by Sandra Heath
She heard a discreet cough at her elbow, and turned to see Boisville standing there, “Yes?” she inquired, unable to quite conceal the dislike she so instinctively felt for this reptilian Frenchman.
“Forgive the intrusion, mademoiselle, but there is a small problem.”
“Problem?”
“It concerns the pièce montée. I fear that the filling of cherry ice is proving difficult to keep frozen. I think that it would be best if it was served with the entremets. By that I mean that it should immediately follow them to the tables and not be delayed until they have been virtually finished.”
“What does Monsieur Duvall say?”
He did not reply, but expressively shrugged his shoulders.
“He is still unwell?” she asked, knowing in her heart that this had to be so.
“Most unwell, mademoiselle, but then he is a very superstitious man.”
“So it would seem,” she replied, disliking him intensely. “Very well, you may serve the pièce montée directly after the entremets.”
His smile was almost sleek as he bowed to her and retreated, making as little sound as he had when approaching her. She contained the urge to shudder and returned her attention to the banquet. She watched as toasts were drunk and the gentlemen then relaxed to linger over their cheese. At last the line of efficient waiters spirited away the remnants and the tables were cleared in readiness for the numerous desserts.
“Miss Lexham! Come quickly!” Her attention was drawn sharply away from the banquet by the sound of Mrs. Hollingsworth’s low, urgent voice.
“What is it?”
“It’s Gaspard, madam, he’s in a terrible way now and he’s saying things I think you should hear.”
Caroline’s blood almost froze at the fear contained in those few words. “Things? What things?”
“It’s a matter of life and death, Miss Lexham, and you must come right away.”
Caroline gazed in growing horror at the trembling, ashen-faced woman, and without another word followed her along the passage in the direction of her rooms.
Unknown to either of them, their brief exchange had been overheard. A stealthy, elegantly clad shadow slipped from the brightness of the banquet into the relative quiet of the butler’s pantry. Dominic Lexham’s honey-colored hair was unmistakable as he moved silently after the two women. From his place at the table he had witnessed the housekeeper’s hurrying, anxious approach along the passage, and his curiosity had been immediately aroused. Now he was intent upon learning what lay behind their intriguing words.
Chapter 32
Gaspard had broken down completely. He rocked to and fro, whispering to himself as if in prayer, and his whole body shook as if he were ice cold. There was no trace now of the buoyant, cheerful little chef whose charm and kindliness had won him so many friends and admirers. Now he was stricken, overwhelmed with some dreadful fear and guilt, and it was too much for him to bear.
Mrs. Hollingsworth went to him, kneeling on the floor before his chair and lovingly taking his hands. “Gaspard, my love?” she said gently. “Gaspard, you must tell Miss Lexham what you told me.”
His tormented eyes fled to Caroline’s anxious face. “I cannot,” he whispered, shaking his head, “I cannot say it—”
“You must, it’s too important.”
Tears shone in his soft, melting brown eyes and at last he gave a barely perceptible nod. “I cannot go on with the lies, mademoiselle. I have tried to do as they wish, but now I cannot. Until today, I hoped—I prayed—that nothing would come of it after all; now when they sent the violets, I knew that I would have to do their bidding.”
“The violets? What do the flowers mean?” asked Caroline, although in her heart she was beginning to guess the answer.
“They were a signal, mademoiselle. Bonaparte once said that when the violets were in bloom, he would return to France. Violets have become the emblem of his followers.”
He sat forward urgently, his face tormented with the fear and guilt that tortured him. “They have my mother and my sisters, mademoiselle, and they said that if I did not do as they wished, my family would be killed. What was I to do? I am a Frenchman, I love my country, but I am no longer a Bonapartist. I have seen how his grand designs have ruined my country and never would I willingly lend my support to his cause. But I love my mother and my sisters. Their lives depend upon me!”
