by French Leave
Had they but known it, Lord Waverly and Lady Helen were by this time not only the pursuers, but the pursued. For Sir Ethan Brundy, finding none of his particular cronies in attendance at Brooks’s that evening, had ample opportunity to consider the state of his marriage as he partook of his solitary supper. It was not a pleasant exercise, but he had every hope that it might prove to be a profitable one. As he recalled his parting with his wife, he realized that although he had tried to persuade her to change her plans to accommodate him, he had made no effort to do the same for her. Had he, over the past four years, made a practice of such self-serving behavior? He did not think so, but then, there were times, particularly of late, when dealing with his wife had left him with the lowering suspicion that he was really quite amazingly stupid. In any case, attending one rather tedious ball was surely not so great a sacrifice, especially when the future of one’s marriage might well be at stake.
His mind made up, he had collected his hat and gloves from the porter and set out on foot for Warburton House. He had reached it just as the church bells tolled eleven o’clock. The evening’s festivities were apparently still in full swing; only one solitary vehicle, a dark crested coach, waited in front to convey its owner home. The house was ablaze with lights, and violin music wafted outward on the night breeze—louder now, as the front door opened to permit the exit of a fair-haired lady in a light-colored gown. Sir Ethan’s heart swelled as he recognized the identity of the lady seemingly coming to meet him, but even as he moved forward to greet her, the silhouetted figure of a man emerged from the waiting carriage and handed her inside. Sir Ethan could only stare in bewilderment as the door closed behind the pair and the carriage began to move forward. As it drew abreast of one of the newly installed gas lamps, the streetlight illuminated the coat of arms emblazoned on the door: the crest of the earl of Waverly.
The discovery jolted Sir Ethan into action. He ran after the carriage for some dozen steps before, recognizing the futility of this exercise, he gave up the attempt and turned his attention instead to summoning a hackney,
“You, there!” he shouted to a promising, if unprepossessing, vehicle trolling the area in search of departing revelers desirous of transportation.
“Where to, guv’nor?” asked the driver, drawing to a halt.
Sir Ethan did not trouble to open the door, but instead clambered up onto the box beside the driver. “Follow that carriage!”
Unfortunately, the earl had by now a considerable head start, besides the not inconsiderable advantage of knowing where he was going. Sir Ethan soon lost sight of his quarry, though not before seeing enough of the route to form a very good idea of the final destination.
“Park Lane,” he predicted to his companion on the box. “That’s where ‘e’ll be ‘eaded. Take me to Park Lane. Number eleven.”
When they reached Lord Waverly’s town house, however, there was no sign of the carriage. Either he had been wrong in his estimation, or the carriage had already delivered its passengers and returned to the mews. One way or the other, Sir Ethan was determined to find out. He leaped down from the box, marched up the steps, and pounded on the door. It was opened almost at once by a butler curiously unsurprised by the lateness of the visit.
“All right, where is she?” Sir Ethan demanded, striding past this unflappable individual.
The butler cleared his throat deprecatingly. “Naturally, I am not in my lady’s confidence, sir, but I understand that she has gone to an inn in Southwark.”
Whatever Sir Ethan had expected—and his imagination had provided many possible scenarios during the short drive—it was not that. “An inn in—and ‘is lordship too, I suppose?”
Reynolds inclined his head in the affirmative.
“And did she seem—” He hardly knew how to ask the question. “—Unwilling? Did she struggle?”
Reynolds was eager to reassure the caller on this point. “Oh no, sir, not at all. She was a bit distraught—which, if I may say so, was not to be wondered at, under the circumstances—but she was determined that his lordship’s bed should be properly warmed.”
This bald confirmation of his worst fears made Sir Ethan feel ill. The obliging Reynolds, noting his ashen color, felt it incumbent upon him to offer the visitor refreshment until such time as he might see for himself that Lord Waverly’s injuries had been greatly exaggerated.
“If you will you have a glass of brandy in the green saloon, sir, they should return very shortly.”
