gentle stroking. “It is only that, if we are to go back to England at all, we had better do it sooner rather than later.”
Dominic pushed himself up at once, a slow, rather boyish smile spreading on his countenance. “Do we indeed,” he said, and in one swooping movement gathered her to himself for one lingering kiss.
‘She’s made a cursed idol of you, Justin, and you’re not fit to kiss her little feet!’ he said.
Avon looked at him.
‘That I know,’ he said. ‘My part ends when I bring her back to Paris. It is better so.’
In Anjou Léonie fails to talk Avon out of his resolve to give her up. He brings her back to Paris as Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire, and presently returns to England.
A These Old Shades multichapter. Justin/Léonie. Canon divergence.
On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose.
Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend
Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened,
Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose.
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.
And now upon his western wing he leaned,
Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened,
Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows.
Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars
With memory of the old revolt from Awe,
He reached a middle height, and at the stars,
Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank.
Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank,
The army of unalterable law.
— George Meredith —
Chapter One: His Grace of Avon Withdraws from the Game
She twisted her handkerchief.
‘Am I – will you – still let me be your ward?’
He was silent for a moment.
‘My dear, you have a mother now, and an uncle, who will care for you.’
‘Yes?’ she said.
His Grace’s profile was stern.
‘They will be very good to you, ma fille,’ he said evenly. ‘Having them – you cannot still be my ward.’
‘N-need I have them?’ she asked, a pathetic catch in her voice.
His Grace did not smile.
‘I am afraid so, infant. They want you, you see.’
‘Do they?’ She rose also, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes. ‘They do not know me, Monseigneur.’
‘They are your family, child.’
‘I do not want them.’
“Nevertheless, you shall do as I bid you, ma fille,” he commanded, his face still turned to the window. “You understand me?”
Léonie’s lips tightened, but she bowed her head in surrender. “I will do it to please you, Monseigneur.”
His Grace turned to face her at last. “Then it is settled. I will go and speak to the Curé now – we shall be ready to depart as soon as is convenient.”
Léonie was left to stare at the place where the Duke had stood, her face a study in conflicting emotions. With a great effort she shook herself from her melancholy reflections and went up to her chamber to pack her few belongings for the journey.
.
There was an outcry. Fanny ran forward, exclaiming incoherently; Rupert waved his napkin over his head.
‘What did I tell you?’ he shouted. ‘Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire!’
Léonie stood quite still for one moment, belatedly remembering to smile for the benefit of the onlookers. Monseigneur had enjoined her to behave as if nothing was amiss, and she dared not displease him for fear he would rescind his permission for her to visit as often as her uncle allowed. So, she let Fanny kiss her, and Rupert also; Lord Merivale pushed forward to welcome her, and then it was Mr Marling’s and Davenant’s turn.
And all the while Monseigneur retained his inscrutable expression, as if he did not know or care one whit about Léonie’s dejection. Back in Anjou, she had dared to hope – just for one brief moment – that since she was noble he might stoop to consider her for his bride; then the moment had passed, she had remembered who her father was, and her courage had failed her at last.
Armand the Saint-Vire came forward, acknowledging her as his niece and humbly begging her to consider his home as her own; Madame de Saint-Vire put in an appearance at last, and Léonie was moved to go to her mother and escort her back to her chamber.
When she returned to the dining-room his Grace of Avon was nowhere to be seen. He did not show his face again until it was time to hand her into her uncle’s coach; he bowed very low over her hand, almost as if he were addressing royalty, and quietly bid her farewell.
Two days later Lady Fanny came to the Hôtel Saint-Vire on purpose to relay the intelligence that her brother was at that moment on his way back to England and had only consented to take Hugh Davenant as his travelling companion. Léonie pretended very hard not to notice the pitying look in Fanny’s eyes and politely thanked her for the pretty attention of her visit; then she retreated to her apartments, where she could cry her leisure without being made to endure anyone’s sympathy.
Chapter Two: The Party Reconvenes Back in England
Back on English soil, his Grace of Avon went about his old life as if nothing had changed. Only his closest intimates – Davenant above all – did happen to notice a certain grim recklessness about his demeanour which did not bode well for those selected few who could be brought to care more than the snap of their fingers for the Duke’s wellbeing.
Marling, who had graciously consented for Lord Rupert to travel along himself and his wife, was the first amongst his Grace’s acquaintances to dare so much as show his face at Avon House and was not entirely surprised to be peremptorily denied entry. Lady Fanny’s subsequent attempt was moderately more successful; her brother did receive her, urbanely inquired about her health, and complimented her about her new gown in so flattering a manner as would have normally given his sister the greatest of pleasures.
