Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (51 page)

He gathered her up in his arms and held her
so tightly to him that she felt the tremors of relief that shook
his whole being. It was as if a tightly bound cord twisted
suffocatingly about his throat had finally been cut and he was only
now able to breath. And with relief came unspeakable fury at what
had been done to her, and a frustrated anger that he had been
impotent to stop such an attack. Sensing his anguish Antonia was
quick to reassure him she was only a little hurt. She had been
terrified and yes, very much shaken, but she had escaped before any
serious harm was done.

“It is just a cut,” she said with a teary
smile when he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “And I
am certain to have a few bruises to my back, but I am all right
otherwise. It—it looks worse than it is, truly. He hit me when I
argued with him. I should not have done that.” She looked up and
saw his eyes flicker to the blood on her petticoats. “It is not
mine. No. It—it is Grey’s. He kill—”

“I know,
mignonne
. In the
library.”

She nodded. “Ellicott and I—He, Étienne,
slit Grey open in front of us and left him to bleed to death.” She
swallowed and sniffed back tears. “Ellicott wrapped him in a
blanket and took him outside. I think he must have put him out of
his misery, Monseigneur. It was for the best because he was
bleeding to death; the poor little thing.”

“Ellicott would have done what was best,” he
assured her.

“Yes. It was for the best.”

He cradled her gently on his lap, her head
in the crook of his neck. “Do you want to tell me what else
happened,
chérie
?”

“Étienne—but it is not Étienne—He is truly
mad, Renard.”

“Yes,
mignonne
, I think he must
be.”

“I did not recognize him without his wig,
and with his beard all grown on his face, and his clothes soiled
and tattered. At first I thought it was one of the shepherds who
had lost his way into the house. Next thing I knew I saw him
running along one of the corridors before he—before he found me in
the library.” She shuddered at the memory and shifted a little in
his arms. “Ellicott tried to-to protect me and shield me when Grey
was killed in that horrible way. He threw his coat over him, but I
could not help but see all the blood and I fainted… I did not mean
to faint but seeing all that blood, and Étienne such a madman, made
me feel very sick. I truly could not help it.”

“Hush. No one would blame you,” he said,
stroking her hair. “So my valet was very gallant?”

“Yes, Renard,” she confessed shyly. “I awoke
to find all this blood on my gown and Ellicott reassured me it was
not mine. Which of course it could not be when I think about it, it
was Grey’s, but I did not know that at the time.” She gave a tired
sigh. “I am a coward.”

The Duke smiled softly and gently kissed the
top of her head. “But a very brave coward.”

Antonia looked up from snuggling into the
warmth of his black velvet frockcoat. “Monseigneur, I am sorry, but
I think I am about to be very ill.”

“If you must. But Ellicott will be furious.
It’s a new riding frock.”

She gave a gurgle of laughter and felt
better for it.

Yet her smile disappeared when the door to
the bedchamber burst open and a musketeer rushed in brandishing his
sword. The valet followed him, but at a sedate walk, and with his
nose elevated at the impetuous Frenchman. His arm was newly
bandaged and he wore a fresh shirt, although in his haste and worry
he had neglected to wipe the dried blood off his face and hands.
When he saw his master seated on the floor beside the bed with the
Duchess safely curled up in his arms his mouth quivered; this the
only sign of emotion he would permit himself.

The musketeer showed his confusion. He saw
the body of the Vicomte d’Ambert lying very still beside the bed
but there was no blood and there appeared to be no wound. And
seated on the floor not two feet from the body was the Duc de
Roxton with a very beautiful girl on his lap. He openly stared at
them. Roxton felt Antonia turn in toward him and sensed her
embarrassment. A sharp word at the gaping soldier and the sword was
put away and he retreated to stand at a discreet distance, his eyes
cast elsewhere.

“I apologize for this intrusion, your
Grace,” said the valet calmly, all his old hauteur returning to him
now that the Duchess was out of danger. “This—this
Frenchman
did not believe me when I said there was only one maniac on the
loose and he now in your custody.”

“Indeed?” said the Duke in English, taking
his valet’s lead. “I did not tell you before, the—er—situation as
it was, but I am greatly indebted to you, Martin.”

“Please, your Grace,” Ellicott said
hurriedly, flushing. “I merely did my duty to you and the Duchess,
and your—” He stopped himself and made a quaint little bow. “If
your Grace permits I will see to a wrap for the Duchess.”

