The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
Seated on the chaise opposite, her youngest sister, Cicely, now Countess of Morwood, and Therese, Lady Osbaldestone, ignored her and watched the vicomte.
In typical melodramatic French fashion, he flung out his arms. “When they first started seeing more of each other, the Corsican Upstart was still rampaging through France. Even when Robert asked my permission to speak to Juliette, there was no certainty the Bourbons would regain the throne. Now, however—”
“Louis is safe on his throne in Versailles,” Meg crisply cut in, hoping to bring the vicomte’s dizzying perambulations to an end, “and Robert is therefore a prince of the royal house. Hence, you have a royal wedding on your hands.”
“Mais, oui.” The vicomte, a normally reserved and scholarly soul, turned to her. “Which, mademoiselle, is why we would appeal to you. You have experience in these matters—experience we—my wife and I—sorely lack. Yet it is imperative, for my honor and that of my wife’s family, too, that this wedding should be all it should be.”
Meg held his gaze for a moment, then looked at Lady Osbaldestone. Her ladyship met her gaze directly, her black eyes silently repeating the arguments she’d heaped on Meg’s head in the carriage on their way there.
It’s not just the vicomte and his wife—who, I would remind you, is English and a connection of sorts of yours—who need your help in this—it’s the entire ton, the palace, and the government to boot. We can’t have the French turning up their noses and saying we didn’t make a proper effort. Robert might be a sweet boy, and as easy to please as you might wish, but he’s now a full-blood prince of their realm, and they’ll be watching proceedings closely. The palace even sent one of the secretaries to inquire as to my advice, and your father will get a visit, too, should you refuse. When it comes down to it, there’s really only one person who can do this job. And that’s you.
She really had no choice.
After her fiancé had been killed at Waterloo, she’d turned the skills she would have brought to bear on managing his vast estates to planning the weddings of her three sisters and two brothers. And then the weddings of countless cousins. And then the weddings of several connections and acquaintances.
She did, indeed, know all the ropes, and as the eldest daughter of the Duke of Durham, she was also accustomed to protocol at the highest level.
Glancing at the vicomtesse, a petite, timorous, and retiring lady seated in an armchair beside the chaise, and receiving a pleading, almost panicking look in reply, Meg inwardly sighed and looked up at the vicomte. “Very well. I’ll undertake to organize Juliette and Robert’s wedding.” She held up a hand to stay their incipient thanks. “But you will all have to agree to do exactly as I say.”
They agreed, of course, and then they thanked her effusively. Lady Osbaldestone smiled, well pleased, while Cicely—bosom-bow of Juliette de Rocher—beamed, bounced up, and raced off to tell the affianced couple the good news.
May 1820, some weeks later
Drawing Room of Vicomte de Rocher’s town house, London
“This is the guest list.” The vicomtesse handed Meg six pages with names neatly lettered down one side, one name per line, as Meg had requested.
“Bon.” Although the vicomtesse and Juliette were English, born and bred, both frequently slipped into French, the principal language of the household, and as Meg also spoke French fluently—another reason she was perfect for this assignment—she’d picked up the habit. She glanced at the list. “Now, if you please, we’ll go over this and add the relationship to either groom or bride, and the relative importance of each person.”
Scanning the list, she could put faces to most names . . . “Who’s this?” She pointed to one entry high on the first page. “The Duc de Perigord. I can’t place him.”
The vicomtesse shifted on the chaise. “He’s Robert’s cousin. The head of his mother’s house.” She glanced at Juliette.
Who nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I haven’t met him, but he’s coming from his estates in the south of France. Robert said he’s to be his best man—his principal groomsman.”
“All right.” Meg made a note. “So he’s the senior male representing Robert’s mother’s side. Now, let’s start at the top with all the rest.”
They spent the next two hours defining the guests and family members, more than anything else clarifying precedence. Titles were one thing, family relationships were another. Finally, Meg felt informed enough to make a start on the seating arrangements for the wedding and the breakfast to follow; she knew better than to leave the matter to Juliette and her mother—both were sweet, but not worldly.
Gathering the sheets, she said, “As I told your father when I spoke with him earlier, I’ve conferred with the various church and state authorities, and we’ve confirmed that the ceremony will take place on the eighteenth of June in St. James Chapel in Manchester Square.”
Juliette, who was already getting that rather strained look of all brides-to-be, relaxed a trifle. “Good. At least I’ll know where I am.”
St. James was the family’s customary church. Given both sides of the equation were of the Roman Catholic faith, Meg had of necessity sited the ceremony somewhere other than St. George’s, Hanover Square. Rising, tucking the sheets into the leather satchel she carried, she nodded briskly. “I’ll be arranging a rehearsal a few days before the wedding day. Please let all those in the wedding party itself know they will need to make themselves available—I’ll notify you of the time and date as soon as I have them set.”
