Delphine thrust out her lower lip in a very pouting manner, settled herself on a canopied seat. “Skulking, was I? Did you know how to go about it, gel, you’d see nothing objectionable in creeping through the walls. As for basket scramblers, what the devil do you think you are? A pasty-faced tatterdemalion whom Marmaduke brought home for no good reason I could find—and one who doubtless hastened his departure to Beelzebub’s Paradise! You can’t deny the old reprobate was chasing you down the stairs.”
Lest Minette hasten yet another departure to the nether regions, Orphanstrange intervened. “Mademoiselle Beaufils was asking me some very pointed questions about Lord Stirling earlier this evening.”
Minette relaxed her white-knuckled grip on the pulpit, which she had been strongly tempted to break over Delphine’s head. “Stirling,” she echoed thoughtfully; “I wonder—”
Delphine cackled. “Well she may ask questions! Meself, I’ve always admired an arrogant rogue.”
“You may hope the rogue doesn’t break our faro bank!” snapped Minette. “It seems to be his intention. How do you know about Stirling, Delphine?”
But Delphine made no answer. Her head fallen forward so that her chin rested on her chest, and her towering feathered hat threatening to topple off her head, she emitted a gentle snore. “It was the claret, miss,” said Orphanstrange, anticipating that Minette was about to fly off the hooks. “I oughtn’t to have let her have it. You know how she gets.”
Minette’s glance, as it rested on the old woman, was savage. “To my regret. Go on, Orphanstrange; what else did Mademoiselle Beaufils ask you?”
The valet frowned and tried to remember, a feat made all the more difficult by the throbbing of his abused elbow. “I don’t rightly recall, miss—nothing to signify. But she’d turned the library right topsy-turvy, she had. It looked to me like she’d been shaking out the books. Could Master Marmaduke’s treasure be hidden there, do you think?”
“If not Marmaduke’s treasure,” Minette responded slowly, “then a piece of paper might.” She fell silent, pondering whether she should tell Orphanstrange about the missing memorandum which Edouard sought to claim. If such a memorandum existed. Among Edouard’s virtues was no strict adherence to the truth. She drew closer to Orphanstrange.
Each deep in his or her own reflections, the conspirators were as yet unaware that they were not alone in the cold chapel. Silently, the intruder padded forward, paused to look curiously around. No fear or shadows or dark corners smote this worthy, whose keen eyes were accustomed to penetrating deeper gloom. Of even less interest were the people clustered around the pulpit. Calliope, that intrepid hunter, was in search of a late-night snack.
A faint rustling sound from beneath the carved canopy caught the cat’s keen ear. She slunk forward, belly practically dragging on the stone floor.
“A piece of paper, ecod!” ventured Delphine, who had not for a single instant been asleep. “Such as a—” The remainder of her comment was lost in a shrill scream. Before Orphanstrange and Minette had time to react, she erupted from beneath the canopy, with a speed and agility that belied her advanced years. Minette could not repress a nervous giggle. Clinging to Delphine’s towering befeathered hat was a very startled-looking cat.
“Save me!” shrieked Delphine, and flung herself at the astonished Orphanstrange. “'Tis a demon from hell!”
Minette nudged the valet with her elbow. “Certainly we will save you—and in return you will tell us what you have found out, eh, Delphine?”
Even Delphine’s innate perversity was not proof against her fear of felines. “Anything!”
Grinning, Minette reached up for Calliope, who refused to part company with Delphine’s hat. A brief tussle ensued. A few short moments later, Delphine’s powdered hair was considerably disheveled and Minette’s arms were filled with befeathered hat and irate feline. The cat, she hastily set down. Calliope stalked off into the darkness, all offended dignity. “Faith, but I’ve a palpitation!” moaned Delphine.
With the hand that didn’t clutch a bedraggled hat, Minette twitched the claret bottle out of Delphine’s grasp. “After you have confided in us, you may refresh yourself. What about a piece of paper, eh?”
Lower lip protruding, Delphine looked very much like a recalcitrant—and very elderly—child. “Demned if I should tell you that! You and your clever letters— better I should tell this Vashti twit that you’ve pulled the wool over her eyes.”
