Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (7 page)

While she had been chattering, moving about
the small room, picking up a looking glass to inspect her upswept
powdered curls, and then to assure herself in the long mirror
behind the door her hem was straight, her shoes just showing under
the petticoats, a tiny bow on the bodice not crooked, the Vicomte
stared at her open-mouthed, unconvinced it was Antonia. Her face
was painted. Her lovely honey curls were powdered out of all
recognition and there was a mouche at the corner of her eye and one
placed above the outward curve of her cherry-red mouth. When he
dared to permit his eyes to stray to her décolletage he was unable
to find the words to express his profound shock. Her lovely breasts
were almost bare. In spite of himself he flushed up to his
ears.

“Oh good!” she said with a nervous laugh.
“You do think I look like the whore.” She gazed at herself in the
mirror and sighed. “I confess I did not recognize myself either.
When I put on this gown, and before I applied Maria’s cosmetics and
powdered my curls, I was very ashamed of myself. I never expected
the bodice to be cut so low as to reveal practically all of me! If
it is any consolation it is very uncomfortable.”

Étienne rolled his eyes heavenward and
seeing this in the mirror’s reflection Antonia laughed. It caused
him to leap off the chair and grab her by the wrist and pull her to
him. “Was this that whore’s idea?” he demanded.

“Maria? No! Let me go! She knows nothing
about it. I don’t want her to know. I don’t want anyone to
recognize me but you.”

He let her go at that but he was still
angry. He searched a pocket for his snuffbox. “You must think me a
great jobbernowl if you believe I will allow you out of this room
dressed—dressed so every man can ogle at your-your—at you!”

“I have a domino,” she explained. “With that
draped over my gown what does it matter? I am only dressed in such
a way should my domino accidentally be removed and—”

“You must be the most naïve female at
court!”

“—catches under a heel, or on a door knob
and falls off,” argued Antonia. “I would at least look the part I
hope to play.”

“What if it is removed by some lecher with
or without your permission?” he retorted. “What do you think goes
on at masquerades, in the great crush of revelers, after a goodly
quantity of wine has been guzzled with the rooms hot and close.
Will a noble merely say ‘goodnight’, ‘pardon madame, I have enjoyed
the evening immensely, may I kiss your fingertips?’ As if! He will
be three parts drunk and maneuver you to an alcove or behind one of
the curtains. Before you know what is happening, whether you be
flustered or not, your domino will be about your ankles and your
petticoats up around your ears!”

“Étienne,” gasped Antonia.

“If you have the sauciness to dress the bona
roba you need not be shocked by the truth. Go and change. You will
not be attending.”

Anger sparked in Antonia’s eyes but she kept
her silence because the fat tire-woman came back into the room
carrying a tray with two dishes of sweet coffee upon it. She set
this down on the vacated chair and slipped behind the screen to
collect Antonia’s discarded clothes. She showed no desire to go
about her business with any speed so Antonia and the Vicomte drank
their coffee in tense silence, neither looking at the other.

“It is unlike you to go to a masquerade
dressed as a whore for the mere sport,” d’Ambert said at last.
“There have been other occasions, other masquerades that you did
not attend.”

“Grandfather would not permit it.”

“Why the sudden desire to go now? It is
hardly the time to be making merry.”

“That is unfair!” Antonia whispered
angrily.

“The Casparti is a whore but at least she
shows the old General proper respect. You should go to chapel and
pray once in a while.”

“I am not a Papist, Étienne. I won’t enter
that chapel. My father would be very upset with me,” she said.
“Besides, what do I need fear tonight when you will be there and
know my costume?”

He was not to be diverted. “Why do you
attend this particular occasion? Tell me!” he ordered. “Tell me or
I will lock you in this room until you do!”

“What is wrong with enjoying one’s self?”
she answered airily and picked up the black scarlet-lined domino
from the bed and put it about her shoulders. “Will you ask me to
dance?”

“Yes—No! You will not be attending!”

“Will many people from Paris be here
tonight?”

“Paris? Yes, many. Why?” he asked and
followed her into the next room. He watched her keenly as she
searched the contents of a band box and found a half-mask of white
dove’s plumes. “You have some wild scheme planned,” he said and
snatched the mask and threw it across the room. “I will not let you
go dressed like that!”

She ignored his anger and calmly picked up
the mask. “If you do not change your clothes you will be late,” she
said, and herded him to the door. “You must leave before I do or we
shall be seen together and my disguise will be uncovered. And when
you ask me to dance pretend you do not know me. Oh, Étienne, we are
going to have a prodigious time this evening!”

The Vicomte did not think so and as he
hovered at the bottom of the stairs watching the hordes of
merrymakers in their plumed and beribboned outfits strung with
jewels and studded with precious stones, every lady’s face masked,
he remonstrated with himself for being so weak as to allow Antonia
to attend. Not that he thought himself capable of stopping her had
he locked her up. She would have found a way out, or cajoled a
servant to break in the door. He had caught sight of her once, in
the Galerie des Glaces where the orchestra competed with the noise
of the revelers. Before he could go to her an aging dowager,
daughter in tow, trapped him in conversation and he lost sight of
her.

The ornate drawing rooms off the Galerie des
Glaces were open to the revelers, one leading off the other, their
painted and gilt furniture pushed to the walls, window sashes shut
tight against the autumn evening and every chandelier blazing with
light. Gentlemen and nobles alike brushed shoulders and tried to
guess the identities of the masked beauties. D’Ambert found himself
pushed along with the flow moving through the rooms in a steady
stream, and as he jostled with the next man he searched about for a
small black domino with a dove feather mask.

