by Joan Smith
Miranda felt a sting of annoyance at the charge, although she knew it to be well earned. “As Lord Castlereagh and the Duke of Wellington trust Rotham, I think we may rest easy on that score,” she replied coolly.
“I trust we may, yet if he should—waver in his allegiance to England, he is in a position to do irreparable harm. He speaks highly of Bonaparte.”
“The most loyal of Englishmen acknowledge Bonaparte’s skill, I believe.”
“That is so, yet you recall that Rotham visited Bonaparte at Elba and was inordinately impressed with him.”
“Rotham was sent to Elba by the government!”
“True, yet it is possible that great harm was done by the visit. Rotham would not be the first young gentleman to be seduced by a heroic warrior. The pages of history are littered with such accounts. I am happy that Rotham was sent home from Vienna. He can do little harm here.”
The words “sent home” implied misconduct on Rotham’s part. It was indeed odd, and as she considered it, she was not happy that he had brought Berthier to Ashmead at this time.
“He was sent to England to consult with Castlereagh,” she said.
“Yet he does not consult. He does not go to London, nor do many dispatches from Whitehall arrive for him. He has instead a rout party. It is very strange. Do not take my little warning amiss, Miss Vale. I think only of your happiness.” He looked at her with his sad, sultry eyes and said, “I would not like to see you hurt, ma petite.”
“I do not see how his behavior can hurt me,” she said. His sultry eyes began to work some magic on her. She saw that Rotham’s behavior in purely social circumstances had been of the sort that could hurt her, if she were so foolish as to go falling in love with him.
“A word to the wise—that is what you anglais say, non?”
She acknowledged it with a tacit nod. Laurent sipped his coffee, then continued in a gentle, apologetic way.
“I have offended you by my interference. I am extremely sorry. It is concern that forces me to speak. I see a growing friendship between you and Rotham. No doubt he has told you some story to account for Berthier’s presence at this time?”
Miranda realized she was being quizzed, but as she had no idea why Berthier was here, she could not have told him even if she had wanted to, and she did not want to. “You overestimate my closeness to Rotham. He has said nothing to me.”
“Eh bien, it stands to reason he would not reveal any unwise doings to a young lady he hopes to impress.” Then he set aside his napkin and rose. A dazzling smile had suddenly appeared, adding the final touch of beauty to his countenance. “Comtesse,” he said, with a graceful bow. “Allow me to get your breakfast.”
“I had breakfast in bed,” Louise replied. She said, “Bonjour, Miss Miranda,” then turned at once to continue speaking to Laurent. “You have not forgotten we must go to Rye this morning? I have dozens of things to pick up before we go to Brighton. I have an appointment with Mademoiselle Chêne. She was to begin work on my new gown yesterday. If we get an invitation to the prince’s pavilion, I shall wear it. Lady Hersham agrees it would be convenient if Mademoiselle Chêne came to stay at Ashmead while my gown is being made up.”
"We can bring her from Rye with us,” Laurent said, always eager to please the comtesse.
“I shall call on Madame Lafleur as well.” She turned to Miranda. “Will you tell Lady Hersham not to hold luncheon for me? We may take lunch with Madame Lafleur. She mentioned something about it last night.”
“I shall tell her,” Miranda agreed.
“You will excuse us now, ma’m’selle,” Laurent said to Miranda.
As they left the room, she heard him telling Louise she must take along a parasol. He spoke French in a soft, loving tone, most of which she could understand. “A delicate complexion such as yours—like a newly opened rose—cannot take the blast of the sun, ma chère.”
The comtesse answered in unaccented English that he was too droll. England had no real sunshine. “You must not pretend you care for me, sly dog. It is no such a thing.” Louise did not bother with her linguistic tricks when she was alone with Laurent. Perhaps she assumed English was the proper aphrodisiac for a Frenchman, but her nonchalant manner did not suggest she considered him a potential husband.
Miranda sighed. If Laurent had told her her cheeks were like rose petals, she felt she could fall in love with him. But he only spoke to her of politics.
