‘Your pardon, Madame. My mind was taken up with business. Indeed, I have no fault to find with the company, only with myself for being such a poor guest.’
‘No, no my lord, you are not that,’ she returned, keeping her dark eyes fixed upon his face, ‘I am sorry we do not dance tonight, for you clearly need some – diversion.’ She smiled invitingly up at him and stepped closer, until the scarlet petals of the roses in her corsage brushed his sleeve. ‘Perhaps, my lord, our little poetry reading after supper will help you to forget your – business. We have the finest wits in Paris here tonight.’
His smile was perfunctory.
‘I shall look forward to hearing them, Madame.’
His hostess sighed visibly, making great play with her fan.
‘I am most disappointed in you,
m’sieur
. I do not believe you wish to be entertained!’ Her pouting accusation drew a boyish grin from the viscount.
‘I fear that on this occasion our ideas of entertainment do not coincide. A thousand apologies, Madame.’
‘Oh I cannot be angry with you! But can I do nothing to increase your enjoyment of this evening? Is there no-one to whom I might introduce you?’
The viscount was about to make his denial when his attention was suddenly arrested by a movement by the door, a late arrival. His eyes widened fractionally.
‘You may tell me, an you will, who is the lady just come in. The one dressed
en grisaille
.’
Madame looked across the room. ‘Oh, that is Madame de Sange.’
‘From her dress one would suppose her to be a widow.’
‘That is correct, my lord. Philibert de Sange has been dead all of fourteen months, yet still she wears her widow’s weeds. She never wears anything but grey.’
‘Doubtless she was greatly attached to her husband.’
His hostess laughed. ‘That is difficult to believe, my lord. He was very old, and word has it that he treated her abominably, although the lady herself never speaks of it.’ She observed his interested gaze. ‘Pray do not allow yourself false hopes, my lord. No one has yet succeeded in breaching
that
citadel. In Paris she is known as the Lady of Stone.’
‘Indeed?’
‘You can well imagine that when de Sange produced such a young and beautiful wife there was no shortage of admirers, all ready to pay court, but is seems the lady is as virtuous as she is lovely. There has never been a breath of scandal attached to her name. Even now she holds herself aloof – but I can see it is no use. You are enchanted! Very well, I shall introduce you.’ She led him across the room. ‘Madame de Sange, I have with me one who is anxious to be known to you.’
‘Your servant, Madame,’ the viscount bowed over the gloved hand, his lips barely brushing the fingers before letting them go.
Madame Briàre watched with no little amusement as the two exchanged civilities, the viscount’s attempts to open a conversation bringing little response from the lady. However, when their hostess had moved away he tried a different approach.
‘Perhaps, Madame, my mastery of the French tongue is incomplete?’
‘On the contrary, sir, it is perfect, as I am sure you are aware,’ she replied coolly. ‘If you prefer it, we can talk in English.’
‘Your tone is not encouraging, Madame de Sange.’
‘That is very observant, my lord.’
He regarded her with some amusement. ‘It is easy to see why they call you the Lady of Stone. With your powdered hair, that widow’s garb and such a cold, unfriendly manner, I am forcibly reminded of a block of granite.’
The lady’s green eyes widened a fraction. ‘And do you regularly talk to blocks of granite, my lord?’ she asked him.
‘Not
regularly
, ma’am, but I feel I am becoming more practised at it now.’ He observed a small dimple appear at the corner of her mouth. ‘Come that is much better. Even widows are allowed to smile, you know.’
‘Your conversation argues a most unstable mind sir,’ she told him, her lips curving into a reluctant smile. ‘Now, if you will excuse me-’
‘No, please don’t run away!’ he put out his hand to detain her, and was rewarded with an icy stare.
‘I run away from no one, sir!’
‘Then prove it to me, Madame. Allow me the pleasure of your company for but a few moments longer. Who knows but that you might melt a little, given time.’
‘One does not melt granite, my lord.’ She countered, eyeing him warily.
‘No, you are quite right. One chips away at it, little by little.’
‘That would take a very long time.’
He smiled. ‘I am in no hurry.’
