“Neither are we a house of charity,” sniffs the steward.
“Ferron!” cries the master of the house, emerging from the grand doorway behind him. “Do I dream, or are you debasing yourself on my steps arguing with a footman?”
“My apologies, monsieur le chevalier,” the steward grovels.
“You may prattle like a peasant in the streets if you must, but I caution you to have a care for the honor of my house.”
Monsieur Ferron bows nearly to his knees at this unjust rebuke, for he is second only to the chevalier himself in guarding the reputation of Chateau Beaumont and its master. Meanwhile, the footman has been called to the side of his coach, where an elegant gloved hand rests on the sill of a small window, and a soft female voice declares, “I shall speak to this gentleman.”
The footman bows and pulls open the coach door, then tugs down the hinged step and hands the lady out. She is beautiful beyond measure — hair upswept from her face and done up in jewels, with long golden coils trailing down her back and a pale, perfect complexion. Her throat is long and elegant, her bosom alluring above a gold-worked bodice that fits her like a second skin. Her gown and cloak are of the richest velvet in a soft shade of heather green. All eyes seek her out, and for that moment, all conversation ceases. She raises her gaze to the face of the chevalier, and something blazes between them. I can see the transformation in him. The bored, petulant knight disappears; in his place stands Jean-Loup, the predator, regal and charming.
“My lady,” he murmurs, bowing rakishly low, his fingertips all but sweeping the top step in a grand gesture of welcome. “Your presence ornaments my humble home. Pray tell me whom I have the privilege to address?”
“I am Lady Honoree D’Auria Reveaux, Comtesse Du Bois.” She inclines her perfect head, and Jean-Loup himself glides down the steps to take her hand. He rattles off his own titles to her and dares to place a chaste, obedient kiss upon her gloved hand.
“Shall I have the pleasure of entertaining Monsieur le Comte this evening?” he asks.
“Alas, the count, my late father, is beyond the pleasures of this world. I journey to meet my bridegroom-to-be but find myself at odds with nature this afternoon.”
“Then praise nature for delivering you into my care, my lady.” His eyes are earnest, his smile hopeful, not yet dazzling. He plays the components of his handsome face like a puppet master, teasing this string, nudging that, until all the pieces work in concert for maximum effect. How can the poor creature not melt at the sight of him? Indeed, she lowers her beautiful eyes. Her first gesture of surrender. “Please come inside, my lady,” he urges her. “Whatever is in my poor power to provide is yours.”
He dismisses her men to the carriage house and orders refreshment laid for them in the kitchen. He sends his steward to the kitchen as well, to order wine and brandy and a meal, then escorts the Comtesse Du Bois up the steps and into the hall. My stomach is churning as I watch. The Lady Honoree is a noblewoman who has declared herself en route to wed a husband; she believes the Chevalier de Beaumont’s behavior will be as gallant as his words.
How wrong she is!
I can’t bear it. Wealthy and noble she may be, but with her father dead and herself not yet under the protection of a husband, she is as vulnerable as I was. And she may be deceived and ruined, as I was, unless I try to interfere on her behalf. No one else will dare to cross the chevalier, but I can’t sit idly by; I can’t. Not if it’s at all in my power to stop him.
I tell Madame Montant I am off at the bidding of the under-housekeeper Marie, and I tell Marie I’m running an errand for Madame Montant. They are in too much of a frenzy belowstairs over the master’s houseguest to take any notice of me. In a far corner of one of my chambers is a door that leads to one of the four turrets that mark the corners of the house. Each turret encloses a hidden stairway for the use of the upstairs servants. I have never used them before, but now I open the door and slip inside.
The stone steps, worn smooth by generations of slippered feet, spiral ever upward in the narrow cylinder of stone, giving way at last to a long utility passage. I follow this until it opens onto the spacious upper hall that surrounds the central staircase.
Now I recognize my surroundings. Beyond the staircase lies the dining salon, where the chevalier entertains, and beyond, the ballroom. Servants are already bustling the plates and knives and serving platters out of the dining salon. I retreat back into the utility passage so as not to be seen by them, but they are using one of the other turret staircases. I hear no music coming from the ballroom, so I know the chevalier and the comtesse must be elsewhere.
Fighting down my anger and shame, recalling the last time I was in this place, I turn toward his private rooms. The door to his outer salon is open, and I shrink back into a shadowy niche when a figure appears in the doorway. It is Monsieur Ferron.
“That will be all, Ferron.” His voice comes from inside. “See to my lady’s apartments.”
“Very good, monsieur le chevalier.”
“And you may leave the door ajar.” His voice has turned charming, humorous. “We have no desire to scandalize the servants.”
How kind of the chevalier to consider my lady’s delicate reputation! But of course, his gentlemen-in-waiting have taken themselves off, now that he has company.
“As you wish, sir.” Monsieur Ferron bows and retreats, then turns on his heel and marches off toward the wing of private apartments beyond the dining salon and the ballroom. The other servants have all melted away, leaving the chevalier utterly alone with the Lady Honoree.
Or so he believes.
Assuring myself no one else is about, I creep through the salon to the open doorway that leads to his private sitting room and peer inside.
A small, rosy fire burns in the grate of the white marble fireplace. A crystal chandelier with cream-colored candles hangs before a mirror above the mantelpiece, reflecting more warm, soft light into the room. It shimmers in Lady Honoree’s golden hair and on the folds of her lush gown. The young comtesse stands at a tall, arched window that gives onto a small balcony, watching the rain. The chevalier perches on a chaise longue in a corner of the room, watching her. It appears they have been speaking lightly of nothing in particular, their dinner, perhaps, or the weather, or the state of this year’s wine. But now, they have grown quiet as my lady leans her golden head against the glass.
“See how it rains,” she murmurs. “I may be a burden on your hospitality for days to come, monsieur le chevalier.”
“Please, call me Jean-Loup. And it is no burden, Lady Honoree.”
“You must allow me to repay your great kindness to me.”
“But your beauty and virtue are recompense enough, my lady,” he assures her, this great champion of virtue. “I shall carry them always in my heart to sustain me.”
She turns her face from the window to look at him. “Sustain? How so?”
“After you are gone and I return to my solitary pursuits. When the memory of your beauty and virtue shall be all I have left of you.”
Her hand rises to her bodice as she regards him. “But — you speak like a suitor, Jean-Loup.”
“Would that I had the opportunity to press my suit, my lady.” He rises in agitation. “But you are but a step away from the altar, and I am far too late.”
“We are ever pawns in the hands of fate, people of our station,” she agrees sadly.
“And yet, fate has brought you here,” he reasons, daring a step closer. She turns again to the window, lowers her head, and sighs, so she does not see him come one step closer still.
“Only to wound you, it seems,” the comtesse murmurs. “It grieves me to think you will suffer because of me.”