The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy)

by Diana Douglas

  Rosie screwed up her face as she attempted the name. “Mon-jure André,” she recited slowly.

  “Mon-sieur,” Cecelia corrected. “It’s pronounced softly.”

  Rosie frowned. "Why can’t I call him mister? It’s ever so much easier.”

  “Because he’s French. And the French word for mister is Monsieur. Miss is Mademoiselle and Mrs. is Madam. I should really begin your French lessons soon.”

  Rosie sighed. “More lessons. And more lessons. I don’t like lessons.”“You’ll be glad for it someday. Lizzie’s in France, now, and I’m sure she’s very glad that she was tutored in French.”

  “I suppose.” Rosie looked thoughtful. “Why did Mon-sier André lose his memory?”

  Not quite sure how to explain the situation to a five year old child she hesitated a moment. “Sometimes a hard hit on the head causes one to forget things. Monsieur André had a hit to the head and now he doesn’t remember what his name is or anything about his life. But it’s possible his memory will return. We hope it will, because it must be very difficult not to know who you are.”

  “Did the highway man hit him?” Rosie asked.

  Cecelia’s brows lifted in surprise. “How did you know that?”

  “The two ladies that change our beds said a highway man took all his things and then they hit him.”

  “They said this to you?”

  “No.” Rosie sighed and shook her head. “Not to me.” She sighed a second time. “They didn’t pay any attention to me at all. They never do. But Nurse scolded them for talking about it in the nursery. She said it would scare me, but it didn’t. I’m not scared of highwaymen.”

  Cecelia was curious. “Why aren’t you afraid of highway men?”

  “Because I’m just a little girl and I don’t have anything to steal. Have you ever seen one?”

  Cecelia thought of the grisly scene she witnessed a few nights ago and shuddered. “No, I haven’t.” But she had seen their handiwork.

  “They wear masks sometimes,” the little girl said solemnly. “I think that’s very clever. Don’t you?” She continued on without waiting for an answer. “Why isn’t David having tea with us? He slurps--I mean makes noise when he drinks but he’s not a lady so I suppose it doesn’t matter. May I have another lemon biscuit?”

  “You must say please.”

  “May I have a lemon biscuit, please?”

  “Yes, you may.” Cecelia put a biscuit on a small plate and handed it to Rosie. “And David isn’t having tea with us because this tea is for ladies only.”

  Rosie took a dainty bite of her biscuit and laid the rest on her plate. “Will Mon-sieur André ever get his memory back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But if you tell him his name is Monsieur André, he’ll know who he is. And then he’ll remember.”

  Rosie’s statement held the simplistic reasoning of a child and how to explain the situation to her had Cecelia stumped. She was granted a temporary reprieve.

  “I see Thomas!” Rosie exclaimed suddenly.

  Cecelia turned to see her husband striding toward them. He was garbed in a jacket of dark blue superfine, a brown waistcoat and tan breeches. His boots were dusty from his ride, but every hair was in place and his cravat was still snowy white. “Stay put,” she told Rosie who had risen from her seat. “You’ve done very well today. You don’t want to ruin it by launching yourself at Thomas like a little hoyden.”

  Rand chuckled as he came up beside them, “And if anyone should know about hoyden tendencies it would be my wife. I heard you were out here having tea in the garden. Are learning your manners, Rosie?”

  “Oh yes.” The ribbons on her bonnet danced as she nodded her head with enthusiasm. "I’ve done very well, haven’t I?” She looked at Cecelia.

  “Yes, you have,” Cecelia said. “Very well.”

  “Except, I slurped once,” the little girl confessed. “I mean I made noise when I drank my chocolate. I’m not supposed to say slurp in polite company.”

  “I’m very happy you’re learning comportment.”

  Rosie giggled. “I’m learning what?”

  “Good manners.” Rand tweaked the end of Rosie’s nose and then turned to Cecelia. “I’ve just come from Trawley’s. Now that the bank has agreed to extend him credit and I’ve lowered the rents, the atmosphere is far more cordial. I’m certain his wife would be pleased if you called on her sometime this week.”

