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  Copyright ©1984 by Elizabeth Chater

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  MILADY HOT-AT-HAND

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  A PLACE FOR ALFREDA

  A DELICATE SITUATION

  PRELUDE

  Calais

  One stormy evening about dusk a luxurious, unmarked carriage pulled up before the doors of the Golden Swan, the best hostelry in Calais. With a flurry of outriders and grooms, and under the watchful eyes of two mounted soldiers, the three occupants of the coach were helped down onto the slimy cobblestones of the inn. First came two elegantly dressed females, then a rather pompous, worried-looking middle-aged gentleman. The innkeeper bowed them obsequiously into the building, promising every attention and comfort to milord and his party while they waited to embark upon the ship for Dover. The innkeeper himself ushered the ladies and their escort into a private room where a bright fire already burned to welcome them. Servants scurried in with glasses of the finest cognac to restore the guests’ spirits after their exhausting journey from Paris.

  An interested witness to this impressive arrival was a tall, lean Englishman in a well-fitting riding coat, high boots of an impressive luster, and pristine buckskins, who was lounging in a window embrasure. His dark, saturnine face and sinewy body had a certain raffish charm. At least it attracted the attention of the elder of the two ladies, a ripely lovely dame who cast a speculative look from under her extraordinary eyelashes at the dashing Englishman.

  The gentleman, whose name was Sir Hilary Conray, acknowledged her interest with a small knowing smile. He bowed slightly, eyebrows raised in tribute to her beauty. The lady permitted herself an answering smile as, having finished her cordial, she followed the innkeeper upstairs.

  Her female companion, at the moment rather eclipsed under a truly impressive bonnet, was now the object of the Englishman's scrutiny. He was surprised to discover that she was even more beautiful, as well as much younger, than her companion. She was at the moment favoring him with a very sharp and rather quelling glance as she hurried off after her fellow traveler. Their escort, still appearing worried, stood staring down into the fire. He had obviously not noticed the little exchange of glances.

  Their host returned, coughed deferentially to attract the man's attention, and offered to lead him to his own room.

  Sir Hilary waited until the landlord, still bustling, had sent pots of coffee and trays of new-baked bread and pâté up to the guests’ rooms to sustain their strength until a proper dinner could be dished up. Then, the Englishman casually suggested that he buy his host a drink.

  Anxious to display his own consequence by boasting of his important customers, the innkeeper readily agreed. Over his best cognac he was easily persuaded to tell all he knew about his aristocratic guests. It appeared that the whole inn, with of course the exception of Sir Hilary's own room, had been engaged for the accommodation of this special party of travelers.

  “The Golden Swan, of course, is well and favorably known to fastidious travelers from as far off as Paris and even London,” he boasted. Then, in a portentously lowered tone, he added, “An equerry from King Louis himself came here two days ago and engaged my assistance in providing asylum and comfort for three very important persons—personal friends of His Majesty! They are to stay the night. Then at dawn they embark upon a specially chartered yacht which will deliver them to Dover without loss of time!"

  The lean gentleman appeared suitably impressed. He even went so far as to suggest another round, at his expense of course. The host insisted that it was his privilege. When the business of pouring and savoring was completed, the innkeeper continued even more expansively. “The equerry, who must of course be nameless, let drop a few crumbs of information."

  Say, rather, thought Sir Hilary sardonically, that you quizzed his servants. However he nodded as though deeply impressed.

  The innkeeper continued. “It appears that the older lady has been a friend—a very dear friend!—of our beloved monarch. Now that things are becoming so unsettled in Paris, Madame la Comtesse is to spend some time in England, where malcontents and rabble-rousers are kept in better control.” Both men solemnly toasted this thought, and the innkeeper's red face puffed angrily as he went on. “How long must decent folk suffer the insolence of these sansculottes? It is very bad for trade! I hope His Majesty will adopt a firm tone with them, the scum!"

  The Englishman nodded as though in solemn agreement, but his thoughts were racing. He must learn more about the delightfully provocative female who had given him that most seductive signal. Was she a spy, an agent provocateur, or merely some princeling's bored or apprehensive mistress? Could she even be, as the landlord claimed, a mistress to Louis himself? He grinned sardonically. In his business, one heard remarkable snippets of information, which must be carefully sifted and reported. The lady was worth his attention in any case. He had rarely seen so lovely and provocative a woman. If she was good enough for royalty, he decided cynically, she should be rewarding game. There might be much to discover ... but there would be obstacles...

  “Are the older gentleman and the young lady her family, do you know?” he asked casually.

  “The nobleman," corrected his host smugly, “is a courier, an escort assigned to get them safely to the ship.” He explained loftily: “The child is the daughter of the Comtesse."

  Sir Hilary's eyebrows rose involuntarily. That radiant little beauty, dressed in the first stare of fashion, scented, exquisite, with an arrogant lift to her small, bonneted head, a child?..."Indeed?” he said. “The lady does not seem old enough to have so mature a child."

