The Curious Rogue Read Online Free PDF Page A

Louis Quatorze furniture, with its dainty, ornate lines, contrasted sharply with the broad-shouldered and strong-featured man. Voluptuous nude maidens of sixteenth-century Venice painted by Sebastiano del Piombo adorned the two panels on either side of the fireplace. The damask drapes covering the large window on the west wall were edged in delicate French lace. An ornate, lacquered shaving stand was the only piece of obviously masculine furniture in the room, and it, too, was copiously decorated with a feminine touch.
    Standing before a full-length mirror framed by rococo ormolu mounts, the tall man gazed at his reflection. The full wine-coloured gown had been cut in such a way that it diminished the broadness of his shoulders and de-emphasized his above-average height.
    As he gazed, he managed a gradual transformation. One shoulder dropped slightly as he tilted his head to one side. The strong lines of his features faded; his mouth assumed a pursed look and twitched at one side. Powder and rouge he skilfully applied. Sauntering to a chair by the fire in a light, tripping step after he finished, the man pulled the bell cord before sitting.
    A timid knock soon sounded upon the door, followed by a nervous, “ Monseigneur le Comte, we did not know you had returned from Oatlands. Please forgive me for not coming sooner.”
    “It is of no import. I must bathe immediately. You know I cannot abide the filth encountered in others’ homes. Lady York is a dear, but her dogs. La, one trips over them everywhere. I don’t know why Brummell is such an eager guest there.
    “My water now—at once. Come, come, we must hurry.” The man in the chair by the fireplace wearily fluttered a lace kerchief in dismissal.
    Mr. Leveque closed the door quietly. He had been in this establishment but a year and still found it difficult to serve his master. “How did the comte enter?” the butler muttered as he hurried to order the water taken to the bedchamber.
    Best not to ponder it , he reprimanded himself. The Comtede Cavilon was known to be curious in his habits and to dismiss anyone who questioned anything.
    * * * *
    “This cravat will never do,” the comte told Leveque in a slightly nasal tone. “Redo it.”
    With an inner sigh the valet removed the offending linen and replaced it with a fresh one.
    “I shall see to this one myself,” Cavilon ordered with exaggerated pique, then deftly arranged it into the perfect folds of the currently popular “cascade” style. Adjusting the lace on his shirt cuffs, he examined his appearance carefully.
    The mauve jacket and breeches were styled in such a way as to be loose fitting in some areas and very tight fitting in others, so that he carried himself at a tilt, thus appearing much smaller than he actually was. His black mass of hair was now covered with a bag wig—elegant, if out of fashion—and held in the queue style by a massive mauve bow. A light layer of powder covered his ungentlemanly tanned features, and rouge reddened his lips.
    “What of my patches, Leveque? Never mind, my dear man, I shall not be seen by anyone of import this eve. Come, come, where are my kerchiefs?”
    The valet brought a tray filled with lace-edged linen and silk squares.
    Choosing one with a double frilled edging, the comte placed it in an inner pocket of his cutaway jacket. A second of the same size worked in silver thread was placed behind his watch in the pocket of his waistcoat. A third, ruched in three-inch lace, was tucked into his cuff band.
    “My boxes, I must have my boxes, Leveque,” he prattled.
    A second tray of an assortment of elegant and costly snuffboxes and pill cases was brought to him. These varied from delicate enamels to heavier ceramics to bejewelled and gold-leafed marvels. Choosing two, Cavilon placed them in the tooled-leather bag upon the commode, then placed the strap of the pack over his shoulder. “Order my coach, my closed coach, of course. I do believe I am ready.” He breathed