Guarded Heart (5 page)

“
M
on cher!
How early you are out and about. Have you eaten? Do you care for coffee? Solon, another cup for Monsieur Blackford.”

Gavin surveyed Maurelle with a satirical smile since it was midday. He was fully able to appreciate the rakish picture she made, however, dressed
en déshabille
with one of the soft Oriental turbans so fashionable this season covering her hair and an exotic
blouse volante,
or Mother Hubbard, flowing in copious amounts of russet and gold silk around her lush form. “I trust I am not disturbing you,
chère madame,
” he said at his most ingratiating. “Time is a slippery beast—I thought it later as I've seen half a dozen clients already this morning.”

“Such energy and stamina, particularly on a gray morning that is perfect for lying abed.” She shuddered while watching her butler place a cup for him and pour twin streams of hot coffee and hot milk into it. “And after a late evening, too. So heathen of you,
cher.
Have a roll to sustain you while you tell me why I am being honored with this visit.”

Gavin waved away the roll, but took the café au lait and sipped from it before making an indirect reply. “Madame Faucher lingers among the sheets still?”

“That one? No, no, she is nearly as mad for morning light and rain as you. I am told she and my maid Adele are out making a round of the shops. Her own maid remained in Paris, you realize, being positive she would be menaced by wild savages should she venture across the water. I believe dear Ariadne mentioned something about an ensemble appropriate for fencing lessons, but I was half asleep at the time. You wished to see her?”

“But yes, and at any time,” he answered in the prescribed formula, “though it suits me to speak with you alone. Have you any idea why she wants to carve the guts from some poor devil and serve him up with an apple in his mouth?”

Maurelle, apparently startled in the middle of a smiling approval of his pale yellow cravat held by a turquoise pin, lifted her eyes to meet his quizzical gaze. “What makes you think she might?”

“Being attacked in the gentleman's stead. I don't regard sundry sword cuts in the midst of fevered play, but would prefer they be expected.”

“She didn't!”

“No, though she tried. Perhaps you can tell me whether aiding her is a matter of mercy or folly.”

“She cannot have thought she could best you.”

“If she did, she does so no longer.” He paused a moment, frowning at his inability to say with any exactness what Ariadne Faucher did or did not think. She should not have remained such a mystery after their short bout. It was annoying that he had not been able to tell what drove her or the lengths she was capable of going to achieve her aim. Sheer surprise at her ferocity had wiped all else from his mind during those few seconds of play. That riled him even more. “So, should I wear my padding back-to-fore?”

Maurelle touched a languid hand to her temple. “Please,
cher,
do not be obscure so early in the morning for I'm not up to it. If you mean to ask is she mad enough to stab anyone in the back, the answer is no. No indeed. She's quite sane.”

“Only enraged past all bearing. Why?”

“I'm sure I don't know. She presented this fencing arrangement to me as a whim or perhaps a small attempt at setting a fashion.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze watchful as he toyed with his cup. Maurelle was avoiding his gaze now, and he would swear she had grown pale about the mouth. “If you suspected more, you would not tell me?”

“Now,
mon cher.
”

“Would you?”

She put a hand to her turban, pushing it into a more becoming drape before reaching for a roll. “Certainly not without permission. I do try to be loyal to my friends.”

So she did, he conceded as he appraised her through his lashes. Maurelle loved gossip as she loved life, but had her own personal code in such matters, one as stringent as that governing the conduct of sword masters. “You must have known the lady for some time for her to be so near and dear.”

“A number of years, yes. We met in Paris during one of my sojourns there.”

“Her accent is not Parisian.”

“Her family is from Louisiana, somewhere upriver, I believe. She had just been married to the head of a banking family of some renown in France when we became acquainted. Her parents had returned here, leaving her behind, and she was lonely since she knew no one in the city, scarcely knew her husband.”

“An arranged marriage, then.”

“And an excellent alliance, though he was ill with consumption. Jean Marc Faucher was a distant relation of her father's, a kind and gentle man of great intelligence and understanding. He thought perhaps to sire a child to live after him, though it was not to be.”

“He hardly sounds the kind to give his wife a distaste for men.”

“Certainly not.”

“What of her father? Did he force her to accept the match?”

Maurelle's smile had a wry edge. “What a romantic you are,
cher.
But I must tell you that Ariadne revered her father. It was ever an object with her to please him, and she made no objection whatever to the marriage. In all truth, she was…”

“What?” he asked as she trailed off, a conscious expression flitting across her face before she hid it in her coffee cup.

“She had no other attachment and was just as happy to be in France.”

“Leaving scandal behind, or did she drag it, whining, at her heels?”

“Nothing of the sort! She had been living quietly in the country.”

