A thought struck Villiers. “Templeton.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Bowing again.
“Would a sensible—nay, a charitable—person believe that I ought to recover these infants myself?”
Templeton’s mouth hung open.
“I wonder what Miss Tatlock would say?” Villiers mused to himself.
“Miss Tatlock?” Templeton stammered.
“Actually, her name is now Mrs. Dautry, since she married my heir,” Villiers murmured. “I did give you that letter, didn’t I? Yes, I surely did. With instructions to change the details of my will, I believe. I am quite certain that the line of descent is now assured. She will likely produce any number of clucking infants—and all within the bounds of wedlock, which is surely more than I can say for myself.”
“Yes, Your Grace—that is, I am aware of that, Your Grace.”
“She would think I should fetch the children myself,” Villiers said, making up his mind. “Very well, Templeton. Send me a note in the morning with the relevant names and addresses. I shall try to fit it in. I have a very busy few days ahead of me. I promised the Duchess of Beaumont I would visit Vauxhall tonight; I am promised for several games of chess at Parsloe’s, and now this.”
He lowered his chin.
His solicitor’s voice was a predictable squeal, but there was an extra edge of scandalized horror there. Villiers heard it with interest. Why should his solicitor be afraid at the idea of him rounding up his illegitimate infants?
“Your Grace cannot mean to—”
Villiers fixed him with a look. “I can indeed,” he said softly. “And on second thought, I should like that list delivered to me within the hour, Templeton.”
Templeton scurried from the room.
Chapter Ten
Later that evening
The Marquise de Perthuis was feeling miserably uncertain. “This costume makes me feel like a circus performer,” she told her companion, pulling her purple domino more tightly around her body.
“You look ravishing,” Lord Corbin said, bracing himself as the carriage went around a corner. “I promise you, Madame la Marquise, everyone at Vauxhall will think that you are utterly exquisite.”
“But isn’t this Vauxhall a place of ill repute? I seem to have been told something like that. I remember now; it was Balthazar Monoconys. He said there was a miscellany of persons there and a wench in a mask asked him, in the most familiar way, if he would drink a bottle of mead with her.”
Lord Corbin leaned forward and patted her hand. “It is true that without the affectation of black and white, you are alarming beautiful, marquise. But I will ward off anyone asking you to share a bottle.”
“Do you really think this color suits me?” Louise was aware that she shouldn’t reveal her insecurities to Corbin. But he was so sympathetic—and besides, she had seen him exchanging intimacies a thousand times with Jemma. First, she planned to usurp Corbin, and next, the duke himself.
“Absolutely. That bluish-purple is perfect for you,” Corbin said. “Black is too harsh. It can have an aging effect.”
The marquise was silenced by that revelation. Though she would never forgive the Duchess of Beaumont for her grotesque impoliteness, perhaps it was just as well that she had discarded her penchant for black and white.
She smiled at Corbin. “What does one do at Vauxhall?”
“We’ll take a table near the orchestra,” he told her.
“There’s a raised building in Moorish style that you’ll find very interesting. And truly, there’s no need for concern. I shan’t leave your side.”
That would never do. “Mon Dieu!” she cried, snapping open her fan. “I am not an enfant who needs to be coddled, Lord Corbin. In fact, I am hoping to see a particular friend of mine.”
He didn’t look in the least insulted by this revelation. It was just as she suspected: Corbin understood that he had no real hope that she, a marquise, would take his charms seriously. He was very attractive and well-dressed, with an easiness of manner that made him seem almost French, but still…if she, the Marquise de Perthuis, decided to stray from the marital bond, it would not be into the arms of a man of his rank.
“You see,” she continued, leaning forward as if confiding a deep secret, “the Duke of Beaumont and I are dear friends.” Corbin was a notable gossip, which was one of the reasons she had chosen him to escort her. All of London needed to know of this night.
“My goodness,” Lord Corbin said with his charming smile. “I must compliment you, Marquise. I confess that I viewed the duke as something of a Puritan. But of course, no man is invulnerable before a woman of your beauty.”
“You are too kind,” the marquise said, settling back on the seat and rewarding his compliment with a smile.
“Do you find the duke an easy conversationalist?” Corbin inquired. “I’m afraid that I know little of the state of the government, and he, of course, is an expert.”
“I never discuss such matters,” Louise said. “For one thing, I never read the English papers. I am not very good at reading the language, and they’re so depressing, always. It’s the same with the French papers, but at least I can understand the words.”
“I absolutely agree,” Corbin said. “These newspaper people write only for themselves, and with no thought about what is really interesting in life. It’s a wonder anyone reads them at all.”
“They are always writing about obscure people,” Louise said fretfully. “Savages and the like.”
“I can’t abide reading about the Americas,” Corbin agreed. “They sound quite unsanitary. And full of people murdering each other for the most extraordinary reasons.”
“No, I refer to savages living in the next street,” Louise corrected him. “If you believe the French papers, there are astonishing kinds of people anywhere one looks. The papers positively delight in telling one loathsome details about poisoners and the like. It’s enough to make one quite nervous about the cook.”
“How exceedingly thought-provoking,” Corbin said. “And boring. I expect the Duke of Beaumont is very glad to have a change of subject when he talks to you.”
“Naturally,” Louise said, wondering just what she should talk to Beaumont about. Perhaps she should have perused the Morning Chronicle.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what is the duke’s familiar name?” Corbin asked.
Louise narrowed her eyes at him, but he gazed back innocently. “I never address any man by his first name,” she pronounced.
“My apologies!” Corbin cried. “I recall the Duke of Villiers addressing you as Louise…”
“I myself do not engage in such intimacies. At any rate, Villiers is my cousin. He’s not a man.”
“Contrary to what everyone thinks,” Corbin said, sounding delighted.
When the carriage stopped, Louise tied on her mask and they strolled toward the center of the park. There were some young couples embracing rather ardently in the shade of the poplar trees.
“It’s nothing more than one might see in the environs of the Bois de Boulogne,” Corbin said, after she pointed out this vulgarity.
“I have never entered the Bois de Boulogne,” Louise remarked. “And now you tell me that, I never shall.”
