Georgian/Regency Romance
Richard Courtenay Viscount Somerton, gallant as heroes come, has agreed to see Miss Diamonta Whitaker, safely delivered to the Palace of Versailles. Half French by birth and daughter of a once French countess, Diamonta has more than one reason for accepting a gracious invite to stay at the Royal Court at Versailles. Her heart lies at court, with Francois de Boviere, Count of Saint Mont Marche.
Unfortunately, tide of revolution has swept from Paris to Versailles and heads of French aristocrats are seriously under threat of Madame Guillotine. With Diamonta's coche still en route to Versailles, strange as it seems a highwayman delivers a message by way of robbery to save her life. Can she, upon return to England, ever recover from her mother's wrath once her relationship with a highwayman is discovered, and can he survive a duel to the death?
Unfortunately, tide of revolution has swept from Paris to Versailles and heads of French aristocrats are seriously under threat of Madame Guillotine. With Diamonta's coche still en route to Versailles, strange as it seems a highwayman delivers a message by way of robbery to save her life. Can she, upon return to England, ever recover from her mother's wrath once her relationship with a highwayman is discovered, and can he survive a duel to the death?
The Highwayman’s Mistress
Copyright © Francine Howarth
Black
Velvet Books
All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form, or by means electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior consent of the author.
Chapter One
~
“Would he not make for a divine suitor?” said Leohne, emitting a deep
sigh.
Diamonta raised her fan to
shield her face and considered Richard Courtenay, Viscount Somerton with
leisurely eye. She had not indulged in consideration of his handsomeness in a
long while. It was true he was fine of stature, fair of hair, a wicked smile
and uncommon pleasant in manner.
In all the years of his having paid court to
her and her younger sister, she never had thought of him as divine in any sense
of the word divine, nor as a potential suitor, though an angel in many ways.
Her own heart dwelt elsewhere, with someone who might never learn of her
affections toward him.
“I fear you grant Richard more favour than
he deserves,” she said, baiting her sister’s keened regard for the viscount.
Leohne spun round, the silk of her blue gown
shimmering beneath warm sun of September afternoon. “How can you say, that. He
has heavenly blue eyes, hair the colour of ripe corn and a smile to die
for.”
“Must you be so obvious in your attentions
upon Richard?”
“I am not,” replied Leohne, petulant in
manner. “I like him, that is all.”
Diamonta’s eyes drifted from the figure of
the tall young man in conversation with their brother, and settled on
Leohne. “I see, and this like
you talk of, is it reciprocated?”
Her sister blushed and let fall her eyes to
the grass at their feet. The brim of her hat perched precarious on powdered wig
shaded one eye in coquettish manner, which amused Diamonta in extreme. “I think
not,” replied Leohne, “I am of mind to think him enamoured by you.”
“By me?” exclaimed Diamonta, letting slip a
chuckle she could not hold back at such a suggestion. “He and I are merely
friends, childhood friends of longstanding. I have no desires in his direction
and he none in mine . . . That I am aware of.“
Leohne flashed a look of disbelief. “But you
laugh a lot when you are with him, and I am always left to follow the pair of
you as though I do not even exist.”
“That is an unfair statement. Oft Richard
has drawn you into our conversations, and it is you who chooses to stay
behind instead of catching up and slipping your arm in his.”
“But he has never offered his arm to me.”
“Then cease your pretence of shyness and
step forward first in future. I am more than happy to walk behind for a
change.”
“What are you two squabbling about now?” asked
Charles, inclining head over shoulder from where he was seated, his injured leg
resting on a pillowed stool.
Richard, with amused glint in his eyes
glanced their way. “I fear we have displeased them somehow.”
Charles chuckled, said, “Shall we go for a
stroll alongside the lake? I think I can manage a little farther today.” As he
struggled to gain his feet, assisted by Richard, they really had no option but
to agree to his suggestion.
She took it upon herself to help Charles,
“Here, take my arm, dear brother.” For she was utter determined she would not
be accused of harbouring Richard all to her self, which left young Viscount
Somerton with no option but to offer his arm to Leohne. To which her sister giggled in acceptance,
and off they set.
For
Charles it was a case of slow and steady, for he could not bend his injured leg
at all and only quite recent had begun to take light exercise after a serious
fall from his horse. It was no wonder then that Leohne and Viscount Somerton
soon gained distance of several yards ahead, and before long almost out of
sight.
