Rupert Chalfont, younger son of Sir Philip Chalfont, baronet, took the train to Dover and then the steam packet across the English Channel to Calais. He had been advised by his twin brother, Justin, that he should beat a hasty retreat from his father’s London house in Eaton Place and for once he’d taken Justin’s advice.
Justin had travelled up especially from Pilgrim’s Oak, the family home in Somerset, to warn Rupert of the scandal of Mary Dawson, the gamekeeper’s daughter.
‘The governor’s absolutely furious with you,’ Justin warned him. ‘Dawson says you’ve put young Mary in the family way and he’s kicking up one hell of a stink about it.’ He looked quizzically at his younger brother. ‘Did you?’
‘I might have,’ Rupert admitted cautiously, ‘but so might have plenty of others! Puts herself about a bit, does young Mary.’
‘Well, Dawson has sworn to the governor that Mary was white as the driven snow until you had your wicked way with her!’
Rupert laughed. ‘The driven snow must be pretty grey round the Dawsons’ cottage then!’ he said.
‘No laughing matter, Rupe,’ Justin said with mock severity. ‘Dawson is saying that she should be paid off.’
‘Can’t see the governor wearing that one,’ scoffed Rupert.
‘No more can I,’ agreed Justin. ‘Even so, it wouldn’t hurt to make yourself scarce till it all blows over.’
Rupert nodded. ‘Probably a good idea,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of going over to France anyway. Met a chap from somewhere outside Paris at Maud Berrow’s coming-out last month. Handsome in a sort of French way, all bowing and kissing hands. The mamas were enchanté’ – Rupert kissed his own hand with an exaggerated flourish – ‘and enquiring as to his heritage, but turned out he was already spoken for, back home in France. Invited me to his wedding.’
‘He what?’ Justin sounded incredulous. ‘Why would he do that?’
Rupert shrugged. ‘Took to me, I suppose,’ he replied before adding with a grin, ‘People do, you know.’
Justin knew that this was no idle boast. Rupert, with an easy charm, had the knack of making himself agreeable to all sorts of unlikely people, dowagers to scullery maids, grooms to girls still in the schoolroom. The dark good looks he’d inherited from his grandmother were just the sort that appealed to those with a romantic mind: dark hair worn a little too long, deep-set dark brown eyes above an aquiline nose, a wide mouth and determined chin. It was only because he was a younger son that the mamas with eligible daughters did not flock about him. Charming and good-looking he might be, but with no title and no fortune he was not on the list of suitable husbands.
‘Well,’ remarked Justin, ‘I suggest you take him up on his offer. The governor’s coming up to town at the beginning of next week and I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when he does.’
Justin had taken the train back to the West Country, feeling he had done all he could for the moment to rescue Rupert. He was the elder of the twins by two hours, but those two hours were the difference between him being his father’s heir, the future Sir Justin Chalfont, and Rupert being a younger son with a mere competence and his way to make in the world. Far from being identical, the brothers couldn’t have been more different, both in looks and character, but they had always been close and watched each other’s backs as they had grown up on the family estate, Pilgrim’s Oak. Justin had warned Rupert of his father’s wrath and in doing so had probably brought it down on his own head.
Rupert, grateful for the warning, had treated himself to one more night of gaming at Brooks’s in St James’s Street before he left. It had been more successful than his last few evenings at the tables, and when he set off the next morning he was considerably better off than he had been for some time. It seemed as if the gods were smiling on him, and Rupert crossed over to France with a high heart. He decided that he would spend a week or so in Paris enjoying himself – perhaps renewing old acquaintances to be found in the gaming clubs and certain ladies’ boudoirs – before heading to this place, Montmichel at St Etienne, where his acquaintance, Lucas Barrineau, had invited him to stay and attend his wedding.
When he arrived at the Gare du Nord, he took a cab from the rank outside and had himself driven to the Hotel Montreux in a side street off the Boulevard St Germain. It was not a large hotel, but it was comfortable and convenient for the centre of the city. He had stayed there before and it would welcome him back without too much strain on his pocket. The proprietor, Jacques Rocher, recognised him at once and greeted him with a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand.
‘Ah, Monsieur Chalfont, it is a pleasure to see you back in Paris. Welcome to the Hotel Montreux. Will you be making a lengthy stay?’
‘No, Monsieur Rocher, only a week or so and then I shall be moving out into the country.’
‘Indeed, monsieur,’ agreed Rocher with a sigh, ‘I think you will find many people are leaving early this year for the cooler air of the countryside, it has been so hot these past weeks.’ He summoned a lad to carry Rupert’s travelling trunk and led the way upstairs.
‘For you, Monsieur Chalfont, the best room, in the hotel.’ He waved a hand expansively at the room, which was indeed large and looked down on the narrow street below. ‘I will leave you to unpack, monsieur,’ he said. ‘No doubt your man will be following with the rest of your luggage.’
‘Probably,’ Rupert replied vaguely. ‘I will send for him in due course. In the meantime, Monsieur Rocher, no doubt your man Robert will be able to look after me when I require him.’
‘Of course, monsieur, you have only to ring.’
‘Thank you. I think that is all for now.’
‘Of course, monsieur.’ Rocher took the hint and, shooing the lad out of the room, followed him downstairs.
Once Rupert had settled into his room, he decided to take a stroll along the river, enjoying the warmth of the late spring evening and feeling content with the world. He took his dinner in a cheerful brasserie, enjoying the hubbub around him as he ate a dish of bouillabaisse followed by a filet de boeuf washed down with a bottle of Burgundy. Paris, he decided, as he walked back through the still-busy streets to the hotel, was definitely a more welcoming city than the grey London he’d left behind.
He slept particularly well that night and after breakfast he went to nearest telegraph office to send a wire to Lucas Barrineau, announcing his arrival in Paris and accepting the invitation to his wedding.
The telegram caused some consternation at the Barrineau home, Montmichel.
‘But who is this man, Lucas?’ demanded his mother, Suzanne. ‘Why is he coming to your wedding? I have never heard of him!’ At that moment her husband came into the room and immediately Suzanne turned to him. ‘Louis,’ she cried in agitation, ‘Lucas has invited some complete stranger to stay here at Montmichel for his wedding and the man has not only accepted but has already arrived in Paris from London. What are we going to do?’
‘We are going to tell the St Clairs that we’ve had a late acceptance,’ replied Louis calmly, ‘and ask them to lay another place on the family table.’
‘But he’s not family!’ wailed his wife.
‘No, chérie, but if Lucas has invited him, we must make him welcome. He won’t know anyone else, so he must sit with us. I am sure Madame Rosalie will understand when you explain the situation to her.’
‘I believe she has taken her daughters to Paris,’ protested Suzanne. ‘She is not at home.’
‘She will be back well before the wedding, Maman,’ remarked Lucas. ‘I’m sure it will not be a problem. Rupert Chalfont is charming, I know you will all like him as much as I do.’ He gave his mother his most dazzling smile. ‘Surely you’re able to do this for me. We cannot retract the invitation now, and indeed I have no wish to do so.’
Suzanne was less than pleased with him, but she did as her son asked and promised that when Rosalie St Clair was back from Paris she would pay her a visit and explain.