“It is no longer a distraction.”
“What troubles you, bon ami ?” Tretain asked softly.
Cavilon stared at him for a long moment, then his gaze moved to the fire burning brightly in the grate. “Perhaps I am like a fire that has burned too brilliantly for too long. The flame to avenge my family, lost in the bloodbath of the revolution, the loss of my home, my lands... my country—it was all-consuming for a time. The danger, the risk, was but fuel for the flame. Each challenge, once conquered, drew me to the next. It became a game.”
“I recall that feeling,” Tretain reminisced. “The excitement of the chase, of overcoming all odds. Before I met my Juliane I was much the same as you. Even now there are odd moments when I wonder if I should have given it up so completely. But they are very few.” His eyes rose to the portrait of his wife above the fireplace.
The comte ’s gaze followed his friend’s. “Yours was a most unusual courtship, as I recall it.” He smiled. “You have had no regrets?”
“None,” the earl assured him. “You must call when you can see the children.”
“I never thought to hear such words from you,” Cavilon teased. “Do you remember those four ladies we entertained in Trier for a week? What about Versailles, when you were forced to flee in only your nightshirt?”
“At least that was better than the time those chevaliers caught you in the bath with Lady Breaux,” Tretain countered, and both men broke into laughter.
The earl noticed that Cavilon’s gaiety quickly faded. A restlessness he had seen growing in the other man for some time replaced it. “There are compensations that make such recollections small,” he offered gently. “Children—”
“Is Juliane breeding again?”
A proud smile came to Tretain’s face. “Yes, our sixth.”
“You mean fourth, do you not?” the comte corrected.
“Well, yes, but Andre and Leora seem like our own. Leora was little more than a babe when we wed.”
“How do your young nephew and niece fare?”
“Andre is at Christ Church Oxford and doing very well. He is anxious for the day when he can join the war. But that is natural, having lost his mother to the French as he did. Leora is all of seven now and still in the nursery with our three.”
“Perhaps you shall have a second son this time,” Cavilon mused.
“It matters not, although Mother would cringe if she heard me say that.”
The comte chuckled at the thought of the Dowager Countess of Tretain. “How is she?” he asked.
“Very well for her age. She enjoys having the children about.”
“How domestique you have become with all this talk of children,” Cavilon said more sharply than he had intended. He finished his brandy, rose, and refilled his glass.
“What troubles you?” Tretain questioned a second time, puzzled by his friend’s unusual lack of composure. Something had occurred to shake the iron calm the comte always maintained.
Cavilon swung about abruptly. “When you met Juliane, were you certain... I mean did you feel...” He groped for words.
“You don’t mean to wed at last?” Tretain exclaimed, and then lifted an eyebrow. “ Certes not that lightskirt you keep at—”
“No,” the comte answered curtly. “That was ended this eve,” he continued in a milder tone. “I fear I was gone too long. Those situations are not long-lived in any event,” he concluded, the subject dismissed.
“Then who?” Tretain asked, puzzled.
“No one,” Cavilon returned. “The voyage across the Channel was rough. I have not slept for two days. I begin to ramble. The joy has gone out of the game. I have tired of it. Of this, too.” He waved the lace kerchief.
“The pretence serves you—and all England—well,” the earl told him, admiration for the other filling his words.
“It may soon he time for it to end,” Cavilon mused. “I believe I shall look about England for an estate, something which would fill my time.”
“There are lands
“What troubles you, bon ami ?” Tretain asked softly.
Cavilon stared at him for a long moment, then his gaze moved to the fire burning brightly in the grate. “Perhaps I am like a fire that has burned too brilliantly for too long. The flame to avenge my family, lost in the bloodbath of the revolution, the loss of my home, my lands... my country—it was all-consuming for a time. The danger, the risk, was but fuel for the flame. Each challenge, once conquered, drew me to the next. It became a game.”
“I recall that feeling,” Tretain reminisced. “The excitement of the chase, of overcoming all odds. Before I met my Juliane I was much the same as you. Even now there are odd moments when I wonder if I should have given it up so completely. But they are very few.” His eyes rose to the portrait of his wife above the fireplace.
The comte ’s gaze followed his friend’s. “Yours was a most unusual courtship, as I recall it.” He smiled. “You have had no regrets?”
“None,” the earl assured him. “You must call when you can see the children.”
“I never thought to hear such words from you,” Cavilon teased. “Do you remember those four ladies we entertained in Trier for a week? What about Versailles, when you were forced to flee in only your nightshirt?”
“At least that was better than the time those chevaliers caught you in the bath with Lady Breaux,” Tretain countered, and both men broke into laughter.
The earl noticed that Cavilon’s gaiety quickly faded. A restlessness he had seen growing in the other man for some time replaced it. “There are compensations that make such recollections small,” he offered gently. “Children—”
“Is Juliane breeding again?”
A proud smile came to Tretain’s face. “Yes, our sixth.”
“You mean fourth, do you not?” the comte corrected.
“Well, yes, but Andre and Leora seem like our own. Leora was little more than a babe when we wed.”
“How do your young nephew and niece fare?”
“Andre is at Christ Church Oxford and doing very well. He is anxious for the day when he can join the war. But that is natural, having lost his mother to the French as he did. Leora is all of seven now and still in the nursery with our three.”
“Perhaps you shall have a second son this time,” Cavilon mused.
“It matters not, although Mother would cringe if she heard me say that.”
The comte chuckled at the thought of the Dowager Countess of Tretain. “How is she?” he asked.
“Very well for her age. She enjoys having the children about.”
“How domestique you have become with all this talk of children,” Cavilon said more sharply than he had intended. He finished his brandy, rose, and refilled his glass.
“What troubles you?” Tretain questioned a second time, puzzled by his friend’s unusual lack of composure. Something had occurred to shake the iron calm the comte always maintained.
Cavilon swung about abruptly. “When you met Juliane, were you certain... I mean did you feel...” He groped for words.
“You don’t mean to wed at last?” Tretain exclaimed, and then lifted an eyebrow. “ Certes not that lightskirt you keep at—”
“No,” the comte answered curtly. “That was ended this eve,” he continued in a milder tone. “I fear I was gone too long. Those situations are not long-lived in any event,” he concluded, the subject dismissed.
“Then who?” Tretain asked, puzzled.
“No one,” Cavilon returned. “The voyage across the Channel was rough. I have not slept for two days. I begin to ramble. The joy has gone out of the game. I have tired of it. Of this, too.” He waved the lace kerchief.
“The pretence serves you—and all England—well,” the earl told him, admiration for the other filling his words.
“It may soon he time for it to end,” Cavilon mused. “I believe I shall look about England for an estate, something which would fill my time.”
“There are lands
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