Darcy & Elizabeth (25 page)

All of this was concluded without either of them speaking a word.

The Road to Perdition
Is Paved with Feathers

George Wickham's undoing had begun long before his nefarious flight from the battlefield. Wickham (the man and the major) was a gambler, a dandy, and a spendthrift of proportions that only a Lord Byron could support without compleat ruination. Although it might be the assumption, Paris was not truly his downfall. It just happened to be where he had met it.

How Major Wickham, a deserter of the British Army and the owner of, shall we say, more than a lion's share of character flaws, managed to insinuate himself into the fashionable cafés of the
grands boulevards
and become a confidant to one of the most admired courtesans in Paris was a history worthy of
A Winter's Tale
. The single thing to Wickham's credit is that he was not the first, nor hardly would he be the last, to be beguiled by the particular arts of a courtesan. As a practiced habitué of the café class and a man who thought himself above all pure and elevating passion, perhaps he should not have, for it was not in his nature. However, his heart had been fallow for so very long, that it was roused to love-struck insensibility the first time it was unfettered should not have been altogether unexpected.

***

For a man in a foreign land without a feather with which to fly, Wickham had landed on his feet with much the same facility as would an upturned cat. Still, as one of the race of occupying forces, he had fretted that Paris might just be a brief stop.
Perfide Albion
, the French called their British enemy—Treacherous English. He had heard that invective more than once and chose not to retort. Indeed, he had just chased across the countryside from Charleroi to Paris whilst ground into the corner of a tattered barouche between a particularly squat lady (so uncomely that he was convinced she was the fleeing French emperor in disguise) along with a one-legged man wearing an oversized beaver hat. After that little adventure, Wickham believed there was nothing upon which he would deign to remark.

He was, however, most anxious to enjoy an alteration in scenery.

Yet he had found Paris and its inhabitants (insofar as the company he chose to keep) quite otherwise inclined. Life in the demimonde went on as if the country were under no political upheaval whatsoever. Few things appeared to have ruffled the
habitués
of houses of fleshy commerce. And as he believed his facility in the French language very nearly rivalled that of rescuing himself from the brink of unmitigated disaster, he had felt altogether quite at home. However, was he to be admitted to
chez elle
, Wickham had known that an impecunious gentleman had to have a certain
savoir-faire
. Clumsy men were distinctly unappealing to sophisticated women. Compared to the average rich man, Wickham was slick by half, hence he had a leg up, if not over this particular haven of
demimondaines
. Trickery of all kinds had always held Wickham's admiration. Regrettably, the single art that he honed most finely was still that of self-deception.

***

The steps were crowded with overdressed Frenchmen, and Wickham had to step around the queue to gain his entrance to what appeared to have the makings of a grand soirée. As some talents return with uncommon ease to those disposed to use them, once he gained the room he paused but briefly as he took expert measure. Initiating an air of disdain, he held a tasselled card aloft betwixt fore and second finger and paid little heed to the burly footman wearing Bourbon colours, who was then eying him suspiciously. If so insignificant a person as a servant were chary of his personage, Wickham had been loath to take offence. He had his invitation. It was not the
hoi polloi
whose regard he wished to impress, it was the
noblesse
.

With a twirling motion worthy of a fair
paso doble
, Wickham took off his cape and handed it and his recently purchased hat and sword off to the valet. They were not true to his uniform, but a hybrid; he prayed no one noticed. When it appeared no one had, still wary, he turned to the room. A devilish grin then overspread his countenance as he allowed the familiar sounds of debauchery and vice to wash over him like an ablution.

For his breast coat pocket beheld a treasure—
redingote anglaises
in France, known as a French letter in London. A bit of ribbon tantalizingly protruding from the package promised his ingress to untold delights. He had purchased it from a “discreet” shop in the gallery of
Palais Royal
. That little item provided the bit of courage he needed when embarking upon the seduction of women in a land not his own. He did not truly believe the stories that those ladies of the night were more likely infected with the foul complaint than those in London, but as a dedicated votary of Venus, he had been just uneasy enough to want a little added protection. This linen device would be a severe impediment to his pleasure, but he had reckoned that was better than a case of the pox. He had once had to undergo the torturous mercury cure and cringed at the thought of having to endure it again. Quite unknowingly, he patted his pocket in reassurance as his gaze took in prospective paramours.

