by Fran Baker
He involuntarily jerked at the reins and for a few moments was forced to give all his attention to calming his flighty pair. When he could, Rosewarren turned upon her a pair of censorious blue eyes completely lacking their usual cheery gleam.
“I’ve a notion,” he said heatedly, “I ought to return you home this instant. There’d be the devil to pay if m’sister were to hear of this cloth-witted scheme. No groom, private outings—”
“Oh, stuff!” With a snap of her fingers, Antiqua dismissed all concern for her reputation. “I’m not giving you a slip on the shoulder, you know.”
“Antiqua! What can you know of such matters?” he exclaimed in profound shock.
“Don’t be nonsensical, Archie. My father was no monk, you know. Now please find us a spot where we can talk and I shall explain all,” she said with melodramatic urgency.
With a fervent wish that he had done anything else that afternoon, Lord Rosewarren turned his curricle away from the direction of Hyde Park, which would be filled to overflowing with members of the beau monde out to see and be seen in the daily ritual of walking, riding or driving there, and set off instead toward the less popular Green Park.
Little was said between the two during the short journey. Antiqua concentrated on how to tell her tale while Archie focused on the handling of his spirited horses. When they turned into the park at last, Antiqua did not even glance at the Temple of Concord, erected for the Peace Celebrations of 1814, but immediately begged his lordship to halt in a secluded spinney. He did so, but then faced her with a rare frown.
“I say, Antiqua, this is a rackety, ramshackle business! There’ll be the deuce of a dust-up and—”
“Yes, yes,” she agreed, cutting off his scold. “But this involves the salvation of England, Archie.”
The skepticism stamped plainly upon Archie’s face faded as Antiqua unfolded her adventure. The story came out haltingly at first, then poured out as the weight of her secret was lifted. She left out only her more intimate dealings with Vincent and her own vacillating suspicions regarding him. At the end of her long recital, which had been interrupted repeatedly by Archie’s exclamations and questions, the Marquis sat mute, his brow furrowed with heavy meditation.
“There is only one thing to be done,” he said at last with decision. Her sigh of relief was quickly abbreviated when he expanded, “We must tell Jack.”
“No!” she cried. “No, we cannot tell him!”
“Dash it all, Antiqua, he’s the very person we need. He’ll know just what’s to be done, he always does. I can’t think why you didn’t think of it before,” he finished in accents of reproach.
“Archie, if you mean to betray my confidence, I shan’t let you see the packet.” She clutched the muff close to her bosom and glared hotly at his lordship.
“You have it here?”
“Of course! Why else do you think I’d carry this ridiculous muff on a fine day like today?” she demanded in exasperation.
“Well, one never knows, a woman’s fancies and all that,” he disclaimed with a shrug. “But I still say you’re a goose not to confide in Jack.”
“Well, I’d no wish to tell you this, Archie,” she said sadly, “but I’ve reason to suspect it is Vincent who is the traitor.”
Her effect was not as she had expected. Instead of exclaiming his shocked horror, Archie stared wide-eyed for an instant, then growled in deep disgust, “How can you be so mutton-headed? Jack is as much a traitor as I am!”
Though she longed to accept the truth of this, to dismiss once and for all her nasty, plaguing suspicions, Antiqua felt an obligation to her country, if not her heart, to present all the damning evidence. In a voice burdened with gloom, she told him, “I truly wish I could believe that, but Allen himself warned me to beware of him. And I happen to know the reason your brother left Amiens in such haste was that he’d shot and killed a man!”
Again, Rosewarren failed to produce the expected reaction. He shook his head and muttered, “Of all the feather-brained . . . any new babe on the town could have told you that! It was a duel, a duel of honor!”
She gaped, for once in her life utterly speechless.
“The Comte de Michelet’s a thorough rotter, one of those damned Ultra Royalists who want to pretend there never was a Revolution,” he told her. “But he’s also a particular crony of the King’s younger brother, so naturally Jack had to leave France immediately. As it’s turned out, de Michelet wasn’t killed, just laid low for a while to come. And more’s the pity. Jack had every right, I think, to shoot him after de Michelet objected to his birth.”