It was not until they were gone that Miranda realized she had not managed to ask either of them a single question. She felt uneasy after the meeting with Laurent. The seeds of mistrust he had planted began to sprout. It was true Rotham was an admirer of Bonaparte. She had found it odd, too, that he did not rush off to London.
Why was Berthier suddenly visiting at Ashmead? And what was the importance of the mysterious black trunk? It surely had nothing to do with that faded old embroidery. That was only a sham. She was on nettles by the time Pavel joined her, his chest swelling with importance.
“What happened last night?” she demanded as soon as he arrived.
He made her wait until he had helped himself to a piece of roast beef and eggs before obliging her.
“Berthier never left Rotham’s room last night. Or at least, he was still there when I began to fall asleep at three o’clock. I went along to my own bed then, for I had a wicked crick in my neck. I crept to the door and tried to peek in the keyhole. I could neither see them nor hear a thing, but I heard the black trunk being dragged along the floor at one point.”
“He stayed all night!”
“Until three at least. I plan to run up as soon as I have had a bite. Anything going forth down here? Berthier or Rotham did not come in for breakfast?”
“Not yet. Laurent and Louise were here. They are off to Rye. He said some nasty things before Louise arrived,” she said, and was, of course, asked to repeat them.
Pavel screwed up his face and shook his head. “Dashed Frenchie. That is no way to repay the family’s hospitality, telling tales behind our backs. I wish Papa would send him packing. He has been sponging on us forever, letting on he is trying to find a position.”
“You do not think it could be true, what he said?”
“Of course not. Dash it, Rotham is an Englishman and proud of it. No denying he has that wild streak. Runs in the family. Uncle Horatio was a thorn in the family’s side. Rotham used to wear a white hat when he was a youngster.”
“I remember hearing about that white hat. The neighbors were upset about it. What did it mean?”
“The sign of a Republican,” Pavel explained. “Supporter of Napoleon. Mind you, that was at the time when the revolution was falling apart, and Boney came dashing home from Egypt to get a grip on things. Plenty of Englishmen was for him at the time. They did not know he would take over entirely and become a tyrant. He was supposed to be setting up a consulate or some such thing. Rotham’s Republican phase only lasted one summer, then Papa had him on the carpet. Tossed the white hat in the grate, threatened to cut off his allowance, and we heard no more of Republicanism.”
“I remember Rotham was very excited when he was chosen to be part of the delegation sent to Elba.”
“Who would not be? It was a great honor. He was the youngest delegate.”
“You don’t think— No, of course not.”
“I don’t think he is a traitor, if that is your meaning,” Pavel shot back angrily. “Though I wish I knew why he has taken Berthier into his confidence when he won’t tell us anything.”
“Laurent was quizzing me about Berthier.”
They were interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door. It was an emissary from Whitehall with a red dispatch box for Lord Rotham. The box was of sufficient importance that the man would hand it over to no one but Rotham.
Rotham was called down and went into the study with the box, closing the door behind him. He came out twenty minutes later, handed his reply to the emissary, and returned to the study. Pavel and Miranda went at o
nce to ask him what was going forth. Miranda noticed his bump had begun to shrink. It was still visible, but hardly large enough to turn him into a unicorn.
“I have to leave for London this morning,” he announced.
“What about—you know, the black trunk?” Pavel asked. “We shall guard it for you. Or will you be taking it with you?”
“My orders are not to remove it from Ashmead, nor to draw attention to it by arming the place like a fortress. I think—yes, I think Slack and Berthier between them can handle it.”
“What about us!” Pavel demanded.
Rotham saw that he must appease these unwanted helpers and quickly invented a job for them. “You know who the suspects are. I count on you to watch them and report to me on their activities.”
“But Berthier is one of the prime suspects!” Miranda objected. “You cannot leave the trunk with him.”
“You are mistaken. Berthier is helping me.”
“I see,” Miranda said, narrowing her eyes in Pavel’s direction.
