by Mary Nichols
`True, but I am a patient man.'
`And your bride?' she queried, wondering if it were possible he meant someone else.
`You, my dear Miss Martindale. You know that, surely?'
Her heart sank. 'I do not remember agreeing.'
They turned and circled round each other. `Oh, that is only because I have not asked you yet.'
`Why haven't you? You spoke to my father two days ago, after...' She could not bring herself to mention that escapade.
`So I did. But I had a little business to see to first.'
She was suddenly reminded of his encounter with the stranger in Richmond Park. Was that where his business lay? 'And has it been successfully concluded?'
`It is well on the way to being so, I am glad to say.'
The dance came to an end and she was immediately surrounded by young men, all eager to mark her card. James had perforce to relinquish her to others, but not before he had scribbled his name against the supper dance. 'I shall be back to claim you, my lovely Diana,' he whispered. 'And then perhaps we can find a little time alone. One must do these things formally, after all.'
She danced and smiled and flirted harmlessly, but all the time the gilded clock on the mantel ticked inexorably towards supper time. And then he was bowing before her. She looked round wildly for a way of escape, but could see none. Her mother, who was sitting between Lady Carstairs and the Countess of Wentworth, saw them and nodded imperceptibly.
Her father was nowhere to be seen. He might have helped her, but he chose not to. She could not understand why. In every other respect he was a strong-willed man, but faced with the determination of his wife, he always gave in. She executed a deep curtsy and laid her fingers upon his arm. The time had come.
Philip Devonshire put the last touches to his costume and smiled at himself in the cheval mirror which stood at an angle to the window of the bedchamber in his lodgings in Haymarket. He was dressed in the all-enveloping white robes of a cardinal, complete with red cap and cape. And the mask he wore covered all but his eyes and mouth. No one would recognise him.
It was not that he was particularly afraid of recognition; he had nothing of which he need feel ashamed, but he did not want to upset his lordship's household by appearing at the ball as if nothing had happened. He could imagine the covert looks, the whispers passing from one to the other of the guests, the more open stares and then the condemnation, the insults. Of all people, he admired and respected Viscount Martindale the most, but he wished he had not brought this disgrace upon him.
`I want you to go to Peterborough,' the Viscount had said, early on the morning of the day before the duel was to take place, a duel he had neither sought nor wanted, but James Martindale had goaded him so that there had been no alternative but to accept the challenge. 'It is most urgent. I have been informed that there is a man in the camp at Norman Cross who is arranging for prisoners to escape and passing on state secrets for them to take back to France with them. My information is that he will be at the camp tonight. I doubt he will stay once he has spoken to his contact there, but will return to his English master. It is that gentleman the War Department wishes to identify.'
`My lord, I have a very pressing engagement for tomorrow.'
`Since when have private matters taken precedence over the good of your country and mine?' his lordship had demanded. 'You know the conditions under which you are required to operate.'
`Indeed I do, my lord, but this a question of honour.'
`Do not tell me you have engaged to fight a duel?'
`Yes, my lord. It was...'
`I do not wish to hear the details. It would mean condoning it and, in my position, I cannot do that.' He paused. 'I thought you had more sense, Philip. If you were to be killed or even injured, the country will have lost one of its best agents.'
`I could not ignore the challenge, my lord,' he said, deciding not to reveal the identity of the challenger. 'It would have been construed as cowardice. I had the choice of weapons and chose the rapier. It would have done less damage than a bullet.'
`I know you for a fine swordsman, Philip, but none the less your duty must come first, even at the expense of your reputation. You must know that.'
Of course he knew that; he had been foolish even to mention it. He had gone to Peterborough, hoping to complete his mission and be back in time.
He had left his horse safely housed at an inn just short of Norman Cross, joined a ragged file of new prisoners disembarking at the quay and marched with them to the prison barracks. The man he was seeking had not arrived and though he had waited and talked to as many of the prisoners as he could, he had discovered nothing of him. When it became obvious he was on a wild goose chase, he had made himself known to the commandant and been smuggled out by the guards. Retrieving his horse, he had galloped all the way back to town, changing his mount whenever it showed signs of tiring.
He had arrived at the rendezvous half an hour beyond the agreed time to find the clearing deserted. He had cursed roundly in several languages, wishing they had waited, but he realised that James Martindale, who had no real stomach for the fight, would have been delighted to go home as soon as the appointed hour passed and crow over him. His reputation had suffered immeasurably as a result and he knew he could no longer expect to be received in polite society. And because it was not in his nature to protest about the injustices life dealt him, he could do nothing about it.
Since then he had discovered a little more of the man they were hunting and he needed to tell his lordship of it. The trouble was that they had not arranged to meet and he could not openly go to see him. He was quite sure he was being watched. The ball it would have to be. With luck, he might catch his lordship's eye before his presence became known and he could leave as soon as their business was concluded. It was a great pity because he would have to forgo dancing and talking with Juliette.
