Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [199]
‘But you have no expectations,’ said Catherine d’Albon, ‘of receiving any from me?’
His self-possession, unlike hers, was in place again. ‘I should like you to try,’ Lymond answered with gravity. ‘I shall tell you, from time to time, how you are succeeding. Meanwhile, I suggest we summon your mother. There is a common belief that left behind locked doors, I don’t stop to ask anyone anything.’
She rose. ‘You mean,’ Catherine d’Albon said, ‘I have agreed to marry a libertine?’
‘Everyone marries libertines,’ Lymond said comfortably, rising and taking her elbow. ‘But not everyone knows it beforehand.’
*
News of the impending marriage, discreetly disseminated, produced a number of different reactions.
Her grace the Queen of Scotland was extremely displeased.
The Prince of Condé, a fairly regular recipient of the Maréchale de St André’s favours, was a little put out and began instead, belatedly, to pay a good deal of attention to her daughter. A number of other noblemen followed suit.
Piero Strozzi, who heard the news out of town, was delighted, and added spice to the general interest by inquiring of all those he met as to how son petit François had got the branch budding so promptly. Jerott Blyth, offended by Lymond’s lack of frankness, quarrelled with Adam Blacklock and stalked off to the Hôtel d’Hercule, to be told that M. de Sevigny was absent on business. Danny Hislop, calling later, was told the same story.
Madame la Maréchale de St André, who had better means of judging its accuracy, called and was admitted, but left without having arranged, as she had hoped, for the necessary meeting between herself, her daughter, and M. de Sevigny’s family. His mother, M. de Sevigny said, was still recovering from her journey.
Catherine d’Albon began to spend a good deal of time in Lymond’s company. Her dramatic good looks, daily enhanced, became breathtaking. So her mirror informed her, and her mother, and the comte de Sevigny’s eyes, sometimes, resting on her. But so far, he had done no more than kiss her hand.
I don’t bed with virgins unless they ask me, and unless I am married to them.
There was time enough, in spite of what her mother might say.
Jerott discovered that Lymond was in fact in residence in the Hôtel d’Hercule but failed a second time to get himself admitted, upon which he walked instead to the rue de la Huchette and sent his name in to Lymond’s mother.
Sybilla received him. She remembered him as the fiery, black-haired young Knight of St John who had concerned himself so passionately about Francis’s affairs in Malta and Scotland. She saw now the same young man in the guise of a Lyon merchant, and married to the girl of whose existence her older son Richard knew nothing.
She said, ‘You wish to talk to me about your wife; about Francis; and perhaps about this wedding of his, which everyone seems to be speaking of.’
She had always been a splendid person: bright as a silver penny. Jerott said, ‘Have you seen him? I’ve been shown the door twice. Did you know about this marriage arrangement?’
It was typical Jerott Blyth, if not the overture which courtesy perhaps demanded after an interval of five and a half years. Sybilla, amusement in her tired eyes, said, ‘We travelled south together, but he didn’t speak of it. Don’t you approve? I know of nothing against it.’
‘It depends what his plans are,’ said Jerott. ‘If you want my view, he should have stayed in Russia.’
‘Why?’ Sybilla said. Her tone expressed kindly interest.
‘It was good for him. It would have kept him away from Marthe. And that poor lass would be married long since to her Austin.’
‘You speak of Philippa. Is she in love with Austin Grey, Jerott?’ said Sybilla. ‘I hear he is a prisoner with Francis.’
‘She would have been,’ said Jerott bluntly. ‘As it is, she has to get Francis out of her system first. He held on to that marriage far too long, and she’s paying the penalty, not milord of Sevigny. You know she wanted to trace Marthe’s birth?’
‘Yes. I knew that,’ Sybilla said. After a space she added, ‘And has she