“Righto. We shall toddle along and keep an eye on the suspects for you,” Pavel said, then he and Miranda left.
When they were beyond the door, he fell into a scowl. “I fear you are right, Sissie. He has turned coat on us.”
“We cannot let him do anything foolish. We must stop him.”
“Thing to do, have a word with Papa. No point thinking Rotham will listen to me. I had best go alone. Papa will not appreciate my bruiting the story about the countryside.”
“I am not the countryside,” she objected.
“Still, he will be more forthcoming if we are alone. I shall tell you what he says. I saw him in the rose garden earlier. He rises with the birds.”
Pavel went along to the garden, while Miranda went outdoors to stroll through the park. Ignoring the tiered gardens and poplar-lined allée with a Roman statue at its focal point, she chose her direction to coincide with a view of the rose garden. She observed from the shelter of a spreading elm while Pavel and his papa talked for five minutes. Lord Hersham seemed very upset. She caught up with Pavel as soon as he left.
“What did he say?”
“He gave me a regular tongue thrashing. Told me to mind my own dashed business, and if I suggested to a soul that Rotham was a traitor, I would not sit down for a week. He has gone to have a word with Rotham now, before he leaves. I expect we will see the back of Monsieur Berthier before long. Papa would not be so upset if he were not worried to death.”
They watched from a distance as Lord Hersham hurried toward the house. “That is that, then,” Pavel said. “Shall we get on with watching the suspects?”
“Let us wait and see what Rotham does after your papa has a word with him. I expect we will see Berthier turned off.”
They darted back into the house and took up a position outside the study door. They could hear voices speaking in low, confidential tones, but it was clear that Hersham was not ringing a peel over his elder son. When they heard footsteps approach the door, they hastened into the library and waited until Lord Hersham’s footsteps receded into the distance.
“As Laurent and Louise are going into Rye, I shall call for the gig,” Pavel said, and went to arrange it. “You can keep an eye on things here.”
Miranda remained in the library alone, thinking. She did not believe Rotham would go against his papa’s wishes in the matter at hand. And if he would not disoblige his papa, how could he betray his country? Lord Hersham’s loyalty was not in question. Yet Laurent’s words kept replaying inside her head. What had begun as an exciting spy game had become painfully serious. She felt a heavy ache in her heart to think of dashing, handsome Rotham being a traitor, ending his days at the end of a silk rope. Peers, she had heard, were hung with a silk rope—aristocrats still, even on the gallows.
“Why so sad, Miranda?” a voice said from the doorway.
She turned at the sound of Rotham’s voice and studied him with a disillusioned eye. He looked as he had always looked. His life of crime had not yet carved its inevitable ravages on his handsome face.
“What are you going to do, Rotham?” she asked.
“I am leaving for London. I was just looking for you to say good-bye.”
“I do not know what rig you are running, but whatever it is, I wish you would reconsider. You are only storing up future misery by the way you are behaving. Think of your family, if you have no concern for your own reputation.”
A frown darkened his brow, and when he spoke, his accent was rough. “I have every concern for my reputation, and my family’s. Why can you not trust me?”
“How could anyone possibly trust you?”
He felt a wince at her charge, but whether it was anger or shame, he could not decide. “I have been foolish in the past,” he admitted, “but I am becoming wiser with age. It will be all right, Miranda. You’ll see. Now show me a smile before I leave.”
Her sulky pout only increased. She turned her back on him to show her displeasure, waiting for him to come to her. Perhaps he would kiss her good-bye. For a moment she gazed out the window at four Italian statues of cherubs marking the corners of a paved court outside the window. When Rotham said nothing, she turned back to him. He was gone.
The fun had gone out of the game. She would go to Rye with Pavel after all. Hersham could watch Berthier, since he had not turned the man off. She did not expect to learn anything of interest at Rye. The traitor was right here, at Ashmead, and there was not a thing she could do about it.