He would have to put her from his mind. It was all very well to talk of a meeting of souls, but there were other things which must be taken into account, and not just wealth and position. The obstacles to declaring himself were of his own making, but that did not mean they could be easily thrown aside. It was a question of duty and loyalty and love of a very different kind. He could not tell her he loved her, could not ask. her to wait, not when the waiting might be for years. Besides, she would not marry a man without a title, without a fortune, much less a known coward. He would never marry now. The memory of her lovely face, her delightful laugh, her brightness, would have to be enough. But to relinquish her to James Martindale, of all people, twisted the knife in the wound. If only ...
He pulled himself together; wishing for the impossible was a futile exercise and he did not have the time. He finished dressing and went out to the hired carriage that had been waiting at the door for the last twenty minutes.
He arrived at Martindale House just as her ladyship left her station in the vestibule to go into the ballroom. His lordship had turned away, intending to have a quiet drink and a cigar in the library before joining her. He turned back as his new guest arrived. 'Philip, is it you?' he asked, peering into the young man's face.
`Yes, my lord. I needed to see you and...'
Lord Martindale laughed. 'You make a fine cardinal, though I'll wager there are few churchmen of your height and build. Come, let us go up to the library, we will not be disturbed there.'
It was not until they were seated one on either side of the hearth, each with a cigar in his hand and a glass of brandy on a table at his side, that his lordship said, 'Now, what news have you?'
`I could identify no one at Norman Cross and the prisoners closed ranks as soon as I arrived. It was as if they were afraid to speak, though I was dressed as one of them and spoke only French.'
`How did you get away?'
`I saw the commandant and he arranged for me to escape.'
His lordship smiled. It was not like Philip to leave a job. 'But there is more?'
'As you know, I have contacts among the émigrés i
n London. One of them speaks of an escaped prisoner of war, who instead of taking the opportunity to return home, has been organising safe houses and smugglers' vessels to help others escape. I am told he roams freely all over the eastern counties and frequently comes to London.'
`Do you know his name?'
`He calls himself Le Merle.'
`The blackbird.'
`Yes.'
`He cannot work without help. I need to know who he is and who is helping him. I think a longer sojourn among the prisoners is necessary, Philip. Will you go back?'
Philip sighed. 'Yes. I suppose it is not surprising that Philip Devonshire should disappear. After all, he is a craven coward.'
`You refer to that duel?'
`Yes, my lord.'
`You did not tell me it involved my nephew.'
`No, my lord. I did not wish to upset you and I had no intention of killing him.'
`He would not have behaved so chivalrously towards you.'
Philip shrugged as if that fact were of little importance. `As it was, I arrived too late.'
`You know my daughter heard of it and rode out before dawn to try and prevent it?'
Philip was taken aback. 'I had no idea. Why?'
`Like me, she did not want to see anyone hurt. I suspect she thought the quarrel might have been over her. Was it?'
`No. Why did she think that?'
`I surmise because you and my nephew seem always to be at daggers drawn. And you have both been escorting her.'
`It was not over Miss Martindale.' He paused. 'I accused him of cheating at cards. He took exception to it and challenged me.'
'And was he cheating?' His lordship smiled a little grimly. 'You need not spare my feelings. His father was just the same.'
'Yes. I am sure of it. I was angry because his friends backed him against all the evidence and I accepted the challenge in the heat of the moment. I could not afterwards back out.'
`So that is how he has been able to buy new horses and carriages. Three weeks ago he had pockets to let.'
`I am sorry, my lord, and even sorrier that Miss Martindale should have been upset by it. She took no harm, I trust.'
`No. James escorted her home. And now Lady Martindale is convinced it is necessary for her to marry her cousin to save face. What have you to say to that?'
Philip's heart sank. 'Has she agreed?'
`The announcement is to be made after supper tonight.' His lordship paused, while Philip struggled with his emotions. 'Why were you not a little quicker off the mark, m' boy? You know I would have been delighted.'
`My lord, you know how little I have to offer your daughter. Besides, I have sworn not to marry while I do the work I do. I would be very vulnerable if I were forever worrying about my wife while I were away. Besides, I own no estates and the money Maman and I were able to bring out of France in '94, bought only a small annuity. I am thankful the British government pays me well for the work I do, but when the war ends, which I believe it must do soon, I shall not even have that.'
`My friend, that is what your head might be telling you, but what of your heart?'
Philip grinned ruefully. 'That, my lord, is another matter entirely.'
`Sometimes,' his lordship said softly, 'it is better to be ruled by the heart. And so I have told Juliette. But against Lady Martindale I have no weapons.' He paused and then appeared to change the subject completely. 'There is another matter, I would like you to investigate while you are at Norman Cross. There is a Lieutenant Veillard confined there. I want you to find out all you can about him.'
`You think he might be Le Merle?'
`No, this is a private matter. He was engaged as a gardener at Hartlea, but while he was there he painted a portrait of Juliette. It was a very strange portrait.' He paused, wondering how much to reveal to the young man. `He depicted her as a French aristocrat loaded with jewels. Lady Martindale was particularly distressed.'
`His notion of a joke, perhaps?' he suggested, deciding not to reveal that Juliette had already confided in him.
`Perhaps. But you see, I recognised the jewels. They once belonged to the Comte de Carron.'
