Then Monsieur Émile was coming over to claim her. She was shy and looking at her shoes because of the dreadful tingling. At least, she knew that he was tormented likewise.
“You do not need to watch my feet, Mademoiselle Sophie, your gown and my ankles are safe enough.”
She had to laugh. “That was so droll a story!”
“I saw your youthful admirer dancing upon your toes just now, though you were kind and smiled between wincing.” He broke off from laughing to sigh. She saw he looked at the necklace.
She sighed too, to let him know she was as unhappy with the impasse between them. Neither of them said anything for a minute.
Suddenly he said, “I am going to be impertinent and say how beautiful you look tonight, Mademoiselle. I haven’t had such a lovely partner in years.”
She glowed. “Thank you, Monsieur Émile. That is a compliment indeed, for you must have danced with many beautiful ladies at the London Assemblies?”
“I have passed many dull evenings there. Should you like to live in Town?”
“For part of the year it would be exciting, but I do love the countryside.” She blushed, wondering if he was thinking of his London town house. However, he was being as circumspect tonight as he had since the Scene in the Music Room. Perhaps following her rejection then he was abandoning his pursuit?
She didn’t want him to give up his pursuit.
“I prefer the countryside too. The years I spent in Paris wearied me of cities. By the by, I trust you have got the better of the fright that outsize bat gave you? Ynyr was puzzled, suggesting it might be some exotic specimen escaped into the wild.”
“But Sir, Agnes said several of the people in the villages claim to have seen such a bat. Surely it cannot be the same one?”
“Come, now, Miss Sophie, I hope you are not going to join with Katarina and the redoubtable Agnes in crediting these superstitions?”
“I think, Sir, Plas Cyfeillgar is a terrible house.”
He laughed. “You must not start at shadows. Still, I have found little enough there to tempt me to become an habitué.”
It was time for them to go in for the refreshments. As Monsieur Émile took her in, Sophie wished he could do so always. As he drew out a seat for her, she saw that they were near the Kenrick table.
Sitting there was a great incentive for Monsieur Émile to become an habitué at Plas Cyfeillgar after all. Mrs Ceridwen Kenrick was ten times more beautiful in her plum coloured gown than Sophie had imagined. Katarina’s saying she was a monster seemed both absurd and possible at once, so inhuman was her perfection.
Sophie could only gawp at her incredible, voluptuous figure, her luxuriant black hair, her eyes, dark, flashing and slanting, her sensual lips, always in a pout, her skin as soft and warm as a ripe fruit. She had only one thing to say of such beauty: Why can’t I look like that?
Monsieur Émile was gazing in open admiration, too – he wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t. Sophie’s heart ached, for as he made his bow, she saw how Ceridwen Kenrick smiled encouragingly, so that Captain Mackenzie’s eyes flashed.
The Dowager Countess and Lord Ynyr came up, making cold bows to the Kenrick party. Morwenna came in with an admirer who took supper with them. Sophie realised why she felt she had met Captain Mackenzie before. She had, in the shadows of the hall at Plas Cyfeillgar. Surely, though, he could not have lurked there?
She was too upset at the glances she saw Monsieur Émile and Ceridwen Kenrick exchanging to give it much thought. She could hardly eat any of the refreshments, though she remembered to put some by for Agnes. The Dowager Countess was concerned at her lack of appetite. Sophie reassured her it was the heat and excitement.
Then, the miserable series of pictures began, which her brain ran through over and again in bed.
Monsieur Émile went over to the Kenrick table. He took Ceridwen Kenrick off to dance. Captain Mackenzie glared after them. Kenrick hardly seemed to notice; his eyes roved the room, looking for women over whom to salivate.
Sophie tried not to watch Monsieur Émile and Ceridwen Kenrick talking and laughing as they danced, so skilful they need not give thought to their movements. She sat talking to Lord Ynyr.
Morwenna came back from dancing, fanning herself violently and full of bright talk, and Lord Ynyr took her to dance too.
