Antoinette

Book 2: Women of Fire Trilogy

by Claire Lorrimer

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Antoinette, daughter of the beautiful Scarlett and a French Vicomte, has inherited her mother's exquisite beauty and her passionate, impulsive nature. But the two women are rivals. Antoinette is irresistibly drawn to her mother's former lover, Sir Peregrine Waite. But he only sees her as a child and does not yield to her loving advances. Burning with fury and humiliation at his rejection, Antoinette becomes involved with a notorious philanderer and finds herself plunged into disgrace and degradation. And despite the dangerous secret she discovers, her love for Sir Peregrine remains. Set against a stunning background of the wealthy and priveleged in Europe, this is a scorching, tempestuous sequel to SCARLETT.

Release date: November 3, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

January 1813

Twilight had given way to dusk as Antoinette rode swiftly out of the woods and onto the road. Now she was not far from Richmond
Bridge, on the far side of which there would be night watchmen and passersby to safeguard her.


But her relief was short-lived as her horse suddenly whinnied, shied, and all but unseated her.

“Who goes there?” a voice cut the silence. “Halt, I say!”

Antoinette chilled with fear. Only two days ago on her fifteenth birthday, Aunt Clarrie had chosen the occasion to warn her
yet again of the dangers besetting those who went out alone at night – pickpockets, murderers, drunken men who molested females,
cut-throats. She had no weapon but her whip, and her horse was far too exhausted to be spurred to a gallop that might outpace
the danger.


Her heart jolted and her chest pounded as a tall, dark figure stepped from the shadows and caught her horse’s bridle.

“Why, ’pon my soul!” the man said, his speech sounding cultured but slurred to the anxious young girl staring down at him.
’If ‘tis not a female! What in the name of heaven do you out here alone in the dark?”


“Unhand my horse!” Antoinette ordered in what she intended to be a tone of authority but which quavered annoyingly. “Stand
aside!”


The man laughed and moved a step nearer so that she could see his face. He was young and not unhandsome, but she could detect
brandy fumes on his breath. Her body stiffened. Instinctively she raised her whip to protect herself, but a sudden laugh from
her unknown companion bewildered her.


“Would you strike a wounded man, my fair lady?” he inquired in mocking tones. “Why, I had begun to hope for an Angel of Mercy
when you came galloping into view. My phaeton overturned, throwing me onto the road; and only by God’s mercy have I not sustained
a broken neck!”


With a sigh of relief and an expression of contrition on her face, Antoinette sprang gracefully to the ground and stepped
forward. She was near enough now to see the blood trickling from a cut on the man’s hand. His white frilled shirtfront and
cuffs were stained red and his fashionable cutaway jacket was mud-bespattered. He was hatless and his light brown curls were
in disarray.


“You are not seriously injured, Sir?” she inquired as she removed her gloves and, taking her stock from about her neck, began
nimbly to bandage the cut on his hand.


“My dignity more than my person, I think!” he replied.

He surveyed the girl with intense curiosity. Her speech and appearance were those of a young lady of quality, yet he could
not reconcile this supposition with the extraordinary circumstances in which he had encountered her. No young girl of good
family would have been permitted to ride out alone, far less after dark. She was pretty too, with large green eyes, shining
gold curls, and a temptingly curved mouth. Youthful and unprotected as she was, she would make an easy target for a man with
fewer scruples than himself.


By the time Antoinette had finished her ministrations, darkness had fallen and a bitterly cold wind was blowing around them.
The first heavy drops of icy rain began to fall.


“I have righted my phaeton and we could shelter within it,” he said, shivering. “Hopefully, ’twill be but a shower.”


Antoinette hesitated. To shelter from the rain was clearly desirable, but she would be even later home to face her aunt’s
wrath.


Aunt Clarrie would have every reason to punish her, she thought. In the first place she should never have gone out riding
in Richmond Woods with only the stableboy for escort. But Aunt Clarrie had needed the head groom to drive her to her milliners,
and Antoinette, tediously bored with her embroidery, had been tempted out by the bright December sunshine. Sam, the stableboy,
had had to be bullied into complying with her wishes. He had made no secret of his fear that his employer would heartily disapprove
of Antoinette’s escapade. He had been even more fearful when his horse had cast a shoe. By this time they had tarried overlong,
and with this unexpected mishap, it would greatly delay their return.