“A difficult thing to imagine,” he said, recalling the soignée lady he had met on that first evening.

“I assure you it's true. If you must know, she was taken abroad because her parents thought her too subdued.”

“All pale and forlorn, possibly pining after a lost love?” He tipped his head, waiting to see if Maurelle would respond to that assessment.

“After her brother, rather, with whom she was quite close. He had come to town for a little polish, leaving her behind at home.”

“Here to the Vieux Carré, you mean.”

She gave a brief nod. “So, there you have her history,
mon ami,
dull as it may be. All I can say is you must have given her the wrong idea concerning the use of the foils, or else so incensed her with your obstinate manner that her feelings overcame her.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed in pensive tones.

Maurelle raised expressive brows. “What did you do?”

“Nothing that I recall, which means I may have to repeat what passed between us in order to discover it.”

“Monsieur Blackford!”

“Oh, never fret,
chère madame.
She will be safe, if not particularly subdued, in my hands.”

She watched him while an odd expression, half gratified, half disapproving and wholly captivated, appeared in her fine eyes. When she spoke, her voice held tones as ripe and mellow as a winter pear. “You are
épris.
Who would have thought it? All the ladies who have paraded themselves before you, and what piques your interest? One who cares only for swordplay—which is her appeal no doubt, other than that she has no use for you beyond your expertise. If you had but known, you might have made a fortune as a tutor of female clients.”

“Or not,” he said, his voice dry. “One seems more than enough.”

“You don't deny being smitten?”

“Of course I deny it,
mon amour,
for what good it may do me. Curiosity was ever my downfall, and now that I have awakened from my ennui, I discover you on my trail. I must surrender at once and take what comes to me.”

“Especially if it may be the lady, I do see,” she replied with a moue of irritation for his blithe manner. “No, I won't help you there. Ariadne has had enough to overset her without adding a daring English devil to the list.”

“Other than the passing of her husband you mean?”

Maurelle tipped her head in assent. “Her parents are no longer alive, nor her brother.”

“Oh, yes, so she told me. An epidemic of misfortune, it seems.” He went on with barely a pause. “So now she is alone.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

His hostess hesitated, but shrugged whatever she might have added away as if too unimportant to mention. Gavin let it go as well. Rising to his feet, he moved to the side table where Solon had left his hat and cane. “But she has you, madame. And I shall do my poor best to see that she is not injured by whatever misbegotten specimen of manhood has earned her dislike. That will, you perceive, be my sole contribution to making her visit useful and long, a thrill everlasting.”

“Will it?” Madame Maurelle Herriot murmured, tapping her teeth with a fingernail and staring after him when he had bowed over her hand and taken himself from the breakfast room out onto the gallery overlooking the courtyard where rain still pattered down. “Will it indeed?”

Gavin heard the quiet comment but did not bother to look back, much less answer it.

O
n her return to the town house, Ariadne sent the maid Adele, young, spritely and charming in her white, kerchieflike tignon and gold earrings, to the kitchen where she might dry her skirts before the fire. Pausing on the gallery outside the salon, she removed her bonnet and gave her rain cloak into Solon's keeping so it would not drip on the carpets. She smoothed her hair and shook out the skirts of her walking costume of forest green broadcloth, then moved to join her hostess whom she had caught sight of through the French doors.

Maurelle looked up from the letter she was penning at her
secrétaire
to give Ariadne a quick smile. “There you are at last. I expected you back an hour ago,
chère.
Are you quite drowned?”

“Very near it,” she answered on a low laugh. “I'd almost forgotten how it rains here, great plopping drops so different from the civilized sprinklings of Paris.”

“Pour a cup of chocolate to warm yourself. Solon brought it just this moment so it's quite hot.”

“So he told me,” Ariadne stepped to the tray where a chocolate pot painted with a spray of carnations was set out with matching cups and a crystal cake stand piled with meringues. Filling her cup, she strolled with it to the fire that burned in the coal grate beneath the mantel of white marble, holding a hand out to the flames. “He takes good care of you, your Solon.”

“I hardly know what I would do without him.” Maurelle sanded her letter then folded it. “You had a successful expedition?”

“Most successful.”

“You found a fencing costume then?”

“Commissioned one, rather.” Her smile was roguish. “I can hardly wait to see your face when you behold it. I don't know who was more shocked at my request, Adele or Madame Pluche.”

Maurelle gave her a resigned look. “What have you done now?”

“I shan't tell you for fear you'll insist I cancel the order. You'll have to see for yourself.”

“
Mon Dieu.
As if fencing lessons and midnight meetings with dangerous swordsmen weren't enough. Keep this pace, and even your besotted Russian may desert you.”

“If only he would. How do you discourage a man who believes himself indispensable to your existence?”

