Devil's Desire (23 page)

With that parting shot he left her with the Squire, who escorted her into dinner. Elysia found herself seated on the right of her host, and Alex opposite her on the Squire's left. The only two people with
 
whom Elysia thought she could have enjoyed the dinner, were lost to her view down the great length of table among the other guests. Charles and Louisa were placed at the end with the less important personages,

Elysia avoided looking across the table where Alex was sitting with Lady WoodIey next to him–a smug look on her beautiful face. Like the cat that swallowed the canary–and would choke on it, Elysia thought, as she watched Lady WoodIey flirt playfully with Alex. Elysia's eyes narrowed as she stared at the dark-haired woman in speculation. So . . . she was a widow. The Squire had been a fountain of information–especially about the lovely widow who was a favorite of his and was considered a
nonparei
l
in London. And, it was obvious even to the casual observer, that the Widow was interested in Alex–and knew him quite well.

"Please to allow me to speak to you. This r-roast beef,
c' est
magnifique, n' est-ce pas?
The Frenchman sitting next to Elysia started a conversation, half in French, half in English. His accent was thick, and he rolled his R's off his tongue in a rhythmic fashion.
"Viola,
Lady Trevegne!” he declared theatrically as he passed her the salt.

"Merci monsieur, mais je ne sais pa
š
v
ô
tre nom
?"
Elysia apologized for not knowing his name, her French accent perfect.

A look of utter delight passed over the young Frenchman's dark features. "Ah,
Madame, vous êtes enchantée
,"
he crooned.
"le suis
Jean-Claude D'Aubergere, Comte de Cantere. To speak to me in my native tongue gives me such pleasure. I feel not so much the foreigner here in this cold land—it warms me as if I were back under the sunny skies of France. For this gesture, Madame,
je suis vôtre servant devoue.
You are the beautiful Lady Trevegne, of course. We were introduced–but I do not think you remember so insignificant a Frenchman," he said sadly.

"Oh, but I do remember you, Comte, for you most opportunely interrupted a tiresome monologue on the finer points of embroidery by the Vicar's wife."

"Then, it was my pleasure to rescue you from
cette dame formidable,"
he grinned engagingly. "It is kind of you, Lady Trevegne, to take pity on this sad Frenchman, who is homesick for the sounds of his homeland. Your enchanting voice reminds me of other
mademoiselles,
laughing and chatting in gaiety. But alas, it is no more," he said shrugging his shoulders in a very Gallic manner.
"C'est
un
tragedie, et maintenant, je suis un
beggar."

"You are an
émigré,
Count. It must be difficult for you here in England. But you mustn't consider yourself a beggar. Were your estates confiscated?"

"Vraiment,"
he sighed, "that is unfortunately the sad truth for me. And now
Le Petit Corporal
has ruined any hopes I had cherished of returning to' my home."

"Napoleon!” a shrill voice echoed from the Comte's other side.
"Monsieur le Comte,
do you believe he will attack London?"

The other guests near them stopped their light chattering to listen to the Count's reply to the question asked by the nervous looking gentleman with the high, stiff, pointed collar that stood up starchily about his chin, withstanding his futile efforts to turn his head.

"Non,
this I do not believe.
]e pense qu'il est
un
rumeur.
He is not strong enough this
'bourgeois Général
to conquer the strong-hearted
Anglaise,
non?"

A loud cheer of
stout
approval was sent up along with numerous toasts to England and the King, and anything else that entered some guest's mind.

"I doubt whether Napoleon would seriously try it. We've the strongest navy in the world, and you must remember Napoleon is fighting on many fronts. We have only the Channel as a serious threat. He would not dare to attack from the North Sea with winter coming on, if indeed, he is of a right mind–which I sometimes suspect he isn't." Lord Trevegne spoke quietly, in a bored voice, selecting a small pheasant from a platter a footman held.

"But here along the coast we are so unprotected, T-those French could come across the Channel and murder us in our beds before we could even open our eyes!” the Vicar's wife added hysterically, as several voices chimed agreement.

"Nonsense!” Squire Blackmore said vehemently. "The Navy wouldn't allow it. Damn fine bunch of men." He flushed, and glanced about apologetically. "Your pardon, ladies, but it gets my blood to boil to hear us talkin' scared."

"Navy too busy trackin' down smugglers to catch any. Froggie sailor that sails up the Thames, even. Probably think they were actors from Covent Garden, putting on a performance," someone from down the table drawled in a bored voice, as loud guffaws followed his comments.

Elysia glanced at the Count, whose lips had tightened at the derogatory reference to French people, his chin lifting higher in arrogance.

"You mustn't allow them to offend you, Count," Elysia spoke sympathetically, placing her hand on his arm, feeling the rigid muscles, "I do believe they hide their fears with laughter."

He stared into her large, green eyes with their softened expression and friendliness, and raised her hand to his lips with a dark glow in his Latin eyes.

"Thank you.
Vous êtes une ange, et je t’adore,"
he breathed softly, passionately under his breath, as his fingers tightened over hers.

Elysia gently loosed her hand from his, and looked away from his amorous gaze with embarrassment straight into Alex's angry, golden eyes as he watched her intently, a frown drawing together his heavy, black brows.

"If it were not for smugglers you'd not be sipping that excellent brandy you have in your cellars," the Marquis commented sarcastically, to no one in particular, "nor that fine tea your lady sips elegantly in her salon."

"I'll ,wager you've a few renegade bottles tucked away," a dissipated-Iooking man added slyly.

"Hardly. You insult me, Lord Tanvil, for I only drink what was set down by my father, and my grandfather before him. Can you imagine my drinking anything more recent? You do me an injury," he declared in mock affront.

