by Mary Nichols
`And sleep,' she added, at which the soldier threw up his head and laughed. It was so different from the coarse laughter of a moment before and so full of merriment that it transported her back to a meadow beside the river at Richmond. She heard again the sound of bat and ball, the polite clapping of the ladies and the noisy applause of the men. Mr Devonshire had laughed like that when he had been run out, she remembered; it was the laugh of a man who did not have a care in the world.
And at that time neither had she, except that of deciding whether she preferred James Martindale or Philip Devonshire. Now she knew the answer, it was too late. Far, far too late. And thinking about it did nothing to help her to accept the life she was now forced to live.
`My, she is a spirited filly, this young cousin of yours, Henri,' the captain said, accepting a glass of wine from him. 'If I had the time, I might enjoy taming her.'
`How long do you have, Captain?' Anne-Marie asked.
He shrugged. 'I was sent to Paris with despatches for the Emperor, but I had to follow him all the way to Dresden. He was in a foul mood over the treachery of the Austrians and his defeats at Grossbeeren and Katzbach. Fortunately those setbacks were followed by victory at Dresden. I left with instructions to make sure the country knew of it. I assumed from that I was to take my time spreading the good news on my way back to Spain. I am in no hurry to return to that hellhole, I assure you. I decided to visit my old home and pay a call on the chateau on my way. It is many weeks since I slept in a comfortable bed.'
`He can have the Englishman's bed,' Henri said.
`Englishman!' The new arrival, who had been idly studying the colour of the wine in his glass, sat up suddenly. 'What's an Englishman doing here?'
`She brought him,' Jean said, indicating Juliette.
`Her husband?'
`No, my escort,' Juliette said and was surprised by the change in the captain's expression. The tension in his features vanished and he looked at Juliette and smiled. There seemed to be a message in his eyes, though she could not read it.
`A strange sort of escort for a French comtesse, n'est-ce pas?'
`He says he is a friend of France and on the Emperor's business,' Jean said.
`So he is,' said a voice from the open door.
Everyone turned to see James leaning drunkenly against the doorpost. Juliette thought she heard the captain's quick intake of breath, but decided she must have been mistaken, for when she looked at him, he was sipping his wine.
`James, where have you been?' she asked. 'We have a guest.'
`So I see. Are you going to introduce him?'
`Captain Philippe Devereux.' And to the captain, 'This is Mr James Stewart.'
She thought she imagined a twitch of a smile to the corners of his mouth as if he understood the joke in the name, but then decided it was unlikely. He did not bother to rise, but smiled over the rim of his glass. It stretched the scar on his cheek and turned the smile into a grimace. She wondered idly if it gave him any pain. 'I am pleased to make your acquaintance Monsieur Stewart.'
`I might return the compliment if it did not mean giving up my bed,' James said.
`Oh, do not concern yourself, I will find another. Perhaps the lady will not be averse to sharing hers.' He spoke in a lazy drawl with an accent so thick, Juliette did not, at first, take in what he had said. It was only when Jean laughed and slapped his knee that she realised what he meant.
`The lady is very averse,' she snapped, going to pass him in order to leave the room. 'Please excuse me. I have work to do in the kitchen.'
He caught her wrist and pulled her down onto his knee. `Oh, no, ma petite, you do not escape so easily. I have been starved of female company for a very long time and you have a fire about you that attracts me...'
She struggled in his arms, but he held her fast. In spite of his unprepossessing appearance, she could feel his strength, his animal power. He seemed strange and yet familiar, as if she had woken from a dream to find her fantasies had come to distorted life. He repelled and attracted her at the same time. It was such a strange feeling that, for a moment, she ceased to fight him. She could feel his warm breath against her ear, and it sent a shiver running through her body.
`I do believe she is an imposter,' he said. 'If I were you, Henri, I should send her packing. I'll take her off your hands, if you like.'