They looked to be an enchanting lot. Wickham had seen the gallant women of the époque sitting in the fashionable cafés and strolling the grand boulevards. He thought he would have liked to be the male counterpart to a courtesan.

“Pray, what are they called?” he had worriedly wondered to himself.

His French was not coming to mind as quickly as he had hoped. At that moment, his lack of recall of this particular term seemed to pose an insurmountable predicament despite the dubiety of him attaining such an ambition.

“Ah, yes.
Amant de…gigot
. No, not
gigot
, that is ‘leg of mutton.' Something else…” he beseeched his recall of pillow-French and finally produced the term, “‘
Le Gigole
.'
Oui
, yes. That is it, dancing partner. Better yet, ‘
Cavalier,'
companion.”
Amant de cœur
, lover of the heart, had suited him most keenly, however, and he repeated it softly to himself several times so as not to forget.

Presently, Wickham withdrew his head from the clouds of amour and realised the folly of such a notion. However elevated his self-regard and great his heights of fancy flew, he would eventually find reason. He was ambitious enough and cynical enough, but he lacked determination. He would rather loll about with aspirations uninvestigated than endure that humiliation of defeat. Defeat had barked far too assiduously at his heels whilst fleeing Napoleon's drubbing at Quatre Bas. The British may have triumphed, but Wickham's mettle had not. Truth will out, it is said. Truth was, Wickham was not faint of heart but he had a vein of cravenness burrowed deep in his gut.

To his great relief, by the time he landed in Paris, word of Nappy's rout had preceded him, thus allowing the waffling political winds to shift once again. Wickham was fast to sniff out that certain circles were quite happy to welcome the
perfide Albion
. As his situation was, one could say, in a state of flux, he was happy to catch sight of open arms of any persuasion. He began to prowl the boulevards to strike up advantageous conversations and games of chance. Ere long, he had parlayed the few coins in his pocket into a stake. Other than an alteration of scenery, he had reclaimed a fair equivalent of the life he had been leading in London. So similar was it, that it was not long before one of his capers proved particularly lucrative.

Employing no little gall (and, admittedly, one step ahead of a minion of the Prefecture of Police), he had engaged a young gentleman on the
Chaussée ­d'Antin
in discourse by the pretence of enjoying a previous acquaintance. His attention to his occasionally unreliable French was compromised by the handsome accoutrement which adorned the young man's arm.

Wickham raised his hat to them both.

“Paris in August—abominable, is it not?”

That was the single comment that he knew of Paris, and he used it upon every occasion.

Although the young man's costume exposed him of a man of means, his companion was not so easy to peg. When the beautiful young woman turned in his direction, he observed a treble ruff of vermillion curls nearly appropriating a wide white face. Granted, she was an impishly attractive woman and even Wickham recognised the jaconet muslin of her gown and the four full rows of flounces as being the very height of
haute ton
fashion. But whilst her dress was clearly fashionable and expensive, it bespoke a little too much
dégagé
to belong to a true woman of substance. Whilst he endeavoured not to take her too much in his notice, she continually threw the ends of an ermine tippet over her shoulders. (Rather than fetching, it gave the impression that the poor girl was trying to escape being swallowed alive by some wild beast.) Until this time his only acquaintanceships with the women of Paris had been mercenary in nature and, due to his financial straits, did not suit his discriminating taste. He then was happy to be in the company of this handsome couple. Their exact situation remained unclear to him, but he saw it a vast improvement on the denizens of the low culture of the Parisian card rooms he had kept of late. Hence, he gifted them his most dazzling smile.

With introductions compleated, it took Wickham little time to learn that the young Frenchman was recently of Napoleon's guard. Indeed, hanging from a tricoloured ribbon about his neck was the medal recognising him as a chevalier of the Legion of Honour. Wickham bowed low, thereby signifying his respect and allowing careful observation of his footwear (no finer gauge of a man's distinction being faultless boots). Admirably impressed, Wickham played his trump card.

