38. More Visitors

Chapter thirty-eight

More Visitors

T he rows of roses in the glorious greenhouse spread out before Gyles like an endless encyclopaedia of knowledge. How amazing it would be to spend a month here—a year—a decade! His penknife was in his hand, and he had an open invitation to take whatever cuttings he wished. Yet he could not escape the growing sense of unease that sat on his chest like a sack of mulch.

He approached a red rose, similar to his Sweet-Scented China Rose sitting untended at Kendall House, but this one was a far deeper red. Red as sunset. Red as heart's blood.

The empress had advised Louisa to ally herself with the Comte Dammartin. And Louisa, unmoored as she was, might drift in that direction. If only he knew how to stop her from listing into the reefs. If only he knew how to drop an anchor to keep her safe in open water. The obvious solution, of course, was that she needed a better offer of marriage to keep her clear of Dammartin's proposal. But where could that be found ?

With a flick of the hand, Gyles cut several dark red roses from their stem. He took a deep breath. Could he be that anchor. Could he, Gyles Audeley of Derbyshire, make Louisa Lymington an offer?

By temperament, Gyle could be considered a dreamer, but he was also a gardener. When one's actions are circumscribed by sun, rain, soil, and acreage, the facts of reality cannot be ignored. And right now, the facts were these: Louisa was the daughter of a duke. Her father had consorted with the heir to the English throne. Her mother had frequented Versailles and dined with Marie Antoinette. What would a woman like that ever see in a country gentleman like Gyles Audeley?

And yet, Gyles also knew enough about Louisa to see that, beneath all her scorn and self-possession, she was as tender and vulnerable as a wounded dove. He knew that even though her heart was bruised, it still beat true and kind and strong.

She valued fidelity. She longed for companionship. She dreamed of love. Would she trust him enough to believe that he could give it to her? Would she trust him enough to turn her back on everything else?

Gritting his teeth, Gyles tossed the deep red roses into the basket and put the penknife away. He strode toward the door of the greenhouse and took up the umbrella he had left with the empress' servant. He knew he was leaving behind the greatest treasure trove of rosarian knowledge in the world. But there was no time for that now. He would have decades of time to scribble notes about flowers, but as the poet advised, he had other rosebuds to gather today.

The rain had stopped, and Gyles stabbed the tip of the umbrella into the gravel walkway repeatedly as he hurried back to the house with long strides. He did not see any of the other guests out taking the air in the gardens—no doubt they were enjoying the warm fireplaces and more of the Empress Josephine's punch—but as he neared the house, he heard muffled voices filtering through the leaves of a tall, manicured hedge.

The substantial boxwood separated the main garden from the house, and the word Warrenton spoken with a French accent wafted through the damp air. Gyles halted in his tracks. Who was there and what were they talking about? The Duke of Warrenton? He moved closer to the hedge and listened intently.

It did not take long to realise that one of the voices, the excitable one, belonged to the Comte Dammartin. The other voice took a little longer for Gyles to place, but when the word vendre surfaced, he knew the man immediately. It was Monsieur Dupont from the bank. Why the blazes had he travelled all the way to Malmaison from Paris? Surely, he had not been invited as a guest?

This conversation was a little more difficult to make out than the one between the Empress and Louisa, but as he listened, bits and pieces began to come together like a schoolboy's paper puzzle.

"...our agent came back from England…it's all confirmed. She's rich. An heiress, just like she claimed to be."

"And the uncle?"

"...nowhere to be found…she's all alone."

The comte began to laugh, a less pleasant laugh than Gyles had heard him use before. "I don't suppose there's anyone to object then if I marry her immédiatement ."

"It would certainly help your financial difficulties."

"...how soon…draw on her funds? "

" La Banque de France will extend you credit until arrangements can be made."

"...very well then…opportunity tonight. The Empress is holding a grand ball…."

As Gyles listened, his hand gripped the umbrella handle like a truncheon, and the wicker basket was in danger of deconstructing beneath his grip. It was good that he had no skill with pistols, for if he had, he would have been tempted to call the Comte Dammartin out for his mercenary machinations.

The voices began to grow louder, and Gyles could tell they were moving in his direction. He walked as quietly as he could along the gravel path and then made a dash for the side entrance of the house. Success! He closed the door behind him and began to walk at a more sedate pace through the halls.

The anger in his own breast surprised him. He had been angry before, at mildew, at blight, at laziness and at bad management. At poor manners, at insolence, at injustice, and at cruelty. But this was something different. This time it was anger mixed with passion building to a maelstrom inside his chest. How dare the count think that Louisa was weak and worthless enough to be gammoned in such a manner? How dare he treat her like a disposable doll without a mind, a heart, or dreams of her own? He was just like her father, just like her uncle, just like the odious Mr. Digby.