Sir Ethan had never needed a brandy more, but every feeling revolted at the suggestion that he should sit meekly by while his old adversary planted cuckold’s horns on his head.
“No brandy, I’ll—Southwark, you said?”
“Yes, sir. The Pig and Whistle, in Great Dover Street.”
Armed with this information, Sir Ethan saw no reason to linger. He bounded down the steps to the street, where the driver of the hackney walked his horses while waiting impatiently for his fare.
“Take me to the Pig and Whistle in Great Dover Street,” Sir Ethan commanded.
“That’s on t’other side of the river,” the driver observed.
“Aye, so we’d best get a move on.”
“I don’t go beyond Blackfriars Bridge.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” promised Sir Ethan.
“I don’t go beyond Blackfriars Bridge,” reiterated the driver, not without satisfaction.
Sir Ethan reached for the leather purse in the pocket of his coat. “ ‘ow much for the coach and pair?”
The man goggled. “Beg pardon, guv’nor?”
“I’m going to Southwark, and I’m going in your carriage,” declared Sir Ethan in a voice that brooked no argument. “You can either be paid for it, or you can summon the watch and tell ‘im it’s been stolen.”
A moment’s reflection on the competence of the local law enforcement was sufficient to inform the driver as to the wisest course. Sir Ethan, correctly interpreting the man’s unspoken assent, pressed into his hand a roll of bank notes far in excess of the antiquated vehicle’s worth, then climbed onto the box, whipped up the horses, and disappeared into the night.
Chapter 13
Between the devil and the deep blue sea.
ANONYMOUS
Lisette awoke to find herself on a narrow cot that lurched beneath her. A small gray circle of light set into the wall over her head hinted at the approach of dawn. Clearly, several hours had elapsed since her confrontation with her cousin Raoul. But what had happened during that time? Where was Raoul now? More importantly, where was she?
Groggily, Lisette scrambled to her knees to peer out the little round window. The cot lurched again, and Lisette realized that its motion was not merely an aftereffect of the noxious stuff Raoul had held over her nose: beyond the porthole, whitecaps tossed in the wind. This could not be the Thames, she reasoned, for there was no land in sight. And yet, even without landmarks, there was something familiar—of course! She had traversed this particular body of water once before, under happier circumstances. The French called it la Manche, the sleeve; the English, with the unthinking arrogance characteristic of their breed, referred to it as the English Channel. She was being taken back to France and, presumably, to a forced marriage with her cousin Raoul. She must escape! But how? Even had the porthole been large enough for her to squeeze through, she could hardly leap overboard and swim to shore. On the other hand, drowning in the attempt would be preferable to life as Raoul’s wife.
As Lisette wrestled with indecision, a rattling at the door took the matter out of her hands. She collapsed back onto the cot and shut her eyes just as the door creaked open.
“See?” came the contemptible voice of her cousin. “It is as I have said. She is still asleep. If fortune smiles upon us, she will remain so until we reach Calais.”
“And then?” asked Étienne. “You must know that her husband will come for her. He is insanely jealous, that one.”
“Ah, but you do not understand the E
nglish. Was not my own English uncle, Lisette’s père, disinherited by his own father for making a mésalliance? And in his case, there was no title to be considered. Believe me, milord will relinquish all claim to Lisette when he learns that she may bear him a bastard heir.”
Étienne bristled. “I may have persuaded her to an indiscreet game of cards, but as God is my witness, I never—”
“No, for you had not the sense to!” retorted Raoul. “As it happens, I was not speaking of you, but of myself. By the time her husband arrives, I will have arranged for a priest to join us in marriage—and you may be sure I will lose no time in consummating the union. Between the scandal of a bigamous bride and the threat to his lineage, the English earl will be only too thankful to wash his hands of her.”
A gasp escaped Lisette’s lips in spite of her best efforts, and both men whirled to confront her.
“Aha! So Étienne was right, and you are awake.”
Since to deny it would be an exercise in futility, Lisette allowed her eyes to flutter open. “Oui, I am awake, but I feel most unwell. It is just as it was when milord brought me from France.”
