The Heir - Catherine Coulter [61]
She was surprised to find only the comte in the drawing room. She smiled at him, a blond brow arched upward.
“Ma petite cousine wished to retire to her room to compose herself for dinner. I believe she is fatigued.” He gave her a charming shrug, all French and meaningless.
“I see,” she said. How she wished now he had gone away to compose himself as well, or that she had gone directly to her room, or perhaps to the parterre. She wanted to be alone, to turn over each of Paul’s words in her mind, to savor the implications, just to picture him in her mind and smile with what might come, what might happen.
“Lady Ann, I am delighted that at last I can speak with you alone,” the comte said suddenly, sitting forward in his chair, his voice intense. “You see, chère madame, only you can tell me about my aunt Magdalaine.”
“Magdalaine? But, Gervaise, I hardly know anything about her. She died before I met the former earl. Surely Magdalaine’s brother, your father, would know far more than I and—”
He shook his head. “It is of the most unfortunate, but he could only tell me of her girlhood in France. Even on that, his brain was muddled. He knew nothing of her life in England. Please, tell me what you know of her. Surely you must know something.”
“Very well, but let me think a moment.” Goodness, she knew so little, she wasn’t lying about that. She jostled her memory, piecing together bits of information about her husband’s first wife. “I believe the earl met your aunt while on a visit to the French court in 1788. I do not know the sequence of events, only that they were wed quite soon at the Trécassis château and returned to England shortly thereafter. Elsbeth, as you know, was born in 1789, but a year after their marriage.” She paused and smiled at the very beautiful young man. “Of course, Gervaise, you cannot be much older than Elsbeth yourself. I imagine that you were born near to the same time.”
The comte shrugged in vague agreement and waved his elegant hands for her to continue.
“Now I come to the point where I am not certain of my facts. I believe Magdalaine returned to France shortly after the revolution broke out. I do not know her reason for traveling at such a dangerous time.” She shook her head. “You, I am certain, know the rest. Unfortunately, she became ill soon after her return to Evesham Abbey and died here in 1790.”
“You know nothing more, madame?”
“No, I’m sorry, Gervaise.” It was nice that he wanted to know more about his aunt, but surely this disappointment of his at how little she knew was a bit much. She thought about Paul. What a lovely name.
The comte sat back in his chair and drummed his slender fingertips together. He said slowly, his eyes intent on Lady Ann’s face, “It would seem that I can add to your store of knowledge. I do not wish to wound you, Lady Ann, but it seems that when your late husband came to France in 1787, his fortune was—what do you English say?—ah yes, his fortune was sadly in need of repairs. My father, Magdalaine’s elder brother, told me that the Comte de Trécassis offered the earl a huge sum of money upon the marriage. There was an additional portion of her dot that was to be paid later, upon fulfilling certain conditions.”
Lady Ann was silent for a moment, her thoughts drawn back to her own huge dowry and the earl’s none-too-subtle haste in wishing to marry her. She remembered her bitter disillusion as a shy, self-conscious girl who had inadvertently overheard her betrothed blithely tell one of his friends that her dowry hadn’t been quite as plump as his mistress, but she was the daughter of a marquess, and surely that must mean something. He’d added that he hoped her virgin’s blood would not be a boring red.
It occurred to her now to wonder why the Comte de Trécassis would offer such a huge dowry for Magdalaine’s hand. After all, Magdalaine’s lineage was impeccable, the Trécassis being mixed in bloodline to the Capets. It was almost as if her dowry were some sort of bribe. Now that was odd. Why?
The comte rose