He did not trust Antonia to leave the cape
about her shoulders. It was stifling hot and many a lady had
discarded them. And if a gentleman did approach her to dance she
would remove it regardless because it was two sizes too big and
dragged on the floor. Not finding her in the Diana drawing room he
turned a heel to retrace his steps. He would stand vigil at the
dance floor and hope she found him. He had just walked back to the
Galerie des Glaces when an arm was thrust in his path. He spun
about and came face to face with his father.

“A word, d’Ambert,” ordered the Comte de
Salvan.

He had his son follow him to an alcove by a
long window. A gentleman watching the dancers removed himself as
the Comte approached and he bowed to both with a flourish. The
Comte turned an altogether different face on his son.

“Where did you go last evening?” he
demanded. “Your sniveling valet vowed he did not know! You did not
sleep in your bed and your horse and groom were seen returning to
the stables after dinner. Have I not warned you enough? Never leave
the palace without first informing me. Where did you go?”

“F-father—I-I—”

“Never mind! Ugh! Can you not say something
to me without stuttering like an oaf from the field?” The Comte
broke off to exchange pleasantries with two masked females who
glided past fluttering their fans on their bosoms and smiling
invitingly. He laughed at the wit of one and bowed at the silent
invitation of the other, then returned to his son who stood
woodenly at his side. “Étienne, do not lie to me. You went to
Paris.”

“I stayed with Grandma Salvan.”

“Do you think I do not know that? You think
me an imbecile? You are the imbecile!” hissed Salvan. “I expend my
energies to contrive a suitable match for you—”

“I do not want—”

“What you want is of no importance. You are
my son. A Salvan. You will do what is best for the name.”

“To marry this bourgeois heretic is best for
the name, Father?” the Vicomte stammered haughtily.

“It is expedient,” said the Comte with
finality.

“Why must I marry to—to end our financial
difficulties at the cost of making myself the laughing stock of our
friends? Listen to me, Father—”

“I am done arguing with you. You will do as
I tell you or you know what will happen.”

“The Bastille does not strike dread in my
heart.”

The Comte looked his son over and laughed.
“No? We shall see, my son. Cut off from the world and your comforts
you would soon change your mind. Snuff, d’Ambert?”

The Vicomte’s eyes widened and he went pale.
“N-no I—I prefer my own mix, thank you.”

“Precisely,” sniggered Salvan and shut his
box with a snap. He turned his attention to the dancing couples.
His son continued to stare out of the window. “Go away, Étienne.
Your morbidity offends me. Wait! Tell me. Who is the little dove
flirting with Richelieu?
Parbleu
! she has pretty
ankles.”

The Duc de Richelieu and his partner
pirouetted after their fellow dancers and stepped lightly back into
line, dancing the length of the floor toward a crowd of onlookers
who chattered and laughed at the edge of the circle. The Comte’s
mouth quivered as he watched the couple dance toward him.

“Oho! Richelieu has all the luck! Not only
pretty ankles but magnificent breasts also!” Salvan shook his son’s
arm without taking his eyes from the dance floor. “Étienne, look!
Is she not delicious? I must find Charmond. He will know if she is
from Paris. Ha! Now what goes on? A raven swoops on the dove!
Étienne, will you attend to me?” he demanded.

The Vicomte came away from the window and
followed his father’s gaze out across the glittering sea of
silks.

“See!” continued the Comte. “It is the end
of the dance and he is forced to hand her to her next partner. Oho!
She curtseys prettily enough but he saunters off, not at all happy.
Richelieu gives himself away I think.” He chuckled into a scented
handkerchief, eyes glinting at the small drama being played out
before him. “Poor M’sieur le Duc de Richelieu! He hoped for better
things and now he takes refuge with Madame Duras-Valfons. I can
tell it is she. Her mask cannot hide such a graceful carriage. What
will Roxton care for Richelieu’s petty moves on his mistress when
he has the upper hand in the game? And if he does?” Salvan
shrugged. “
Mon cousin
is a consummate performer! He will
feign indifference merely to pique Richelieu. He has a fine leg,
does he not, Étienne?”

The Vicomte gave no answer. He stared as if
transfixed on some point on the opposite wall of mirrors. The Comte
wondered if had heard any of his monologue. He sighed in irritation
at having spawned such a son who cared nothing for court intrigue
and was of a melancholy disposition. He dismissed his presence with
a grunt and a view of his back, turning to watch the Duke of Roxton
and his partner in the dove feather mask.

A crony in canary-yellow silk breeches and a
stiff frock of purple flowered velvet minced up to Salvan and bowed
with a flourish.

“Salvan! You see too?” he whispered loudly
in the Comte’s ear. “This little one makes a spectacle of herself.
The rumor is she is from the Maison Clermont. Can you believe it?
It is a thing most shocking! A c-common whore dancing at court
behind a mask! We will know at midnight. Charmond has wagered it is
the daring English Duke who has put her up to it. Can you believe
it?”

“No,” said Salvan sticking out his bottom
lip. “That is too crude even for him.
Mon cousin
is
notorious but he knows how to play the game. He goes to Clermont’s
to taste the talent not to procure dancers for court masquerades.
And this one, something tells me she is not so practiced in her
movements.”

“Mayhap, Salvan, but your cousin was at
Clermont’s last night with a new female, an accomplished
Oriental.”

“So? He is curious,” said the Comte with a
shrug. “You cannot make me believe this one is the Oriental. René,
you are full of wine! If she is anything she is an actress. Would
Roxton dance openly with a common whore? Preposterous!”

“
Hélas
, it is hot in here,” murmured
René, and with a bow minced off to join a lady who beckoned him
with a subtle movement of her fan.

Salvan saw that his son still stood at his
elbow and like a statue cast of alabaster. “You are interested, eh,
Étienne? You pretend to be shocked but I see through you! M’sieur
le Duc de Roxton’s movements intrigue you too?”