At this point Elinor de Sange sensed danger. She had thought herself immune to any man’s charms, but as the viscount smiled down at her she was shaken to discover that she wanted to respond, to know more of this tall Englishman who could make her laugh so readily. To cover her agitation, she turned to the mirror behind her and gave her attention to straightening the long strands of pearls that were roped about her throat.
‘They are going down to supper,’ remarked Lord Davenham, glancing about him. ‘Perhaps, Madame, you would do me the honour…’ His speech trailed away as he caught sight of her reflection, for the Lady of Stone now bore every appearance of petrifaction. She was still standing before the mirror, but her face beneath its light powdering was quite as grey as her gown. She was staring fixedly into the glass and following her gaze the viscount realized that she was watching the Duc du Bellay and his pink-coated companion as they approached. Slowly, like one in a dream, the widow turned to meet them.
The Duc du Bellay beamed at the lady as he came up to her.
‘Your servant, Madame, and Lord Davenham, my dear sir, how goes it with you?’ He waved a hand toward his companion. ‘Madame, Monsieur Poyntz was very desirous to be presented. I hope you do not object to our interrupting you?’
‘Not at all,’ she replied mechanically, her fingers gripped tight about her ivory fan.
‘It was my hope that I might have the pleasure of taking you to supper,’ began Mr Poyntz, ‘but I think Lord Davenham has the advantage of me.’
The viscount glanced again at the lady, but she appeared to be having difficulty with her speech, so he gently drew her hand on to his arm, saying: ‘You have the right of it, sir. Your luck is quite out tonight. Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse us?’
He led Madame de Sange away, although she seemed unaware of his presence, and it was not until they entered the supper-room that she came out of her trance-like state, for my lord then felt her tremble.
‘Are you ill, Madame? Shall I send for our hostess to attend you?’
‘No, no. I am quite well, sir. I assure you.’
The viscount led the way to a vacant table.
‘You seemed distressed at the sight of the
duc
and his friend,’ he observed casually.
The green eyes flew to his face. ‘What? Oh – no. I – I was feeling a little faint when the two gentlemen came up…’ She gave a flutter of laughter. ‘A silly thing, but I am quite recovered now. The salon has so little air.’
Lord Davenham looked unconvinced, but he did not pursue the matter. He noted silently the lady’s lack of appetite, and although she responded to his remarks, she seemed pre-occupied, and it did not surprise him that she excused herself as soon as they had finished supper. She would go home, she told him. A little rest was all that was needed to set everything to rights. When my lord suggested that he should call upon her the following day, to assure himself of her well-being, the lady would have none of it.
‘There is no need for you to trouble yourself, my lord. I shall be quite recovered by the morning and I have no doubt there are any number of things for you to attend to before your return to England.’
‘Nothing that cannot be postponed, ma’am.’
‘No sir. I will not hear of it.’ She met his gaze squarely as she added meaningfully, ‘I thank you for your concern, Lord Davenham, but truly there is nothing to be gained by such attention. You would be wasting what little time you have left in France.’
With a faint shrug Davenham bowed.
‘As you wish, Madame.’
The viscount returned alone to the salon. Spotting the salmon pink coat across the room, he made his way directly to the wearer.
‘Ah Davenham!’ Julian Poyntz greeted him cordially. ‘What have you done with the lovely widow?’
‘She has left by now, I daresay. She was feeling unwell.’
‘Pity, I was hoping to try my luck there – not that I’d much chance against a handsome young dog like yourself, eh?’ He gave a fat chuckle. ‘Quite a fetching lady, though, don’t you agree? A piece of perfection.’
The viscount assented, and took out his snuffbox.
‘What brings you to Paris?’ He offered the box to Mr Poyntz, who shook his head at it.
‘Oh, a mere whim, sir,’ came the casual reply. ‘I wanted to look up old friends. Very much like yourself, I’ve no doubt.’
Lord Davenham helped himself to a pinch of snuff and returned the box to his pocket.
‘Not quite a whim on my part, Poyntz. In fact it was more a suggestion of my father’s. He wants some information.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes,’ nodded my lord. ‘You see, there is a certain English nobleman who is being – shall we say – less than honest with his fellow countrymen. He holds a great deal of power and influence already, but it is not enough for him, sir.’