Then Mr Lewis was whining for another dance before Sophie could think of an excuse to avoid one. She trudged miserably about the dance floor with him. He trod on her feet and she didn’t feel it. He stepped on the hem of her beautiful new dress and there was a tearing noise and she didn’t care. She saw Monsieur Émile and Ceridwen Kenrick dance by, both laughing. The youth was asking her something and she had to swallow a great lump in her throat to reply.
Just then, a disturbance broke out at the near end of the ballroom, which opened onto a small annexe. There was a scream; the youngest Miss Lewis ran out, hand to mouth, to collapse into the arms of a dandified man nearby.
He looked astonished but gratified at rising to the occasion in catching her. She screamed again: “Lydia is dead!”
The musicians, ready to start on another tune, paused at this drama, holding onto their instruments. Lydia’s mother was nearby, sitting with the other stout dowagers. She leapt to her feet to rush through the crowd, which parted before her. She had perhaps not shown such energy since Lydia herself was conceived.
Émile, Lord Ynyr, and other young men surged forward, as did Morwenna. Sophie feared to get in the way, and stayed where she was. She saw Ceridwen Kenrick exchanging a smile of contempt with Captain Mackenzie as he sauntered up to her.
Rumours flew through the ballroom. Lydia was dead; she wasn’t dead, but soon would be, for she had suffered a fatal injury from a dinner knife; she’d taken too much wine, and lay unconscious on the floor. The less polite guests crowded to try and peer through the half open door.
When Miss Lydia – the girl with the heavy ringlets whom Sophie had seen Kenrick eying earlier – was supported out by her mother and Morwenna, Sophie saw the blood dripping from her throat upon the bodice of her white dress.
The next morning, there was no chance of Sophie hiding her pink, swollen eyes from Agnes, who bathed them in a special lotion. ‘There, there, Miss. It will all work out in the end, isn’t it?’ The eye bath made Sophie’s eyes only a little less red and swollen.
“Oh, Agnes!” she sniffed, realising that she was bleating like one of the sheep on the mountain. “I have a terrible feeling.”
Fortunately, at breakfast, the others were too distracted to take in Sophie’s distress. The Dowager Countess was holding up part of the tapestry to the light and clicking her tongue over it when Sophie came into the sunlit breakfast room. Perhaps she had discovered a Sad Tangle in it. Lord Ynyr was concerned by his watch.
Morwenna was sleepy. Her sharp eyes took in Sophie’s swollen ones, but she merely lifted her brows. She was going to travel to a friend’s – accompanied by footman and maid, of course – to stay overnight. “I shall be a sluggard today. I wish I had arranged things otherwise, but I wished for diversion the day after a ball, when one is always dull. I suppose you gentleman go for a gallop over the fields?”
“I think I will take a walk instead.” Monsieur Émile, who was avoiding looking at Sophie, smiled at Morwenna. Fond of riding though he was, he had the eccentric habit of going about by foot at times. “That is, if my taskmaster can spare the apothecary’s assistant this morning?”
Lord Ynyr glanced up smiling from his watch. “I will allow you a holiday, Émile…I fear my watch is stopped.”
Monsieur Émile grinned. “Let us hope it hasn’t been affected by Kenrick’s experiments with time travel, eh, Ynyr?”
The Dowager Countess looked outraged. “Could Kenrick’s Mischievous Experiments do as much? It was a present to Ynyr from the Dear Late Count!”
Morwenna’s lips twitched as Monsieur assured his aunt, “Your pardon, Madame, I jest merely. I am sure that Kenrick’s mumbled incantations
are ineffectual regarding his own person, let alone anything a mile hence.”
Suddenly, Sophie felt at once breathless and disassociated from her surroundings as she saw herself.
She held a new born blond baby, while Monsieur Émile asked her, ‘What shall we call him, Sophie?’
As she shook her head, trying to clear it, the odd sensations vanished. Her mind must be playing her tricks through lack of sleep, or she was picking up Agnes’ ideas. She blushed, mortified.
“Vraiment, Madame, your pardon for making you anxious.” Monsieur Émile glanced at the great clock on the wall. “Speaking of time, I have an appointment. Do excuse me, Madame, Morwenna, Mademoiselle Sophie, Ynyr.” He walked out swiftly.
Sophie only paused to mutter some excuse before pursuing him as eagerly as he had chased after her that first evening.