However, no sooner did Fanny venture an ostensibly innocent remark about finding Léonie strangely out of spirits when she had last seen her that a mask of icy politeness descended upon his Grace’s features; shortly after he excused himself pleading some urgent business he was called to attend, leaving Fanny more concerned about his present state of mind as she could ever remember.
When Rupert was at last persuaded in taking his turn at this charming farce of domestic intervention, it was only to find the London house shut and his brother gone; even more astonishingly, he discovered provisions had been made to allow his dear old self to withdraw several hundred guineas for his most pressing debts.
Lady Fanny declared matters to have reached most serious a pass and promptly sat down to write a letter to dear Anthony, whom according to her husband must surely have reached Merivale Place by then.
.
His Grace of Avon regarded the seal bearing the Saint-Vire crest with an inscrutable expression before breaking it open and beginning to read. Léonie’s letters were always enlivening, and although he would not waver from his determination never to write back, he was yet to prevail upon himself to throw her communications unopened to the flames.
Madame de Saint-Vire, it transpired, had at last determined to retire from the world, and had chosen the seclusion of a convent for that purpose. Having been acquainted with her real mother for all of three months, Léonie could scarcely be accused of filial impiety upon expressing little more than commiseration for her unfortunate parent.
From what could be determined from the child’s somewhat convoluted writing, Armand had taken up his role as an uncle with due diligence and was set upon launching Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire into society in a manner befitting her birth and lineage. His lips twitched slightly as he passed over Léonie’s artless complaints about being made to endure three proposals of marriage in one evening; he reflected it should not be long before she met a man worthy of her consideration, and he promptly set down her letter, a heavy frown creasing his brow.
Chapter Three: Of a Friend, a Duel, and Its Astonishing Conclusion
If Davenant had failed miserably in his intent of persuading his Grace to permit him to come to Avon Court, it was not to be said he was in the least moved from his resolve to keep a close eye on his friend. Since they had quit Paris, Alastair had been in a most queer humour, and he did not quite trust to let him out of his sight for long. Merivale was only too glad to provide him with a roof over his head and a sympathetic ear to his concerns; my Lord had received Lady Fanny’s communication about Avon’s sudden departure from town and had wisely drawn his own conclusions.
It was at Merivale Place word reached Davenant that Satanas had challenged a local gentleman of no importance – but with a deadly reputation with the pistol – to a duel, seemingly over a ribald remark pertaining the extent of his attachment to his former ward.
Throwing caution to the windows Davenant betook himself to Avon Court at once, pushing his way past the startled footman with enough determination as to gain entry.
“My dear Hugh,” came his Grace’s drawling tones from the shadowy passage; Hugh swung about to be met with his pointedly sarcastic gaze. “To what, I wonder, do I owe the pleasure?”
“This has gone too far, Justin,” he began without preamble; knowing Alastair as well as he did, he knew there was not the slightest need for it. “You shall not meet Mr Ferndale – not now, nor ever.”
“Are you by any chance expecting me to go back on my word, beloved? For I shall be loath to contradict you, should you happen to cherish any such foolish notion.”
There was a gleam of something underneath the cynical veneer which brought a sudden coldness to Davenant’s heart. “What has come over you, Justin?” he pleaded, and in a moment of daring took possession of his friend’s arm.
“Nothing has come over me, my dear. In fact, I was this very moment on the point of sitting down to write you a letter, humbly begging you to stand for me as my second – for the sake of the friendship you bear me, if nothing else.”
“Devil take you, Justin,” Davenant swore, perceiving the utter useless of entreaties.
“Very possible,” said Avon. “In any event, I shall consider myself honoured of your presence should your astute prediction ever come to pass.
.
Hugh Davenant awoke from a troubled and unrefreshing sleep with a heavy heart and set about readying himself for the day with something of a grim resolve. He found his friend in the library, reading over a document which he then proceeded to sign, seal, and lock into the topmost drawer of his escritoire.
Avon’s smile was deceptively sweet as he presented Davenant with the key, begging him to keep it safe and on his person. “You might require it later, beloved,” he informed him with maddening calm, as if they were discussing nothing of greater import than the weather. “Gaston comes with us – he has been instructed as to how everything else must be disposed of.”
“Curse you, Justin, I have half a mind to knock you on the head and leave your Mr Ferndale to draw his own conclusions.”