Charles patted her hand, the lake
shimmering, swans floating past them majestic and stealing their attention.
“That was a kind gesture, you’re taking my arm and allowing Leohne time alone with
her heart’s desire.”
She laughed. “Well, why not. I have no wish
to raise Richard’s expectations of more than friendship between him and I, for
it would be so unfair. I like him, true enough, but cannot envisage a marriage
between us.”
“He’s very fond of you, you know.”
“Yes, but now I know Leohne is utter smitten
by him I shall do my utmost to procure a happy outcome for her.”
“Darling Diamonta, the sacrifices you make
for yon snippet of a sister, indeed most commendable.”
“It is no sacrifice to step aside and hope
Richard will be lured by her charming guile, for the little minx has had her
heart set on him for quite a while methinks.”
“And you, what gentleman has caught your
eye?”
A self-conscious laugh escaped in haste to
allay any suspicious thoughts he might have, though she duly cursed a sudden
flush to her cheeks. “Oh, no one in particular.” She averted attention to the
far side of the lake where her sister and the viscount were animated in
conversation. “You see, they’re getting along famously.”
Charles chuckled. “You can say what you
like, but this Mr. No One in Particular, has most certainly stirred
something within you, for I have never seen you looking so vivacious and
ravishing.”
“Charles Taylor Whitaker, what would our
father think if he were here now to hear you talk of me in such a manner?”
“No doubt agree, and demand the name of the
bounder.”
“Bounder?” She turned to face him, noted a
mischievous glint in his slate blue eyes. “If Francois De Boviere, Count of
Saint Mont Marche could hear you, he would no doubt call you to a duel at
dawn.”
“Damn Frenchmen are fools, utter fools.
Always killing each other over some woman or other, and where’s the sense in
that?”
“I think if ever a man proved willing to
duel for my love, he might well win my favour.”
“Ha, just like a woman to desire two men
fighting over her.” He winced, grabbed at his leg. “I’m done for, Diamond girl,
I’ve done my distance for today.” He managed to maintain his balance as they
swirled about. They then began the slow trek back toward the house. “So. This Frenchy.
Are you fond of him, or am I to presume more between the pair of you?”
“You must not say Frenchy in front of
mother, for Leohne and I have her blood gushing through our veins.”
He chuckled. “Dear sister, I am well aware
of your French connection, and I love your mother dearly as I loved my own. I,
on the other hand, English to the very bone and shall not seek a French gal for
a wife as did my widower father.”
She laughed. “So parti pris, dear
brother, I think you would regret those words if ever you set eyes upon
Angelica. As for her brother, the count, I hardly know him. It is Angelica that
I am fond of. In her last letter she asked if I might consider a return visit
to France. And further more, I have with the Queen’s grace, invitation to stay
at Versailles for all of a month. There is to be a grand masque in October. Can
you imagine what fun that will be?”
“Good God,” exclaimed Charles. “The Queen
has sanctioned your presence at Versailles?” He glanced her way, his face a
picture of delight. “Well fancy that. My sister invited to the French court by
none other than Marie Antoinette, Queen of France.” He laughed, and
affectionately squeezed her hand. “Then you must go, for I will not be accused
of having denied you the pleasure of seeing your heart’s desire.”
“Heart’s desire?”
“Count what’s his name.”
“Oh him.” she said, heart skipping at the
very thought of once again letting her eyes fall upon Francois De Boviere,
Count of Saint Mont Marche. “It is not him I will be going to see.”
Charles chuckled. “A likely story, and I now
understand why you were so happy for Richard to escort Leohne for a
constitutional around the lake. Be warned, though, it may not deter Richard’s
affections for you.”
“If I am away
for a month, Leohne’s affections toward Richard I feel sure will win him over.”
“Ah, so you are attracted to this
French count of yours.”
“I liked him well enough when introduced,
and Angelica speaks fondly of him. It was but a brief encounter and I cannot
say that I know him sufficient to consider my heart taken by him.”
“I wager it is,” said Charles, head inclined
enough to catch a glimpse of second flush to her cheeks. “Hide all you like
behind your fan, but I know you Diamond girl, know you too well.”
“Well, to some extent you are right,” she
said, as they reached the terrace. “I did think him rather handsome when he
took my hand, and can you believe it, placed his lips on my cheeks. A proper
kiss to each cheek.”