He was already some way up the corridor but she scampered after him. “Monsieur Émile!”
He stopped, and she saw the tension in his shoulders as he wheeled about, eyebrows raised. “Mademoiselle Sophie?”
She felt her eyes wet and her lips twitching as she approached him. “Monsieur Émile, please don’t go to Plas Cyfeillgar. You may laugh, but I believe Katarina is right in her fears about – about Kenrick, and – and his wife...” she trailed off.
He crossed his arms across his chest. “Why, are you concerned for me, Mademoiselle? I am flattered.”
“Of course I am! I –”
He gave her his speculative look. “Do you have anything to tell me?”
“Only how I fear for you and I beg you to believe me that I have never lied to you and –”
He shook his head. “Ah, you stubborn minx. Au revoir.” He kissed her hand swiftly and bounded off to his doom.
Chapter Eight
The manservant who answered the door at Plas Cyfeillgar made a contrast to the one who had served coffee on Émile’s visit with Lord Ynyr. He was tall and if his livery was tight across his shoulders, it was because they were unusually muscular. He was good looking in a florid way, his hair between fair and red. His savage blue eyes met Émile’s with hostility.
“I believe Madame expects me.” Émile handed over his card, which the man took with the tips of his fingers.
They turned at a flicker of light in the passageway opposite. Ceridwen Kenrick was there, smiling and holding out her hands. She was so beautiful in a purple dress that Émile’s eyes widened. The man made a bow rivalling Georges’ in insolence, span on his heel and marched away.
Ceridwen glanced after him, lips twitching.
“Madame. I am delighted to find you at home.” Émile kissed her hand lingeringly, moving his lips up her wrist.
“You call upon me betimes, Monsieur. I fear Kenrick is out. Would you care for some refreshment? Come to the morning room.” Her voice, with its slight Welsh accent, was caressing. “I note you have heeded my wish in keeping from that detestable garlic.” She smiled suggestively, and he returned her smile. She turned and went up the icy hallway, while shadows shifted at the sides like a threatening mist.
Émile had eyes only for Ceridwen Kenrick’s back view, of her full, round, wonderful hips and derrière. Unruly strands of her glossy black hair coiled down the nape of her neck like shiny snakes. It seemed he thought of another full derrière he had lately watched, of another, very different nape with strands of fair hair curling innocently, for he paused, looking wretched. Then he swore in an undertone and went on.
She led Émile to the room where Kenrick previously entertained him and Lord Ynyr. A fire burnt there now, but it was scarcely less cold. “Would you care for some refreshment now, Monsieur? Red wine, perhaps?” She fixed eyes glowing with mischief on his, and laughed outright, almost as if she knew how as Gilles Long Legs he took a swig of red wine before his dismal breakfast every morning to prime himself for another hateful day.
He pulled his eyes from hers, perturbation flickering in their depths. “Do not trouble, Madame, for I know you have some problems with your staff, which I have further depleted in taking Katarina from you.”
She came closer. “Yes. So gallant of you! Were the girl not a scrawny child, I might envy her that quixotic rescue at your hands. Speaking of jealousy, how jealous that little girl who is companion to Her Ladyship your Aunt was of me, last night. She was almost in tears. Did you not remark it?” She laughed, her black eyes hard, her voice oddly soft.
He flinched and muttered.
“Does the prissy little thing know you are a ruffian, smuggler and highwayman, Monsieur Gilles Long Legs?”
He met her eyes, startled. “Monsieur Gilles Long Legs?”
He was lost then, for her eyes locked with his and trapped them. She giggled as she watched his jaw drop and his breathing quicken as he struggled to wrench his dilated eyes from hers.
His eyes glazed over and he stopped struggling.
She said in between delighted laughter, “You are a complete scoundrel, are you not? How shocked Society would be, did they know of one half of the things you have done. But I do not mind. I like it. Come and kiss me, you bloodthirsty ruffian.”
Despite her insulting words, maybe he would have obeyed that invitation from such a beautiful woman even if she hadn’t put him in a trance. Yet perhaps, too, one part of his bemused mind remembered Sophie, for his expression was partly anguished as he went to kiss her. Then as he began to caress her body, she pulled her lips away.