His Grace’s gentle laughter shook his shoulders. “You forget, my dear Hugh, that I know you quite incapable of so unbecoming a subterfuge. Now, if you please, we shall set out at once – I do not care to be late for this sort of appointment, and neither does our friend Ferndale, I suspect.”
.
Dawn was taking its time to emerge from the heavy mists covering the fields. Justin Alastair, Duke of Avon, stood immovable in his designated place, pistol held carelessly in his hand, his boredom not entirely affected as he awaited the established signal. He found he cared nothing for Mr Ferndale’s dim-witted insults, and even less for the outcome of this duel; his eyes flicked to Davenant’s taut face, and in a flash of his old arrogant recklessness he allowed his lips to curl into a half-sardonic, half-defiant smile.
To the very last, he could not tell for sure whether he had missed on purpose. As he crumpled into a somewhat pitiful heap onto the damp ground, he blindly extended his now empty hand for his very dear Hugh to take.
“I thank you, beloved,” he breathed out with some difficulty even as Davenant shrugged out of his coat, intent on using it to staunch the wound in his side. “I would give you my blessing, but alas, I fear that would be a rather inadequate reward for your kindness.”
Gaston was hovering at Davenant’s elbow, his countenance quite pale, but still with an assumption of calm. “We must take him back to Avon Court at once, sir, and have the physician summoned posthaste.”
“Merivale Place is closer,” objected Davenant. “Give me your coat, I will use it to tie mine in place.”
His Grace of Avon would have protested about the unnecessary fuss, but he found he was no longer capable of speech. His last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was almost a prayer, not for himself, but for the only soul he had ever and ever would possess.
Chapter Four: The Heir Presumptive Is Summoned
It was a very white and prodigiously fretting Lord Rupert that was let into the Marling coach that evening.
“He shan’t die, shall he, Fan?” he asked of his sister, almost like a child. “They don’t call him Satanas for nothing, I swear.”
Lady Fanny patted her brother’s hand comfortingly, though there were unshed tears in her eyes. “The Merivales will do everything they can, I am sure of it – as will Davenant, of course.”
“Damme, I can’t be a duke, Fan, you know I cannot.”
“It won’t come to that,” Marling said with an assurance he was far from feeling. Like everyone else, he had been perfectly certain his brother-in-law would wed Léonie and produce an heir in time; his Grace of Avon had instead chosen to defy all expectations, and there they all were now.
“‘Pon rep, I could almost believe he did it on purpose to plague us,” Fanny laughed hollowly, and promptly burst into tears.
.
Jennifer Merivale sat by the bedside of the man who had once seen fit to abduct her and was now teetering perilously close to his untimely death.
“You must go and fetch her at once, Anthony,” she reiterated quite firmly, eyes fixed on the pale lips and wan countenance, Justin’s laboured breaths the only evidence he was still of the living. “I know for a fact she will never forgive us if you do not, and besides, I have a very strong notion only she could induce his Grace to fight for his life.”
“We might be too late as it is,” observed her husband. “But I will go, if you think it right, Jenny.”
“I do.”
“I will be back as soon as may be,” he promised. “I leave everything in your hands, my dear – and Hugh’s, of course.”
Davenant bowed. “I pray that you make it in time,” he said grimly, and sank back into his chair by the fire.
Far from evincing any satisfaction at her former capturer being delivered what one might have considered to be his just deserts for all his past misdemeanours, Jennifer quietly set about bathing the Duke’s face with water. The doctor had cautioned them about the risks of infection, and warned that a fever might very soon set in.
His Grace of Avon lay quite still, perfectly unconscious of everything that went on about him, dreaming of nothing at all for perhaps the first time in his life.
Chapter Five: The Coming of Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire
Slowly and painfully, Justin came back to his senses long enough to perceive the comforting pressure of a small and surprisingly well-made hand clasped about his own. Failing to discover anything at all objectionable about the circumstance, he allowed himself to sink back into the blank nothingness which had been his constant companion for longer than he cared to ascertain.
The next time he came to, he was conscious of words whispered in his ear by a much familiar voice, yet he could not discern their meaning; weak as he was, he believed he must be dreaming, and was not at all surprised when the voice changed to that of his very dear friend. Oh, but Hugh must be furious, he thought, though he could not quite remember the reason.
When at last he contrived to open his eyes and fix his gaze upon the watchful presence at his side, he would almost have believed himself dead, had it not been for his life-long certainty that the gates of Heaven had been irrevocably closed to him since about the time he had been sent to Eton. “Ma fille,” he murmured, his voice much hoarse with disuse, and although there were tears in Léonie’s eyes, she ignored them in favour of pressing a glass of water to his lips.