Raoul regarded his cousin with an arrested expression. “You suffered from the mal de mer?"
“Oui, so much so that I wished I were dead,” Lisette lied without hesitation. “Even after we landed at Dover, it was many days before I was sufficiently recovered to go on.”
Raoul looked somewhat daunted at this unexpected obstacle to his plans. “Well,” he blustered, “perhaps the wind will die down and you will feel better directly.”
“Perhaps. Until then, if you please, I should like to lie quietly and rest. I would prefer to be alone.”
Suspicion crossed Raoul’s face. “I do not trust you, ma cousine. I had rather stay with you.”
Lisette turned away with a weak shrug. “As you wish. Perhaps you would be so kind as to bring for me a basin? I am feeling—most— unwell—”
Clapping both hands forebodingly over her mouth, Lisette managed to hide her satisfied smile as Raoul took to his heels.
* * * *
However much Lisette might relish this minor triumph over her wicked cousin, she had more trials to endure before her victory was complete. Knowing that escape was impossible until they had landed at Calais, she feigned illness for the rest of the journey, lying on her cot and moaning pathetically every time the door opened to admit her jailers bringing food or drink. As the hours passed, this ruse became increasingly difficult to maintain, for the bowl of chicken broth Étienne pressed upon her emitted a most tempting aroma, and Lisette, having left the theater before her party returned to the box with refreshments, was by this time quite hungry. Still, she knew what she must do, so she regarded the bowl with a tortured look which might have been revulsion or longing, and resolutely turned her face away.
At length they docked at Calais. Lisette closed her eyes and feigned semi-consciousness as Raoul entered her cabin without knocking and hoisted her up into his arms. Although his hot breath on her cheek and his ungentle hands on her body made her make-believe illness seem all too real, Lisette forced herself to remain limp in his hold as he carried her first up to the deck, then down the gangplank. If she did not struggle in his hold, neither did she make any attempt to lighten his load. As a result, she was pleased to note, Raoul’s breathing had become somewhat labored by the time he located a dark little waterfront inn.
“Innkeeper!” he called as he entered this establishment with Lisette in his arms and Étienne at his heels. “A room, s’il vous plaît, for myself and my wife.”
“And another for me,” put in Étienne.
No one paid him the slightest heed. The innkeeper looked askance at the drooping, disheveled woman in evening dress. Raoul, seeing that some explanation was called for, fairly oozed oily charm.
“She is most unwell, as you can see. The mal de mer, you know.” He heaved an indulgent sigh. “Ah well, we cannot all be robust travelers, and she always was a delicate creature. I am certain a night’s rest at this fine establishment will soon have her on her feet again.”
The innkeeper nodded slowly, apparently accepting this explanation at face value. “This way, messieurs, madame.”
The staircase was too narrow to allow for their walking abreast, so the innkeeper stepped back to allow his guests to go first. “The first door on the right, just past—”
He broke off abruptly, for the young woman was now not only fully conscious, but casting pleading eyes at him and mouthing, in French, “Help me! I am being kidnapped! Help me escape!”
His gallant instincts fully roused, he halted just before they reached the top of the stairs. “On second thought, madame might rest more comfortably in the last room on the left. It overlooks the kitchen garden, so she will be undisturbed by the noise from the street.”
Raoul thanked the man and, after entering the back chamber the innkeeper had suggested, deposited Lisette with every appearance of tenderness onto the bed, Although the innkeeper and Étienne left the room, Raoul did not follow right away, and for one horrific moment Lisette feared he intended to remain. Fortunately, he lingered only long enough to ensure that his host did not witness the spectacle of the concerned husband locking his ailing wife in her room. Having accomplished this task, Raoul went back down the stairs in search of his crony.
Lisette, finding herself mercifully alone, waited only until the sound of his footsteps had been swallowed up by the clamor in the taproom below. She bounded off the bed, crossed to the single window, and drew back the curtains. As the innkeeper had said, the window looked down upon the kitchen garden. What he had not said was that it also looked directly into the crown of an ancient apple tree, one of whose boughs stretched invitingly toward the window.