“With ease, if you are certain it's what you want. I have been meaning to ask what passes between you,
chère.
I knew this Sasha, as you call him in the Russian way of pet names, danced attendance upon you in Paris while I was there, but had not realized matters were serious between you.”

“Nor are they except in his mind.” Ariadne sighed.

“Why not, pray? Rumor in Paris was that he is a cousin to the czar, in spite of having a French mother.”

“So he is, though he left St. Petersburg under a cloud. I don't know the details, but it seems to have been too close an association with those involved in a failed coup or some such thing. His exile is a great grief to him, especially being parted from his family. As for our first meeting, he appointed himself my
cavaliere servante
. This was while Jean Marc was ill, you know, and quite had my husband's approval since he was unable to take me about and preferred I have some protection. Sasha has never stepped over the line and always executed the duties of his role most faithfully.”

“Which is why you hesitate to wound him, I suppose.” Maurelle's wise gaze reflected her understanding of the usefulness to a married lady of such an admirer. Quite accepted in European capitals, so-called servant cavaliers put in an appearance on visiting days, acted as escort on shopping excursions or outings to the theater or a soiree when the husband was indisposed or disinclined, made themselves the bearers of their lady's cloak, gloves or fan, and regularly presented such trifles as books, flowers and bonbons. Though the pose was one of selfless devotion, not unlike that of the knights of the ancient Court of Love, the gentleman's attachment was only half serious in most cases, serving as a convenient shield against the wiles of nubile females and their matchmaking
mamans.
While a love affair sometimes developed, dread of
la scandale
was usually enough to assure a mere platonic attachment.

“He was there when I needed a friend,” Ariadne answered in wry agreement.

“I do see the difficulty. But you may have one even more pressing now.”

“Meaning?” Her attention was caught by the unaccustomed seriousness of Maurelle's voice. Motherly concern was not usually her friend's style.

“Monsieur Blackford did me the honor of calling this morning.”

Ariadne felt as if someone had yanked her corset's strings so it squeezed her chest. “And?”

“You seem to have aroused his interest, something not easily done. Are you sure you know what you are about?”

“He was asking questions?”

“Quite pointed ones,” Maurelle agreed, and went on to give examples. “I accused him of being infatuated but he avoided an answer.”

“So I should hope!”

Even as she spoke, Ariadne recalled with searing vividness the few minutes when the Englishman had removed his coat and waistcoat in front of her while a smile hovered at one corner of his beautifully molded mouth. His dexterous fingers had slipped the studs from his shirt, leaving the strong column of his neck exposed at the front, along with the barest hint of dark gold chest hair. He had known she watched and minded not at all, as if he thought her a woman of experience who might be entertained.

It made her temper rise merely to think of it. How dare he assume such a thing? And the way he had disarmed her, with a mere flick of his wrist? Infuriating.

Nonetheless, she had been transfixed for a long moment, stunned into immobility by the perfection of line and form and intimation of raw power to be found in a man's body. Her husband had never undressed in front of her but always came to her bedchamber in darkness. Whether it was to save her blushes or because he knew his illness was wasting his muscles and virility she had no idea. The result was a great deal less experience with such scenes than Monsieur Blackford might suppose.

She was not the kind of woman to be influenced by flagrant masculinity, however. She preferred men with tender and gentle manners who appreciated music and poetry and the more graceful aspects of life. Sweaty power and the ability to kill did not make her heart beat faster. No, not at all.

“Giving Sasha his
congé
could be premature,” she said after a moment.

“You feel your Russian may be some protection against Monsieur Blackford's interest? As much as I dislike causing you worry, I assure you Sasha will be of little use should the Englishman decide to pursue you. He holds few things sacred, recognizes fewer barriers to his desires or even his caprices. On the other hand, I cannot imagine him making a fool of himself over a woman who holds him in disregard. He has too much pride for it.”

“Or too much arrogance?”

“Oh, I'll grant that he holds himself as high as any swordsman in the city, but he allows little to touch him personally.”

Ariadne gave her a direct look. “You seem to know him well.”

“He has been in and out of this town house along with the other sword masters and their wives I've spoken of so often, Nicholas Pasquale and his Juliette, Caid O'Neill and his wife Lisette, the Conde de Lérida and his
condessa,
Celina. Yes, and the American, Kerr Wallace, as well—it was Monsieur Blackford who introduced him to me and they are often together as neither has a household beyond the rooms above their ateliers.” Maurelle lifted a plump shoulder. “Still, he is a most private man. I'd not presume to say I know him.”

“By his choice, I'd imagine.”