  Cecelia nodded. She was well versed in what was expected of her as the wife of a titled landowner. Her mother had paid monthly calls on their tenants in Surrey and after her brother had married, Priscilla had taken on the duty. Cecelia would do the same here. “I’ll have a basket made up and go over tomorrow.”

  “Take Harris with you.”

  Cecelia frowned at the mention of Harris’s name. “Couldn’t I take someone else?”

  “No.”

  Rosie tugged on Rand’s coat. “Would you like to have tea with us, Thomas? Oh no!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I forgot this is only for ladies. You can’t have tea with us. Gentlemen aren’t allowed.”

  He placed his hand over his heart. “I’m wounded. How could you be so cruel as to deny me the pleasure of your company?”

  Rosie looked at Cecelia. “Could he please stay?” she implored. “I’ve hurt his feelings. I didn’t mean to.”

  He grinned at her. “Not to worry, midget. I’m teasing you. I must call on our patient and then I have some accounts to go over before I meet with my new man of affairs

  “May I come with you and meet Mon-sieur André?” Rosie asked slowly sounding out her syllables.

  “Not today. He needs to get well first. Then, we’ll see.” He offered an elegant bow to them both. “Continue with your lessons ladies.” Then unexpectedly he tipped Cecelia face up to his, leaned over and gave her a quick but openly demonstrative kiss on the lips. When he pulled away she could see the desire in his expression, a golden glint in his hazel eyes. “And I will see you, my dear wife, this evening.” The tone of his voice was husky. He then turned on his heel and left them.

  Rosie fell into a fit of giggles. “I’ve never seen him kiss anyone before. I think Thomas is in love with you.”

  Cecelia watched as he ambled elegantly toward the house. She certainly hoped so.

  Rand scrutinized the face of their guest as he stood by his bed--or rather the portion of his face that was visible. The side was bandaged and what wasn’t bandaged was swollen and bruised. Longish dark hair rested against the white feather pillow. A pale blue blanket had been pulled to the top of his shoulders. Other than the rise and fall of his chest he lay perfectly still and Rand was beginning to doubt Mrs. Kraft’s assurances that he was awake. Then one eye slowly opened and darted anxiously as he spotted the marquis.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Rand reassured him. “You are among friends. My name is Thomas Danfield. You’ve been injured and are staying with us while you mend. Dr. Tibbs assures me that you will mend, though I would imagine that at the moment your head hurts like the very devil.” He paused. “Can you remember anything?”

  Silence. “Non,” he replied roughly.

  The man’s face was too battered to show expression, but Rand believed what he said. “I was able to dig up a little information. The coach you hired came from Gloucester and they have you on record as Marcel André. Does that help?’

  The man’s eye narrowed. He appeared to be thinking. “Non.”

  “Maybe it will come to you.” Rand’s jaw tightened. “I’m afraid the driver was murdered. I would like to find the bastard who did this.”

  He watched Rand without responding.

  Rand sighed. It was apparent André had nothing to give him today. “Is there anything I can do for you before I fetch Mrs. Kraft?”

  “No. Merci.”

  “If you recall anything at all, please send for me. For now, I’ll send Mrs. Kraft back in to see to you.” He smiled wryly as he thought of the short, s
quat, plain-speaking nurse who barked out her demands with more force than most generals. “She’s a rather formidable woman isn’t she?”

  André closed his eyes and mumbled, “Oui. A dragon.”

  The marquis chuckled. “She will see that you recover, for you won’t dare do otherwise. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Rest well, Monsieur André.”

  After two weeks of Mrs. Kraft’s attention, Dr. Tibbs declared André well enough to rejoin the world. But as Rand regarded André over his glass of port, he was cursing the doctor’s decision. The Frenchman didn’t seem particularly happy with the decision, as well. He was morose, sullen and near impossible to converse with. Normally, Rand could smooth over uncomfortable social situations was small talk and humor, but it seemed that André was determined to brood.

  Still weak, he was seated in a carved rosewood chair in the drawing room as they waited for Cecelia to join them before dinner. He had politely refused Rand’s offer of brandy or port and asked if he might have coffee instead. When he accepted the cup from the footman who served them, his hand shook and Rand chided himself for not being more sympathetic. The bizarre circumstances likely accounted for his mood.