Antiqua had followed this explanation with difficulty, her mind whirling to keep up with the sudden upheaval of her emotions. Bewildered, she grasped only this last and echoed on a croak, “Objected to his birth?”
“Good God, Antiqua, don’t you know anything? Haven’t you wondered why, though he is the eldest brother, I hold the title?”
“You mean, he is—that is, his birth—he—”
“Jack was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” Archie supplied in a harsh tone quite unlike his own.
So much came clear to her, as if a lantern had been held high upon a darkened corner of Vincent’s soul. The mocking disdain which had before seemed sinister became understandable in the light of the inner hurts he must suffer. The distant aloofness, the dispassionate air, even the danger of him were all defenses, barriers against further pain. She longed to hold him, to kiss him, to whisper lovingly that his birth meant nothing to her.
Overwhelming relief flooded her, washing waves of happiness over her. She could go to him now, explain everything and perhaps they could start afresh—
Antiqua’s happiness lurched to a halt. How could she go to him now? After all the heinous deeds she had believed of him? If she confided in him now, would he not despise her for her baseless suspicions? Shame overrode her newfound joy.
“I’m sorry, I did not know,” she murmured with genuine sorrow. She stared down at the muff in her hand for a moment and then pulled the leather bundle from within it. Holding it out to Archie, she said, “Here. We cannot wait for his return from Sedgwick. Open it.”
Rosewarren hesitated. “Perhaps Sir Giles—”
“If I’d known you weren’t to be of the least use, I’d not have entrusted you with this information!” she snapped.
Rankled, Archie let the reins slip from his hands and tore loose the ribbons binding the packet. He spread the leather open upon his lap as he pulled a sheath of papers from its recesses. The restive horses, sensing the lack of any restraint, jerked forward. With an oath, Archie grabbed for the reins.
The papers fell to the floor of the curricle. He heard Antiqua gasp, but did not venture to look at her until he once again had the pair under control. When he finally did, her face was white, her mouth was open and her widened eyes were fixed downward. His gaze followed hers.
Upon the floor, rested sheet after sheet of paper—all utterly blank.
Chapter 13
Scooping up the scattered pages, Antiqua turned them one by one. Each was like every other.
“Blank. Every one of them is blank,” she said woodenly.
“Have you been gammoning me, Antiqua?” Archie demanded.
“No! It was true, every word!”
“Allen, then—”
“A man does not play such a hoax upon his deathbed! There is a plot to free Bonaparte. There is an English traitor! There was information in the packet—”
Antiqua broke off, her face imprinted with sudden anguish. “Vincent!” she breathed.
“Now, don’t be starting on that again, An—”
“But it must be! Oh, Archie, don’t you see? He was the only one who had access, though how or when he effected the change, I cannot guess.” She thought back. “I only met one other from the time I left Allen and he knew nothing whatsoever about the matter. But Vincent, Vincent saw me leaving Allen’s room and knew—”
“If you dare to agai
n accuse Jack of anything so vile, I shall—I shall make you walk home!” his incensed lordship threatened.
Inflamed, the two regarded one another with ineffable hostility. The Marquis, however, was incapable of maintaining a temper. His was the first mouth to cease frowning, the first countenance to relax.
“Come, Antiqua, if we are to argue, the whole of England may suffer,” he coaxed.
“England is likely to suffer in any case, for who will believe us without proof?” Dejected, she sighed and wondered morosely, “Whatever are we to do now?”
Rosewarren returned no reply, guiding his team through the busy streets from the depths of a brown study. It was only when they were turning into Grosvenor Square that he spoke up. “I’ll undertake to prove my brother’s innocence to you, for though he may be a bit of a rake, he’s no rogue!”
Antiqua seemed unwilling to make the distinction, but she let it pass with a negative shrug. For her, the blank papers had been the final, irrefutable proof of Vincent’s guilt. Heart heavy, she dismissed evidence to the contrary, for the tale of the duel with a French Comte could have been concocted easily enough. And with a new clarity she saw how insidiously clever it had been of him to install her in the care of his innocent family. Her suspicions had been allayed; he had gained four full days of her inaction. She had been right about him all along.