June 15, 1820, 3:00 P.M. three days before the wedding
St. James Chapel, Manchester Square, London
“Where’s your best man—the principal groomsman?” Meg fixed Robert with an incipient frown. Everybody else in the wedding party had obeyed her orders, and was neatly arrayed before the altar, exactly as they should be.
In her peripheral vision, she saw a long, lean figure push away from one of the columns flanking the nave.
“I’m here.”
Even before, turning, she set eyes on him, his deep voice, faintly accented, triggered memories—a raft of memories she thought she’d forgotten long ago. Not that any memories prepared her for . . .
She stared at him—tall, long, lean, and even more overpowering than he had been, with his hair still black as a crow’s wing, and his aristocratically aesthetic features and eyes so dark they were pools of deepest night as mesmerizing as ever. Realizing she was staring, literally struck dumb, she forced herself to look down at her list. “You’re the Duc of Perigord?” Her tone was bordering on insult, but then . . .
Looking up, she found he’d drawn much closer—he moved so silently, so smoothly, so ineffably gracefully, she’d never learned the knack of making him keep his distance—and, as had happened years ago, his eyes were twinkling.
No other man had ever dared twinkle at her like that. She wasn’t sure any other man could. Almost as if he were . . . not laughing at her, but certainly amused, and in some odd way inviting her to be amused with him.
As if they shared a secret. Some secret understanding.
She realized she’d forgotten to breathe, with an effort rectified the lack.
His lips curved in a knowing smile, but to her relief, all he said was, “Louis reinstated the title. It was always mine.”
She’d previously known him as the Chevalier Devilliers. He’d followed his king into exile, had been in Louis the Pretender’s entourage for years. He was known as a superb swordsman, a cavalryman who had rallied the French nobles fighting on the side of the allies at Waterloo, and, if half the tales she’d heard were true, had performed feats of bravery upon that bloody field that had passed into legend . . . while elsewhere on that same battlefield, her fiancé, John Beaumont, had been cut down.
When her older brother Geoffrey, knowing she’d met Devilliers, had been telling her some of those tales, and she’d waspishly remar
She’d humphed and held her tongue.
And now the fiend stood before her, twinkling at her again.
But this time he stood on her battlefield.
She turned and pointed to the vacant space in the row before the altar. “Now you’re here, please take your place. We need to get this rehearsal under way.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The quiet words were taunting, of course, as was the polite salute he bestowed on her, but he did as she wanted and she was thankful enough for that.
As he walked—prowled, the man never simply walked—to his place in the line, she looked down at her list, grasped the pencil tied to her wrist and, lips compressed, wrote in capitals beside the name Duc de Perigord: GASTON.
June 15, 1820, 11:00 P.M.
Meg’s bedchamber, Durham House, London
“Thank you, Peggy. That will be all.”
“Yes, miss. Good night.”
Rising from her dressing stool and crossing to her bed, Meg heard the door shut behind her maid. Snuffing the single candle left on her bedside table, she let her robe slide from her shoulders, then slipped beneath the covers. Laying her head on her pillow, she stared at the ceiling.
She was about to let her mind slide to the topic she had until then not allowed it to explore, when soft footsteps approached her door, followed by a gentle tap.
The door opened and Cicely’s blond head appeared. “You’re not asleep yet, are you?” Without waiting for any answer, clad in a dressing robe, Cicely came in, shut the door, then glided to the bed and perched on its end, drawing up her knees and hugging them. “I thought the rehearsal went well, didn’t you? No dramas, no histrionics, and while Juliette and Robert were a trifle shaky, thanks to your notes everyone knew what they had to do.”
Cicely was Juliette’s matron of honor, so had been at the chapel, too. As matters stood, at the end of the ceremony it was Cicely who would walk up the aisle on Gaston Devilliers’s arm.
As if already thinking of that, Cicely leaned closer, over her knees, as if to share a confidence. “I wanted to ask about the Duc de Perigord. Gaston. You knew him from before, didn’t you?”
Stifling a sigh, Meg replied, “He was by Louis’s side through the Victory Celebrations in ’14, then we met again the following year, in Vienna during the Congress.”
Cicely pulled a face. “You were engaged to John then, but even you must admit Gaston is . . . well, breathtaking. He literally steals one’s breath. Those shoulders, those eyes, those . . . well, in truth it’s hard to find any element one might better.”
“His ego.”
“Really?” Cicely opened her eyes wide. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Perhaps not quite that.” Meg had to admit that was uncalled for; one thing Gaston did not have was an overinflated view of himself. She tried to remember all the things about him that invariably got under her skin and itched. “He’s high-handed, arrogant, and exceedingly used to getting his own way. He’s stubborn, immovable, but he’s also wily and cunning—if he can’t go through, he’ll go around, or over, or under. But he always ends up where he wants to be.”
Cicely looked at her, then laughed. “You’ve just described yourself, sister dear.”