  André's face still showed a few cuts and bruises and the paleness of his skin made the dark watchful eyes seem even darker. Even so, he was a fair looking man. Surprisingly, he had managed to escape any broken bones to his face. He had a long, but well-shaped nose, high chiseled cheekbones and a wide, thin lipped mouth. His hair had been combed to cover the shaved patch on his head and pulled back into an old fashioned queue tied with a black ribbon. He was a few inches shorter than Rand and at least a stone lighter, but Mrs. Brice’s daughter had been able to alter some of his clothing to fit André. He wore the black and gray ensemble well.

  Rand decided to once again attempt conversation. “Is your head troubling you tonight?”

  André shrugged. “Somewhat. Not to a great extent.” He paused. “I apologize if I am poor company. I thank you for your hospitality. And the clothing. I will repay you as soon as I am able.” His voice was wooden and the words came across as if he was repeating a carefully rehearsed phrase.

  “There’s no need to concern yourself with repayment.”

  “I insist.”

  “As you wish.”

  André set his cup and saucer on the table next to him and Rand noticed he had scarcely touched it. Determined to be a good host he asked, “Would something else suit you better? I could have something else brought in.”

  “No, thank you.” André’s expression was still brooding. “You say you’ve discovered no new leads. How can that be? Someone must know something. Tell me what you have done.”

  Rand swallowed his irritation along with the last of his port. “Normally, the first move would be to track down the stolen goods, but to do so we must know what those stolen goods are. You were the only passenger and have no memory of your belongings. The driver carried nothing valuable enough to be pawned and unless the horses that were stolen turn up, we have nothing to trace. It’s been two weeks. I confess, I’m not encouraged.”

  Lips compressed, André nodded but said nothing.

  Good God, save me from this dark, sullen personality. Where in the devil is Cecelia? He needed a diversion. The man was damned depressing to be around. He checked the time on the mantle clock. Dinner was to be at six and it was two minutes after. He was about to ring for Winston when he appeared at the door.

  “My lord, Lady Clarendon sends her apologies and has requested that you hold dinner back another fifteen minutes. It seems there was a slight mishap with Master David.”

  Rand groaned. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but I suppose I will. What mishap did David fall into?”

  “He took it up on himself to climb a rather large oak tree in the garden but was somewhat less enthusiastic about climbing back down.”

  The marquis grinned as he set his glass on the mantle. “You wouldn’t be about to tell me that my errant wife climbed up after him?”

  The butler allowed himself a small smile. “No, my lord. Young Billy did.”

  “Hell.” Rand quickly lost his sense of humor as visions of broken bones and cracked skulls came to mind. “What happened?”

  “No one was hurt,” Wilson assured him. “But Billy’s trousers caught on a branch and he was unable to untangle them. David was too frightened to climb down far enough to help, so they were both quite stuck. Fortunately, my lady and Harris came along. My lady sent for a pair of scissors, Harris climbed the tree, freed the lad and both boys made it down safely.

  “And all is well?”

  “Oh yes, my lord. Quite well.”

  Rand turned a wry grin on André hoping the man might actually crack a smile. “You may find our household somewhat unconventional, but I don’t believe you will ever find it boring.” He heard the light clicking of footsteps down the hall and said, “Ah, I think I hear Cecelia coming. She isn’t so late after all.”

  Cecelia burst into the drawing room. She had donned a persimmon silk gown trimmed with green and gold embroidery and her hair was swept into a tumble of curls and held back from her forehead by a broad matching ribbon. Her face was flushed and her green eyes were brilliant with laughter.

  “Oh Rand, I’m terribly sorry I’m late but it was the funniest thing. David climbed a tree and was afraid to come back down so Billy went after him and then Billy’s trousers were caught and they both sat in the tree until Harris and I came along to rescue them,” she said in a rush. “I was insistent that we ride to the pond as originally planned even though we had been delayed and then, of course, I was late dressing for dinner. Harris was quite irritable about the whole thing. He grumbled the entire time. You really must have a word with him.” She stopped and took a breath.