Calling herself a fool, she strove to ignore the emptiness of her bitter triumph.
* * * *
Lady Julianne captured her mid-way up the curving staircase, whisking her into a lace and cream boudoir amid a torrent of cheery words. “We are engaged to attend Countess Townsend’s soirée this evening, the merest supper and card-party, and I’ve determined you should go with us, Antiqua, my dear.”
“No,” Antiqua said with disinterest, then realizing she must sound impolite, hastily added, “Though I thank you for the kindness, there’s no need for me to accompany you.”
“Nonsense,” her ladyship returned. “There’s to be no dancing, so it will be quite unexceptional for you to attend. I am persuaded it is the very thing to introduce you a little into society.”
In her current state, no prospect could be less inviting, but Antiqua’s few protests were swiftly overruled. Lady Julianne was adamant that she should go. Feeling too listless to argue further, Antiqua soon allowed herself to be dressed in a delicately embroidered gown of the palest blue, which Julianne assured her could have been made expressly for her. Her ladyship called upon her own maid to arrange Antiqua’s dark tresses into a handsome coil softened by side ringlets. After a rope of pearls was wound through the coil, Julianne pronounced herself delighted with the results and dragged the unwilling girl to stand before a tall cheval mirror.
The young woman Antiqua saw framed in gilt shimmered, an unreal apparition bearing her form and features. Red lips and wide, dark eyes stood out in the wan face whose ethereal beauty was embellished by the chestnut-colored curls caressing each cheek. Like a wave cresting the sea, the fairness of her skin shone above the scalloped neckline of her gown. The apparition reflected surprise as even to her own critical gaze, she looked uncommonly pretty.
This opinion was confirmed when Sir Giles entered the blue salon a half-hour later. Seeing his wife and their guest standing there, he paused, raised a beribboned quizzing glass to one eye and surveyed them critically from head to toe. As he lowered the glass, he strolled forward.
“Enchanting, Miss Greybill,” he approved. Turning to his wife, he said with a short bow, “You have, as always, my love, excellent taste.”
Both women colored up with his compliments.
Lady Julianne met his gentle smile with a glowing one of her own. “She does look charming, does she not, Giles?”
“Without doubt, my dear. Refreshingly so,” he agreed. “You shall make a hit, Miss Greybill, of that I am certain.”
Antiqua murmured a polite reply while the Lady Julianne rushed up to present Sir Giles’s cheek with a brief kiss. Then, saying there was but one thing more needed to make Miss Greybill quite perfect, Julianne darted from the room. Antiqua’s bewilderment appeared to amuse her host, through his tone, when he spoke, was as kind and even as usual.
“My wife is a creature of generous impulse, Miss Greybill. She has, in addition, that unique Vincent trait of giving her affection sparingly, but fiercely. She desires to see you looking your best.”
“Lady Julianne has been overly kind,” she responded. “Far more than I deserve.”
At this point, the lady under discussion returned, bearing a spangled gauze shawl. “Here you are! The very thing!” She draped it artfully across Antiqua’s shoulders and over her gloved arms. “Now you look stunning! Doesn’t she, Giles?”
“Absolutely,” he concurred, letting his gaze sweep past the girl to rest upon his wife, dressed in a pretty rose-colored gown.
With a shake of her blond curls, Julianne shooed her escort and charge out to the awaiting coach with a great deal of characteristic flutter.
Antiqua had fully expected to spend an insipid evening at Lady Townsend’s. Upon arrival it appeared her fears were to be entirely realized. The party seemed to consist of frivolous people with whom she had little in common. Everyone seemed disposed to discuss nothing but the shocking new developments in l’affaire Byron. His dramatic departure from England dominated conversation throughout the length of the Countess’s sumptuously filled supper room.
