by Joan Smith
Rotham took a step back that put him beyond her view. Laurent followed, gesturing wildly with the gun, until he, too, disappeared behind the curtain. He was going to kill Rotham in cold blood. She ran forward and banged on the window to warn Rotham, or at least distract Laurent.
Immediately there was a shot inside the room. Her blood turned to wax. She heard a wail pierce the silence, but did not realize it came from her own lips. She saw the hall door into the library open. Hersham and Pavel rushed in, stopped dead in their tracks, with horrified expressions on their faces. They rushed beyond view, presumably toward the scene of the carnage inside.
Her two hands were clawing at the window when Hersham heard her. He came to the window, gave an angry shake of his head, and drew the curtains closed. Her legs could no longer hold her. She sank onto the cold stone patio in a heap, not in a faint, but wishing she could faint, to ease the awful ache in her heart. She felt death would be preferable to the nightmare she must face.
She had no idea how long she sat there. The light lingered late in June. It was still twilight, but the shadows were lengthening. They did indeed cast a dark indigo shadow on the limestone walls of Ashmead. She remembered Lady Hersham had asked her to tell her what was happening. She must have heard the shot. She would be grieving, as Miranda was grieving. Yet it was a strangely objective sort of grief, because she could not bring herself to believe it. That would come when she had to look at his cold, lifeless body.
In her mind, there was no doubt that Laurent had killed Rotham. At such close range, how could he miss?
But perhaps he had failed? Perhaps Rotham, like Berthier, was not quite dead. She must go to him! She rose and entered by the front of the house, forgetting all about telling Lady Hersham. When she headed to the corridor leading to the library, Boxer stopped her.
“His lordship does not want anyone going there just now, Miss Sissie,” Boxer said. She looked so young and vulnerable, with her dark eyes staring in a face as pale as snow, that the old childhood name slipped out.
“Is he—is he dead?” The words came out in a choked whisper.
“I fear so. His lordship did not call for the doctor. I believe they are taking the ... remains abovestairs.”
Still the merciful objectivity remained. She felt she was playing a role in a drama; this wretched tragedy could not be happening to her. What must Miranda do, in this role? She must behave like a lady. She must think of others. “Does Lady Hersham—”
“She is with them. Run along into the saloon, Miss Miranda. I shall send you in a cup of tea.”
Miranda just looked at him, then wandered off toward the Tapestry Room, not knowing where she was going. What did it matter? Rotham was not in the saloon, or the Tapestry Room, or anywhere. She was alone, and she half wished she had died with him.
From the doorway she saw the four footmen go down the hallway, carrying a litter. Later—minutes or hours, she had lost track of time—they came out with the body. Hersham accompanied them, his head bent in grief.
She sat on her accustomed chair by the old Flemish tapestry. How strange that this lifeless piece of cloth could endure for centuries, while a vital force like Rotham could be cut down in a minute.
* * *
It was half an hour later when Pavel met Rotham in the library. Lord Hersham had sent Pavel off for the local magistrate to arrange matters with the utmost discretion.
“What happened?” Pavel asked. “You did not kill him, Rotham?”
“Of course not. I did not have a gun. He killed himself.”
“Why?”
“Because Madame Lafleur betrayed him. When he received her letter announcing the tapestry was missing, he came rushing gallantly back from Brighton to take the whole blame for the imbroglio himself, only to discover she had already taken steps to put it in his dish. That was the last straw. Losing his estate was bad enough, being cast in the role of beggar when he was born to rule. He is not without pride. But for a Frenchman to be betrayed in love, on top of all the rest, was too much for him.”
“You are not saying he loved Madame Lafleur? I made sure he loved Louise.”
“So did Louise, but that was an act to divert suspicion from his real mistress, Madame Lafleur. As Louise was madame’s friend, it made a convenient excuse for Laurent to call.”
“Damme, she is too old for Laurent.”
“It seems he prefers older women. Some men do. He let her coerce him into stealing the tapestry. The plan was to take it in triumph to Napoleon. She convinced him Napoleon would rise again, and his only hope of recovering his estate was to ingratiate himself with Bonaparte. When Laurent heard how she had tried to foist the whole blame onto him, he was undone.”
“How did they find out you had the tapestry here?”
“Laurent was suspicious from the moment I brought that trunk into the house. He thought I had some secret documents from Wellington and wished to see them. He stole the key to my room from Papa’s desk and managed to slip some laudanum into the milk for Slack’s tea. He stopped Mary on her way to the room to ask if she had seen me. That was his excuse for being at the end of the corridor. He says he ‘amused’ her a moment. I expect we can translate that to mean he was flirting with her, which she would be afraid to tell us.”