Meg humphed. “Perhaps. But all in all, Gaston is a pest. He . . . gets in my way.” That was it in a nutshell; he got in her way, and wouldn’t get out of it no matter what she did.
“Ah, but you have to admit he’s a handsome, charming, and really quite delectable pest.”
Meg leveled her gaze on her sister. “Might I remind you that you’re married, and that Hugh will be in the congregation?”
“I might be married, but I’m neither blind nor deaf—any female would have to be both not to notice and appreciate Gaston Devilliers.”
Meg didn’t wish to argue that.
Cicely went on, “Geoffrey told me of Gaston’s exploits at Waterloo. And apparently his estates are substantial.”
Meg didn’t want to know. She faked a yawn. “Good night, Cicely.”
Cicely sighed and got up. “All right, I’ll leave you. But you have to admit that Gaston being Robert’s cousin has made this wedding much more interesting.”
Much more . . . trying was the word that sprang to Meg’s mind.
If she’d had any easy way out of the arrangement, she would have taken it, but as she had promised, and everyone—including the government and the palace—were counting on her, she would persevere.
Once Cicely had departed and shut the door again, Meg closed her eyes, and refused, adamantly refused, to think any more about an irritating Frenchman called Gaston.
Somewhat to her surprise, she slid easily into sleep . . . but the damned man followed her into her dreams.
June 16, 1820, 8:00 A.M., two days before the wedding
Rotten Row, Hyde Park, London
Ladies were not permitted to ride at a flat gallop down Rotten Row.
Meg didn’t exactly have special dispensation, but she was twenty-eight years old, long past her last prayers, and the hour at which she galloped was too early for any but the most hardened horsemen and horsewomen to see her, and as she was an exceptional horsewoman, they turned a blind eye. Or rather, they watched with open appreciation as, perched sidesaddle on her big gray’s back, she thundered down the tan track.
That morning, she needed to fly more than most; she needed to blow away the deadening sense of old regrets—regrets she’d never even known she possessed—that had beset her on awakening.
She was halfway down the track when she heard heavy hoofbeats following.
Closing.
She urged Atlas on, but the pursuing horse and rider drew ever closer.
She didn’t need to glance sideways to know who the rider was. Only one man—and it had to be a man—would dare.
Would dare intrude on her morning’s race and ride her down.
And, damn it, win.
They were neck and neck, but with his horse a sliver of a nose ahead when they flashed past the post that marked the incipient end of the track.
Both of them drew up, straightening as they drew rein, then they turned their horses onto the thick grass to the side of the track, letting them slow to a walk.
She glanced at his horse. A massive chestnut hunter with, clearly, an unexpected turn of speed. Without meeting Gaston’s eyes, she asked, “Did you bring him with you?”
“No. I’d left him here. I’m going to take him home with me when I leave.”
“And how soon will that be?”
He hesitated, then said, “After the wedding. I can’t stay away much longer than that—my estates need fairly constant tending.”
She glanced at him then, trying to see past the easy charm she was aware was a mask. “I can’t imagine you as a farmer. Where’s home these days?”
He grinned. “Perigord, of course.”
She didn’t rise to the bait. “Where in Perigord?” She’d looked in the map book in her father’s library the previous evening. “Where’s your principal seat?”
“Theoretically a castle on the upper reaches of the Dordogne, but it’s drafty and cold in winter, so I live at a chateau not far from a town called Sarlat in Perigord Noir.”
She made a note to look it up. Why, she couldn’t have said.
Walking his chestnut alongside her gray, Gaston looked ahead, and seized the opening s
She frowned. “I would have thought you would have married by now.” She glanced briefly at him. “A wife with a sound understanding could manage your estates, at least for a few months.”
“True.” He sighed. “But what with installing Louis, and helping sort out the chaos left in the aftermath of the Corsican’s downfall, and then, once I returned home, there was so much to do, I haven’t really had time to look for a wife.” He hesitated, then added, “Perhaps when I get back, now that everything is more or less stable again, I’ll be able to attend to the matter.”
She sniffed. “You make it sound like the equivalent of hiring a maid. That you just need to see the woman, interview her, weigh up her attributes, look at her references, and make up your mind. I suspect you’ll find it’s rather more complicated.”
He glanced sidelong at her, but she was looking ahead. “I heard about Beaumont. My condolences.”
She inclined her head. “It was a long time ago.”
“Not so long that you’ve found a replacement. Why is that?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t see the need. I had other activities to keep me amused.”
“Ah, yes—the weddings.”
“I’m good at it.” A touch of belligerence.
His lips curved. “Indeed. I saw. You are a general in charge of a motley troop, but you were in control and whipped us into line.” It was too good a chance to pass up. “Would that I could find a lady with the same skills to take charge of my household.”
She snorted. “The only one that lady would need to whip into line is you—and she’ll need the luck of the devil to succeed.”