"Trevegne'd probably have the effrontery to invite Napoleon to sample some of Louis
XVI’s
finest brandy. Wasn't your family given a case from Versailles?"

"Well don't let Prinny know about it, or His Royal Highness will have it for himself," Lord Trevegne said among the laughter, and then added as an afterthought, "and, on the day Napoleon sits down to dine at Carlton House, I'll give everyone here a bottle of that very excellent brandy." A chorus of acceptances followed his offer, and other wagers of ridiculous notions were added to it.

"Well, I think a lot of this talk of invasion and smugglers is a storm in a teacup," the Squire's voice filled the silence when the laughter had died down. "Can't be as many of them rascals smuggling about as people say–about as true as a traveler's tale. The way people talk you'd think everyone was a smuggler. Why, I might even be one," he laughed in disbelief at the absurdity of the idea.

"With your sense of direction you'd probably end up in Marseilles rather than Dover," someone predicted as uproarious laughter engulfed the table.

After that, the conversation changed as often
as t
he many dishes that were brought in. If it had not been for the attentions of the Count and Alex, Elysia doubted whether she would have tasted anything, what with everyone choosing from the main platters of beef, veal and fish, covered in sauces and jellies, as soon as the creamy soups were finished and the plates taken away. Then side dishes of game birds and poultry, and dozens of vegetable dishes and salads were brought in, and the meal was finished off with spongy Genoese cakes with coffee filling and little chocolate soufflés. All this was accompanied with various wines for each course. The crystal goblets kept brimming, despite the guests' constant attention to emptying them.

Feeling quite satiated, Elysia retired from the Banqueting Hall with the other ladies, leaving the gentlemen to sit over their port and cigars.

Elysia accepted a small glass of Madeira and sat silently listening to the frivolous chatter of the women as they gossiped and giggled over juicy tidbits about their friends and, no doubt, about the latest hot item–herself. She felt isolated from the rest. They weren't really the type of people that her parents entertained. They seemed to be a raffish set of people–not the social elite of London, she thought shrewdly. She knew that Alex had only come to introduce her to these ladies and gentlemen from London
—
assured that the news would get back to London about her, and this time accurately–scotching any false rumors that might have spread about them. The Marquis seldom, if ever, socialized with the Squire and his set of hangers-on.

Elysia glanced about for Louisa, finding her held captive by a large matronly-looking woman on the far side of the room. Seeing Elysia's glance, Louisa sent her a smile, grimacing as she turned back to the garrulous woman wielding her lorgnette, like a rapier. Elysia drifted over to a display of porcelain, feigning an interest as she overheard a conversation between two flashily-dressed young women from London.

"Can you imagine
—
a redhead! Not at all the fashion," said the young lady with her curly, blonde hair and china-doll features, and catching a reflection of her face in the mirror opposite, smiled smugly.

"I know, and such a surprise," her plump friend said, adding confidentially, "and we had been told to expect
an
announcement any day between the Marquis and Lady Woodley. Why, John said that no man could resist her
—
even Lord Trevegne."

"She must be absolutely seething," the blonde chuckled gleefully. "I mean after all, she'd been talking about these emeralds, and how well they'd look on her." She glanced at Elysia who was apparently absorbed by the porcelain figurines, and whispered grudgingly, "I must say, she does wear them well, what with her coloring and all."

"Lady Woodley must be as green as the emeralds with envy," the other added impudently as they laughed, casting a glance at Lady Woodley from behind their fluttering fans.
 
.

Elysia moved off, swallowing a smile that became a thoughtful look as she cast a glance at Lady Woodley. So London .had been expecting a match between Alex and Lady Woodley? She now knew why the lovely Widow looked daggers at her–she had expected to become the next Marchioness. What had happened to cause Alex to leave her? Well, she would probably never know, yet she had the uncomfortable feeling that Lady Woodley was not one to lose gracefully, or indeed, to even admit defeat. She had an enemy in the dark-eyed widow.

"Im so sorry I've not been able to talk with you, Elysia," Louisa said, coming up softly to where Elysia stood alone.

"That's perfectly all right. You must entertain your guests, and I've been admiring these porcelains. It's quite a collection."

"Yes, Mama has a passion for them. I do not really mind talking with the guests, it is just that I do not know how to politely excuse myself when I want to get away.

"Please," Louisa said grasping Elysia's hand and pulling her along with her, "let me show you another display of Mama's–we can talk undisturbed in the library."

They left the room unobserved, and Louisa led Elysia to the library, where a large chiffonier stood, with Oriental vases and plates attractively placed. It was not as large a library as Westerly's, in fact, it offered very little reading matter. Most of the room was taken up with assorted displays–one of which was made up of ornately carved knives and rapiers. Elysia shivered and turned away.

"I am so glad that you and the Marquis came tonight, although I am sorry to know of Peter Trevegne's accident. I do hope he will be quite all right."

"Yes, he will recover. Dany, our housekeeper is magnificent, and has more skill than a doctor. Otherwise, I doubt that Alex would have considered coming tonight and leaving him."

"Yes, well . . . " Louisa's voice trailed off with indecision, hesitating whether or not to continue with what she wanted to say, a shy, worried look on her small face.

"What is it?" Elysia asked helpfully, aware that something was troubling Louisa.

"How do you know when you are in love?" she blurted out breathlessly, taking Elysia completely by surprise. This was hardly the question she would have expected from Louisa.

"Well, I-I don't really know." Elysia was forced to admit.

"But you must know. I mean, you've married Lord Trevegne. When did you realize you were in love with him?" Louisa asked, her eyes taking on a dreamy expression.
“It
must be wonderful to know your love is returned. I've watched the way the Marquis looks at you
—
why he was positively mad with jealousy at dinner, when the French Count was holding your hand and flirting with you. He constantly watches you when he thinks you are not watching him."