Tears shone on his pale cheeks as he gazed imploringly at her. “I do not wish to be the instrument of their death, but nor do I wish to be part of the assassination of the Duke of Wellington. I hoped, dear God how I hoped, that they would not need to call upon me after all, that their plots would be confined to France, but I began to fear the worst when Cantillon was arrested. Today my fears were realized, for the violets meant that the plan would have to be carried out after all. I am upon the rack, Mademoiselle Lexham, and my body, my heart, and my soul are being torn apart by the burden I am forced to bear.”
Caroline could only respond sympathetically to the wretchedness in his eyes, and she believed every word he said. “I’m so sorry, monsieur,” she said gently. “Believe me I am, but you must realize that I have to ask you what they plan to do, and when they intend doing it.”
His lips trembled and he looked faint at the thought of betraying his countrymen, but Mrs. Hollingsworth drew his hands to her lips, kissing both and looking up into his eyes, her great love for him written plainly upon her face, which in that moment was softened to a great beauty. “I love you, Gaspard,” she whispered, “and nothing you have said or done will ever change that.”
His fingers tightened convulsively around hers and he smiled a little, seeming to find strength in her love. He looked up at Caroline. “It is Boisville, mademoiselle; he is the assassin.”
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You have time enough, for it is to take place when he accompanies pièce montée to the duke. Originally he was to have been one of the four men carrying it, but now he will probably take my place and appear to be there only to light the candles upon it. Instead he will draw a pistol and he will shoot the duke. At that range he will be sure to kill him instantly.”
Caroline stared at him, a numbness settling coldly over her. “But we have no time at all,” she whispered, “for Boisville has changed the plans. The pièce montée will already be on its way to the dais!” Gathering her skirt, she fled to the door.
Mrs. Hollingsworth rose swiftly to her feet, her concern only for Gaspard. “But, Miss Lexham, what about Gaspard? We cannot let them know about him.”
Caroline paused for the briefest of seconds. “Keep him here, hide him, I’ll do what I can.” Then she had gone, her heart pounding in her breast. Pray God she would be in time! Pray God!
Dominic emerged slowly from the shadows nearby. He had overheard everything and now his mind was racing. Somehow he must turn all this to his own advantage. Somehow there had to be a way of defeating his beautiful but tenacious cousin and of winning back his property. His gray eyes were sharp and shrewd, lightening a little as he made his way back toward the banquet.
She could hear the applause long before she reached the doorway of the butler’s pantry. In the brilliantly lit banqueting hall, all eyes were turned toward the dais. In a frozen moment she saw the duke, she saw Hal, she saw the magnificent pièce montée resting on its bed of ice, its little illuminations flickering over the lifelike battle scene; and she saw Boisville, his attention solely upon the duke. His hand began to move slowly toward the inside of his coat.
With a scream of warning she hurried into the blinding light, and it was Hal’s name that was on her lips. Everyone turned sharply toward her, a stir passing through the assembly. Hal moved like lightning, darting to the startled duke and flinging him bodily from his seat to the floor behind the dais. Boisville’s pistol discharged harmlessly into the crimson velvet of the canopy and immediately there was pandemonium.
With a lightness that was astounding, Boisville vaulted over the table, sc
attering the wax tapers in all directions and knocking over a decanter of cognac. Immediately there were flames everywhere, and people began to shout as the assassin vanished behind the drawn curtains. Caroline heard the shattering of the glass in the tall windows as he plunged through into the darkness and anonymity of the gardens. She was vaguely aware of Hal giving pursuit, his figure barely discernible through the smoke which now rose from the blazing table.
The atmosphere swiftly became choking as the smoke filled the room, and men milled everywhere. She heard someone ordering people to form a chain to pass pails of water through from the kitchens. The smoke irritated her eyes and burned in her throat. It seemed that the noise and clamor went on forever as the chain of men formed, and pail after pail of water was tossed over the flames.