“Do not try to speak, Monseigneur – here, drink this, you’ll feel much better for it.”
He strove to comply with her wish, though he was conscious of a dull, constant ache in his side which threatened to overwhelm him. “Am I – in Paris, then?” he asked with some difficulty.
“Mais non, Monseigneur. You are at present a guest in my Lord and Lady Merivale’s house. Hugh Davenant is also here, as are Lady Fanny and Rupert, and Monsieur Marling, of course.”
“A happy reunion, I assume,” he observed mildly, and was surprised to see her lovely features settle into rather grim lines.
“Monseigneur, you very nearly died several times over,” she scolded him, her dark blue eyes flashing with something almost, but not quite like anger. “Lady Fanny has been crying most of the time, and I think Rupert would have soon gone mad had you not awakened.”
“I beg your humble pardon, infant. It seems I have made a prodigious nuisance of myself to all my family and, er, friends.” His Grace paused, willing himself to tear his eyes away from her beloved countenance. “They should never have thought of incommoding you, however, and I feel sorry for it.”
He saw a scathing retort dance on the tip of her tongue, yet she appeared to check herself, once more to his surprise. “We will not speak of that now. You must think only of getting better, Monseigneur; we will talk of it then.”
Snatches of past unpleasantness flitted about the edges of his memory – a deafening report, then the sickening smell of gunpowder and blood mixing with that of the dewy grass. “You should not have come, child,” he insisted, though his head was swimming, and he shut his eyes in a belated attempt to preserve some of his dignity.
“Nothing in the world could have prevented me,” Léonie declared rather fiercely; the ghost of a smile touched his lips for but a moment, then was gone, leaving nothing but a bone-deep weariness in its wake.
.
“What kind of madness possessed you all that you should deem it proper to bring the child all the way here from France?”
Merivale regarded his former rival with something akin to pity. “If you cast your mind back, Alastair, you will find it was your immoderate passion for duels which made Léonie’s immediate return so pressing.”
“It was not for you to decide,” Avon said coldly, only to be quite forcibly interrupted by Davenant.
“Have done with this nonsense, Justin. You know well enough she would never have forgiven herself, had she not come.”
“You shall escort her back to Paris presently,” his Grace commanded, quite in the same imperious tone he was wont to employ with his manservants. “I will send word to Armand he is not to let her come to England again.”
“Faith, she is no longer your ward, Justin,” Rupert cut in from where he was lounging over the fire. “She is Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire and may come and go as she pleases.”
“And there is nothing improper about it at all,” Marling observed in his peculiarly sedated manner. “She travelled with her maid, and Merivale escorted them all the way here; Lady Merivale has been in the house all the time, and Fanny, of course.”
For the longest time, his Grace did not deign so much as a reply. Presently, he rested his head back against the pillows and announced he should quite like to rest now.
“Impossible Satanas,” Hugh Davenant was heard utter under his breath, as he set the example by quitting the room and leaving the disobliging patient to his own devices.
Chapter Six: Lady Merivale Intervenes
“I thank you, Edward,” his Grace murmured as his brother-in-law helped him into the chair prepared for him on the sunny terrace at the back of the house. “How pleasing it is no longer to be confined to my sickbed.”
“You are to behave yourself, Justin,” Fanny charged him in a tone she had seldom dared to use with her formidable brother. “Rupert shall keep an eye on you, in case you are contemplating anything foolish.”
The crestfallen look on his younger brother’s face did not fail to bring an unwilling smile to his Grace’s otherwise severe mien. “I feel sure we shall both enjoy the experience tremendously,” he drawled, his eyes travelling involuntarily to the garden below where Léonie was at that very moment playing with the Merivale offsprings under Jennifer’s benevolent gaze.
Rupert was just in time to catch the wistful expression in his brother’s eye before it was replaced with a studied look of bored indifference. “May I be allowed to present my apologies for raising your hopes in vain, my child?”
“Fiend seize you, Justin,” spluttered Rupert. “‘Pon my word, if you are ever minded of playing another such trick upon me, I swear I shall flee the country and never come back.”
“What I deplore the most about you, Rupert, is your passion for the dramatics,” his Grace sighed, and shut his eyes.
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“You have a way with children, my dear,” Jennifer praised her young friend quite warmly. “It does not happen every day that Geoffrey takes a liking to someone who isn’t either his nurse or his own Mama.”
