Page 27 of Under the Champagne Moon
Eyes blazing, her gaze met his. He pulled out a chair and settled in for a cup of hot tea. Let her be angry. He wasn’t leaving.
* * *
“And this woman,she will be at this fête?”
Marceau stood preening at the mirror in his inn room and applying a noxious scent. Having fallen in with the right crowd, his negotiations in London had gone well and he was thinking of himself as very much the bon vivant.
On the other hand, his journey to the English countryside by public coach had not been so pleasant, and when he arrived late that afternoon in Reabridge, the innkeeper at the Book and Bell had looked askance at renting a room to a Frenchman. But a bottle of decent champagne and Gareth’s appearance in his regimentals to vouch for him had moved the man.
“Will she be there?” Marceau repeated.
He hoped so. He hadn’t seen her since Chigwell’s spell on Friday. The Sherington steward had succumbed to exhaustion, but with Haskell and Gareth supplying information, Mr. Sherington was able to tally up his year’s harvest, and it had been a good one.
On Saturday, Gareth encountered the doctor coming from Bicton Grange and stopped him for news. Mrs. Bicton-Morledge was having pains; the baby might come tomorrow, or it might be several more days of misery.
Fleur might not attend the festival if she was needed at home. “If Miss Hardouin doesn’t appear,” Gareth said, “We shall go to her. She has agreed to meet you.”
“And to marry me?” Marceau asked, watching himself in the mirror as he adjusted his neckcloth.
Irritating, pompous, jackanapes frog. “You want me to do your wooing for you?” Gareth asked.
Marceau turned abruptly from the mirror, his dark eyes flashing. “Isthatwhat you’ve been doing? Why you didn’t write when you first discovered her? Do not tell me you got to her first.”
Gareth tossed the other man’s hat, hitting him squarely in the chest, wishing it had been his fist. “She is a lady, and you will speak of her with respect.”
The Frenchman shrugged.
“And while we’re discussing respect, Marceau, you must be on your best behavior.” They’d been speaking in French, and Gareth switched to English. “You’re a Frenchman, visiting a village filled with veterans of Waterloo and all the battles that came before, and many villagers whose sons will never come home.”
“Bah,oui, Anglais. You are right. Eh, the coach ride, it was all evil eyes.” His lips firmed and his eyes narrowed. “And here, you, you will… will guard me as I guarded you. You have a debt to me,n’est pas, and to the Veuve.” He wrinkled his nose. “Tell me at least, is she pretty?”
Too pretty for you. He walked out of the room and headed for the brisk air of the innyard, scented as it was with horses and the smoke from the landlord’s kitchen fire, smells he preferred over Etienne’s eau de cologne.
Gareth wasn’tthe only man sporting a uniform this day. There were men decked out in the blue coats of the Cheshire militia, some in the green tunics of the Rifles, and others in the red with varying colors of sashes. Reabridge and environs had stood stoutly for king and country. Marceau had best mind his Ps and Qs this day.
He saw the housekeeper from Bicton Grange bending over the wares in a stall laden with colorful beads. Telling Marceau to wait, Gareth stalked over to speak to her.
“Ma’am.” He lifted his hat. “Is Miss Hardouin here today?”
“She’s gone to the dressing tent to help mend a costume.” She pointed to a closed pavilion on the edge of the green. “If you go that way, tell her I’ll be right along. We’ve got to get back to Bicton Grange and relieve Cora. Her ma insists Cora will have some fun tonight at the ball.”
“Fleur won’t be there?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “Lady Ixton will chaperone Cora. With her time this close, we won’t leave the mistress with just the maids.”
Gareth had best hurry then. Excusing himself, he walked that way, beckoning Marceau.
He ducked his head under the turned-up flap and stifled an oath.
Costumes cluttered one table, and another held threads and sewing implements. Fleur’s back was turned, and she was not alone.
Haskell saw him first. The ass was decked out in a crown woven from barley and a mantle embroidered with tufts of various grains. In his hand, he held a scythe swathed in ribbons.
“Hold still.” Fleur tied off a thread and snipped it. “There. Your wheat will stay in place, your majesty.”
In the far corner, a woman giggled. She held a baby and was doing up the ties on her gown, as if she’d just taken it off the tit.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Bevan Haskell,” the woman said.