“’Twill soon be dark, Milady!” he had muttered uneasily as an owl hooted from one of the shadowy trees surrounding them.

“Then I shall ride home alone,” Antoinette had replied, thinking of Aunt Clarrie’s reactions were she not back by nightfall.
But the boy protested that this was far too dangerous.


“What possible harm could befall me?” she had mocked him for his fears. “I shall be home in half an hour. ’Tis you who will
have to brave the witches and ghosts and werewolves!” And she had laughed as she had galloped away through the woods.


But now her concern with the plight of this stranger had made it unlikely she would reach home before Aunt Clarrie’s return,
and she could but hope that she might avoid a great deal of her aunt’s anger by explaining her part in coming to the aid of
this unfortunate gentleman.


As if reading her mind he now said: “Pray, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Edward Crowhurst, and I am a secretary
in the household of the Princess of Wales.”


Supposing that her aunt would approve such an acquaintance, Antoinette allowed her companion to tether her horse and lead
her to the shelter of the phaeton. Within the comparative warmth of its confines, he peered more closely at her shadowy countenance.


“Now may I know your name?” he asked curiously.

“I am Antoinette Barre,” she said. “I am presently living with my aunt, Mistress Manton, at Orchid House in Richmond, because
my mother is abroad. Usually I live with her in London.”


Edward Crowhurst, despite his pleasant afternoon’s drinking at a card game with some contemporaries in Richmond, was sober
enough to be able to control his gasp of surprise, for he now knew exactly who this girl was. Daughter of the late Gilbert
Barre, she was also the offspring of that fabulously beautiful woman Scarlett, who not so long ago was known to London Society
as the Barre Diamond. His own mother – who was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen – had told him all about old Gilbert’s widow:
how she had taken one lover after another, treating them with cold indifference and apparently loving none of them until finally
she married a rather dull, worthy gentleman by the name of Pettigrew – James Pettigrew. Nobody had understood how he had managed
to tame the wild beauty. “Unscrupulous and totally immoral!” his mother had called her. And if but half she had related were
true, then one could scarce be surprised that her daughter was equally unconventional.


With a stab of excitement lending fire to his blood, Edward Crowhurst put an arm tentatively around the girl’s shoulders.
She did not stiffen but leaned her head back with apparent innocence and smiled up at him. His arm tightened imperceptibly
as in a small, excited voice she told him of her afternoon’s impulsive sortie.


“I shall be punished doubtless,” she ended her story, her green eyes twinkling with merriment. “But I do not care! You can
have no idea, Sir, how tedious life is, living with an elderly aunt, dearly as I love her, and had I remained stitching my embroidery – why, I would never have met you, would I?”


He was momentarily confused by the childlike artlessness of her compliment and wondered how old she was. But by the gentle
swelling of her breasts beneath the confines of her riding habit, he judged her to be woman rather than child. Her words and
the relaxed way in which she leaned against him misled him to consider that she might welcome a furtherance of this “adventure”.


“Indeed, ’tis my good fortune,” he said softly. “And now, since your young groom will soon be upon us, let us not waste further
time in talk but use the moments to get to know one another better.”


Until then Antoinette had felt only pleasure and excitement in this strange, romantic encounter with the wounded young man
beside her. She knew from Aunt Clarrie’s warnings that it was not gentlemen who molested ladies but uncouth men who had no
manners or education and must therefore never be spoken to in familiar fashion. Mr Crowhurst, she considered, was a man of
breeding and courtesy and she knew no fear of him. When suddenly, without preamble, he not only put his lips to hers but actually
placed his hand over her breast, she was both frightened and angry.


Struggling free, green eyes blazing, she faced him furiously.

“You take advantage, Sir!” she said. “I had not thought you capable of such despicable behaviour!”

