Love Me Forever. Barbara Cartland
of Her Majesty!”
It was gossip of the worst kind, the type that the Duke was sure was being spread all over Paris and yet he wisely made no attempt to check the valet. Best to note what was being said and to learn all he could.
“It is not only at the Trianon that Her Majesty spends fortune after fortune,” the valet continued. “There is Madame Rose Bertin, for instance, she receives millions of francs a year. It is not everyone who admires the costumes she creates either. All Paris is laughing at her latest designs. Her Majesty chose a gown from her only last month and when she showed it to the King he said, ‘Pah! It be the colour of a flea’. But was Madame disconcerted? Not she! She seized on the idea and now all Paris is clamouring to be dressed in the hue that the King himself has baptised.
“She has launched the ultra-fashionable tones of ‘flea’s thigh’, ‘flea’s belly’, ‘sick flea’, ‘young flea’ and even ‘decrepit flea’. It makes one laugh, Your Grace, to see what fools people can be.
“But you may be sure, because people laugh, that nothing is cheaper. In fact such notoriety merely makes Madame Bertin’s bills jump higher! And who pays? The people!”
When the Duke was ready, he called Amé from the sitting room where she was waiting and together they descended the staircase to the hall.
They were halfway down and had reached a place where the staircase divided and where for a moment, though they could be seen by the menservants waiting below, they could not be overheard, when Amé’s voice arrested the Duke.
“Wait Your Grace,” she said softly, “the buckle of your shoe is undone.”
The Duke stopped and, raising his foot, set it on the step of the stairs down which he had just descended. Amé knelt to attend to it. There was nothing wrong, as he knew. But, as her fingers fumbled with the buckle, she said,
“Mlle Lavoul has spoken to me of a secret passage down which she would have you visit her. She asked me to tell you that you can have the key should you wish and to say nothing to the Duc.”
“Get the key,” the Duke said briefly and, not daring to say more, continued on his way to the salon.
It seemed both to the Duke and to Amé as if the evening would never end. The Duke was well aware that wine was being pressed on him lavishly. He was aware too that Mlle. Lavoul was not finding it difficult to make herself as pleasant as she had obviously been commanded to do.
As they sat at cards, he could feel her white shoulder pressing gently against his coat sleeve and he was conscious of the exotic fragrance of her scent and the invitation in her eyes as she glanced up at him.
At the same time he could see the smile on the Duc de Chartres’s red face and the way his thick fingers rubbed themselves together as if in satisfaction.
And yet while Mlle Lavoul beguiled him, while her shoulder was soft and her teeth against her lower lip very provocative, the Duke was well aware that never for one moment were they left entirely alone.
Their host was always with them or else the members of the party were at their side. It was intentional, he was sure of that and, as he thought of what Amé had indicated to him on the stairs, his spirits rose.
It was very like a woman not to play the game as was expected of her and if he could obtain access to Mademoiselle Lavoul’s room, he might also find an exit from the Château.
It was two o’clock in the morning when finally their cards were finished and a general movement was made to go to bed. The Duc himself escorted his distinguished guest to his suite.
There were stalwart young footmen on duty in the corridors, late though it was, and the Duke could not forbear to say as he reached the door of his apartments,
“You take no chances, I notice.”
The Duc grasped the inference and gave a little laugh.
“You must appreciate my pertinacity, my dear Melyncourt.”
“I do, I assure you,” the Duke replied.
They bowed to each other and then, as the Duke moved forward into the sitting room, he heard the door close behind him and the unmistakable sound of a key turn in the lock.
“Bonne nuit, mon cher,” came the Duc’s mocking voice from outside.
Then there was the sound of footsteps walking away down the corridor, but only the footsteps of the Duc. The footmen would be on duty all night, the Duke was sure of that. He waited a moment and then went towards Amé’s bedroom. He had sent her to bed three hours earlier with a sharply-spoken command and the snap of his fingers.
“You are considerate of your page,” Mlle Lavoul had said softly.
“Those who work for me would not always say so,” the Duke replied, “but the boy is a cousin of mine and I promised his mother I would treat him lightly. A mistake, I think, boys should be hardened.”
“But not girls surely?” Mlle Lavoul had asked. “Or women?”
“No, indeed,” the Duke said, playing the game because he was certain that it was expected of him. “Girls should be cosseted and protected. Women too. For where would we men be without their gentle influence, their sweetness and, of course, their generosity?”
There was a meaning in his words, which Mlle Lavoul understood and then, as he had expected, he saw her glance quickly at their host before her eyes dropped before his and her mouth pouted petulantly.
“It is not always possible,” she whispered.
He could barely hear the words and he was sure that they were inaudible to anyone else at the table.
“Everything is possible for those who dare the impossible,” the Duke said and he saw the glint in her eye and felt the sudden soft pressure of her shoulder once again against his arm.
Amé had gone to bed, but he knew that he must wake her to hear what else she had to tell him. He rapped softly on the door of her room, but there was no answer. He opened the door and saw that her bed was empty and had not been slept in.
He wheeled round, beset by a sudden anxiety. What had happened to her?
Then, at the far end of the sitting room, he saw what had escaped him when he entered through the door. The fire was burning low, there was only a flicker from the great logs that earlier in the evening had been bright with dancing flames. There was a heavy bearskin on the floor before the fire and, lying on it, still in her velvet suit, her face pillowed against her hands, was Amé.
She was curled up like a child and her face in repose was very young. Her lashes were long and dark against her cheeks. The Duke knelt down on one knee and then, as he reached out to touch her shoulder, he saw that she had been crying.
There was no mistaking the tears on her cheeks or the fact that her breath came in uneven little gulps.
There was a handkerchief by her side, crumpled and wet and for a moment he knelt there staring down at her before he touched her shoulder. She woke up slowly and for a minute her eyes stared up at him, drowsy with sleep and then she smiled.
“I was dreaming about ‒ you,” she admitted.
“It is time you were in bed,” the Duke replied, “but first, tell me about the secret passage.”
Then she was alert, sitting up to rub the sleep from her eyes like a tired child.
“It is very late,” she said at length, glancing at the diamond and china clock over the mantelpiece. “Too late for you to go now.”
“Mlle Lavoul has just gone to her room,” the Duke replied. “What did she say to you?”
“She said – ” Amé began and then broke off. “But why should I tell you? She wanted you to go to her so that you can make love to her. I am not so stupid that I don’t know that and I do not wish you to go. She is not evil and bad like