Читать книгу Regency Scoundrels And Scandals - Louise Allen - Страница 29

‘What! Jack, you love her—now you know she loves you and you still say you will do nothing?”

‘Bel, she is a Grand Duchess, for goodness’ sake. I am a younger son.’

‘Of a duke,’ she retorted. ‘Your breeding as a scion of one of England’s oldest houses is as good as anyone’s in this country. You know what you are, Sebastian John Ryder Ravenhurst? You are a snob.’

‘A what?’ Jack twisted round on the chaise to stare at her.

‘A snob,’ Bel repeated. ‘An inverted snob. You refuse to justify your own position, to stand up for who and what you are because she has that title. One she married, not one she inherited, mind you. One of these days you could be a duke—your son certainly will be.’

‘Bel!’ She had truly shocked him now.

‘You think I do not understand about our brother and his situation? If he is happy, I am certainly not going to judge him. And you are an English gentleman; the Mauborgians should be grateful to have you as their Grand Duke’s stepfather.’

‘Mauborgeois,’ Jack corrected absently.

‘So, what are you going to do now?’ Bel demanded again, ignoring his interjection.

‘Nothing,’ he repeated.

‘Nothing.’ His sister sprang up and regarded him, hands on hips. ‘Nothing. Because your pride will not accept you having to stand one step behind your wife on state occasions. Because you will not compromise on how you live your life. Because people might talk. I could box your ears, Sebastian Ravenhurst, but a better woman got in first.’

The door slammed behind Bel. Jack stayed where he was, staring at the painted panels, trying to make some sense of his feelings. His head ached, his face ached, his heart…ached was an altogether inadequate word for how that felt. With a groan he flung himself back full length on the chaise cushions and found his nostrils full of the scent of Eva.

Pride, compromise, status, love. It was a word game, a riddle he had no idea how to read.

‘How long may I stay in Maubourg?’ Freddie demanded as the carriage rolled over London Bridge.

‘Until the new term. This is not the end of school, young man, you know your papa wished you to be educated as an English gentleman.’ Eva carried on settling all her things for the journey. Books into door pockets, her travelling chess set on the seat, some petit point in her sewing bag. Freddie’s seat was cluttered with packs of cards, books, something he was whittling out of wood and a box of exercises Herr Hoffmeister insisted he took with him. They were doomed to stay there, Eva suspected—the tutor was taking a holiday, much to Freddie’s well-suppressed glee.

‘Why did Papa not let me come home for holidays?’ Freddie persisted.

‘I think because he wanted you to be thoroughly English,’ Eva explained. ‘Then when you were older you would have all the contacts you needed for diplomacy, and your English would be perfect.’ Which it was. Now, they had slipped back into a mixture of French and the Maubourg dialect; she did not want her son arriving home sounding like a foreigner.

‘I missed you.’

‘I missed you, too.’ She suppressed the nagging suspicion that Louis had wanted their son to grow up with less feminine influence, or even that, as Napoleon’s influence grew, he had doubts about having married a half-French bride. Whatever it was, he had never chosen to explain himself to his wife, merely citing her tears as evidence that Fréderic was better off at school. ‘Still, now you are so much older, I am sure Papa would have wanted you to spend your holidays in Maubourg.’

Freddie nodded thoughtfully. ‘And I can study with Uncle Philippe so I will learn how to be a proper Grand Duke.’

‘Yes, my love.’ She smiled at him, tears of pride shimmering across her vision so that he became a blur. Last night, amidst the chaos of the preparations for their sudden departure, she had found no opportunity to shed the tears that filled her heart for Jack until she had reached her bed, and then, alone at last, she had wept for what might have been, but now never could be.

‘Uncle Philippe is a very good Regent, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘But he doesn’t know about things like sport and adventures and things like that, does he?’

‘No, I don’t think those interest him.’ Her brother-in-law was the scholarly one of the family.

‘I do wish you were going to marry Mr Ryder after all,’ Freddie said.

‘Freddie! Whatever makes you think—?’

‘I thought you loved him. You were very sad when he went away and didn’t say goodbye. And the way he looked at you. I may not know much about these things,’ her nine-year-old son said with dignity as she gaped at him, ‘but I can tell when two people like each other a lot. I don’t understand why he didn’t ask you to marry him.’

‘Possibly because I am a Grand Duchess,’ Eva said more sharply than she intended.

Freddie nodded. ‘I did wonder about that. But then, he’s a duke’s son, isn’t he? One of the chaps at Eton recognised him and told me. I know it’s a long time since you’ve really been in England,’ he explained earnestly, ‘but it’s a very important family; perfectly eligible. Do you think I ought to write and give him permission?’

‘Freddie!’

‘It is a difficult question of etiquette,’ her son pondered, apparently oblivious to his mother’s horrified expression. ‘I shall have to ask Uncle Bruin. I mean, Mr Ryder is a lot older than me, after all.’

‘Twenty years,’ Eva said weakly.

‘Old enough to be a proper father, and young enough to be fun,’ the Grand Duke opined solemnly. ‘Just right, really.’

‘Freddie, promise me, really, truly, promise me you will not write to Mr Ryder,’ Eva begged.