‘It is not?’ Poyntz looked wary.
‘No. He wishes to restore a Stuart to the English throne, hoping thereby to become even more powerful.’
‘Surely not, my lord!’
‘But it is true,’ returned the viscount. ‘In fact, sir, I can tell you that this nobleman is suspected of treachery by many of the government, but he is cunning. There is no proof against him, and such is his influence at Court that more than rumours are required to denounce him.’
‘Then it seems the gentleman is secure,’ replied Poyntz, nervously biting his lip.
Observing signs of unease in his auditor, Lord Davenham smiled faintly.
‘Oh, but that is far from the case. You see, my father has no love for this man - due, I suspect, to some age-old quarrel – and he is determined to gather enough information to bring down the marquis. Oh, did I forget to mention that the nobleman in question is a marquis?’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t matter to me, my lord, since I know nothing about this matter,’ said Poyntz, in a voice that was not quite steady.
‘No, no, of course not. However, my father tells me that he already has information concerning several of the fellow’s accomplices. There is a deal of information to be gained from these - ah - fellow conspirators, which would doubtless help us in our task, and gain clemency for the informants at the same time.’
Mr Poyntz eyed the viscount warily for a few seconds, then he laughed, saying with a fair assumption of confidence, ‘Seems to me you’ve been sent to shoe a goose, Davenham! If there is treachery afoot, would your time not be better spent in London, watching this nameless gentleman? ‘
‘Perhaps you are right,’ murmured the viscount, moving away. ‘I intend to return to London very shortly in any event, although my hosts, Madame and Monsieur Charrière, are holding a masquerade ball in a sennight, and I have given my word I shall stay until then. Mayhap I shall see you there, Poyntz. It seems to me that all of Paris has been invited – and will doubtless attend,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘for the Charrières are renowned for their hospitality, are they not?’ And with a final bow, Viscount Davenham sauntered away, leaving a pensive Mr Poyntz to stare after him.
After the noise and activity of the Briàre’s soirée, Elinor found the Hôtel de Sange sepulchral. A solitary light burned in the hall, where she surprised a sleeping servant, who had not expected to see his mistress for another two hours at least. The jewelled heels of her shoes tapped loudly across the marble floor and up the wide staircase, but the thick rugs on the upper floors deadened all sound save the soothing rustle of Madame’s skirts as she made her way to her bedchamber. Just as she reached her room, an elderly lady in a black gown appeared.
‘You are returned early tonight, Madame.’ She spoke in perfect English and with some surprise.
‘Yes, Hannah. It was a tedious affair. I am very tired.’ Elinor avoided the woman’s searching look as she entered her bedchamber.
After the briefest hesitation, Hannah followed her. She watched as Madame threw off her cloak and sat down at her dressing table to remove her jewels, paying no heed to her companion, or the constant chatter of her voluble French maid. After a few moments, Hannah addressed the servant in English.
‘Thank you, Bella. I will attend to Madame tonight. It is no good babbling away at me in French, young woman, for you know I don’t understand the half of it, nor ever shall, no matter how many years I live here. Off you go to bed.’
‘Poor Bella. I fear you have offended her,’ Elinor smiled slightly as the maid was hustled out of the room, still muttering. ‘You should not wait up for me, Hannah. You know I asked you to live here to give me respectability, not to be my servant.’
‘Heavens, ma’am, have you forgotten that I was your nurse? Did you think that when your sweet mama died I would go back to England and leave you here alone with all these foreigners?’
Madame’s lips twitched, but she replied gravely: ‘
We
are the foreigners here, Hannah.’
‘You know that I mean, Miss Nell. Now, let us get you into your wrap and I will let down your hair.’
Obediently Elinor allowed her old retainer to help her out of the heavy grey satin with its numerous petticoats and cumbersome hoop, replacing it with a cream wrap of fine wool. She then resumed her seat at the dressing table while Hannah brushed the grey powder from her chestnut hair with soothing, regular strokes.
‘It is seldom that you leave a party early, Madame.’
Elinor avoided the sharp old eyes that watched her reflection in the glass.
‘As I told you, ‘twas a tedious affair. I could scarce conceal my boredom.’