Emotions churning, Gyles advanced down the corridor bristling like an untamed beast from the Empress' Australian menagerie. "There you are!" said a feminine voice in his native English. Gyles halted in annoyance as Cosette removed the umbrella from his grip, seized his sleeve, and pulled him towards the servants' staircase .

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded, the wicker basket with the rose cuttings jostling against the brass buttons of his livery. "I need to speak with Lady Louisa."

"I can assure you," said Cosette, refusing to loosen her grip, "that she has no interest in speaking with you right now. But she bade me deliver you a message, about a certain Englishman that she thinks it best you avoid." She dragged him into the servants' staircase and shut the door.

Exasperated, Gyles pulled the uncomfortable wig from his head and threw it into the basket with the flowers. He raked a hand through his tangled chestnut hair. His impatient voice rose to a louder pitch than usual. "I don't care whether it interests her. She needs to know what I have to tell her."

"Monsieur Pebble," said Cosette sternly, "surely a message from your mistress must take precedence over your own. Lady Louisa says she wants you to avoid Mr. Horatio Smythe."

"And I want her to avoid that slimy cad the Comte Dammartin," boomed Gyles. A housemaid using the servants' staircase skittered past them like a cautious mouse, sending Gyles a confused look over her shoulder. The girl was doubtless unused to a foreign tongue being spoken in a back stairwell with such vehemence and ferocity.

The pair maintained an awkward silence until the housemaid disappeared. Then Cosette began to laugh, a giddy, happy laugh that filled the whole staircase. "Oh, Monsieur Pebble, I was afraid that you would be too shy like a kitten, but I see now you are a lion at heart. Bravo, monsieur. You will make her listen to you."

Confused by this sudden approbation, Gyles pulled away from Cosette and started up the stairs .

" Mais non!" interjected Cosette. "You cannot see her now." Once again, she reached up and laid a hand on his sleeve, arresting his motion as he stood on the winding steps above her. "She is resting her eyes. A sleeping beauty, n'est-ce pas? Her prince must wait."

Gyles fervently hoped that the prince she referred to was himself and not the Comte Dammartin. He gritted his teeth. "But there is something I must tell her. The sooner the better."

Cosette placed her hands on her hips. "You've waited this long to speak—surely, you can wait a little longer. When she wakes, she will be busy preparing for the masquerade ball. I intend to make her my masterpiece, and you will not disturb her at her toilette."

Gyles' chin lifted. The masquerade ball? Surely that was the opportunity Alphonse had mentioned. He could not wait till tomorrow to warn her about her cousin's jaded intentions. A secluded upbringing in the English countryside had never afforded Gyles the opportunity to attend a masquerade ball. But it did not take much of an imagination to suppose what freedom of address might be employed when every man's identity was hidden by a mask. He had a presentiment that Alphonse was intending to use the event to press his own suit. He needed to give Louisa a warning—and an alternative—before that foppish fortune hunter wore down her defences. "How many people will be at the ball?"

Cosette shrugged. "Seventy-five? A hundred? The other maids say that the empress has invited the surrounding gentry as well as her house guests."

"And all the guests will be in evening dress and masks?"

"Of course. It is a masquerade. "

" Très bien ," he said, his accent still pronounced but becoming less noticeable. "I have a set of evening wear in my satchel. If you were to repair the wrinkles and find me a mask, I could blend in with the crowd and find a chance to speak with Lady Louisa."

Cosette gasped in mock horror. "A footman at the Empress' masquerade?"

Gyles paused. He gripped the handle of the staircase. "Cosette, I have a confession to make. I'm not exactly a footm—"

" Parbleu! " said Cosette, before he could finish his statement. "You think I do not know that? You think I cannot tell a beeswax candle from a tallow one? Of course, you are a gentleman, and not a footman." She gave a girlish giggle. "I can tell you now that Jacques and I have a wager—to which one of us will you admit it first? I cannot wait to see him and tell him that I have won the prize."

The ridiculousness of the situation struck Gyles, even as the anxiety of his need to see Louisa still weighed on his breast. "So, you've seen through my poor disguise all along? What gave it away? My ineptitude at dinner service? Or my inability to answer the door promptly?"

"More likely the sheep's eyes you made at milady whenever she came in the room."

"Hmm," said Gyles. "The more fool me. I'm glad you've won the wager. Will you also help me win my lady?"

" Mais oui!" said Cosette, exploding into a ball of furious energy. "Send me your evening wear, and the wrinkles, they shall be gone within the hour. And a mask, I will find you one. And a domino as well." Cosette looked at him in glee. "Oh, Monsieur Pebble, I was afraid that you did not have what it takes to woo a Frenchwoman, but I think you will do. You will do very nicely." She darted up three stairs and, standing on tiptoe, placed a friendly kiss on his cheek. " Une bouche from Cosette Bouchard. For luck, Monsieur Pebble." She gave a squeak of delight and clapped her hands together.