`I shouldn't do that, if I were you,' James drawled, as she pulled herself free and stepped out if his reach. 'She is protected by the Emperor himself.'
The captain turned to look at him. 'How so?'
`Through me. I am his Majesty's agent. It is his wish that Juliette Caronne be recognised as the true owner of the château and its lands.'
`His agent, eh? Then you must be privy to a great many state secrets.'
`Naturally, I am.'
`Prove it.'
`I have papers...'
`So, monsieur, have I.'
Juliette listened to this exchange with growing alarm. Henri and Jean had accepted James's story because they were greedy for the jewels, but the captain was a little more astute. If he succeeded in sowing the seeds of doubt in her relatives' minds, she and James would be in serious trouble.
`It is not for you, a mere soldier, to question a Caronne,' she said, putting on her countess's imperious voice. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it produced nothing but merriment. 'And you,' she added, forcing herself to look him in the eye, 'are probably a deserter, so we will hear no more of papers and proof, or you might find the boot on the other foot.'
She was taken aback when he flung back his head and laughed so much the tears ran down his face and into his beard. 'Oh, you are a countess, no doubt of that. But where did you learn to behave like one?'
`With an English viscount,' James said. 'It is no secret. He stole her from her true parents.'
Losing patience with all of them, Juliette took herself off to the kitchen to see to the evening meal. Taking the pot of stewed hare from the fire, she stood it on a trivet and expended her seething anger in stirring it. James was useless as a protector and her relatives made no secret of the fact that they were only interested in finding the rest of the pendant and did not care what became of her once they had it in their hands. Anne-Marie, who might have befriended her, was so influenced by her husband and father, she would do nothing to annoy them. And the stranger was no help.
For one fleeting moment when she first saw him, she had thought that here was her saviour, that a kindly Providence had sent someone to rescue her. But that was only because of his superficial likeness to Philip Devonshire and her own wishful thinking. She would do better to concentrate on the differences between the two men; the Captain's rough appearance, his crudity, the way he had pulled her on to his knee and the fact that he was French.
She put the pot back over the flames and set about laying the kitchen table. They did not eat in the dining room for the simple reason that it had no table and chairs, and besides, the food stayed hotter if served in the kitchen. Then she went down to the cellar and fetched up another two bottles of wine.
She was just putting the finishing touches to the meal when Anne-Marie sauntered through to see if it was ready. The woman was dirty and lazy and did nothing beyond the absolute minimum of work. 'Taking your time, aren't you?' she sneered. 'We could die of hunger waiting for you to produce a meal.'
`Then you should do it yourself,' Juliette snapped, as the men trooped in behind the woman and seated themselves at the table. 'You did before I arrived.'
`I see no point in keeping a dog and barking myself,' Anne-Marie said, laughing. 'And it's the only way you are ever going to earn your keep.'
`Yes,' the captain agreed in a lazy voice. 'The days of the aristo have long since passed. That was the trouble with the old comte; he was dyed-in-the wool nobility, expected everyone to bow and scrape and lick his boots. He never turned his hand to anything useful. Parasites, all aristos. We are well rid of them. I don't understand why you are harbouring one under your roof, my
friend. ...'
`It is not his roof, it is mine,' Juliette snapped.
He seemed not at all perturbed. 'Then it is you I must thank for this hospitality.'
`It is a matter of indifference to me whether I am thanked or not,' she said. 'No one else takes the trouble.'
`Not even Monsieur...' He paused, his mouth twitching in a smile. 'Monsieur Stewart? I understand you are betrothed.'
Unwilling to admit that she was, she looked up and found herself gazing into the captain's eyes, deep, dark eyes which seemed to be asking her more than the simple question his tongue had framed. She covered her confusion by fetching the stew and tureens of vegetables and putting them on the table. Henri began helping himself immediately, followed by Jean and Anne-Marie, while James sat back twirling the stem of his wine glass in his hand. The newcomer sat and watched them, a smile of wry amusement on his face.