Seated between two gentlemen, one very thin and the other very fat, Antiqua endeavored to stifle her mounting frustration. The scandals of the club-footed poet were but trivialities when compared to the possible escape of Napoleon Bonaparte from St. Helena. But Antiqua could not, as she so much longed to do, scream this knowledge out to the fashionable gathering.
Her two dinner companions at first thought the lovely Miss Greybill oddly distracted. The stout Mr. McCartney on her right clucked over her lack of appetite and pressed food upon her, but Antiqua, lost in her problem, ignored him. Nor did she pay the least attention to the skinny Mr. Lennon on her left. Both men soon came to believe the pretty child simple-minded and left her to her musings. By the time they stood to leave the table, she had admitted to herself that she would have to cajole Archie back into her good graces, for he was her only confederate and she desperately needed his help.
As the company moved through a set of French doors into a spacious music room, she concentrated on the composition of a pretty apology to Lord Rosewarren. Sitting upon a japanned chair with curved legs so thin, she feared it could not hold even her slender weight, she woke from her meditations to realize with dismay that the Winthrops were no longer at her side. A glance cast over her shoulder informed her they had been trapped at the back of the room by a gentleman whose girth alone could have held Wellington’s army at bay. He was speaking with animation to the accompaniment of much arm-waving.
Antiqua felt certain her companions would be detained too long to take their places beside her. She began to rise to join them when a smooth voice detained her.
“We meet again, Miss Greybill. As indeed I hoped we would.”
She whirled round to behold the friendly visage of the Viscount Balstone. Her first open response dissolved unspoken as she took in his velvet burgundy evening coat and white satin breeches. From the frills of his snowy jabot to the clocks on his white stockings, it was obvious the Viscount was not a man in mourning. Surely, she thought in bafflement, he must know of Thomas Allen’s death by now.
As she hesitated, Balstone’s own smile faded, resignation covering his face in its stead. “I suppose it was to be expected,” he said, “though I had in truth hoped otherwise. Vincent has led you to think ill of me.”
“No, not at all,” she hastened to deny. “Indeed, he had scarcely spoken of you. It is just—”
“Will you please take your seat, my lord,” a woman behind them caustically requested. “Miss Butterworth is about to begin her performance.”
With an apologetic smile, the Viscount
placed himself gracefully on the chair next to Antiqua. At the front of the room, there stood the triangular frame of a harp. As a hush fell over the audience, the seat before the harp was occupied by a sharp-faced lady whose nose vied with the gilded instrument for prominence in the room.
Antiqua sat through Miss Butterworth’s performance in a fever of impatience. To know when and why Lord Balstone had returned to England burned within her. Whenever she could, she cast a sideways glance at him. He appeared relaxed and untroubled. She began to believe he could not have discovered that his brother had been deep in intrigue and had died for it. A tide of pity for the handsome Viscount swelled within her. He had a right to know, poor man, at least to know that his brother was gone.
Polite applause informed her that the harp had finally stilled. She joined in mechanically, then leaned toward his lordship and whispered, “My lord, there is something I must tell—”
“Shhh!” hissed the woman from behind.
Gritting her teeth, Antiqua saw that Miss Butterworth had been persuaded to entertain them once again. She tugged at her gloved fingers in vexation. At length, however, the harpist came to the end of her performance. Then Lady Townsend announced that her niece would be playing the piano for them. Amid the rustling preceding this new entertainment, Antiqua rose, forwardly clasped his lordship’s hand and led him from the music room.
Once beyond the double doors, the Viscount took the lead, cupping her elbow and guiding her through a side door into a salon filled with the hushed concentration of card-players. On the other side of the room, past several tables, was a curtained aperture. He drew the yellow silk wide and ushered her into a tiny alcove with nothing beyond a cushioned bench and a pair of ornate girandoles hung above it. Altogether, Antiqua decided as she sat upon the primrose squabs of the bench, an admirable niche for confidences. She wished, however, she was about to confide something less sorrowful to his lordship.
Balstone pulled the yellow curtain closed, then faced her and said warmly, “You are even lovelier than I had remembered, though I’m not certain how that can be possible as I’d remembered you lovelier than Venus herself.”