Anxiously she searched the smoke and vapor for a sign of Hal, but he was nowhere to be seen. The duke was being attended to by several of the army officers present, and although he was a little disheveled, he did not seem any the worse for wear. She was trembling with the shock of everything, and tears stung her smoke-burned eyes as she made her way down through the devastated room toward the curtains, which someone had now drawn back from the flames. She saw the shattered glass in the windows, the fragments shining on the flagstones outside. Cool, refreshing air swept in, passing revivingly over her.
How calm and peaceful the gardens looked, the lanterns shining so prettily in the trees, the spring flowers nodding in the night breeze, but Hal was somewhere out there, pursuing a desperate armed man. “Please keep him safe,” she whispered. “Don’t let him come to harm.”
“Miss Lexham?”
She turned to see a scarlet-uniformed gentleman looking inquiringly at her. “Yes?”
“His Grace wishes to thank you for your timely warning. If you would please come this way?” He stood aside, ushering her toward the duke’s small party.
Feeling anything but elegant and composed, she followed him. The duke turned to her, a smile on his lips, and he hastily prevented her from sinking into a deep curtsy. “No, no, m’dear, it is I who should be making obeisance to you! Although damn me if I can think how you guessed what that villainous parlez-vous was up to!” Still smiling, he drew her hand to his lips. “I thank ‘ee from the bottom of me heart, m’dear, for I owe my life to you.”
Another voice broke in suddenly. “Your Grace, I believe you should know that you owe her your life only because at the last moment she lost her nerve and could not go through with it. She is one of the conspirators.”
With a horrified gasp, she whirled about to see Dominic standing there, a cool smile upon his lips. “That is a lie!” she cried. “An infamous lie!”
“Is it, coz?” he replied, coming closer and bowing reverently to the startled duke. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I do not mean to insult you in any way by my conduct now, but things have come to my notice which prove that my kinswoman is anything but the loyal patriot you now believe her to be; she is an adherent of the revolutionary cause and a Bonapartist of the first order.”
His words carried clearly through the room and an amazed silence fell over everyone. Caroline’s face had drained of color; her shock was so great that she could not speak. She stared in stunned silence at her cousin.
The duke’s smile had faded. “I trust you can prove your accusations, my lord, for if you cannot then I swear I will have your elegant hide for my next pair of boots.”
“I can prove them well enough, Your Grace. Perhaps my cousin would care to tell us if the felon Seymour now pursues was working alone. Well, coz, was he?”
Her lips parted, but she could not speak. “I—”
“Why do you not reply, cousin?” he inquired reasonably. “Could it be that you have someone you wish to protect? Someone who, like yourself, had not the courage to carry out the murder?”
“No!” she cried. “It isn’t like that at all!”
“So, you admit that there is someone else!”
She looked away, tears wet on her cheeks.
Dominic was triumphant. “You see, Your Grace? She convicts herself by her silence. In her housekeeper’s rooms you will find hidden the chef, Duvall. He, my cousin, and the wretch who has escaped tonight were together in the conspiracy to assassinate you. I thought my cousin’s conduct was a little odd tonight and I made it my business to keep an eye upon her. I overheard her speaking with the chef and it was quite obvious that she was party to the whole thing, but that the two of them had lost their nerve and had decided the plot should be abandoned as it was so unlikely to succeed. That was why she arrived in so timely a way to rescue you, Your Grace; she did it simply and solely to cover her iniquitous tracks—which she would have done, had I not listened to all that was said.”
“Is this true, Miss Lexham?” asked the duke.
“No!”
Dominic smiled. “The chef is in the housekeeper’s parlor and he can be questioned.”
Caroline looked up swiftly. “He is in no condition to answer questions.”
“So,” answered the duke heavily, “the chef is where Lexham says he is?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied. “But—”
The duke turned to several nearby officers. “Bring him here.”
“Your Grace—” persisted Caroline desperately, but he turned a stern, cold eye upon her.
“Please be silent, Miss Lexham.”