Chapter Ten
The trip to Rye proved uneventful, and to make the day even worse, a gray sky and strong wind from the sea threatened a storm. Laurent dropped the comtesse off at the modiste’s and continued on to visit Madame Lafleur for half an hour. At the end of that time, he had the carriage return to Mademoiselle Chine’s to pick up Louise and the modiste.
The latter brought with her a bandbox, holding a nightgown and a change of linen, and a wicker basket, well known to the local ladies to hold the accoutrements of her profession—pattern books, ribbons, laces, buttons, and such things. The conversation between Pavel and Miranda all had to do with Rotham and the black trunk.
Pavel had rethought his position. “If Papa supports Rotham, then Rotham ain’t doing anything wrong,” he announced. “We have got hold of the wrong end of the stick somehow.”
She was happy to hear his opinion, but was not convinced. “If he is not doing anything wrong, why will he not tell us what he is doing?” she countered.
“Because it is a secret, ninnyhammer.”
“He has done something horrid, or your papa would not have given him that scolding the day he arrived.”
“It was more shock than anything else. The two of them were laughing before the meeting was over, and they have been meeting regularly in Papa’s office without arguing as well. When Papa disapproves, he gives one gigantic rant, treats you as if you did not exist for three days, and then it is over. He don’t behave the way he is behaving with Rotham now.”
They followed Louise’s carriage back to Ashmead at a discreet distance. The remainder of the day was a dead bore. Louise spent the better part of the afternoon in her room with the modiste, while Laurent scowled over the journals in the Blue Saloon. Of Berthier they saw nothing except at dinner, which he took with the family while Slack guarded the room.
The evening consisted of a quiet game of cards, without Berthier. He had returned abovestairs after taking port with the other men. Miranda began thinking it was time to return home. Rotham had not said when he would be back. He might stay in London for weeks or slip off to Brighton to visit Louise.
The next morning Miranda offered to continue repairs to the old tapestry in the Tapestry Room, while Lady Hersham worked at her high-warp loom. The warp threads were drawn tightly around rollers at the top and bottom of the loom to form a background on which threads of the woof would create the pattern.
Lady Hersham checked the cartoon taken from the wedding portrait as she worked
at the back of the loom, with a mirror before the tapestry to show her how it looked in front. They were interrupted only once. Louise came to announce she would be leaving for Brighton the next day if that suited Lady Hersham.
“Ma’m’selle is making good time with your gown, eh? That is excellent, Louise. Is it all arranged that Madame Lafleur will accompany you?”
“Laurent settled the details this morning. She is aux anges. She does not get many vacances. I hope you and Lord Hersham will visit us as well. It is not far—an easy day’s travel. I shall notify you if the Prince Regent is there.”
“Yes, you do that, dear.” Lady Hersham smiled. Under her breath she added, “And we will be certain to stay away!” She knew Louise only wanted her there to attract those callers who would not come to pay their respects to the Comtesse Pierre de Valdor. Poor relatives were such an affliction, especially when they were socially ambitious.
Louise examined the tapestry and uttered exaggerated praise. “Of the most realistic! The horses so—horselike, as if they would gallop out of the loom. Such exquisite stitchery, madam. You are the genius.”
“The artist was the genius. I only do the common labor.”
“You are too modest. You are creating the masterpiece for posterity. And now I must go. Boxer is having my trunks descended from the attics. Ma’m’selle will do my packings for me, so as not to bother your servants.”
Lady Hersham just shook her head when the comtesse left. “The woman is a fool. If she did not make such a cake of herself, she would nab a husband easily enough, for she is really very pretty.”
“I think Laurent would like to marry her,” Miranda said.
“In a minute, if he could afford her. But then I would not wish him on my worst enemy. A dead bore. He speaks of nothing but politics. That is fit conversation for gentlemen; I should think a Frenchman would have a better notion how to entertain a lady. I duck when I see him coming toward me with that inevitable frown on his face. But I should not complain. Perhaps my sons would be the same if they had had Ashmead pulled out from under them. Life is very hard for Laurent.”