“I wonder why he did not steal the tapestry then, while he had the chance,” Pavel said.
“It would have been better if he had. He recognized it, of course, but had no intention of stealing it. That notion came from madame, when he told her it was here. I believe she planned to take it herself, the night of the rout, when she knocked me on the head in the Green Room. That effort failed, however. As she did not have the liberty of the house, she needed either Louise or Laurent to help her. Not much question which she would choose—the other woman, or her lover, whom she could wind around her finger. She talked Laurent into it.”
“What did he do with it after he stole it? It was not in the house. We searched high and low.”
“It had already been slipped out a window, where madame was waiting to receive it. She had hired the gig at the stable in Rye that afternoon, claiming she wanted to call on Lady Valdor. Perhaps Laurent helped her load it. He knew what he was doing was wrong. I could see he had been troubled about something lately. He is not really wicked, just weak. He let her bearlead him, then when she was caught, she created a path leading to his door.”
“All that talk about Laurent bringing down her trunk, and wanting to take it to Brighton, and putting it under the table—was it all a sham?”
“That part was true enough. He did help Cross carry down the trunk. There was never any mention of anyone but Lafleur taking the tapestry to Brighton. She convinced Laurent that it was safer with her, she was less likely to be suspected and have her trunk searched. Of course, she wanted to keep it in her possession. She told him to his face tonight when he went running to her that she never intended to go to Brighton. Her destination was London, where she planned to sell it. She has French friends there, friends working for Napoleon’s cause. I wondered where she got those valuable paintings Mama saw in her drawing room. She claims she cannot afford to set up a carriage. Laurent says they are from the Dupont estate in France, stolen at the time of the revolution. She has other French paintings as well, which Mama did not realize were valuable. Payment for past services to her French friends, no doubt. She keeps in close contact with the smuggling community and uses them for running messages to and from France.”
“Who was the fellow who dumped her clothes in the ditch?”
“I have no doubt the ‘fellow’ was madame herself, wearing her late husband’s trousers. I suspected as much when the rat catcher said the silver brushes and pearls were missing. She could not bring herself to throw them away. Her greed was her undoing—and Laurent’s.”
“Louise was not in on it at all?”
“He says not. He despises her, but by playing the role of suitor, she gets him invited here and other places. Her English connection
s were useful. That is the extent of the romance.”
“I almost feel sorry for the poor bleater,” Pavel said. “What we ought to do is send the constable after Lafleur.”
“Too late for that. Laurent’s Gallic passion overcame him. A crime passionnel, he called it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, I fear, that he shot her when she threw in his face that she had been using him. I expect that is the main reason he shot himself, for he truly loved the baggage. He had not much to live for. His fate was gaol and eventually the gibbet.... All things considered, I believe I would have done the same. Let it be a lesson to us, Pavel.”
“There is no trusting a woman.”
“That was not my meaning. What began as a prank, my stealing the tapestry, has caused irreparable harm.”
“Well, it has, but you cannot take credit for all the blame. I mean to say, if Lafleur wasn’t a scoundrel, and Laurent a fool, none of this would have happened. Mind you, I do feel sorry for Berthier.”
“Yes, indeed. Berthier, most of all. He was innocent, doing a dangerous job. If he does not recover—”
“Now, Rotham! You must not go shooting yourself. Damme, that won’t do any good.”
“I have no intention of shooting myself. You are looking at a reformed character, Pavel.”
Pavel shook his head. “You don’t look no different to me. I have heard that claim before.”
“Now you will see it fulfilled. I must go to Miranda. She will want to hear what has happened.”
“Try the Tapestry Room. She went in that direction when Papa would not let her into the library. I shall go along with you.”
“I would prefer to go alone.”
“Why? I thought you was reformed!”
“I am reformed, not dead,” Rotham said, and left.
Chapter Eighteen
As darkness fell the image in the window grew clearer. When Miranda saw the reflection of a man rise up behind her, she stared in alarm, taking it for a ghostly image from beyond. It was Rotham! She stared harder at the window, checking the familiar lineaments. There was no mistaking the shape of his head, even with the uneven glass causing waves in it. He had come to take his final farewell. It seemed fitting, somehow, until she heard his voice speak.
“Miranda—what are you looking at?” Rotham asked, walking forward to join her at the window.
She did not turn; she was glued to the spot. Even her lips could not move. She had never thought a ghost would sound so natural. Then he touched her shoulder, and she leapt an inch from the floor. His two hands seized her shoulders, and he turned her to face him.
