“Then she’ll last longer than most,” predicted his lordship and leaned forward to help himself to the cold collation just put on the table before him. “Know what, Roxton, I’ve been thinking—”

  “Spare me, I beg of you.”

  Vallentine ignored the slight. “I don’t think much of the whole Salvan clan,” he said, pointing a half-chewed bread roll at his friend. “Grandmother, father or son. That boy—”

  “Étienne? Parbleu! He is just a boy. What have you against him?” demanded Madame. “Tante Victoire and Salvan I can understand, but not Étienne, he is different from them.”

  “Different, perhaps. But there’s something about that lad that won’t wash,” said his lordship. “He’s pleasant enough to you or I and to Roxton, ’cause he’s a little frightened of your brother here. But I don’t like the way he’s been hauntin’ this house after Antonia. It unnerves me. And it’s obvious the girl ain’t keen to see him.”

  “Do eat that roll, Vallentine. I can’t abide it in my face,” complained the Duke, and accepted a dish of coffee from his sister with his free hand, careful not to disturb Antonia’s slumber. “But go on. Your—er—nerves interest me.”

  “How can you possibly have anything against that boy?” asked Madame incredulously and looked from one to the other. “How—”

  “Let me finish, Estée, then you can scold me if you wish,” said Lord Vallentine. “I’ve been about these past few weeks when the lad has been visiting and I grant he can be very personable. He’s a bit sulky but I’ll leave that be. He’s a black to his father’s white. He takes too much of that mixture, call it snuff if you will, but I’ve got my own ideas about the contents of M’sieur d’Ambert’s snuffbox. You remember how upset he was at Rossard’s, Roxton? And every time he’s come visiting, the poor girl won’t see him. Says she ain’t up to it. I’ll tell you why she ain’t up to it—”

  “I am at a loss to know what you are trying to imply against Étienne,” said Madame in an agitated voice.

  “You can say what you like but I think the lad is queer in his attic,” Vallentine stated and jabbed a finger at his temple.

  “That is utter nonsense, Lucian,” was Madame’s response. “The boy has a melancholy disposition because his mother died when he was young. She died under difficult circumstances which were not pleasant for a sensitive child such as Étienne to cope with. He was unnaturally attached to her. Salvan, he has never had time for his son. The way you speak of him, it is as if he was some sort of monster! He is young, that is all. Young men, they sometimes do not know how to express their feelings in an elegant way. And what hope has he with Antonia when she has eyes only for my brother? Is it a wonder the boy sulks with such odds against him?” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “You are merely jealous of him, Lucian.”

  “Jealous? Of a stripling?” scoffed Vallentine.

  “You see! You are!”

  “I am not!” shouted his lordship, on his feet and glaring at Estée.

  “My dears, if you are intent on a quarrel go elsewhere. You will wake Antonia.”

  “How-how positively fatherly of you,” Estée lashed out at her brother.

  “Now listen, Estée,” his lordship demanded angrily, “you leave Roxton be. He made a perfectly reasonable request and we—”

  “How like you! How very like you to defend him,” she cried and burst into tears and fled the room.

  Lord Vallentine stared after her, jaw swinging. He colored up, mumbled unintelligibly to the Duke, kicked a chair leg to vent his frustration, and strode off in pursuit.

  Roxton waited a few seconds then peered down at Antonia, gently brushing the mop of curls off her cheek. “You can wake up now. I don’t think they will return.”

  “Oh, you knew I was not asleep?” she said with a chuckle and struggled to sit up. She stretched her arms and tossed her hair over her shoulders. “Was it wrong of me to pretend? I truly was asleep at first but I did not want to interrupt a lover’s quarrel you see.”

  “So you think?”

  “Most certainly, Monseigneur. Can you doubt their feelings for one another?” When he made no immediate reply she peeped up at him from slipping on her shoes. “Why does Madame scold Vallentine when she loves him, and why does he not marry her when it is obvious he loves her?”

  “Aha. Now there are two questions that require complicated answers. I don’t think I am qualified to answer for them.”