The young man’s thoughts were still mildly befuddled by brandy and were now further confused. Was the girl genuine or was
she pretending unwillingness for a little dalliance in order not to seem too easy a conquest?


“Come now,” he said. “Do not trifle with me. I am scarce likely to be taken in by this pretended innocence. Would you have
me believe you have never been kissed or fondled before?”


“Indeed I have not!” Antoinette cried, her cheeks flushed with indignation. “And you have no right to assume otherwise!”

She made as if to leave the phaeton, but the man caught hold of her arm.


“So it amuses you to lead a man on and then reject him!” he said angrily. “Like mother, like daughter, eh?”

Antoinette, whose intention it had been to leave without further preamble, paused as his words penetrated her consciousness.

“And what might that mean?” she asked. “What has my mother to do with this … this affair?”

She sounded so genuinely unknowing that for a moment her companion hesitated. But the desire to justify himself overcame caution.

“Since your mother was renowned for trifling with men’s deepest feelings and taking pleasure in humiliating them, ’tis no
surprise to me to find her daughter behaving likewise!”


Antoinette’s astonishment was so obviously unassumed that the young man instantly regretted his jibe. But it was too late
to retract, and now the girl was forcing him into further explanations. His words so shocked Antoinette that she took in only
part of all he had to say. Her own mother – the Barre Diamond, cruel, immoral, heartless …?


She could bear no more. She wrenched open the door of the phaeton. Disregarding the cold, lashing rain, unaware of the feeble
cries of the stableboy who had just emerged from the woods and espied her, she swung herself onto her horse, dealt the animal
a swift cut with her whip, and galloped away into the darkness without a backward glance at the man she had befriended.


Although it had been Clarissa Manton’s intention to punish her young charge most severely when she returned home, her feeling
of relief at finding the girl unharmed but in such distress swept all thoughts of punishment from her mind. She herself helped
the maid to strip Antoinette of her wet clothes and put her to bed with several warming pans. The servant girl was sent to
the kitchen to fetch a hot toddy, and only when Antoinette had drunk it and was lying white-faced against her pillows did the elderly woman question her more closely on the afternoon’s
events.


When the story was told, Clarissa remained silent as she pondered how best she could restore the girl’s confidence in her
mother. She sighed deeply. So much had happened that had contributed to this unhappy situation! Her mind winged back seventeen
years to the time when Scarlett had been Antoinette’s age. She, Clarissa, was then, as now, Sir John Danesfield’s mistress.
Despite the love they shared, they could not marry because his cold, austere wife was still living. Her beloved John had not
known of the existence of his illegitimate daughter Scarlett until she was eight years old. But discovering her living with
the Sale family on a farm in Sussex and becoming quite enchanted with her, he had taken her under his wing – educated her,
brought her to London to live with Clarissa – and eventually launched her in Society.


Until Scarlett was grown, it had all been easy and happy, Clarissa reflected. But then the girl had fallen in love with John’s
ward, a young French aristocrat whose family had lost their fortunes. Gerard, Vicomte de Valle, had returned Scarlett’s love
but had felt obliged to put duty before happiness and ultimately married a girl of wealth and good family as was expected
of him by his widowed mother. Heartbroken, Scarlett had rushed wildly into marriage with a man even older than her father.
Despite her genuine affection for Gilbert Barre, she and Gerard had become lovers when Gerard had returned from a visit to
France. Antoinette was the result of that union although none knew of it but Clarissa, and the world believed Antoinette to
be Gilbert’s posthumous daughter.


“Aunt Clarrie!” Antoinette’s small, persistent voice dragged Clarissa back to the present. “Why did Mr Crowhurst call Mama
the Barre Diamond? It cannot be true that she behaved so badly – not Mama!”


Clarissa drew a deep breath.

“Your mother was a very lonely and unhappy young woman in those days,” she said. “The man she loved had disappeared without
word, and when next she heard of him, he had married someone else. I fear the hurt was such that she hated all men for a while;
and since she was very beautiful, young, and a widow, her suitors were many. It was only natural that other women in Society
resented her, for the men they wanted had eyes for none but your Mama. Doubtless Mr Crowhurst’s mother, Lady Esme, was among
them. She is known for her vicious tongue!”


