The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (47 page)

Once Cicely had departed and shut the door again, Meg closed her eyes, and refused, adamantly refused, to think any more about an irritating Frenchman called Gaston.

Somewhat to her surprise, she slid easily into sleep . . . but the damned man followed her into her dreams.

June 16, 1820, 8:00
A.M.
, two days before the wedding

Rotten Row, Hyde Park, London

L
adies were not permitted to ride at a flat gallop down Rotten Row.

Meg didn't exactly have special dispensation, but she was twenty-eight years old, long past her last prayers, and the hour at which she galloped was too early for any but the most hardened horsemen and horsewomen to see her, and as she was an exceptional horsewoman, they turned a blind eye. Or rather, they watched with open appreciation as, perched sidesaddle on her big gray's back, she thundered down the tan track.

That morning, she needed to fly more than most; she needed to blow away the deadening sense of old regrets—regrets she'd never even known she possessed—that had beset her on awakening.

She was halfway down the track when she heard heavy hoofbeats following.

Closing.

She urged Atlas on, but the pursuing horse and rider drew ever closer.

She didn't need to glance sideways to know who the rider was. Only one man—and it had to be a man—would dare.

Would dare intrude on her morning's race and ride her down.

And, damn it, win.

They were neck and neck, but with his horse a sliver of a nose ahead when they flashed past the post that marked the incipient end of the track.

Both of them drew up, straightening as they drew rein, then they turned their horses onto the thick grass to the side of the track, letting them slow to a walk.

She glanced at his horse. A massive chestnut hunter with, clearly, an unexpected turn of speed. Without meeting Gaston's eyes, she asked, “Did you bring him with you?”

“No. I'd left him here. I'm going to take him home with me when I leave.”

“And how soon will that be?”

He hesitated, then said, “After the wedding. I can't stay away much longer than that—my estates need fairly constant tending.”

She glanced at him then, trying to see past the easy charm she was aware was a mask. “I can't imagine you as a farmer. Where's home these days?”

He grinned. “Perigord, of course.”

She didn't rise to the bait. “Where in Perigord?” She'd looked in the map book in her father's library the previous evening. “Where's your principal seat?”

“Theoretically a castle on the upper reaches of the Dordogne, but it's drafty and cold in winter, so I live at a chateau not far from a town called Sarlat in Perigord Noir.”

She made a note to look it up. Why, she couldn't have said.

Walking his chestnut alongside her gray, Gaston looked ahead, and seized the opening she'd inadvertently given him. “I have to get back because there's no one I can trust with my holdings, not for too long. Oh, they have their hearts in the right place—it's not their loyalty that limits me. But there is much to deal with, and they will become overwhelmed. They know to put off the harder decisions until I am back—so I must not stay away too long.”

She frowned. “I would have thought you would have married by now.” She glanced briefly at him. “A wife with a sound understanding could manage your estates, at least for a few months.”

“True.” He sighed. “But what with installing Louis, and helping sort out the chaos left in the aftermath of the Corsican's downfall, and then, once I returned home, there was so much to do, I haven't really had time to look for a wife.” He hesitated, then added, “Perhaps when I get back, now that everything is more or less stable again, I'll be able to attend to the matter.”

She sniffed. “You make it sound like the equivalent of hiring a maid. That you just need to see the woman, interview her, weigh up her attributes, look at her references, and make up your mind. I suspect you'll find it's rather more complicated.”

He glanced sidelong at her, but she was looking ahead. “I heard about Beaumont. My condolences.”

She inclined her head. “It was a long time ago.”

“Not so long that you've found a replacement. Why is that?”

She shrugged. “I didn't see the need. I had other activities to keep me amused.”

“Ah, yes—the weddings.”

“I'm good at it.” A touch of belligerence.

His lips curved. “Indeed. I saw. You are a general in charge of a motley troop, but you were in control and whipped us into line.” It was too good a chance to pass up. “Would that I could find a lady with the same skills to take charge of my household.”