Lisette did not hesitate. She pulled off her flimsy evening slippers and stuffed them into her décolletage, pushed open the casement, and hoisted herself through the window and into the welcoming arms of the tree.
To one who had recently scaled the wall at Sainte-Marie, scurrying down a generously forked tree posed no very great difficulty, although the enterprise left Lisette’s once-elegant opera gown very much the worse for wear, and her stockings little more than a tangle of silk threads. All in all, however, she considered it a small price to pay for freedom. Upon reaching terra firma, she withdrew her slippers from her bodice and stepped into them, then stole furtively into the narrow lane at the back of the inn.
Her freedom thus won, Lisette had no very clear idea of where to go. She had no acquaintance in Calais; indeed, she had set foot in the town only once before in her life, and that only long enough for Lord Waverly to book passage to England. Her impressions of the place were vague, but she remembered the waterfront, the old town hall with its thirteenth-century clock tower, the lace factories, the convent of Sainte-Jeanne—
Lisette’s steps slowed to a halt. Did she dare seek refuge at a convent? Would the story of her escape from Sainte-Marie have spread this far? As she hesitated, the door of a nearby tavern flew open, and three fishermen staggered out. At the sight of an attractive and appealingly disheveled young woman, they leered appreciatively, one going so far as to weave his way unsteadily across the road in her direction. Lisette, surmising at a glance that all inebriates were not so gentlemanly as Lord Waverly, debated no longer, but took to her heels.
At length she reached the stone wall with its heavy iron gate which connected the residents of Sainte-Jeanne to—and isolated them from— the outside world. She tugged on the bell rope, and a moment later a nun in black habit and wimple answered her summons.
“S’il vous plaît,” Lisette began, “I have been abducted, and only just escaped from my captors. I have come to beg asylum.”
Even as she spoke the words, Lisette wondered if anyone could truly believe such a fantastic story. She did not realize that her bedraggled curls and torn and dirty gown—to say nothing of the fearful glance she cast over her shoulder—did more than any words to convince the wary
sister of her very real distress.
“Un instant,” came the reply. “I will ask Mamère.”
After what seemed to Lisette an eternity (but was in reality less than five minutes) the nun returned with a large iron key. “Mamère will see you,” she said, turning the key in the lock and swinging the gate open. “If you will please to follow me?”
The sound of the gate clanging shut behind her filled Lisette with a sense of foreboding, and as they crossed the cloister and entered the Mother Superior’s chamber, her heart began to pound against her ribs.
“Come in,” called a woman’s voice from inside the chamber.
Lisette entered, and felt almost dizzy with relief at the sight of the compassionate woman smiling serenely at her.
“Ma pauvre enfant,” said the Mother Superior, holding out her hands. “It appears you have had a difficult time. Sister Margaret will see that you have something to eat, a bath, and a change of clothes. I hope you will not object to a novice’s habit? I fear it is all we have to offer.”
Lisette fell to her knees before the kindly woman and kissed her hand. “Non. Mamère, not at all. But before I accept your kindness, I must tell you that I was once a novice at the convent of Sainte-Marie in Paris. I—I ran away.”
However much this confession might have shocked the Mother Superior, it said much to her credit that she showed no sign of disapproval, nor was there any cooling in her manner toward the penitent. “Perhaps it will make you feel better to tell me how this came about, oui?”
Thus encouraged, Lisette took a deep breath. She told the whole story, beginning with her aunt and uncle’s hopes for her marriage to her cousin, and continuing on through her escape from the convent with Lord Waverly’s assistance, their journey to England and subsequent marriage. Had she but known it, the glow in her eyes when she first brought Lord Waverly onto her stage told the wise nun by inference a great deal that Lisette never put into words.
“And now,” Lisette concluded miserably, “Étienne tells me that I am a great heiress, and that milord only wished to marry me for my fortune, which I did not even know that I had, and—oh, Mamère, I very much fear that he may be right! Tell me, do you think it is a—a judgment upon me for running away from Sainte-Marie?”