The colour was returning to Antoinette’s cheeks.

“Am I really like Mama in appearance?” she asked. “Will men find me irresistible, Aunt Clarrie?”


Clarissa frowned.

“Vanity is not becoming to a young girl, Antoinette – but yes, you are like your mother – very like!” She did not add that
Antoinette also resembled her true father. She had no intention of revealing to the girl that she, like Scarlett, was a love
child, even although she had been born in wedlock and legally bore the title of Lady Antoinette Barre.


The elderly woman felt a new wave of anxiety. Antoinette was growing up fast and was far too like the tempestuous Scarlett
for heart’s ease.


Clarissa, now nearly seventy, felt herself too old to be responsible for this volatile child if her mother did not return
from Russia. Many were the terrible stories that were filtering back to England of the awesome retreat of Napoleon’s army
from Moscow; of the battles fought and the thousands who had perished from disease and starvation.


If her mother had not survived, Antoinette would undoubtedly need a stronger hand to guide her; and although she and dear
John would soon marry, now that his unfortunate wife had died, he was too doting a grandfather ever to deal with Antoinette
as firmly as Clarissa anticipated might be necessary.


It was typical of Scarlett that she should have rushed off to war-torn Europe on a wild, impetuous search for her beloved
Gerard the instant she learned that he was alive and fighting in Napoleon’s army. With none but her faithful manservant, Dickon,
to accompany her, she had departed seven months ago and no word had been heard of them since. It was to be hoped that her
lover, Gideon Morris, who had gone to look for Scarlett, would bring her safely home. Antoinette, who doted upon him, believed
that he would do so.


As if aware of the object of Clarissa’s thoughts, Antoinette said suddenly: “Oh! I do wish Uncle Perry were here!”

Clarissa remained silent. Sir Peregrine Waite was Gideon Morris’ alias, the name by which all but a handful of people knew
him. A wild, fearless, lawless man, he had spent his early years as a highway robber amassing riches with which he set himself
up in London Society. He had adopted the name of Sir Peregrine Waite and with it the rôle of a dandy. He played the fop so
skilfully that none would have guessed him to be a highwayman with a price upon his head.


By some trick of Fate, Gideon Morris bore a marked physical resemblance to Gerard de Valle. Scarlett had been captivated by
this likeness and had become his lover, even joining him upon some of his escapades. He had encouraged that daredevil streak
in Scarlett which this very afternoon Clarissa, to her disquiet, had discovered Antoinette also to possess.


The girl was fortunate to have suffered no worse misfortune at the hands of the young man she had encountered and soon, if
Scarlett did not come back, would have to be told more explicitly the dangers lying in wait for her if she went out unchaperoned.
But Antoinette seemed as fearless in character as her mother and listened to no caution unless it were given by Sir Peregrine.
Clarissa had never understood why the girl so adored her “Uncle Perry”, more especially as the child had no inkling of his
illicit escapades which doubtless she would consider romantic.


“Aunt Clarrie!” Antoinette’s voice, carefully soft and appealing, aroused the old woman from her reverie. “You won’t punish
poor Sam, will you?” she went on in an effort to protect the young stableboy. “He did not wish to go with me but I made him. The fault was entirely mine.”


“That I do not doubt,” Clarissa said. “We will say no more about this misdemeanour as I hope you have learned your lesson.
’Tis best forgotten.”


But Antoinette could not stop herself from pondering the strange story her aunt had related about her mother’s past. Beautiful
although her mother was, Antoinette had never before considered her as a woman men might find irresistible. She had always
known that Uncle Perry had a great fondness for Mama, but now, strangely uneasy, she wondered if he, like those past lovers,
found her desirable,


“Aunt Clarrie, where is Mama?” she asked suddenly. “And if she is in danger, why did she not take Uncle Perry with her? How will he ever find her whereabouts
in so large a place as Europe? And why will no one tell me what they are about?”


“Because it is none of your business, young lady!” Clarissa replied. “I have answered quite enough questions this evening
and I do not intend to answer any more.” And without more ado she left the room.