She snorted. “The only one that lady would need to whip into line is you—and she'll need the luck of the devil to succeed.”

“
Vraiment?
You wound me. But no, my lady would find I would be a willing partner, because, sadly, there's rather more than my poor self she would have to deal with.”

He waited.

Waited.

They were nearly at the gate when Meg finally gave in to her curiosity and asked, “Who else?”

“My brothers. Did I tell you I have five of them? All much younger than me—my sisters lie between in age, but they are all married with their own households and unable to bear with the . . . well, they call them heathens.” He sighed deeply, but she knew him well enough to know he was smiling fondly, to detect the note of pride in his deep voice.

“I wish you luck in your courting, then.” Finally glancing at him, she met his gaze. “Clearly your brothers will be depending on you to do your duty and find them a sister-in-law of suitable mettle.”

And, yes, she saw it in his eyes. He was—truly was—looking at her.

Looking at her like a predator, waiting for her to run.

So he could pounce.

With a polite smile, she inclined her head, but she didn't take her eyes off him. “I'm off home. I'll see you tonight at the dinner.”

It was his turn to make a dismissive sound. “I'll see you to your home.”

And he did. She knew him far too well to waste breath trying to dissuade him.

When, having watched him ride off from the front porch, she finally crossed the threshold and climbed the stairs, she told herself that she should put the conversation from her mind—that when that lurking twinkle shone in Gaston Devilliers's eyes, only a ninnyhammer would believe anything that came out of his mouth.

The problem was, only when they'd been clattering down the streets and talking about inconsequential things had that teasing twinkle returned to his eyes.

June 16, 1820, 10:00
A.M.

Duc de Perigord's suite, Bartholomew's Hotel, London

“S
o!” Having changed out of his riding clothes, washed, and redressed in appropriate attire for a day about town, Gaston put the finishing touches to his cravat. In the mirror, he caught his valet Hubert's gaze. “What's next on my lady's schedule?”

June 16, 1820, noon

Florist's shop off Covent Garden, London

M
eg opened the florist's door and led the way in. Cicely followed; they'd come from Durham House in the carriage. The interior of the shop was thick with a heady mix of floral scents. Meg scanned the dimness.

Her gaze snagged on a pair of broad shoulders.

“Damn!” she muttered beneath her breath. Gaston had escorted Juliette and her mother to the meeting.

Going forward, feeling her lips set a touch grimly, she exchanged nods with the ladies, then turned to Gaston—

He captured her hand and bowed over it with his usual exquisite grace. “Lady Margaret.”

Lips tight, ignoring the sensation elicited by his fingers clasping hers so strongly, she inclined her head formally. “Monsieur le duc. Thank you for escorting the ladies. We won't trouble you further.”

He met her gaze; his eyes were twinkling. “It is no trouble at all, I assure you.” He exchanged a glance with the vicomtesse. “I have agreed to give a masculine opinion on this matter of flowers.”

Gaston Devilliers and flowers. Meg could think of few less likely combinations, but . . . drawing in a breath, reminding herself that the wedding was only two days away and that after that he would be gone—once again gone from her life—she determinedly turned her mind to the business at hand, namely the final approval of flowers for Juliette and her attendants to carry, for the chapel itself, and for the foyer, halls, and grand ballroom at Durham House, pressed into use for the occasion, as the de Rochers' reception rooms were far too small.

The florist and her two assistants brought forth buckets and vases filled with the season's blooms. The subject had been discussed ad nauseum weeks earlier, and all parties agreed to accept Meg's recommendations. She kept the discussion to those species and varieties experience had taught her would combine well and last throughout the long day, only to have meek, mild Juliette change her mind, pout, and cling to delicate white violets that would never do.

Meg laid out the arguments against them, to no avail. Cicely bit her lip, clearly not wishing to disagree with her best friend's choice.

The vicomtesse looked at Meg with wide eyes, and waited for her to fix it.