“The Devil, be damned.” He swung his
stiffened leg in order to ascend the steps before them. “Blasted Frenchy, and
taking liberties with my sister.”
She assisted in his ascent by allowing him
to lean heavily on her shoulder. “Charles, be reasonable. A greeting such as
his happens to be quite normal in France.”
Her brother grunted in disapproval. “Would
you have Richard kiss you in like manner?”
“He would not. Though I suspect he does when
in France.”
“Men are supposed to show respect for women.
Dash it all, Diamond girl. A mere bow of head to a young miss is
sufficient recognition to her presence. And of course, odd kiss of hand to a
married woman of close connection.”
“Customs do change, Charles. After all, in
times past, only courtiers kissed the hand of a monarch, and as you said, men
now kiss the hand of married women and of widows.”
“Hmm,” he grunted again, then winced and
grappled with his leg. “Damn cramps.”
“Am I to assume permission for a return to
France is no longer granted?”
“You shall go, but I will ask Richard to
keep an eye on you.”
“You cannot mean to ask Richard to be my
escort.”
“He gave me to understand he is to go to
France next month and I don’t suppose he will mind your travelling with him,”
declared Charles, whilst negotiating the glass doors from terrace to drawing
room. “He can at least see you safely delivered to Versailles.”
“And then?”
“Well, once there you will have Angelica for
company.”
She helped him settle in his favoured chair
overlooking the terrace and lake. “And Richard?”
“He has business in Paris, Lyon and then
Bruges.”
So, she would be at Versailles without
Richard. How grand. How delightful. She settled in the seat beside her brother;
Francois’ glittering dark eyes coming to mind. Versailles. Angelica. Francois. Oh, if only it was possible to
depart tomorrow.
“There you are. I quite thought you all in
the music room.” Rustle of silk implied great haste, her mother upon them so
quick Charles barely managed to raise his rump from seat. “Sit down, dear boy.”
Charles fell back to chair. “What ails, dear
lady? You have the look of news most important.”
“Viscount Somerton. I must speak with him.”
Her mother glanced about them. “Please tell me Leohne has not imposed
herself upon him.”
“Not in the least,” said Charles, a broad
grin. “Blame Diamonta, for it was her idea to foist Leohne upon Richard.” He
inclined his head toward the lake. “They will return fairly soon, I shouldn’t
wonder.”
“I did not foist her on to Richard, I merely
suggested they go ahead while I assisted in Charles’ exercise.”
How beautiful her mother was, when
suspecting intrigue afoot. Chloetilde
de la Roche, a daughter of France who married below her station for love.
Though none of them knew for sure if that was the case, for the Hon Charles
Whitaker senior, although a widower of means and minor title and rather
handsome and distinguished, nonetheless a good deal older than her mother, and
sadly deceased. Yet her mother loved Charles junior as though her very own son,
and would no doubt be enraptured to know her eldest daughter had eyes for a
handsome young French count.
She mused her mother’s stance by the open
doors her interest centred beyond the terrace, her gown of black and purple
stripes quite regal “Does it matter if
Leohne has her heart set at Richard?”
Her mother grimaced but momentary, a smile
slow to face, no doubt her dark brown eyes cast to the lakeside path visible
here and there between trees. “I had thought your heart, Richard’s,” she
said, absent in tone.
“I am fond of him, it is true.”
“Ha,” blustered Charles. “Diamonta has her
heart set on a . . .” He faltered, Diamonta held his gaze to prevent utterance
of Frenchy. He gathered himself. “A count, and son of France.”
“Is this true?” Her mother glanced her way,
eyebrow raised. “What is the name of this count?”
“It is Angelica’s brother, and . . .”
“Ah, I see. A most unsuitable choice.” came
forth as unaccountable dismissal of Angelica’s brother.
Stunned and confused she could not muster
words, words to extract explanation of her mother’s disregard for Francois. “I
hardly know him,” her defence. “I’ve met him once only. No, twice to be exact,
but we did not speak on that occasion. ”
“Just as well,” her mother’s curt response.
“Good, I see them, now.”
To some
extent sense of relief at Leohne and Richard’s reappearance swept over her, for
her mother would not press further on Francois and the way in which they had
met, nor the time and place of their meeting. How glad she was to have
refrained from telling her brother or sister all that had happened on
her last venture to France. Perhaps there were things best kept secret, after
all.