  “Mayhap Madame is hesitant because Vallentine keeps a mistress and she does not approve?”

  The Duke scooped up her crumpled ribbon off the carpet. “Most gentlemen do, petite,” he answered softly. “That is not an obstruction to marriage.”

  Antonia slowly brushed back her waist-length hair, wondering how best to answer him. “If I was Madame,” she said quietly, “I would not wish to share Vallentine with any female. I would want to be the object of a singular devotion. It is a foolish thought but that is how I would feel—if I was Madame.” She regarded him with knit brows, his aquiline profile to the fire. “Do you mind if Vallentine marries your sister?”

  “Not in the least,” he stated flatly.

  “I must go before Vallentine returns. He will ask for your permission tonight I think. Bonne nuit, Monseigneur.”

  “Bonne nuit, mignonne,” he answered absently, a hand outstretched to the mantle. He watched the flickering flames a long time, unaware she had slipped away until his thoughts were interrupted by footfall. “Antonia, I—”

  Lord Vallentine smiled selfconsciously. “Gone,” he said coming out of the shadows.

  The Duke looked at him keenly and did not miss the smudge of lip paint at the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “You have come to ask me something of grave importance, my dear Vallentine?”

  “Well—yes, I suppose I have,” his lordship muttered with hunched shoulders. “That is, I want to ask you—possibly you’ve not guessed that I—that we—”

  “The answer is yes. You are welcome to her.”

  “Well, stamp me if you didn’t know already!” He let out a great sigh of relief. “Glad that’s done. Never been more frightened of asking you a thing in my life.”

  “Understandable. Being in love must be the most frightening thing in the world. Good night and—er—congratulations.”

  Lord Vallentine’s eyes widened but he said nothing and smiled to himself as he watched his friend silently leave the library with one of Antonia’s ribbons unconsciously dangling between two fingers.

  Antonia was in the library searching the shelves for a suitable book to read while she waited for the Duke to return from his early morning ride. As soon as he had changed out of his riding habit he was taking her on the promised drive into the country. She really did not feel she could sit still and read, such was her excitement, but the waiting was worse than anything and she had been up and dressed for an hour.

  The door opened and she thought it the Duke, but Duvalier ushered in the Vicomte d’Ambert and left at the youth’s insolent wave of dismissal. She gave a start then smiled and put out a hand in greeting as he crossed the room. He frowned at her, and at the whippets curled up on the hearth for they had cocked an ear at his intrusion. He did not like dogs and he liked these two even less. They were a reminder of the Duke; that this was his house and that Antonia was under his protection.

  He bowed over her hand and stepped back to look her over. “I meant to be here yesterday but father asked that I wait. He is coming especially to see Madame de Montbrail, and you.”

  She did not like the way he was regarding her from head to foot but still managed a smile. “Have you no word of greeting, Étienne? It has been a while since last we saw each other, has it not?”

  “Yes,” he replied mechanically.

  There was something about her that annoyed him. It was not her appearance, though he couldn’t remember when he had seen her looking so pretty. The day gown of dark red velvet became her figure, and the honey curls tied loosely with a red riband fell caressingly about her bare white shoulders. He was pleased she was finally out of the sickroom and seemingly fully recovered from her injury, but it annoyed him she should look so happy and pretty in the house of his father’s cousin. In fact, she looked radiant.

  She turned away and continued her search of the shelves. “Can you reach the book third along; the one with the burgundy spine?” she asked pointing up to a shelf out of her reach. “No, the next one. Yes, you have it. It is a history of the Julio-Claudian emperors. Have you read Tacitus?”

  “Did you hear what I said to you?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” she said and took the book out of his hand. “Your father is coming to visit Madame—”

  “—and you,” he stated and took snuff.

  “You take too much snuff, Étienne.”

  “That is not for you to say!”