And with that Antoinette was obliged for the time being to be content.

She had much to think upon as she lay in drowsy warmth in her comfortable bed watching the flickering light of the log fire
dancing on the patterned wallpaper. She wondered why Aunt Clarrie always seemed so reluctant to talk about Uncle Perry. She
sighed, wishing he had not made her promise never to reveal the secret she shared with him. Aunt Clarrie might have a far
better opinion of him – and Grandpapa too – if they knew that the bejewelled Sir Peregrine Waite was only a façade for a very
different character hidden beneath the foolish words and dandified airs. Alone with her, Antoinette, he would cease his nonsensical
babbling and talk to her of the countryside, of Nature and animals; of which he seemed to know even more than dear Dickon.
He talked too of the poor people and their struggle to survive; of the cruelties and injustices of life where children like herself lived in safety and luxury whilst
others died in rat-infested prisons or starved to death because their parents had no money to feed them.


Always, whenever they walked or rode or talked together as they did most often at Finchcocks, Scarlett’s country home in Kingston,
he made her renew her promise to keep their conversations secret. It was a request she found exciting but which aroused her
curiosity since he would never explain why he must keep his real, most admirable self hidden from the world; why he preferred
folk to laugh at him and never take him seriously.


Antoinette’s heart thudded painfully as it was wont to do when she thought of Sir Peregrine Waite. No one in the world – least
of all Uncle Perry himself – knew how greatly she loved him. It needed but one word of approval from him to make her whole
day golden with delight. It took but one word of disapprobation for her to cry the night hours away in shame and despair.


Only her dear friend, Princess Charlotte, knew there was someone she secretly adored, but not even Charlotte knew who he was! Many was the hour she and Charlotte had wiled away in talk of love. Charlotte was two years older and, at seventeen,
was far more enlightened upon the subject. Although her father, the Prince Regent, had sought to prevent her seeing her mother,
he had been unable to withhold permission for fortnightly visits to Princess Caroline. There were many who criticized the
Regent’s open dislike of his Hanoverian wife, yet others were sympathetic to his attitude that the coarse, vulgar woman he
had been forced to marry was unfit to have the care of their young daughter. It was certainly the case that Charlotte had
learned far more from her mother than was proper for a young girl to know.


Poor Charlotte was in torment because there was talk of marrying her to Prince William of Orange, a sallow-faced, frail, bumptious
young man whose nickname, “Young Frog”, well suited him. She desired, as did Antoinette, to be married romantically to the man of her choice, someone with whom she would find pleasure in the marital bed – someone she could love.


Both girls appreciated that it was unlikely such happiness could be Charlotte’s. As heir to the throne after her father, she
must marry suitably and advantageously for her country. But Antoinette had no such impediment. There was only her mother to
say yea or nay to her choice of husband, and she had disappeared, perhaps never to be seen again. In the event of her death, Antoinette’s grandfather would become her guardian,
but she knew, none better, how easily she could twist him round her little finger. Her love for Sir John was equalled only
by his for her, and he seldom denied her any wish.


Antoinette sighed. Life was not always as simple as it sometimes seemed. At fifteen, she was not always taken seriously by
adults, and it vexed her beyond bearing that Uncle Perry, who normally addressed her as an equal, should nonetheless treat
her as a child in the matter of love.


“No one will ever love you as much as I do,” she had declared last summer when he was about to depart for Europe. “And I am
advanced for my years – you have said so many times! Will you marry me when I am a little older?”


He had put his hand beneath her chin, turning her face toward him so that she was looking directly into his laughing brown
eyes.


“I have no doubt that you will one day make some man an excellent wife,” he said, his tone gentle even whilst he mocked her.
“But you know already, my sweet wild rose, that I love another.”


Antoinette pulled free of his hand, pouting as she stamped her foot.

“You are talking of Mama,” she said, “yet you know very well you may never find her. Europe is a vast continent and you have
said yourself you know not where to begin searching. Besides, Mama does not love you as I do.”


The expression that came over the man’s face was unfamiliar and frightening to her.