‘Sure? Well, tell me if you change your mind, Mama.’ Freddie found his pocket telescope and proceeded to risk motion sickness by trying to use it while the vehicle was moving.

Eva slumped back in the corner of the carriage. Bel thought he loved her. Her own son thought he loved her. She had hoped he loved her. But Jack had not said it. Were they all wrong—or was he deliberately not telling her?

Two days later Eva was still pondering. They were travelling at a reasonable speed, one of the footmen up on the box beside the driver with a shotgun, the other man, with Grimstone, riding on either side of the carriage. There had been no problems, no apparent danger—it seemed Antoine’s plotting had died with him.

She looked out at the countryside, contrasting it with England and with Maubourg. She seemed never to have found a real home—their French château was a distant memory, she had been in England only a short while before Louis had married her, and Maubourg was hers by marriage, not by birth.

Jack struck her as a very English Englishman. She was not sure what that meant, but she had seen a change steal over him after they had landed, a sense that he was home, that he had taken a deep breath and relaxed. She had asked him to leave that without a single thought to how it would feel for him, without even asking what lands he held, how attached he was to them.

She had fallen in love with the man, without ever seeing him in his true context. How could she hope to understand him? How could she know what she was asking him to give up for her?

Layer upon layer, Eva realised as the carriage rumbled over the cobbles in Lyon three days further on, she had failed to understand Jack. She should not have made that proposal; instead, she should have told him she loved him and waited for his response. She should not have demanded, she should have found some way of letting him know it was all right to propose—if he did love her. And she should never have started this without thinking through how she could compromise her way of life to fit with his.

She still could not imagine how that could be achieved. There was the Rhône, swirling past the road. The river that had almost taken her life, if it had not been for Jack. ‘Not long now,’ she said cheerfully to Freddie, and fell back into thought about compromise. But how? There was her son, her duty—and a country hundreds of miles from England.

The first sight of the castle struck Freddie dumb. Eyes wide, he stared, then, as the carriage rumbled over the bridge and began to climb the steep streets to the great gate, he darted from side to side, searching for familiar landmarks, places he could recognise.

There was a clatter of hooves and Grimstone spurred ahead, going to warn the castle of their arrival. And then they were there; guards were spilling out through the gate to line up on either side, townspeople coming running to see what was afoot.

The carriage drew up, the footman let down the step and reached to hand Eva down. ‘No.’ It was Freddie. With a dignity she did not realise her small son possessed, he said, ‘Excuse me, Mama,’ and climbed out first. Then he stood by the side of the door and held up his hand for her to take, making a little ceremony out of her appearance.

His expression as he looked at her was pure pride. Pride for himself, pride in her and a glowing pride at being home where he belonged.

Pride. Eva hung back as Philippe appeared in the gateway and walked steadily towards his nephew. Freddie started forward, almost at the run, then collected himself and walked up to his uncle.

‘Your Serene Highness, welcome home.’ The man bowed to the child and suddenly all the dignity was gone. Freddie threw his arms around his uncle’s neck.

‘Uncle Bruin! We’re back!’ He twisted round. ‘Mama, see, Uncle Bruin is well again.’

‘Yes, so he is.’ Eva came forward, both hands held out to Philippe. ‘Thank Heavens for it.’ But in the back of her mind the word lingered. Pride. Pride and honour. So important to men, so easily forgotten by women who loved them.

‘I am so sorry I left you,’ she murmured to her brother-in-law as he took her arm to take her into dinner, hours later.

‘It was the right thing. Your place was with Freddie, and by going you threw all Antoine’s calculations into disarray.’ The Regent patted her hand as he helped her to her seat next to him at the round table the family used when they dined informally alone. With Antoine gone, there was just the three of them now. Philippe’s wife had died many years before, leaving him childless.

‘You look well,’ Philippe observed as the soup was served and the footmen retired to give them privacy. ‘It may have been an odd holiday, but it has done you good to get away.’

‘For the first time in over nine years,’ Eva said. ‘Yes, it was a…change. And the long days in the open air were invigorating.’

‘I never understood why you did not go away before.’ Philippe passed her the bread.

‘Louis preferred that I did not travel,’ she began.

‘Louis has been dead almost two years,’ his brother reminded her gently. ‘You have been very obedient to all his wishes.’

Yes, she had, Eva realised. The rule that Freddie must stay in England, the rule that she did not travel. Yet Philippe was a more-than-competent Regent, it was hardly that she needed to be there all the time—only when Freddie was here in the holidays. And the rest of the time he was in England…

Compromise. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she could see a compromise, a plan she could lay before Jack. He might still reject it—and her. But she had to go to him, put things right somehow, even if all that meant was that he felt he could write now and again to Freddie.

‘Freddie. Philippe.’ They broke off in the middle of an intense discussion about Napoleon’s tactics at Waterloo that involved the salt cellars, a mustard pot and a bread roll, and turned to her politely. ‘Would you both mind very much if I go back to England?’

‘When?’ Philippe looked startled, but her son’s face was one big grin.

‘Tomorrow. There is something I need to do.’ She smiled back at Freddie. ‘Someone I need to see.’