Antonia turned to look at him through a
tangle of hair. “Thank you, Ellicott,” she said with a soft smile.
“I think you are very brave.”

The valet bowed to her with great
courteousness and hurried into the dressing room. When he returned
with a silk banyan he found the scene unchanged. The Vicomte’s body
still lay very still where it had fallen. He asked the question the
musketeer itched to have answered. “Your Grace, may I be permitted
to know what you did to him?”

The Duke told him. He had knocked the
Vicomte out cold; possibly he had fractured his skull; he may even
have caused deafness to one of his ears. But he certainly had not
killed him. No, a worse fate was to befall the Vicomte and the
Comte de Salvan. The valet could be certain of that.

Satisfied, Ellicott took his leave,
informing the Duchess that he would find Gabrielle to prepare her a
bath and to set out a change of clothes. With that he left the room
with his nose a little higher than when first he had entered
it.

In the next moment Lord Vallentine came
storming into the room with two musketeers at his back; all
brandishing swords and hoping to do battle. They had grown
impatient. Hearing voices and expecting the worst they had decided
to storm the apartments. The Comte de Salvan did not exert himself
and entered the bedchamber at a leisurely pace when he thought it
safe to do so.

At the same time Estée swept into the
bedchamber from the private dining room with the fourth musketeer.
She saw her husband and the musketeers with their glinting swords
before they saw her, and her scream of alarm made them jump, spin
about, and almost cross blades with one another.

As they rushed forward Lady Vallentine
swooned and was caught by a musketeer. When his companions had
orientated themselves they laughed at his chivalry. Lord Vallentine
did not think it humorous and he quickly relieved the soldier of
his burden. Estée said she had not fainted and demanded to be set
upright. She had seen her brother and Antonia seated on the floor
and all she cared for was to reassure herself the girl was
unharmed.

The antics of these performers provided the
Duke and Duchess with some comic relief. Yet when the Comte de
Salvan appeared their smiles vanished. Antonia turned her head
away, and the Duke stood up and shielded her, his features carved
of stone. He was no less cold to his sister when she gave a
startled cry at the Vicomte’s handiwork. The blood splattered
across Antonia’s petticoats made her jump to the worse possible
conclusions.

“
Bon Dieu
! My darling girl! Has no
one attended to your hurts?” cried Estée. “Are you in much pain?
And the—the blood—”

“Please, Madame, it is nothing—nothing,”
murmured Antonia as the Duke helped her to her feet. She retreated
behind her husband, acutely conscious of the stares of the soldiers
and the Comte de Salvan.

“How can you say it is nothing? Look at what
that
fiend
has done to her, Lucian! Where is he? What have
you done with him?”

“Calm yourself,” ordered the Duke. “The
Vicomte is lying under your feet, but he is perfectly
harmless.”

Lord Vallentine stepped in. “This ain’t the
time, Estée,” he said firmly and stooped to pick up the bloodied
knife that still lay beside the motionless body of the Vicomte
d’Ambert. “You can see she is unharmed—”

“Unharmed? You call her condition
unharmed
?” said Estée shrilly. “I hope that monster is dead!
Dead
I tell you!”

“Dead? My son is dead?” exclaimed the Comte
in melodramatic accents. He looked from one to the other with a
dramatic sweep of his arm. “No! My son, he cannot be dead!”

Estée glared at him with hatred in her blue
eyes. “You are no better than he! What do you care if he is dead?
You do not give an
écu
for that mad son of yours. If the
truth be told it is you who sent him mad, with your stupid schemes
and feeding of his addiction! Oho! Yes, it is common knowledge you
fed him opiates to keep him in your control. I felt so sorry for
that poor boy. You—you turned him into a monster. A
monster
.”

Lord Vallentine put his arms about his
sobbing wife to comfort her as best he could with a room full of
persons looking on in embarrassed silence.

The Comte’s smile did not waver. He signaled
to the musketeer closest the dining room door. “Fetch wine for your
Tante Estée, Paul.”

Estée broke free from her husband’s embrace.
“Paul? Paul de Montbrail?”

The musketeer bowed with a nervous smile and
disappeared to find the butler. Duvalier came quickly. He had been
hovering in the next room and now set a tray of glasses and bottles
of burgundy and claret on the table. The musketeers were left to
guard the Vicomte, their leader the only one to follow the others
into the private dining room. Estée took Antonia in hand to bathe
the bruise to her cheek with lavender water while the gentlemen
drank burgundy. The Duke declined. He set his shoulders against the
mantle and watched his wife with a concerned frown.