So, James had not recognised him, Philippe thought, but he was not so sure of Juliette. Once or twice she had looked at him with a strange expression on her face, as if wondering to herself where she had seen him before. But that last speech of hers and the forthright way she had met his eyes had convinced him she had no suspicion of the truth. He was thankful for the lessons in disguise he had learned from Lord Martindale who had made more than one clandestine visit to France, not only during the Terror when he had saved many an aristocratic head, but since the outbreak of war. But older now and one of England's foremost ministers, he had forsworn active service in favour of directing operations from the Horse Guards in London. From his lordship Philippe had learned not only how to use paint, false hair and padding, but how to change his character in the way he wore his clothes and the timbre of his voice. He had learned how to be the character he was portraying and he was a master at it.
Except where Juliette was concerned. It was almost impossible to be harsh with her and he hated himself for attempting it, but he did not want to reveal himself until the time was right, until he could safely spirit her away. And that took careful planning.
And there was James Martindale. Had he anticipated the wedding he was so confident would take place? The idea filled him with an anger he found hard to control. The man was a drunkard, a gambler and a parasite and, what was worse, a traitor. It was Juliette herself who had planted the first seed of suspicion in his mind when she told him of James's meeting with the man in Richmond Park, but even so, it had been a shock to have his suspicions confirmed when he finally caught up with Pierre Veillard in Calais and extracted the truth from him.
The lieutenant was hardly more than a boy and he felt almost sorry for him. He had lost the girl and the fortune he was so certain she had inherited and now, instead of spending the rest of the war in the comparative comfort of a prison camp, he was left to rejoin a defeated army or become a deserter, always on the run. But Pierre was not the threat, James was, and what to do about him, he did not know.
If he had been anyone but Viscount Martindale's heir and betrothed to Juliette, it would have been easy. The man would die. He could try to take him back to England to stand trial for treason, but that would hurt Lord Martindale and damage his lordship's credibility and, in, any case, would not be easy to accomplish because James would not return voluntarily. He could make some sort of bargain with him, but what? Could he trust the man to keep any promises he made? How much did Juliette know? Had she condoned it on the grounds that she was a French citizen now and had severed all ties with England? Until he knew the answers to at least some of these questions, his real identity had to remain a secret, even from Juliette, and this was helped in some measure, by his recently acquired scar. But, oh, how he longed to tell her, to hold her in his arms and reassure her that she was not without friends, that if she wished to return to England, then he would do his utmost to grant that wish.
`English!' he sneered, helping himself from the tureens. 'What do they know of the haut monde?'
He was very hungry, having begrudged the time needed to look for sustenance on the way. His whole aim had been to reach Hautvigne as quickly as possible. Good food was scarce and very expensive, which was why there was only jugged hare on the menu at the chateau, but it was well-cooked and made tasty with onions, herbs and vegetables and he did justice to it, wiping his plate with a crust of bread to take up every drop of gravy.
The conversation turned to the conduct of the war, the battles won and lost, how life had changed since Napoleon had introduced conscription and taken the best of France's manhood for cannon fodder. Henri spoke nostalgically of the old days when the vineyards were thriving, of the wonderful furniture and textiles, the pictures and ornaments which had once graced the chateau. `I inherited a museum,' he said. 'You cannot eat pictures and ornaments, so...' He spread his hands in an expressive gesture. 'Now all that's left is a pile of stone and rotting vines.'
`Unless we find the rest of the jewels,' Jean added.
`You inherited nothing,' James said. 'What was here, you stole.'
`Oh, not again!' Juliette exclaimed. 'Can't you stop quarrelling for two minutes together? I am sure the captain is not interested in your squabbles.'
`Oh, but I am,' he said. 'The idea of hidden treasure fills me with curiosity. I think I shall take you up on your invitation, Henri, mon vieux, and stay and help the search. The Army can do without my assistance for a few days.'