`But he and his family were guillotined in '94.'
`Yes, I know. I want you to find out all you can about this lieutenant and how he came to know about the jewels.'
`I will do my best.'
`You are not to put it before matters of state, you understand. Finding this blackbird fellow and his informant must take precedence.'
`I understand.'
His lordship rose. 'Now, I must join my guests. Will you come?'
`No, my lord. I might be recognised and that would cause you embarrassment. With your permission I will finish this excellent cigar and leave unnoticed.'
`Very well.' His lordship drained his glass and stood up. 'We shall soon be returning to Hartlea. You may reach me there when you have something to report.'
Philip stood and watched him go, noting how he seemed to have lost the spring in his step and looked very tired. The energetic, courageous man he had known as a child seemed to be weighed down with cares and his heart reached out to him. It might help if he cracked the nut he had been given as soon as possible. He rose and left the room.
At the bottom of the stairs he paused. Then, unable to resist the temptation, he slowly made his way over to the ballroom door and stood for a moment watching the dancers, looking for one in particular. Just a glimpse would be enough and then he would take himself off. The room was packed to bursting and with everyone in costume he could not see her, and then she danced into view, partnered by James Martindale.
She was a vision of delight, but one that was marred by her expression. She wore a small mask that covered only the upper part of her face. He could see her mouth, smiling up at her partner for all the world as if she were enjoying herself.
But the eyes! Those expressive eyes, outlined by the silk of the mask, were bleak, as if she had just been dealt a devastating blow from which there was no hope of recovery. Had Martindale proposed? Had she accepted? He had to know.
The dance came to an end and the pair began to walk towards the open doors to the garden. Before they reached them, she turned and saw him. Recognition lit her face momentarily and then disappeared as if she thought her eyes were deceiving her.
He pushed his way through the throng and intercepted them, bowing before Juliette. 'Mam'selle, will you do me the honour of dancing with me?' He spoke like a French émigré, whose accent had never quite disappeared. It was aristocratic and precise.
`No, sir,' James put in and Philip was certain he had not recognised him. 'The lady is with me and she wishes to be taken into the garden.'
Juliette laid a hand on his arm. 'We can go into the garden later, James. I must not neglect my guests.' She held out her hand to Philip, who took it in his and turned to lead her back to the dancers, leaving James hardly able to conceal his fury.
`My Lord Cardinal,' Juliette said with a glint of mischief in her eye, 'is it fitting for an eminent churchman to waltz?'
He was glad to see the sad look go from her eyes and whirled her into the dance, feeling her slim body under his hand and wishing he dare hold her closer than the stipulated arm's length. `Oh, this churchman is not all he seems.'
`That I realise.' He was a superb dancer and her feet were carrying her as if they had wings, following where he led, just as if they had been practising the steps for years.
`But I collect you were going into the garden.' And with that he whirled her, still dancing, out through the doors and on to the terrace, where it was cool.
`Mr Devonshire!'
`You know me?'
`Of course I know you. Did you think you could disguise yourself from me? It was very unwise of you to come. You know what they are saying, don't you?'
`That I am a coward. Is that what you think of me, Miss Martindale?'
'Does it matter what I think?'
`It matters a great deal. I have heard that you rode out in the
middle of the night to try and stop the contest.'
'Oh, I have no doubt that my disgrace is known all over town.'
`The disgrace is surely mine.'
She smiled suddenly. 'Then we are in it together, don't you think?'
`Together,' he murmured, looking down at her. The fixed smile was still there, but he sensed her tension beneath his hand on her waist. 'Would it were so. But why did you do it? You must have known it would cause the most dreadful fuss.'
`I did not think of that. I was only concerned with preventing you from fighting. I could not bear the thought of you...' She stopped, confused by what she had been about to say. 'Of anyone being hurt. But I could have saved myself the bother. You did not keep the appointment.'
`No, I was unavoidably detained.'
Her smile was more relaxed now and there was a hint of a twinkle in her eye. 'That, I suppose, is as good an excuse as any, and I am glad. There is enough fighting going on between nations without individuals putting an end to each other.'
`Amen to that. So, no harm has been done?'
`None except...' She could not go on.
`Except?' he prompted.
Her steps faltered and she stumbled against him. He caught her in his arms. and before she could cry out, had enfolded her in his arms and was kissing her.
She pushed at his shoulders with her hands and tried to protest, but the only sound she could utter was a little grunt. A strange sensation in the pit of her stomach swept away her resistance and she found herself leaning into him, her mouth hungry for his. She forgot where she was, forgot her parents, the music, James Martindale, forgot everything in the pleasure of his embrace. Here was her love.
He came to his senses first and let her go, dropping his hands to his sides. 'I beg pardon. That was unforgivable of me.'
Her breast was heaving and her mouth slightly open, as if she could not breathe properly. Then, realising slowly that some reply was expected of her, she said, `I am glad you realise it, for I shall not forgive you.' That was untrue and the colour in her cheeks betrayed her. She had wanted the kiss to go on and on, though the sweetness was tinged with bitterness.