  She smiled hesitantly. “There is no need to shout at me. I thought you would be pleased to see me but it does not seem so when all you do is frown.” She brushed the hair off her shoulder. “Look. The scar is not so very bad and my arm is not so stiff. So if you are worried lest you think me still ill—”

  “Cover your shoulder,” he said, averting his eyes. “I don’t want to see it. It is a hideous reminder—a reminder you nearly died. If I had done what I threatened and locked you in your room and not let you go to that masquerade…”

  “Hush. You can’t blame yourself,” she said. “Tell me what you have been doing whilst I have been ill. Have you joined the Academy? Oh, Étienne, do not look at me in that way! I am recovered, I assure you. And now I can look at the episode as a great adventure! I have never been held up by highwaymen before, not even travelling with Papa. And M’sieur le Duc was very brave to shoot two dead and now—”

  “—you are in his house receiving his hospitality when you have no right to be here!” he flung at her.

  Antonia stared at him and bit back a retort. She sat down on a sofa by the fire and pretended to read, but all the while she was conscious of the Vicomte staring at her in mutinous silence.

  “You are quite content to remain with the persons under this roof, are you not, Antonia?”

  “Madame and Monseigneur have been very good to me,” she answered without looking up from the printed page.

  “And why do you think that is? Why do you think they have been very good to you, bébé Antonia? Look at me when I address you!”

  Antonia still did not look up. She knew he was beside her chair and she heard the familiar snap of his snuffbox. The tan whippet moved to sit at her feet and its mate sat up from the hearth. “Étienne,” she said calmly, “if you are about to scold me, or try and warn me against M’sieur le Duc de Roxton, or frighten me with one of your silly tales about your father locking you up, I would rather you did not. I will not believe a word of it. That is to say, I do not think you deliberately lie to me, but that your own fears about your father have made you imagine unreasonable fears for my safety. I know it is only because you are worried for me but—”

  The Vicomte burst into laughter and stamped a foot upon the upholstered arm of her chair. “Worried for you?” he snorted and snatched the book out of her hands and tossed it over his shoulder. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Yes, I am worried for you. But I have more to worry about than you can ever imagine! You truly have no idea what is afoot, do you? You really are a bébé!”

  “What is the matter with you?” demanded Antonia. “Why do you goad me? What have I done to deserve your anger? If you cannot speak in a civil tongue please go away. And I hope for your sake you have not ruined that book because it is a rare edition and M’sieur le Duc will be very angry with you.”

  “What a fine lady thinks mademoiselle!” mocked the Vicomte. “You think because Roxton plays the hero he is one? Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! He is merely playing a game with my father. Do you know what the prize is? Your virtue! Yes, oh so shocked Mademoiselle Moran. It is a game they are playing with you and me. The sooner you realize this the sooner you will learn to trust me and do as I say, or both of us will come out the losers. Your precious Duke laughs behind our backs as surely as you sit there with that expression of outrage on your face. He hates my father and my father him. They hate each other so much that they do not care who is hurt in the process of their revenge. Let me tell you a family secret—a scandal involving Roxton and my father. Mayhap it will convince you he is not the man you believe him to be.”

  “You will not shock me, Étienne,” Antonia said stubbornly. “I know precisely what his life is like. So?”

  “So? Have you wondered why my father and Roxton hate each other? They, close in age and raised almost as brothers; they who are first cousins. They were very close as boys and as young men they often debauched together. Grandmother told me all about their adventures when young. I do not love my father, but I pity him. He is a great coward. I would have called Roxton out for what he did to my mother. But my father, he cares more for his name than his honor. So he simpers about pretending to be on the best of terms with cousin Roxton, all for the good of the family name. Ugh! I despise him!”

  He pulled a face and dipped into the contents of his snuffbox a third time.

  “You think I am raving to say all this but I am not. No. You tell yourself the Vicomte d’Ambert is mad, deranged, a foolish boy, but I am telling you only the truth. He is not a good man, Antonia. My father is not a good man but Roxton, he is much worse. My father can never be branded a filthy murderer—”

  “Murderer? All because he dared shoot two villains dead? That is not murder,” argued Antonia. She shifted so the Vicomte was not so close but he came around to the other side of the chair and blocked her view of the fire. “Étienne, I do not care if he has shot a dozen villains dead.”