Léonie smiled bravely, though it did not quite touch her eyes. “I should have liked children, I think. But I don’t know that I’d have been any good at it, for I fear I should have spoiled them dreadfully.”
“My dear, do not speak so,” Jennifer interposed, much moved by the hint of finality to her tone. “You are but a child yourself – you must not give up hope yet, I beg of you.”
There was a pause as Léonie handed the fretting babe to his mother. “You are very kind, madame, but I must tell you my mind is quite made up. Monseigneur does not believe me when I say I shall never marry, but I do mean it, and it is not at all likely that I should ever change my mind.”
“Perhaps you will find someone else, in time.”
“Never!” exclaimed Léonie, her eyes flashing with sudden passion. “I told Monseigneur once that when I love, it is forever – I don’t think he believed that, either, but it is no matter to me.”
Jennifer looked upon that lovely young face with mother-like concern and wondered if there was anything at all she could do to help.
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His Grace of Avon was in the middle of a dispute with my Lord Merivale as to the desirability of Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire being dispatched back to France as soon as he himself was able to make the journey back to Avon Court when Lady Merivale scratched at the door and let herself in.
“My Lady,” his Grace made as magnificent a leg as his still healing wound would allow. “How may I serve you?”
“I desire a word with you,” she announced, greatly daring. “In private,” she added with one speaking look to her husband.
My Lord Merivale bowed and promptly retired, leaving Jennifer to face Avon alone.
“How fortunate it is that you should wish to speak with me, Madam. In fact, I had been hoping you might consider joining in my efforts to persuade your esteemed consort of the necessity of restoring Léonie to the respectability of her family as soon as may be.”
Jennifer studied his face with keen interest. “I beg your pardon, sir, but do you really think it fair on the child?”
His Grace’s brows raised quite dramatically, his hazel eyes glancing down at her with an assumption of haughtiness. “I should have thought you of all people had to be quite alive to the exigencies of the situation, my dear Jenny. It might come to you as a surprise, but I have no desire to permit the child to ruin herself with such a reprobate as you undoubtedly know me to be.”
“Have you considered inquiring about her wishes?” she said gently. “I own it is a rather sad state of affairs when a woman is not allowed the courtesy of being consulted as to her preferences about her own future.”
“The situation is entirely different,” his Grace pointed out severely. “Were you ever to be graced with a daughter, Madam, would you consent that she should throw herself away with a man of my reputation?”
Lady Merivale looked pensive for a moment. “I would not,” she admitted. “But I believe – I am quite sure – you will find Léonie quite capable of handling your past.”
“I am old enough to be her father,” Justin sneered, though there was something pained about his thin lips. “And nearly as deplorable as that illustrious personage.”
Jennifer waved an impatient hand. “I see you are quite determined to sacrifice yourself for her sake. I only ask that you consider if you are perchance condemning the child to a life of unhappiness with your honourable intentions.”
The Duke put forth no reply, but she noticed the way his fingers tightened around his cane until his knuckles quite stood out.
Chapter Seven: His Grace of Avon Concedes Defeat
Justin had only permitted Léonie to accompany him back to Avon after Armand had sent communication that he himself would journey to England on purpose of fetching his niece.
“You are to be very good, infant, and never to stir from Lady Fanny’s side,” he enjoined her. “When your uncle comes, you shall go with him without complaint. Do I have your word on it?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” she nodded with unwonted meekness. “When the time comes, if you still command it, I will go.”
He glanced down at her then; it pained his heart to see all the sparkle gone from her eyes, but he reflected she would soon forget her disappointment. She was young; she did not know yet that one could forget their first infatuation and learn to love another in time.
“Very well,” he said, settling back in his corner. The coach rolled away, and although his sister did make several attempts to catch his eye, he would not be moved from his determination to frustrate her intent.
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Armand de Saint-Vire arrived in good time and wisely refrained from raising the matter of his niece’s future before his old friend. “You are to congratulate me, Justin,” he told him instead. “I am soon to be married to Mademoiselle de Château-Mornay.”
“I am all felicitations, my dear Armand,” said his Grace. “Please accept my best wishes for the speedy arrival of a legitimate heir to the title.”
Armand raised one haughty eyebrow. “I trust you do not suspect me of evil intent, my friend.”
“On the contrary, I have perfect faith in your integrity, my dear,” his Grace assured him, and took snuff.
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“Will you tell me, Monseigneur – did you do it on purpose?”