From this hostile statement, Minette concluded that the old woman’s feelings had been stung. Amazing! Minette had not thought Delphine capable of any emotion other than spite. “You are angry that I have been more clever than you, hein?”
“Clever!” Delphine’s sharp nose twitched. “If you was so clever, gel, you wouldn’t be barking at the moon.”
Again Orphanstrange felt constrained to prevent his companions coming to fisticuffs. “You had already said you meant to take up residence in your secret room, Madame Delphine. Miss Minette saw no reason to charge Master Marmaduke’s heiress with your upkeep also, especially since Mademoiselle Beaufils has no notion you exist.”
Thus reminded of her own cleverness, Delphine retracted her outthrust lip. All in all, it was not proving so easy as she had anticipated to move undetected around an occupied house. “We struck a bargain,” Minette reminded her. “You’ll keep your part of it if you want your hat back.”
Delphine wasn’t certain she wished to reclaim that item, so bedraggled had it become. Still, a bonnet was a bonnet, and she was unlikely to soon come by more. “'Tis only a memorandum,” she muttered, and snatched at her hat.
“A memorandum.” So Delphine had overheard Minette’s conversation with Edouard. “But how?”
“How do you think I heard of it, pea-brain?” Delphine’s thoughts were largely occupied with the reclamation of her bonnet. “Stirling accused the upstart of something to do with a memorandum, and you needn’t ask me what! He also made a violent attack on her virtue, and proper betwattled she was—or so she made out!”
Without comment, Minette handed Delphine the battered hat. Although at some other time Minette might have been very interested to hear of the startling goings-on in the library, her thoughts were currently all for the memorandum that her kinsman was so eager to claim. Lord Stirling was also interested in that memorandum, Edouard had informed her—but what had Vashti to do with this affair? Could she know the memorandum’s whereabouts?
“Au contraire,” Minette murmured aloud. “Did she know, she would not search, I think.”
Delphine deposited her hat at a rakish angle atop her head. “I’ll tell you something you don’t know, since you were so good as to rescue me from that accursed beast—though I’ll warrant it went against the grain! Marmaduke’s heiress does know about his treasure, because she mentioned it to Stirling.”
Orphanstrange ceased to clutch his injured shin long enough to comment. “An uncommon number of people know about Master Marmaduke’s treasure, it seems to me!”
Delphine snatched up the claret and drank. “Ecod! 'Tis my opinion the twit ain’t what she seems!” she remarked when the bottle was quite dry. The effect of this comment upon her companions was all she might have wished. Cackling, feathers swaying, Delphine withdrew into the shadows, slipped back into the cupboard and through the trapdoor hidden there.
Minette and Orphanstrange exchanged a very speaking glance. “I don’t like this above half, miss,” said the valet.
“Nor do I!” sighed Minette as once more she retrieved the claret bottle and placed it on the tray. Missing memorandums and unspecified treasures— at this rate, soon half of London would be surreptitiously tapping the walls of Mountjoy House. And precious little time there was for searching, owing to the exigencies of operating a gaming house.
Again, that memory of Edouard’s fingers clasped painfully around her neck. Minette picked up the tray and thrust it at Orphanstrange. Not only must they discover whatever the deuce it was that everyone else wished to d
iscover, but they must do it first. “There will be precious little rest for us this night, mon ami.”
CHAPTER TEN
The late Marmaduke’s solicitor paused within the entrance vestibule of Mountjoy House, frowned at his companion. “Why, no,” he allowed. “I have no doubt of Mademoiselle Beaufils’ credentials—quite the opposite, in fact! If you have some question, Stirling, you must tell me so.”
Lord Stirling merely grunted. His lordship was feeling excessively annoyed, with his godpapa for plunging him into a wretched imbroglio, with the deceased Marmaduke Mountjoy for playing some deep game—and especially with Vashti Beaufils, for being either a damsel with a sadly dilatory memory or a clever adventuress who would sell out her own country for personal gain. Discreet interrogation of the solicitor had left Yves no nearer to a solution of the puzzle. He gazed in a forbidding manner around the vestibule.