  “Will you still not care when I tell you he killed my mother?” he said softly and smiled to himself when she looked swiftly up at him. “My father loved her very much and she betrayed him. He shut himself away from the court for six months after she died. He did not know she had had a lover until her letters were found. Her letters and those of her lover! This lover made her elaborate promises, and for these she betrayed my father. Then, when this lover deserted her for some other pretty trinket she could not live with the betrayal. She poisoned herself. Her lover did not even have the decency to leave Paris when his villainy was made known to the world. I know. I was twelve years old and I remember M’sieur le Duc’s visits to my mother. It disgusts me even now to think about it!”

  “I am truly sorry you lost your maman in such—such awful circumstances,” Antonia said gently. “The world can be very cruel at times. But you must try not to dwell on such matters. You were only a young boy and so cannot know the whole truth of the matter. How—how can you be certain it was M’sieur le Duc who was your mother’s lover? And your father, mayhap it was his great jealousy of M’sieur le Duc which prompted him to accuse him of such cruelty?”

  “You are not shocked? You do not care that I tell you he murdered her? He drove her to her death. She would not have poisoned herself if he had not seduced her with false promises and lies and forced her to be unfaithful to my father who loved her!”

  “That is unfair! M’sieur le Duc is no rapist. If your maman had been a chaste woman she would not have taken M’sieur le Duc as her lover. I am sorry if that offends you but that is the way of the world, Étienne.”

  The Vicomte gaped at her and the anger he felt was uncontrollable. “You cold hearted bitch! I will not have my future wife speak of my mother in such a fashion. What do you know about her? You are not fit to speak her name! Father was right. The sooner you are away from here the better for me.”

  “What are you talking about? Wife? I am not going to marry you, I told you that. Stop talking nonsense,” she said in a level voice though he truly frightened her now. She made to stand but he pushed her back in the chair. “M’sieur le Vicomte forgets himself!”

  “It is you who forget,” he spat out. “At one time you could not wait to flee to England and now you sit in this house as if you have a claim to it. You do not.”

  Antonia held up her head defiantly but the Vicomte saw his words had had an effect because she was trembling. “When I am well enough I am going to London to live with my grandmother.”

  “So you think?” sneered d’Ambert. “Your grandmother wants nothing to do with you. She has agreed that you should be cared for by my grandmother until such time as our wedding takes place.”

  Antonia was out of the chair in an instant and heading for the discarded book when the Vicomte caught her about the waist and pulled her to him. “I do not believe you! You are lying!” she said and struggled to be free of him. “Let go! How dare you touch me!”

  “You think I am lying? Just this week Salvan received a letter from the Comtesse de Strathsay. It is true I tell you! Salvan is coming here today to show it to your precious Duke and his sister. Your grandfather will sign our marriage contract and your grandmother has agreed with his wishes. Stop struggling!” he demanded and kicked out a foot at the grey whippet that pawed at his leg. “Call off these stupid animals!” He kicked out again, connected with the tan whippet’s soft under-jaw and sent it sprawling backwards with a yelp.

  “Leave them be, Étienne,” Antonia whispered fearfully. “They are frightened. They will not bother you if you let me go.”

  He seemed not to hear. He held her closer, causing her to wince with the pain as her stiff arm was forced behind her back. “Why would this grandmother in London want anything to do with you when she has never seen you in her life?” he argued. “Why should she not think a marriage with the Salvan family in your best interests, eh?” He smiled down at her and laughed. “I will not be going to the Bastille you see, because I mean to marry you.”

  Antonia stared at him in mute disbelief. When he bent and kissed her full on the mouth she flushed scarlet and jerked her head away, down into the crook of her arm.

  “To seal the bargain,” he explained and attempted a second kiss.

  Lord Vallentine strode into the library. Behind him was the Duke. They had just come from the stables. Dust covered their jockey-boots and their riding frocks were slung over a shoulder.

 

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