“Your mother loves me as you never could,” he said harshly, cruelly. “Moreover, she is the only woman I will ever love! And
never again let me hear you say your mother may not return. I shall bring her safely home and then I shall marry her.”


Antoinette’s eyes had filled with tears of mortification.

“You are cruel … hurting me … when all I wished was to tell you I love you!” she had choked on her tears. Instantly he became
gentle and kindly again.


“Dry those eyes, my sweeting, for they do of a certainty spoil that pretty face,” he said, handing her his ’kerchief. “I would
not hurt you for the world, my darling. How could I, when I love you second only to your Mama, whom you so resemble?”


He wiped her tear-streaked face before kissing her cheek.

“You can best prove your love for me by supporting my cause with your Mama,” he said. “For she is alive, Antoinette. I know it here!” He had touched his heart.


Antoinette had been disappointed but not surprised. Uncle Perry, like everyone else, seemed intent upon keeping her a child.
In any event, since his heart was set upon marrying Mama, he would become part of her family and she could enjoy his company
every day instead of at infrequent intervals.


If only Uncle Perry would come home, she thought. He would have understood the strange feelings of guilt she was now experiencing
when she recalled her encounter with Edward Crowhurst. She could have told Uncle Perry – but never Aunt Clarrie – that she
had actually liked being kissed; and had it not been for the further liberties the young man had taken, she might even have
returned his kisses. As for the horrible accusations he had made about Mama – why Uncle Perry would doubtless have challenged
him to a duel if he had been unwilling to retract the falsehoods.


As it happened, Edward Crowhurst was only too ready to make amends. Upon the following day a vast bouquet of Christmas roses
was delivered to the house together with a letter of abject apology and a request that he might call upon Antoinette to make
his apologies in person.


“Under no circumstances!” said Aunt Clarrie, who was well aware that Scarlett had never cared for Esme Crowhurst and would
certainly discourage an association between Antoinette and her son. Antoinette was immensely flattered when, despite her silence,
the young man continued his efforts to renew their acquaintance and during the next few weeks could sometimes be seen waiting
in his carriage at the end of the street. As they rode past he raised his hat, but Aunt Clarrie feigned ignorance of his presence
and bade Antoinette do likewise. By the end of January he must have tired of waiting, for they saw him no more.


Antoinette might have regretted the loss of excitement her distant admirer lent to the otherwise monotonous routine of life
at Orchid House but for an event of far greater import. One cold afternoon early in February, Clarissa’s manservant opened
the door to a messenger sent from Barre House – Scarlett’s residence in Piccadilly – with a note for Clarissa.


The elderly woman broke the seal. She was trembling as her eyes scanned Dickon’s semiliterate scrawl. He, Scarlett, and Sir
Peregrine were in England. Dickon had this day ridden ahead to London to prepare the house for Scarlett’s arrival and to announce
their homecoming. Scarlett and Sir Peregrine would arrive by post chaise later that evening. Would Mistress Manton, Sir John,
and Antoinette await them at Barre House.


The news so affected Clarissa that she subsided on the sofa with an attack of the vapours. Whilst her maid brought smelling
salts, Antoinette glanced at the note. With cheeks aflame with excitement she sent for the messenger and plied him with questions.
He could say little to enlighten her further but related with an ill-concealed grin that Dickon had grown a beard – the same
carrotty red as his hair!


In the midst of this confusion Charles Eburhard arrived. Charles was the eighteen-year-old midshipman with whom Antoinette
was permitted, upon occasion, to go out riding. His elderly aunt, Baroness Lisa von Eburhard, was a lifelong friend of Clarissa’s,
so he was considered a suitable companion for Antoinette. Freckle-faced, with a short, stubby nose and sandy hair, he was unlikely to set a young girl’s heart on fire.


Nevertheless Antoinette enjoyed riding with him and found a good deal of harmless amusement from the knowledge that Charles
believed himself in love with her. His shy, stuttered compliments, his blushes whenever he addressed her, the way he trembled
if she put her hand upon his arm were delightful novelties and made her feel that he considered her to be a grown woman.