  This naïveté permitted the innkeeper to smile patronizingly. “Madame la Comtesse, as do all the ladies of the Court, brings to her aid le maquillage, that is, paints and lotions, essences and cosmetic aids which restore to the—ah—more mature woman the glow of youth."

  “Indeed?” commented the Englishman again. His questions had rather put the innkeeper upon his guard, reminding him that he spoke of His Majesty's protégée. He put down his glass and rose from the table. This Englishman, although a frequent, generous and approachable guest, was after all a foreigner. The host moved away with a murmured excuse.

  Sir Hilary was not unhappy to see him go. The fellow had furnished enough information to alert Conray. If he could by some means manage to get aboard the yacht, he might be able to arrange a closer connection with the very attractive and knowledgeable older woman. Sir Hilary began to consider stratagems to avoid the pompous courier and the lovely but suspicious daughter. The latter would be no loss. Conray was not attracted to green girls, no matter how beautiful, preferring the sweet ripeness of maturity. No doubt the little chit was overindulged and self-willed, and would make his task difficult. It was inevitable, also, that the man had received instructions to guard the noble courtesan carefully. Getting to her might prove most difficult.

  Next morning, his task was easier than he had anticipated. It appeared that the exalted Protector had required his courier only to see the Comtesse and her daug
hter safely on board the Triton. In fact, her guide bade her good-bye with obvious relief. Sir Hilary, up betimes and with his spartan wardrobe neatly packed in one small portmanteau, lingered near a storage shed in the misty dawn and watched the two women embarking upon the trim little vessel while servants waited to carry two trunks aboard. Rather a paltry sendoff for the King's ladylove, Hilary decided.

  When the Frenchman turned and walked away, Sir Hilary strolled over to the ship. Seamen were readying the sails and releasing the hawsers which had held the Triton to the quay.

  “I am to accompany the Comtesse and her daughter to England,” Hilary told one of the seamen, coolly flipping his portmanteau onto the deck as he stepped aboard.

  A petty officer came forward to challenge him. “I am sent by the British Government to escort these ladies to London,” he said, anticipating the officer's questions. "You know, of course, the importance of this mission. I'll take over as courier from now on.” Flattered that this tall Englishman should think that he, the second mate, was fully cognizant of the business of the King's Court, the officer saluted and hurried off, muttering something to the effect that someone should have told the officers of the Triton to expect milord.

  The vessel was infinitely more luxurious than any commercial or naval craft. Sir Hilary wondered what nobleman had been persuaded to provide it for this trip. A sailor came to show the Englishman down to a small but attractive cabin and asked him what he would like.

  Sir Hilary grinned. “Breakfast,” he said. “I was too early to get any at the inn.” His French was colloquial and easily understood. The sailor grinned back and told m'sieu to repair to the dining salon, where he would be in time to join the ladies at a petit déjeuner.

  Madame la Comtesse greeted his arrival with a delighted smile. Sir Hilary introduced himself, and the Comtesse waved one white hand toward the seat at her right. As he took his place at the small table Sir Hilary glanced at the other member of the party. The girl was even more lovely than he had noticed. With the elaborate bonnet removed, her red gold hair waved softly to her shoulders, framing a face whose exquisite features were enough to make even a hardened campaigner like Sir Hilary open his eyes.

  The girl was not smiling at him. A dark frown threatened storms to come, and she glared at her maman with an accusing scowl. “Did you invite this-this person to join us, Dani?” she demanded. “Remember that Uncle Louis instructed you to depart with the utmost circumspection!"

  “I am to be your guide and escort to London,” Sir Hilary interposed swiftly. “I am sure neither His Britannic Majesty nor Mr. William Pitt would wish you to be running loose in the countryside—"

  He caught a flash of warning from the older woman, and paused.

  “And who,” demanded the chit, “is William Pitt?"

  “Our Prime Minister,” said Sir Hilary smoothly and smiled.

  The girl still scowled, but she turned back to her meal and said no more until she had finished, at which time she rose, gave her mother a minatory glance, and left the dining salon.

  “Phew!” breathed Sir Hilary; he grinned ruefully at his companion.

  “You are a naughty man,” the Comtesse informed him with a charming gurgle of laughter. “I am sure Mr. William Pitt never heard of you! I saw you lounging in the room at the Golden Swan last night, and knew you at once, sir, for exactly what you are!"

  Since this knowledge did not seem to disgust her, rather to amuse her, Sir Hilary smiled warmly back into her inviting eyes.

  “Did you indeed, madame?” he teased gently.

  “Now I wonder just what knavish role you assign me? In point of fact, I am Sir Hilary Conray, gentleman-at-leisure, and very much at the service of the Comtesse. That much I know,” he added with a charming smile, “but Countess of what? And above all, what is your first name?"

  She gave him an archly seductive glance. “I am Danielle de Granville, widow of the Comte de Granville. He was,” she added contemplatively, “a crotchety old Breton who never really liked me, although he did give me my adorable little doll, Tiri, who has just left us in un emportement...How do you say in English?"