Her friend's expression turned pensive and she set down her chocolate cup before turning back to Ariadne. “About these lessons between you, there is something I must know. Can you really have said you intend to use any skill you gain for revenge? If I'd thought for an instant you had any such idea, I would never have presented Monsieur Blackford. Tell me, I beg, that he misunderstood what you said to him.”

To lie went against the grain, yet it was impossible to admit Maurelle into her confidence. She of all people would understand at once who the target must be and would surely move to stop her. Ariadne tried to look mystified. “He must have, mustn't he?”

Maurelle gave her a long look, but was prevented from further questions by a commotion on the gallery outside the salon door. An instant later, Solon bowed a lady into the room.

“Madame Savoie,” he announced.

The new arrival was a monumental female made more so by the generous width and carpet-brushing length of her lavender velvet cloak. A large hat of purple felt with an upturned brim and a lavender-dyed feather swirling around the crown topped her head, and her hair beneath the confection was drawn back in a severe style like a helmet of polished copper. Clinging to her shoulder was a green-and-yellow parrot that leaned forward, bobbing up and down and whistling with piercing effect. As she cast her outerwear into Solon's waiting arms, she was seen to be clad in purple satin with a laced, Elizabethan bodice that barely confined her magnificent bosom. Drawing attention to it was a necklace of amethysts and diamonds of a size that should have cried paste but looked amazingly real. Her nose was commanding, the cast of her chin and cheekbones from a heroic mold, and her voice as she spoke had such resonance that it rattled the china ornaments on the marble fireplace mantel and roused echoes in the salon's high, plastered ceiling.

“Chocolate,
chère
Maurelle, for the love of God,” she pleaded. “I smell chocolate and must have it this instant. My landlady is a paragon among women but has only coffee and I am like to die of craving the sweet elixir of life, that nectar of the goddess. Oh, please, let me have chocolate!”

“At once,” Maurelle said, rising and embracing the vision, then turning to pour from the chocolate service. “Ariadne, permit me to present a diva of talent
extraordinaire
who will be singing at the Theatre d'Orleans. Zoe, here is another of my dear friends, Ariadne Faucher. Sit, sit, both of you, drink your chocolate and let us be comfortable together.”

Maurelle moved to the settee beside Ariadne, giving Madame Savoie the fauteuil she had been using so they made a circle around the low table where the chocolate tray sat. Madame Zoe began at once to demolish the pile of meringues on their stand while she and Maurelle caught up on the latest scandals and quarrels in the theater, the bankruptcies and gaming losses among its backers and the problems with upcoming productions. The opera star was witty, outrageous and often ribald, but not snide or spiteful in her opinions. Ariadne liked her at once.

“You must come to see me in my benefit performance next week, Ariadne. Maurelle has a box and will bring you. Yes, Maurelle? There, all is arranged. And you will both invite as many handsome men as you may find, if you please. I do adore looking at them when I sing of desperate passion—one must have inspiration, you know. Some of these sword masters of yours will do nicely, Maurelle, married or unmarried makes no difference since I mean to look instead of seduce, more's the pity. Of course, I might make an exception for the Englishman, Blackford.”

“Le diable!”
the parrot chortled, presumably to himself. At the same time, he lifted a foot and scratched vigorously at his ear, as if clearing his hearing.

“What a charming companion!” Ariadne said, certain the bird's comment had been accidental even if describing Blackford as a devil did seem particularly appropriate. “Have you had him long?”

“Oh, forever, fifteen years at the very least. Napoleon was given to me by an admirer in Havana. Unfortunately, his vocabulary had already been corrupted when he came to me. Pay no attention to him.” The parrot, perhaps hearing some inflection which allowed him to know he was the subject of conversation, stretched his neck to preen the feather on his mistress's hat. “Stop that, you fiend, or I'll put you in the pot like a chicken,” she scolded with affection in her voice. To further dissuade him, she handed him a piece of meringue which he took in one claw and immediately began to crumble upon her shoulder.

Eying the bird's beak that seemed as tough as a horse's hoof but with a much sharper edge, Ariadne asked, “Does he never hurt you?”

“Not I,” the diva said with a deep laugh. “He thinks I'm his inamorata or else his mother, which one I've never been precisely sure. He is most caressing, I promise you. He never soils me—not that you asked, but so many do. Most other people he views as prey and pinches with his beak. The exception is Monsieur Blackford whom he tolerates, barely, for the sake of the pecans he brings him.”

“He visits you, the Englishman?”

“In my dressing room, yes. He comes to see me every season I am here, regardless of the production. Not that he sheds tears like the beautiful swordsman Rosière, but I shiver, positively shiver, to hear his shouts of ‘Brava, Brava!' in his so English voice. It's lovely to be appreciated, do you not agree? Naturally, I send to invite him backstage, and we have an occasional dinner.”