Lord Vallentine had a hundred unanswered
questions but he refrained from opening his mouth. He sipped his
wine in angry silence, a smouldering eye kept on the Comte. Finding
Antonia relatively unharmed slackened his desire to run the little
Frenchman through the belly but his thirst for revenge was far from
satisfied. He did not even know if the Vicomte was alive or
dead.

The Comte de Salvan looked less the mournful
parent and more the invited house guest. He drank his wine in smug
silence and smacked his lips in private satisfaction. “Ah, Roxton,
you have a fine cellar. One of the best! But you do not drink? You
must. I insist! It has been a trying day for all of us, but we must
go on! I am full of apology that we did not catch that monster
before he set upon your wife.” He shook his head sadly. “Yes, my
son, a monster! But it is over! Never again will we be troubled. I
blame myself entirely. Estée was right. Poor Salvan, he tried to do
what he thought best but—Ah, who can predict the future, eh?”

Slowly the Duke turned to look at his
cousin. “I am pleased you find my cellar to your liking,” he said
softly and in a voice that made Lord Vallentine sit up and take
notice. “Finish the bottle. I insist.”

The Comte refilled his glass. “You are too
generous!”

“Because it will be the last you consume in
my house.”

“
Mon cousin
! What is the meaning of
this hostility?” laughed the Comte. “Have we not both suffered
enough today? Indeed I am so very sorry for the attack on Madame la
Duchesse. It was unfortunate. But think of my loss. My son! My
heir!”

“Salvan,” stated the Duke, “the Vicomte is
not dead. He is not even greatly injured.”

“
What
. Not dead?” exploded the Comte
up on his feet. “But I thought… His attack on your wife… Did you
not kill him? Is his body not lying dead in the next room? He is
dead I tell you! I saw his lifeless form with my own eyes! Estée,
she said he was dead!”

“Sit down, Salvan,” ordered Lord Vallentine,
and pushed the Comte onto a chair.

“His skull may be cracked, but he will
live,” said the Duke. “In fact,” and he grinned unpleasantly, “he
will live a good many years yet. Given the proper care and every
attention I should think he will live long enough to inherit the
title.”

“
Bon Dieu
!” Salvan mopped his
glistening brow.

“He don’t sound too thrilled with the idea,
Roxton,” said his lordship, enjoying the Comte’s discomfort. “Why
is that do you think?”

“I do not understand at all why you did not
run that monster through!” Estée said with a shudder.

“He is too mad to kill, Madame,” said
Antonia a little sadly.

“But he deserves to—”

“Hush, Estée,” ordered her husband. “I want
to hear what your brother has to say.”

The Duke held out a small key to the
hovering musketeer. “If you would oblige me. In the top drawer of
the desk in the library you will find a certain—er—document. You
won’t mistake it. Bring it to me.” When Paul de Montbrail departed
he continued. “I will be brief, lest our friend returns too
quickly. The night my wife was shot on the Versailles road it was
by your hand, Salvan.”

“W-What!” gasped Estée.

“It was a mistake,” continued the Duke. “You
aimed at the man on horseback who tried to wrest the Duchess from
the chaise. You missed your mark. In your anger at
my—er—pronouncement your aim went awry and the bullet struck my
wife.”

“A wild assumption! Why would I bother to
shoot a highwayman who held up your carriage? Preposterous! I was
at a masquerade I tell you. You have no proof.” The Comte sniffed.
“I am insulted by such a ridiculous accusation.”

“That highwayman was your son,” said the
Duke. “There was ample time for you both to contrive a road block
and enlist the aid of a couple of your more—er—brutal servants. You
saw that my carriage waited until the Duchess’s belongings had been
fetched from her lodgings. Mayhap you planned for such an
eventuality, should she finally be successful in gaining my help to
get her to Paris. She had told your son she had approached me
should he be unwilling to aid her escape from your unwanted
attentions. Whatever, that is unimportant.” He took a pinch of
snuff and glanced at Lord Vallentine. “You waited out of sight.
Your son and his accomplices were braver. You hoped to kill
d’Ambert and thus implicate me in his death. A pity your neat
little scheme did not work. A pity for both of us.”