Lionel, meanwhile, addressed the footman who had admitted them, and elicited the information that Mademoiselle Beaufils was in the dining room. He waved aside the servant. “We’ll find our own way.” The gentlemen proceeded through the entrance vestibule and hall, past the carved apes and dogs and monkeys on the stairway. A profound hush lay over Mountjoy House, the majority of its occupants still recuperating from the revels of the previous night.
The dining room was a tall, lofty, fan-vaulted chamber. Drawn up to the table were a number of pseudo-Gothic chairs. One of the chairs was missing from its place, drawn up instead before the hearth. Upon that chair stood Mademoiselle Beaufils, intent upon the chimneypiece, patting and prodding at the stones.
Gesturing the astonished solicitor to silence, Yves strode forward. “Dusting again, Vashti?” he genially inquired. She started violently, spun around, lost her balance, grabbed for chimneypiece and chair back. Both eluded her. She fell. Lord Stirling caught her in mid-tumble, leaving Lionel to deal with the overturned chair.
Vashti stared up into Lord Stirling’s handsome countenance, memory of which had kept her awake a large portion of the night. Doubtless he thought she had been searching for his accursed memorandum. “You startled me, sir!”
“Did I?” murmured Yves. “You were not on guard. I already issued you warning, did I not?” She winced. The jade—if she was a jade—deserved to receive her comeuppance, he thought. And then he mused, quite irrevelantly, that she fit as snugly as ever into his embrace.
Lionel, having dealt with the chair, and by so doing having earned from Calliope a snarl, was at a loss as to what he should do next. Lord Stirling and Mademoiselle Beaufils were staring at each other in a manner that left the solicitor feeling distinctly de trop. He cleared his throat. “The two of you are acquainted?” he ventured.
Thus made aware that he had clasped Vashti’s narrow waist a great deal longer that was seemly, Yves abruptly released her. “We are very old acquaintances.” He looked very narrowly at Vashti. “Are we not?”
“Hm? Oh, yes!” Recalling her speculations upon the supposed manner of their acquaintance, Vashti blushed. What would Valérie have done in a situation such as this? Vashti could not imagine. She took refuge behind the long table and offered the gentlemen coffee.
“Thank you, no!” Lionel eyed the remnants of Vashti’s breakfast with a certain wistfulness. Sparse as that repast seemed—consisting of cold oatmeal pudding, sliced and toasted and buttered—it was more ample than his own had been, Lord Stirling having appeared on his doorstep at a very early hour. “We have come on a matter of business. Lord Stirling has made a very handsome offer that I must advise you to consider.”
“An offer?” Vashti’s hands clenched around her coffee cup, her wide amber eyes fixed on the solicitor’s face. Had Stirling engaged Lionel to act in his behalf concerning the memorandum? An odd way to go about the thing, surely. “Has he, indeed?”
“You find it hard to believe in your good fortune.” Ignoring Calliope’s hostile demeanor, Yves drew up a chair. Vashti looked doubtfully at him. He smiled, and availed himself of the coffeepot. “Old acquaintances such as ourselves need not stand on ceremony. But Mr. Heath looks confused. Perhaps you would like to tell him how we come to know each other, Vashti.”
What Vashti would have liked to do was end this charade—however, there was the missing memorandum to think of, and the possible loss of her inheritance, and what little Valérie might have left of her good name. Through lowered lashes, she studied Lord Stirling. His blue eyes were fixed on her fingers, clenched so tightly on the cup.
Vashti dropped her hands to her lap. This wasn’t the way she would have chosen to ascertain if her speculations had been correct. “We met here in London, several years back,” she ventured, and held her breath.
Impostor or no, she knew that much. “Approximately ten years back,” remarked Lord Stirling irritably.
Lionel glanced from one of his companions to the other, and then at the crumbs of the buttered oatcakes. Perhaps it was the lack of an adequate breakfast that caused him to feel such unease. That, and the growling cat, and the noises in the walls. He frowned in the direction of the sound.
Vashti followed his glance. “Rats,” she gloomily observed. Calliope snarled all the louder. Vashti picked up the cat and dropped it on the floor. Calliope withdrew beneath the table, tail a-lash.
“Ah, yes, rats.” Lord Stirling leaned back in his chair. “I failed to take the presence of vermin into consideration when I set my price.”