Eva was apologetic to her escort. She could take Maubourg men with her on the journey back, she offered. Grimstone and his two companions must be travel weary and saddle sore.

‘No, ma’am.’ The butler-turned-bodyguard was adamant. ‘The guv’nor would expect us to stick with you, however long it takes. Where are we off to now, if I might ask, ma’am?’

‘England,’ Eva said firmly. ‘Straight back to London.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The butler managed an estimable straight face. It sat oddly with his battered pugilistic features. ‘Whatever you say, ma’am. Back to London it is, then.’

She did not leave until well on in the afternoon the next day. Partly it was because she wanted to enjoy the sight of Freddie rediscovering the castle, partly because she wanted to be completely sure that Philippe was well, but also because she was determined to retrace the route she and Jack had taken and to stay in the same inns. So, unless she was going to arrive ludicrously early at the first one, she needed to delay her departure. She was not certain what she would do when they reached the area where they had slept out under the stars, but she would deal with that when she came to it.

It was about six in the evening when the carriage, driven by a very bemused driver, deposited the Grand Duchess of Maubourg on the threshold of one of her more humble inns.

It was the same innkeeper who greeted them and he blinked a little at the sight of her again so soon, and with only servants at her back and no husband. But he did not recognise her true self this time, either, cheerfully ushering in Madame, lamenting that her esteemed husband was not travelling with her, and assuring her that the same bedchamber as last time was free. They had no other guests, he explained, directing her escort to a spacious attic room, although a hunting party was due in two days. What a fortunate occurrence that Madame could have the whole place to herself; he would light a fire in the parlour, for he was sure rain threatened and the temperature was dropping, did she not agree?

The promised rain came not as a shower but as a torrential downpour that made her think of the night before the battle. Then she had had only an open-sided hovel and straw to keep her dry and warm. And Jack’s long body curled around her. But now she was in a snug parlour, surrounded by the carved woodwork and brightly painted earthenware the Maubourg peasants excelled at producing.

On the wide wooden mantel there was even the commemorative tankard that had been produced to celebrate her wedding to Louis. A good thing the image of her was so unlike. It was good of Louis though, she had always thought so. The handsome aloof profile stared blankly at the insipid representation of the new bride. So young, so innocent and so easily moulded to the dutiful wife her husband had demanded. Eva got up and turned the vessel around so the portraits faced the wall and the Maubourg crest was towards the room. That was better. She was another woman now.

There was a fire in the hearth to send red light chasing across the whitewashed walls and the curtains were drawn cosily across the casements. Distantly from the taproom she could hear the men talking. Here she was alone, but not lonely, thankful for the peace and the privacy to think about Jack. She had to get it right this time. Then upstairs was the bed they had shared, the memories of their first night together to relive when she finally felt sleepy. That first night—with a bolster down the middle of the bed!

Eva smiled. What would Jack think if he could see her now, nostalgically retracing their steps across France? Would he think her foolish, or would he understand?

The rain lashed down harder; it almost felt as though the sturdy little inn was a ship in rough seas, the waves battering at its sides. If it was like this tomorrow, she would not move on. It was madness to risk men and horses on roads that could become mountain torrents. Strangely it did not disturb her, the prospect of delay. She had made up her mind—she was travelling back to Jack almost fatalistically. He would be there when she arrived, she knew it.

There was a bustle outside, doors banged and the innkeeper shouted for the ostler. Some chance traveller caught in the storm, perhaps. Eva put down the book she had not been attempting to read and went to twitch aside the curtain. In the erratic light of the wind-tossed lanterns she saw that the ostler, huddled under the inadequate shelter of a sack, was leading a big horse towards the stable. Its coat was black, streaming with water, the saddle already soaked. She caught a glimpse of the skirts of a many-caped greatcoat as the rider vanished into the shelter of the porch.

A lone man, then. It seemed, unless he was content with the common taproom, that she must lose her privacy. Eva shrugged. She did not mind. One of the footmen could come in, too, to cover the proprieties.

‘Such a surprise, monsieur.’ The innkeeper was jovially greeting the newcomer. ‘Come in, sir, come in! What a night to be sure, but you at least are certain of a warm welcome and your usual room. This way, sir, this way.’

A regular and favoured customer by the sound of it. But Eva was surprised that the innkeeper appeared about to usher him into the parlour, without a word to her.

‘Here we are, sir.’ The door swung open, making the candles gutter wildly. A tall figure, its bulk increased by the soaked greatcoat, filled the door. Water poured off the coat, pooled around the booted feet. The man’s hat was in his gloved hands, but it could not have done much good, for his hair was plastered to his head.

The candles steadied as he took a step inside and Eva came to her feet. He looked weary, this traveller, there were shadows under the grey eyes and lines at the corners of his mouth that were new, she would swear, but as he saw her he went white, and under the blanched skin the bruised shape of four fingers stood out starkly.

‘Jack. Oh, my God. Jack.’ And then she was across the room, into his arms, her own around his neck, his soaking clothing leaching freezing wet into hers. And the heat of her love swept through her as he bent his head and his ice-cold lips met hers.