So it was Meg versus the bride. She inwardly sighed and opened her mouth, intending to put her foot down—

Juliette swung to Gaston. “What do you think, monsieur le duc?”

Meg clamped her lips shut. If Gaston bought into the argument on Juliette's side, she would be able to turn her guns on an opponent more able to withstand the battering, and through attacking Gaston hopefully bring Juliette to some sense of the error of her choice—

“I . . . find I must agree with Lady Margaret,
mignonne.
These”—he reached out one large hand, with a blunt fingertip touched the tiny blooms, made even more tiny by the comparison—“well, you can see, can you not? These are just too small, too fragile. They send a message that you are too small and too fragile,
non
?” He glanced at the flowers Meg had recommended. “Roses, now—they are strong. Beautiful, elegant, but strong nonetheless. Vibrant. And they smell sweet, alluring.”

Juliette blinked. Her gaze shifted to the roses. “I never thought of flowers as meaning anything . . . as symbols.” She glanced back at the white violets, then sighed. “But, yes, I take your point. Violets are too easily crushed.” She raised her gaze to Meg's face, gave a small apologetic smile. “You're right—we'll carry roses.”

Meg inclined her head and said no more, letting the incident slide as she ruthlessly steered the party on through the approval of the blooms for the larger arrangements. Happily, those were concluded without disagreement, although once again Gaston stepped in to champion her suggestion of hydrangeas rather than chrysanthemums.

Finally all was settled to everyone's satisfaction. Cicely and Juliette led the party from the shop; the vicomtesse followed close behind.

Meg brought up the rear, with Gaston at her shoulder.

Reaching the door, he held it for her. She paused, then glanced up and met his eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black; the twinkling was there, but muted. He arched a questioning, faintly expectant brow. She rarely had trouble reading his expressions.

“Thank you.” She had to give the devil his due. “Your assistance was appreciated.”

He grinned and the twinkling intensified. “That is why I am here—to assist.”

She snorted inelegantly and swept out onto the pavement.

The vicomtesse turned to her. “To repay us for our hard work this morning, I wish to take us all to luncheon. I have been meaning to try the dining room at Bartholomew's Hotel—it will give us an opportunity to catch our breaths, and if there are any further questions you might have, Lady Margaret, it will give you a chance to ask them.”

Meg hadn't made any plans for luncheon; afterward, yes, but . . . she inclined her head graciously. “Thank you. That would be welcome.”

June 16, 1820, 1:00
P.M.

Dining Room, Bartholomew's Hotel, London

“S
o do you still spend much time at court these days? In Paris?” Meg gave up pretending an interest in the discussion of ribbons—not ribbons for the wedding, but ribbons in general—that held Cicely, Juliette, and the vicomtesse in thrall, and addressed her question to Gaston. He and she were sitting next to each other at the end of the table, Gaston facing the vicomtesse at the other end, with Meg at his elbow. The chair opposite her was empty.

Without raising his gaze from his plate, he shook his head. “My time by the king's side is over—I've stepped back and let others assume the task. It was one thing while I was essentially landless, but with my title and estates now restored, I have other responsibilities.” After a moment, he added, his voice low, just for her, “For my money, much of what fueled the Terror stemmed from noblemen forgetting just those responsibilities. My father did not, and nor will I.”

“How old are your brothers?” She told herself she asked out of idle curiosity. It was that, or ribbon knotting.

“Their ages lie between thirteen and twenty, but my father died ten years ago, and while my mother did her best, they have lacked what you might term a firm male hand. They and my mother have been back on our estates for some years, it's true, but only in the last year have I had any time to devote to them, and . . .” He gave one of his expressive Gallic shrugs. “What would you? I am perhaps not well qualified in the suppressing of exuberant high spirits.”

“Hmm. Yes, I can see your problem.” Straight-faced, Meg tipped her head his way. “There would too frequently be the question of who was leading whom astray.”