“Your price?” Again, Vashti wore that bewildered expression which left his lordship quite unreasonably enraged. “What price, sir?”
“Moonshine! The old house is just settling,” Lionel interrupted. Could he but get this business settled, he might yet contrive to break his fast before afternoon. “Lord Stirling has made a very generous offer for Mountjoy House, Mademoiselle Beaufils.”
“Very generous! I am prepared to come across handsomely.” Yves quirked a golden brow. “Why so are silent, Vashti? Perhaps you are speechless with delight that you’ve have landed a buyer. Now you must take care I don’t wriggle off your hook!”
What abominable timing! Vashti contemplated the table top. If only she were free to accept. But Lord Stirling knew she was not. He played cat and mouse with her, the wretch. “I can’t imagine why you would want Mountjoy House,” she said.
At last a sign of spirit! Yves raised the other brow. “You wound me, Vashti. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten my love for the grotesque.”
He was deliberately baiting her, Vashti decided. If she was to play a rôle, it was past time to start.
What would Valérie have done in response to such provocation? Vashti attempted a sultry look. “I’ve forgotten nothing—Yves.”
Lord Stirling’s mocking expression was succeeded by a thunderous scowl, which in turn was replaced with a rueful smile. “Touché!” he murmured. “Then you will also remember our expedition to Vauxhall.”
“Vauxhall?” Vashti wondered what she was agreeing to. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Assuredly.” Lord Stirling made no rejoinder, to her great relief.
Still hopeful of eventually being allowed his breakfast, Lionel took advantage of the conversational lapse. “It is my duty to urge you to take advantage of Lord Stirling’s generous offer, Mademoiselle Beaufils. Perhaps you don’t wholly appreciate the delicacy of your position. No respectable young woman—” It occurred to Lionel that, from all the tales he’d heard of her, Vashti Beaufils had scant interest in respectability. “That is to say, your association with a gaming hell is a most improper thing.”
Obviously, the solicitor was also acquainted with some of Valérie’s exploits. Vashti wished to sink. “So you’ve already pointed out, Mr. Heath. As I told you then, there are reasons why I am unwilling, just yet, to sell the house. Despite Lord Stirling’s handsome offer, those reasons remain unchanged.”
Yves roused from contemplation of why Vashti should have claimed to remember an expedition that had never taken place, none of their shared larks having included the pleasure gardens at Vaux
hall. “Ah, yes, the treasure!” he murmured. “You still wish to find it. But you haven’t yet heard to what tune I am prepared to put myself out of pocket.”
How tempting was thought of escape from this horrid muddle! Vashti thrust her dreams of freedom aside. “No matter what the sum, my answer must remain the same. Don’t press me further, I beg of you! My mind is quite made up.”
“Do you know, I thought it might be?” Lord Stirling derived no little satisfaction from the slight trembling of his victim’s hand as she poured coffee into her cup. “But if you wish to style yourself one of faro’s daughters, it’s none of my affair.”
Faro’s daughter? Was that what the world would think? Vashti sought to mask her consternation with her coffee cup, thereby burning her tongue.
Lionel understood neither why Mademoiselle Beaufils stared so determinedly into her coffee cup nor why there was a satiric curl to Lord Stirling’s handsome mouth. Nor did he understand Vashti’s determination to retain possession of this great grotesque house. As Stirling had so correctly pointed out, no young woman who valued her reputation would in any wise associate herself with a gaming hell. Not that Vashti Beaufils had any concern for her reputation, were half the tales Marmaduke told of her true. Still, Lionel’s conscience bothered him, even more so since Stirling had served up a few harshly critical remarks.
How he was to control so headstrong a young woman, Lionel had no notion. As her solicitor he was obliged to make the effort, nonetheless. Lionel sought once more to represent the voice of reason, with little noticeable success.
“It distresses me beyond description to refuse you,” Vashti retorted, pushing away her coffee cup. “But upon the most serious reflection, I have determined to keep the house. Pray let us say no more of it—else I will think you gentlemen accuse me of being incapable of managing my own affairs.” Neither gentleman, she thought as she glanced from one to the other, appeared willing to accede to her request. On the contrary, Lord Stirling seemed on the verge of argument.
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