  Rand closed the distance between them and took her arm. “Cecelia, I’m afraid our guest may find our domestic trials a bit tedious.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” she apologized as André rose from his chair and turned to face her. “I didn’t see you. You must be wondering what a madcap household you’ve fallen into.”

  Rand nodded at André. “Monsieur André, I would like to present my wife, Lady Clarendon.”

  André could barely take his eyes from her. He had not truly believed she was real. His angel. The woman who had appeared as a vision in the darkness. The woman he had dreamed about. She was tall and slender and held herself like royalty, but her face was pure mischief. She curtsied then smiled at him and he felt as if the room were filled with sunshine.

  “Welcome to our home, Monsieur André.” Her voice was soft and breathless; exactly as he remembered.

  She held out her hand and his heart thumped against his chest as he took her hand, bowed over it and brought it to his lips. “I am enchanted to meet you, my lady and I found your story not at all tedious, but very entertaining. You seem too young to have children old enough to climb trees.”

  “They are my wards,” Rand explained. “Lady Clarendon and I are only recently married.”

  “Ah.” He gave a slight nod but kept his gaze on Cecelia. “If I might ask, is it possible we have met? I don’t dare hope that my memory is returning, but I know I have seen you before.”

  “Oh,” she said in surprise. “I wouldn’t have expected you to remember. I was in the carriage that brought you here. You opened your eyes and looked at me but you were in a dreadful state at the time.”

  “I thought you were an angel.”

  Her face lit with pleasure. “What a lovely thing to say, monsieur, though I’m afraid there are those who would disagree with that assessment. Would you care to escort me to dinner?”

  He offered her his arm. “I would be delighted.”

  Rand watched the exchange between his wife and André through dinner. Happily he no longer bore the brunt of their dialogue and the uncomfortable lulls in conversation they had experienced earlier were gone. Cecelia had preformed some kind of miracle and their dark and brooding guest had vanished.
André was by no means gregarious but hung on to every word of her little anecdotes and spent as much time gazing at her as he did eating. He was enchanted and Rand couldn’t blame him.

  She was glowing with happiness and good health and it was contagious. She had stepped into the role of hostess without batting an eyelash and he knew that her ability to put others at ease would serve them well. Even so, by the time they were halfway through the roast pheasant Rand had an almost irresistible urge to put his fist in the man’s face and carry his wife off to bed and remind her who her husband was.

  “Rand.” Her lilting voice broke through. She was smiling at him. “Have you told Monsieur André we’ve inherited a curse?”

  He grinned back at her. “No, my dear. Absurd superstitions have yet to make their way into our conversation.”

  She gave him an exaggerated scowl and turned to their guest. “My husband doesn’t believe in such things, but I think they’re great fun. I was very excited when I learned of it.”

  Rand lifted a blond brow. “A curse that threatens my life and you find it great fun? How unsporting of you. Should I take care to watch my back?”

  “You’re quite safe. At least from me,” she added. “I can’t vouch for anyone else.” She dipped her spoon into a dish of lemon sherbet. “And you know perfectly well that if I truly believed it I wouldn’t think it was any fun at all.”

  He smiled indulgently. “That’s gratifying. I’ll sleep well tonight knowing you intend me no harm, but you’re confounding our guest. You must let him in on this local bit of nonsense.”

  André nodded at her. “You have my interest. Tell me of this curse.”

  Cecelia set her spoon down and leaned forward. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Well, it seems that the sixth marquis of Clarendon attempted to dismantle the original Abbey in order to sell the stone. It had fallen into ruin and he was more interested in the money he could make from it, rather than preserving it. The men he hired to dismantle it began having accidents and several were killed. He continued to hire more men and more were injured or killed. After a while, it was difficult to get anyone to work for him.” She leaned a bit closer and lowered her voice. “But it wasn’t until the sixth marquis fell to his death while climbing about the ruins that the construction completely stopped. Since then, most of the heirs and all of the marquis, with the exception of my husband, have come to an early demise and never from natural causes.”