It was a very strange household she was living in, Juliette decided as she made ready for bed that night. Three French civilians, living in poverty but dreaming of riches, an Englishman who was claiming, with some measure of success, to being an agent of the Emperor, and a French cavalry officer who seemed to have lost his taste for fighting. And there she was in the middle, a lost, lonely young woman who did not know where she belonged, a love child pretending to be a countess. There was no one she could love and no one who loved her, no single human being who cared what became of her. If she was going to get out of this mess, she was going to have to do it by herself. They did not know about her bastardy; she had told no one, not even James, and if they accepted she was a Caronne, then she ought to be behaving like the countess she said she was, giving orders for the cleaning and restoration of the chateau, taking on workers to clear the vineyards, learning how to tend the vines and make wine. In the absence of a cache of jewels, it was likely to be her only income. If her destiny was here, then she should make the most of it. But oh, how difficult it was to accept that!
It was a warm night, warmer than it would have been in Hartlea in autumn, and she went to throw open the window and lean out to breathe the night air. There was an overgrown jasmine climbing up the crumbling stonework to her window and she could smell its heavy scent just below her. The garden with its untidy shrubs and overgrown roses was bathed in moonlight.
Over to the right she could see the deep pewter gleam of the river and beyond that the outline of the distant hills. Somewhere, down in the town, a dog barked and immediately below her she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel.
She leaned a little further out and looked down. Captain Philippe Devereux was strolling under her window, smoking a small cigar. Its aroma drifted up to her and reminded her of her father. He had had his cigars specially made in London and they smelled just like that. He had been smoking one the day before she left, the day Mr Devereux had come to supper, the day she had learned who she was. Or, rather, who she was not. Were such cigars obtainable in France? And if they were not, how had a French cavalry officer come by one?
She must have made a slight noise for he looked up and saw her at the window. 'Bonsoir, mam'selle,' he called up to her. 'It is a beautiful night, n'est-ce pas?'
`Yes. You are enjoying a cigar, I see. It has a very distinctive aroma.'
He cursed himself under his breath. Of all the fools! Edward Martindale had given him a box of them before he left, and he should have had more sense than to smoke one here. It was well-known that scent was more evocative than any of the other senses and would remind her of home. He
looked up and smiled. `You do not like it? I will put it out.' He dropped it and ground it out under his heel. 'There, I shall not offend again.'
`It did not offend me,' she said. 'But, forgive me, I have noticed so many shortages since I have been in France, I did not think good cigars were easy to come by.'
She did not know why she continued to talk to him; she ought to shut the window and retire to bed, but he intrigued her. One minute be seemed to enjoy shocking her and the next his voice had softened until she felt she could almost trust him. Or was it simply that the smell of the cigar and her nostalgia for Hartlea had imbued him with the same sterling qualities as her father? And that was nonsense.
`Oh, it is not especially good,' he said, realising he had almost forgotten the character he was supposed to be playing. 'I took it off a dead soldier, an English colonel.'
`Ugh.' She shuddered; he was nothing like her father, after all. 'How could you?'
`Oh, very easily, chèrie. He had no further use for it and I did. One must take one's opportunities where one finds them. Is that not a sensible maxim?'
`Does war make everyone so callous or were you always like that?'
He laughed and again she was reminded of happier times and she wished he would not confuse her so. 'Why don't you come down and join me?' he suggested. 'We could take a stroll and discuss it.'
`Certainly not!'
`Then I shall have to come to you. I am getting a crick in the neck looking up at you.' He grabbed a thick strand of the creeper and began climbing. 'I think that you, my lovely Juliette, have taken a grave risk coming to Hautvigne. You might have been killed, might still be if those cousins of yours decide there is no treasure. Why don't you persuade James Stewart to take you home?' His head was on a level with the window sill now. `You do not really belong here, do you?'
`I do not know where I belong.'
`Then the story of being Juliette Caronne is a fiction?'