“Viens ici, salaud. Hearken to me, highwayman. When you hear those words, ‘Viens ici, salaud’ remember well, you must do as you are commanded.
‘Kenrick would have you use his methods – the animation of matter through the use of thought forms – in time travel projects. Such is magic indeed, as you and your milksop Cousin perceived. You are fools to despise such forces.
‘I order you to begin investigations therein, for I have an interest in them too. Kenrick will let me amuse myself with you readily enough, if I use my power to subdue your will. He is not so good at inducing a trance as I, is it not so?”
She gave orders to Émile for some time longer, while he stood impassive, listening. Then she passed him a small old book. “Keep it safe and study it.” She smiled then, as mischievously as a spirited young girl. “Now you must pleasure me. Come.”
She lead him through a door, across a lobby and out through another door, up a narrow staircase. He followed with blank obedience, staring at her, breathing in gasps.
When she came up to a landing – icy, as was the entire house – and lit by fitful sunshine, she paused. “You are an arrogant young buck, Émile Dubois, are you not? I am going to bring you down.” She laughed shrilly, like slivers of glass.
He made no demur. His eyes ran over her body with unthinking lust. She opened a door to a room. Inside – incredibly for this house – it was warm. “Come; undress.”
He tore off his clothing by the ornate bed, from which the canopy was missing. She looked on him gloatingly. “You are in good condition indeed from all that fighting. I shall enjoy you.” She took up a great leather bound book and propped it upon a side table behind the bed, on which she had already placed candles in front of a mirror angled to reflect the ceiling. She took a taper to the fire and lit the candles.
She laughed again. “Kenrick entertained me with your past deeds before. Now, I shall enjoy them once more.”
She let down her mane of black hair and it made a heavy cloak to her hips. She flung aside her clothes. Her body was perfect, her breasts big but high and round, her waist small, her belly gently curving, and her hips as full as a semi circle. At the sight, he rushed to seize her, but she pushed him away. “You must wait. Go to the bed.”
She strutted to the mirror and taking up a little instrument like a magnifying glass, ran it over the pages of the book. A flickering appeared on the ceiling and gradually resolved itself into a series of three-dimensional images.
She approached the bed. “You will not like looking at that. Keep your eyes on me. We must adopt
the conventional position. You can think only of my body. Now, Gilles Long Legs.” she drew him down with her onto the bed.
She looked up throughout. At first, she sighed. Then she sank her nails into his back and scratched, while she laughed until the tears ran down her blooming cheeks. “Ah, what a rascal you are! Such brutality! How sweet!”
As they came apart after that first coupling, perhaps the smart of his back – which was now bleeding – recalled Émile partly to himself. He glanced over his shoulder towards the flickering and his eyes dilated in horror.
Moving images below the ceiling played out Les Messieurs’ brutal deeds in Paris. There was Marcel Sly Boots, there Felix the Professor, there the others, and there was Gilles Long Legs, dictating the action, leading the raids.
Ceridwen Kenrick didn’t see the direction of his gaze, for she was lying back on the pillows, mauve lids closed, her fringe of eyelashes curling absurdly long and thick.
Her sculpted features gave nobility to her look; it seemed there could be no connection between her satisfaction and the images flickering above. Her eyes snapped open and she saw he stared at her now with a sort of wild dismay.
“I hope you are not coming to yourself, my adorable highwayman, for I want to enjoy you a good deal more yet. Pleasure me again. You can only think of my body.”
The film came over his eyes once more. He pleasured her again. Meanwhile overhead the scenes moved on to Boulogne, and then, Hounslow Heath.
Georges was teaching Agnes to play poker. “The expression, chérie, is important. That is why they do say a poker face. Some more brandy?”
“I must not go tipsy to dress my young lady. She has already let me have half the day off to visit Eiluned.”
They were alone in the servants’ sitting room across from the kitchen. Georges stooped to toss another log onto the fire, and stretched luxuriously. The earlier wintry sunshine had given way to wild, driving winds, howling and buffeting round the manor. Then, over the sound they heard the back door crash open and unsteady footsteps crossing the hall.
That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 11