They were standing under the great oak, a little apart from the rest of the group. Justin’s expression did not change, but neither did he look at her. He could not tell her he was not sure of it himself, but neither was he prepared to give her an outright lie.
“It is no matter, child. You have my promise it shall not happen again.”
Léonie appeared to consider the matter for some time. “You are not very wise, I think.”
“I did try to make you see it many times, ma fille. It relieves my mind that you have come to accept the truth at last.”
“Ah, bah!” she exclaimed, and there was fire in her eyes. “You make me very angry, enfin.”
“Then I must beg your humble pardon, infant. You may comfort yourself with the notion you shall not be called to tolerate my foolishness much longer.”
There was no answer. His Grace of Avon sighed and took her small hand in his own; it was very cold and was trembling a little, though they both pretended not to notice it.
“You shall be very happy, Léonie, I swear it. You do not see it now, but one day you will think back to this conversation and know that I was right to let you go.”
“I do not think you know me quite as well as you believe,” she said severely. “But since you do not want me, I will go.”
Avon let go of her hand, his mouth set in a grim line. “I was not made to make a woman happy, child.”
“It is no matter.” She gave a defiant toss of her head. “Even if you marry someone else and never let me set eyes on you again, you shall always be Monseigneur to me.”
“I should have given you to Hugh when he begged it of me,” he said, half ironic, half rueful. “He did warn me what a tragedy it would be when I finally succeeded in depriving my young page of his innocence, and still I did not listen.”
“I am not very innocent, me,” said Léonie, a hint of her old spark dancing in her eyes. “And besides, I do not care.”
Against every reason, he permitted her to drop down on her knee and press her lips ardently to the back of his hand. “The Duchess of Avon kneels before no one, ma fille.”
“I do,” said Léonie, the irrepressible dimple peeping out at last.
Chapter Eight: Her Grace of Avon Makes Her Curtsy
His Grace of Avon and Mademoiselle de Saint-Vire were married a week later at Avon, with only their closest friends and family in attendance. The Comte de Saint-Vire was only too happy to hand over the care of his niece to his friend and declared he had had quite enough of the child’s moping to last him a lifetime.
In vain had Justin endeavoured to persuade his intended that they had better observe all the proper forms and ceremonies. “I regret to inform you, ma belle, that it will not be possible for me to make you my bride in every particular until my wound has healed some more,” he was forced to disclose when all other arguments failed to convince her.
Léonie did frown then, but only for a moment. “I did not think of it, Monseigneur,” she admitted with a supreme lack of that maidenly modesty generally expected of a prospective bride. “I do not know much, but I think – there are other ways, n’est-ce pas? However, I believe I’d much rather marry now and wait until my husband is recovered.”
“You astound me, child,” said his Grace, and kissed her hand.
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The Duchess of Avon was suffering herself to be decked for her presentation with more than her habitual forbearance, though Lady Fanny soon discovered she should have known better than to congratulate herself on so signal an achievement.
“Madame, you have no idea how nice it is to be a married lady!” Léonie was at that moment exclaiming with her usual buoyancy.
“Good heavens, child, remember you are speaking of my brother,” Fanny blushed, eyeing the waiting abigail with some misgiving. “I take it he is much improved then, which I am of course entirely pleased to hear.”
“Monseigneur is very well,” Léonie nodded with perfect cheerfulness. “I made him promise he should dance at least three dances with me at Lady Holland’s rout tomorrow, although it is not quite fashionable for a lady and her husband.”
“I hope I am there to see it,” Lady Fanny laughed, and went back to arranging her petticoats to her satisfaction.
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“‘Pon my soul, Anthony, I never thought I should live to see Justin turn respectable,” Lord Rupert exclaimed as they watched their Graces make their leisurely entry. Justin Alastair, Duke of Avon, was as magnificent as ever, but it was nothing to the look of tender pride on his face as he led forwards his Duchess for all the world to see.
“The child is a marvel,” Lord Merivale nodded sagely. “Though I am quite sure Alastair has his work cut out in keeping her delightful espièglerie in check.”
“You know, Tony, I have always had something of a premonition that I should not be called to step in Justin’s shoes,” confided Rupert. “I have every hope my presentiment will soon prove to be correct.”
At the opposite end of the room, Hugh Davenant was observing the advancing couple with much fondness. “You have come a long way, little Léon,” he whispered to himself, raising his glass in a silent toast. “And Satanas, you lucky devil,” he chuckled, and moved to join Marling at the refreshment table.
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