She could do nothing but obey, but she did so with dread in her heart, for she knew that what she had said was right. Gaspard was not in any state to answer questions, especially questions from the Duke of Wellington!
Silence reigned in the great room, where pools of water lay upon the floor, flames and smoke had mired the costly furnishings, and panic had overturned chairs and wrenched hangings from the walls. The once proud and glittering assembly of dignitaries waited in silent groups, and everyone looked at Caroline, whose air of agitation made her appear to be very guilty.
At last the officers returned, half carrying and half dragging Gaspard, who was so terrified of the fate which might now await him that he could hardly stand. He did not at first see the duke; he saw only Caroline. Hope leaped into his eyes. “We were in time, mademoiselle?”
That word “we” sealed her fate. A stir passed through the room and she closed her eyes, nodding. “Yes, we were in time, monsieur.”
The duke’s face was very still as he folded his arms, the silver star glittering on his breast. “So, monsieur, you admit that you knew of this intended crime.”
With almost a squeak, Gaspard turned his head in the direction of the new voice, and recognition dawned instantly upon his pale, terrified face. “Monsieur le duc!”
“Do you admit that you were party to a plot to assassinate me?”
“Not willingly, milord, never willingly!” cried the chef.
“Your complicity is nevertheless proved by your reply, monsieur,” replied the duke, nodding briefly at the officers. “Remove them to secure rooms for the time being!”
“I am but a chef!” cried Gaspard desperately, seeing the net closing inexorably around him. “I was forced to do as they wished! But I stepped back from the abyss, milord. I stepped back in time to save you!”
“Remove them both,” repeated the duke, his face cold.
Gaspard struggled helplessly as they dragged him away, but Caroline held her ground for a moment more. “Your Grace!” she said. “Please do not—”
“I will hear nothing more from you, madam,” he replied. “The Frenchman’s acts I can understand, but you are English and your crime is therefore all the more heinous!” He glanced at the waiting officers. “Get her out of my sight until she can be taken to the correct place of detention.”
It was as if she were in the grip of a nightmare from which she could not escape. She saw Dominic’s grinning, victorious face, she saw the condemnation in the eyes of all those gathered in the room, she saw Gaspard being hauled to the doorway, and she saw Mrs. Hollingsworth, so shocked and horrified by
what had happened that she could only cling to one of the columns for support, her face quite ghastly.
In a daze, Caroline allowed the officers to take her away. She stumbled a little as they crossed the inner vestibule, halting in dread as she realized that they intended to immure her in the cellar.
“Please! No!”
“It’s the most secure place, and it’s fitting for traitors,” replied one of them, opening the door and thrusting her into the chill, dank darkness beyond. The door closed swiftly behind her, the sound reverberating through the invisible cellar rooms, and the rattle of the key in the lock seemed to carry on forever, echoing over and over again until it became so faint that she could no longer hear it.
Hesitantly, she edged her way down the steps, clinging to the icy rail. The atmosphere was as cold and clammy as an imagined shroud, and she became aware of the eerie gurgle of the unseen Tyburn, flowing endlessly by somewhere beneath the foundations.
Slowly she sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands, and the echoes took up the sound of her sobs, tossing them scornfully back at her as if they were in league with Dominic, whose evil triumph was surely now complete.
Chapter 33
How long she remained there, alone and terrified in the darkness, she did not know. She fell into a light, restless sleep, finding little solace in the dreams that haunted those dreadful hours, but at last she was roused by the sound of the key in the lock again.
She struggled to sit up, her eyes turned hopefully toward the light that poured down into the cellar. A woman’s figure appeared, and with a cry of gladness she rose to her feet, for it was Mrs. Hollingsworth.
The housekeeper carried a laden tray, her way illuminated by a candle. She set it down and then turned to embrace Caroline. The two women wept in each other’s arms, and at last Caroline drew away, wiping her eyes.
“There-there is news of Sir Henry?”
Mrs. Hollingsworth’s expression became distinctly cooler. “No, madam.”