  “In a huff,” supplied Sir Hilary. “Does it bother you that your daughter doesn't like me?"

  “She liked King Louis,” the widow said. “I fear he spoiled her. When I first came to Court, eight years ago, she was a darling child of nine, as pretty as she is now, and very anxious to have a father to love. Louis used to call her his poupée dorée, and he indulged her ridiculously."

  "Poupée dorée—golden doll?” translated Sir Hilary. “But her hair is more red than gold, and she seems to have a temper to match! Now your hair is true soft gold. Do you have a heart to match?” he teased her. “Madame la Comtesse?"

  The woman refused to commit herself. “Call me Dani."

  “Shall you stay long in London?” probed Sir Hilary.

  Dani's face lost a little of its glow. “Forever,” she said quietly. “This is dismissal. Louis and his ministers are anxiously seeking ways to pacify his critics among the aristocracy, as well as the revolutionary elements. The Queen has her adherents, and they cry daily that Her Majesty is affronted by the King's belles amies. So Louis arranged this journey for me and bade me farewell. I am,” she concluded wryly, “cast-off ... abandoned!"

  Sir Hilary laughed at this provocative frankness and bent over her white hand. “That can be very pleasant,” he teased, “to be—abandoned!” Then, smiling at her puzzled look, he whispered, “Let me show you what I mean, Dani.” He kissed her hand and held her soft palm against his face; his kisses interspersed with little nibbles at the soft pads of flesh. Dani, restored to her usual good humor by these attentions, bent toward him with warm eyes and smile. “Perhaps this journey to nowhere may be more interesting than I had expected,” she breathed, and met the challenging eyes he lifted to her face.

  CHAPTER I

  LONDON

  The new Duke of Lansdale entered his mother's drawing room with a smile of such smug complacence that she immediately realizes that her plans were in danger. It had been a year almost to the day since his father died; a year during which she had worked and connived and battled without quarter to establish the same dominance over her only child as she had successfully exerted over his father, the late Duke. So far, all she had proved was that Daral was of a different metal from his papa. George Lansdale had been a morose, sullen man who had never forgiven his own father for saddling him with Lady Letitia Mall as a wife. Rather than engage in the endless bickering which she enjoyed, George retreated physically to his country estates or his hunting box wherever he could, and when he was unable to get away, he went into a kind of mental retreat which discouraged instruction. Since Lady Letitia refused to leave London they were happily separated for most of the year. However, George held the pursestrings, and steadfastly refused to make repairs on the marriage and in which she insisted upon living. Thus it grew shabbier and more dismal year by year. The Duchess had more than enough in her own right to finance any changes she cared to make, but she was by nature unwilling to spend a farthing which was not essential to her own health, and she had determined that all the upkeep of her home should be the responsibility of her husband.

  When George died the previous year, Letitia had at first no suspicion that in her son she would find a very different customer. True, the new Duke refused to quarrel with her, even as had his father, but he had a sharp tongue and a life-long sense of distaste for this domineering female who had made his father's life a misery. When she informed Daral that he would have to give her the funds to have the townhouse refurbished, he smiled and informed her that he was building his own house in a much more elegant neighborhood. When she instructed him to propose marriage to his cousin, Lady Bridget Mall, he told his mama he would rather marry the griffin on the family coat of arms. From the day of his accession to the title, Daral had not spent a night in his mother's house, and the duchess was at her wit's end for a method of bringing him to heel.
/>   On this day he had come at her urgent summons to pick up a letter from the King of France. At first, receiving a personal visit from his mother's butler with the message, the Duke had been sure that this was some new ploy to inveigle him into her house. What could the King of France want with the new Duke of Lansdale? Scanning his mama's frantic demand for his presence, it occurred to him that it was to his father that the note had been sent. Yet surely King Louis had too much to worry him in France to bother keeping track of an acquaintance made years before with an English nobleman! A hoax, then? Still, Fallow's real alarm moved the Duke to stroll over to the townhouse, particularly since he had an item of news to impart which would, he hoped, cause the Duchess to give up their running battle at last. As the Duke entered his mother's drawing room, she became aware at once that she would have a battle royal upon her hands if she hoped to have any success at all in accomplishing her current scheme. Daral was so cool, so self-possessed—so damnably good-looking! She gathered her wits for the attack.

  “It took you long enough to get here!” was her opening volley.

  “Ever gracious!” murmured her son, smiling. “How is your health, dear Mama?"

  Normally good for ten minutes of self-pity and veiled accusations of heartless behavior on her son's part, the subject of her health was today ignored by Lady Letitia. “The King of France wishes you to sponsor some females he is getting rid of.” She dropped her bombshell with as much venom as she could. “Your father's behavior while he visited Versailles and Paris was probably so licentious that the French monarch feels he would welcome two—"

  She was stopped by her son's uplifted hand, but even more by the look on his face. "De mortuis nil nisi bonum," he intoned in a low voice, and then, with a show of pity for her noncomprehension, he translated: “Of the dead, speak nothing but good, Mama! Father has gone to his rest. Let us not belabor his name."