Whilst still in genuflection, Wickham's fingers slipped into his waistcoat and grasped a ribbon and medal of similar prestige. With an expression remarkable in its blend of humility and pride, he revealed his own honorific to his new friend. Wickham's, of course, was not his own. It was not even a British commendation, but a Spanish one of similar design. He had bought it from a threadbare old sot for the price of a drink, never once giving thought to whether the man was a hero down on his luck or just a fortunate pickpocket. Its ignominious origin was unapparent and the young gentleman returned his bow. He then looked upon Wickham with something akin to new respect. Wickham was quite flushed with self-congratulations that he had thought of it.

The Frenchman hastened to introduce himself. He was Viscount Henri du Mautort, his consort, Mademoiselle Lambert. He was all parts the sort that Wickham liked best in a gentleman—young, guileless, and pockets laden with ready money. Indeed, du Mautort was gracious to fault, his manners overriding what little nose he may have had for duplicity. The only impediment Wickham saw to his designs was Mademoiselle Lambert. It was quite apparent that Mademoiselle Lambert's esteem of du Mautort was of the identical sort as Wickham's. She was all parts Wickham liked even better—wicked ways and easy virtue. She was younger than du Mautort, perhaps but eight and ten—but that was only her chronological age. Her eyes displayed all the boredom of the most seasoned consort.

The trio walked the promenade with such felicity that du Mautort would not allow Wickham to take his leave unless he agreed to seal their acquaintanceship with the promise of meeting again. Wickham allowed himself to be coaxed, providentially, to attend a fête that very night.

Hence, there Wickham stood gazing across a grand ballroom. It was thick with bodies draped
au courant
and faces caked with powder, but through the melange of richly appointed humanity Wickham managed to espy his nouveau
ami ­d'honneur
. Again, he raised his tasselled card to catch du Mautort's eye. In the teeming mass, he had to waggle it several times before he caught his eye, but he was determined that he be bid to join their group, not ask admittance. Once that was accomplished and an upward nod was proffered, he sidled his way through the press of bodies until he gained the edge of du Mautort's little battery of what could only be described as preening coxcombs. The dandies greeted Wickham with a succession of elegant bows which, without a break in rhythm, he returned one by one. It was only then that Wickham observed that the velvet-coated and satin-slippered gentlemen surrounded a single woman.

Although she was nearly obscured by a collection of admirers, it was difficult to overlook her. Whilst the other ladies stood about, she chose to sit. And sit she did on a sumptuous tuffet of silk pillows, all of varying shades of pink. Sitting to the side on a slightly less grand mound of pillows was the lovely Mademoiselle Lambert, her position clearly of minion status. Had he any designs on Mademoiselle Lambert, Wickham quickly cast them aside. Perhaps his calculations at that moment were apparent to her, for her countenance reflected a certain sagacity that implied she was not unaware that he was making them. It was an effort for him not to give her a wink. He bowed briefly and turned his full attention to the other, more prominent beauty. Wickham gave her an even deeper bow. She, however, refused to acknowledge him beyond a slight dip of her chin. She remained partially hidden behind a sultrily undulating ostrich-feather fan.

Du Mautort cleared his throat as he undertook what he felt were momentous introductions, whispering her name almost reverentially, “Mademoiselle Césarine,
s'il vous plaît,
I present General Wickham.”

Being a self-anointed general, Wickham was clearly of the opinion that if one is fabricating a persona, there is little reason to curb one's cachet. Indeed, so thoroughly had Wickham enjoyed the grandiosity of his newly applied promotion, he was listening with far more dedication than looking. Hence, when he finally gazed upon Césarine, she had turned her face whilst stifling a theatrical yawn behind her perfectly placed, befeathered ivory fan. From thence, all Wickham could catch sight of her was the graceful arch of her neck (and the multitude of diamonds that spiralled round it, dripping teardrop-shaped rubies the size of a toe) as she spoke to Mademoiselle Lambert. He smiled a bit to himself whilst witnessing her little artifice, happy to know himself above his company when it came to the feminine wiles. (It was difficult to ignore that the other gentlemen were much discombobulated by her display of tedium, several all but convulsing into paroxysms of obeisance.)