“More ordinary folk have died in this revolution,” Lord Walworth noted. “That dressmaker who does for our wives, Madame Paul. She lost family to the guillotine. What harm could a dressmaker’s family have possibly caused to have required such a sentence as death?”
“I will give you a letter to carry to Anne-Marie,” Lord Bellingham said to the duke. “That way she will not be afraid.”
“Does she speak English?” the duke asked the older man.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “We always spoke French to her on the rare occasions that we saw one another. She writes to us in French,” he noted.
“Probably don’t speak the king’slangue,” the earl remarked. “You’ll have to do all the talking, Quint.”
The duke nodded, and then he said to Lord Bellingham, “We will go tomorrow, sir. We will inform you when we return.”
The two men shook hands.
“God bless you all, whatever happens,” Lord Bellingham said.
“Ah yes, God bless you, my boys,” Lady Bellingham said. Silent until then, she wept.
Outside they entered the duke’s coach which took them directly to Boodle’s. Settled in the club’s dining room they ordered their luncheons. Boodle’s was noted for its excellent food, and was a particular favorite with country gentlemen come up to town.
“You said we’re going tomorrow?” the earl remarked.
“I assume your yacht is anchored at Brighton as usual,” the duke returned. “The coach will carry the ladies, and we will ride.”
“You can’t be serious about taking our wives,” Marcus Bainbridge, the Earl of Aston said. “You know it ain’t no pleasure jaunt we’re off on, Quint. Too dangerous for the ladies. Much too dangerous.”
“Nonetheless they are going,” the duke replied.
“Tell me why I am going to allow Caroline to put herself in such jeopardy,” Lord Walworth said quietly.
Quinton Hunter explained, and when he had finished he said, “Well, is my wife not clever?”
“Damn me!” the earl replied. “If that ain’t cunning. What’s more, I think it will work, Quint.”
“Allegra has spoken with Madame Paul this very morning. She will have the clothing our ladies need ready by the time we leave tomorrow. The old lady wanted to come with us,” the duke chuckled, “but my wife convinced her otherwise.”
Lord Walworth sighed. “If I don’t let Caroline go she’ll never forgive me. All she’s done is natter on about this cousin she ain’t never even met, and how she must help her. I suppose we’ll be obliged to take ’em in when we get ’em here.”
“Maybe they won’t want to live down in the country,” the earl said helpfully.
“They live in the country now, Marcus, you dolt,” Adrian, Lord Walworth grumbled. “Well, as she’s awidow, maybe we’ll be able to match her up with some lonely gentleman and marry her off quickly.”
Their luncheon was brought. The three gentlemen tucked into the beefsteaks and potato soufflés. The attentive staff made certain their goblets were kept filled with good red wine. Afterward the duke left his two friends off at the house they were sharing, and returned to his own house on Berkley Square.
“Where is Her Grace?” he asked Marker as he entered the foyer.
“The duchess is upstairs napping, my lord,” the butler replied.
The duke hurried up the staircase to his wife’s apartments. Entering her salon he found it empty. He moved through the room into her bedchamber. Allegra lay, wrapped in a muslin chamber robe, asleep on her bed. Her dark hair was loose and lay all tumbled across the lavender-scented pillows. Quinton Hunter smiled to himself. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would never understand how he had been so fortunate as to have found a wife like Allegra. This time last year he hadn’t even known she existed. And in his pride he had believed there was no woman in all of England fit to be his duchess. What a fool he had been. Yet his angel had guided him safely. Reaching out, he fingered one of her soft curls.
Allegra opened her eyes, and seeing her husband standing over her opened her arms to him. “You’re back,” she murmured sleepily.
He pulled off his cloak, and lay next to her. “It is all settled, my darling. We leave early tomorrow morning for Brighton. We’ll be there by noon, then off with the tide.”
“And we sail for France,” she replied. “Where is the countess?”
“About eight miles from Harfleur,” the duke said.
“We’ll probably have to walk it to avoid suspicion,” Allegra responded thoughtfully.