His heart plunged when he saw her expression. “You are disgusted with me,” he said, gazing at her frozen mask of a face. “I cannot blame you. I am disgusted with myself. I never dreamed—”
Her lips hung open, quivering, as her eyes stared at him in disbelief. “Rotham?” The word came out in a muffled whisper, then the room grew dark with a bright orange light glowing in the center as she swooned in his arms. Real flesh and blood arms. She could feel his breath on her cheek, feel the substantial wall of muscle and bone against her chest. It might be only a dream, but she clung to him as if her life depended on it.
“I am sorry, my darling. I’m sorry,” he said, his lips nuzzling her ear.
His head moved, and she looked up into his eyes. “Is it really you?” she asked, in a bewildered voice. “I thought you were dead, Rotham. I saw Laurent draw his pistol, heard the shot. They carried a body upstairs. Was it Laurent?”
Rotham nodded.
“Oh, I am so glad! I mean—not happy he is dead, but— You shot him?”
The story had to be told again. They sat in the window embrasure, on the only seat in the room wide enough to hold two. Rotham held her tightly while he retold once more the painful tale of deceit and betrayal. He feared what she would say, or do, when it was finished.
She just looked at him with a wan smile. “I thought it was you who had been killed,” she said, and buried her head against his chest, while a tremble shook her slender body.
“It would serve me well. I deserve no less.”
She put a finger to his lip. “Don’t say that. I do not deserve for you to be dead.”
He pulled her fingers to his lips and kissed them, while uttering a silent prayer of gratitude.
“I do not deserve you, but I will, Miranda. You shall see. Marry me, and I promise you will not find a better husband anywhere.”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Do you really mean it, Rotham? I would not like to go crowing at home that I have nabbed Rotham, only to learn that he has shabbed off the minute I left Ashmead.”
“What a wretched opinion you have of me, and how well I have merited it. If this is a reference to Trudie, I want you to know I never offered for her, nor gave any indication I meant to.”
“You kissed her.”
“Indeed I did, but not like—this.”
His arms tightened, and he kissed her with all the tender passion of a man truly in love for the first time. He felt no regrets for his tamer future, only for his crimson past. He wished he could have been better, for her sake.
* * *
The evening was busily spent arranging details of the sorry night’s work. The constable had to be notified of Madame Lafleur’s death. There was also the disposal of Laurent’s remains to be considered. The vicar concluded he had been temporarily insane, which allowed interment in consecrated ground. There was no hope of covering the thing up entirely, with Madame Lafleur lying dead in Rye, but at least there would be no trial to incite public interest.
Lady Hersham decided tomorrow morning would be soon enough to notify the comtesse of the tragedy. She feared a Louise draped in crape mourning and shedding crocodile tears was more than she could endure. She would encourage her to return to Brighton in a week or so.
The affair was not even a nine day’s wonder in the neighborhood. It was relegated to second place when word reached England the next morning that Bonaparte had been defeated at Waterloo. There was to be a grand celebration in Rye, with fireworks and a dance. Castlereagh immediately dispatched two of his most trusted aides to Ashmead to arrange a quiet return of the Bayeux Tapestry to France.
The Comtesse Valdor wrote a tearstained letter to Lady Hersham professing her most profound gratitude for all she was doing for cher Laurent. Malheureusement, she herself was suffering from a case of flu, and it was tout à fait impossible for her to come at this time. Did Lady Hersham think she need go into strict mourning for a brother-in-law that no one who mattered actually knew? Brighton was bursting with parties to honor Bonaparte’s defeat. It seemed unpatriotic—indeed selfish—for the comtesse to go into mourning at this time of national rejoicing.
Lady Hersham could not have cared less if Louise took off her shoes and danced barefoot in the streets. She did not trouble herself to reply, for fear of being quoted as forbidding Louise to wear mourning. With luck, the hussy would find herself a new husband at one of the parties she wrote of. Hopefully an English one, so she could start speaking proper English again.
It was on the second day after learning of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo that Berthier was well enough to speak. He verified that it was Laurent who had attacked him. He had heard surreptitious sounds in the hallway beyond the door and went to check, with his pistol drawn. Laurent had extinguished the lamps in the hall and lunged at him from the darkness with a knife before he had time to fire. By the light from his room, Berthier had caught a glimpse of Laurent.
“The tapestry?” he asked Rotham.
“It is on its way home. The war is over, Berthier. We won.”
“We English,” Berthier said, with a wan smile. “I believe it is time to anglicize my name to Bertram. And now I shall rest a little.”
“I am sorry about all this, Berthier. I was a damned fool, and you paid the price.”
“I am sure you will find a suitable reward for me. Some sinecure at
Whitehall, or a knighthood, perhaps?”
“Consider it done.”
The party to celebrate Rotham’s engagement to Miss Miranda Vale was small and discreet. Only the two families were in attendance, including Lord and Lady Parnham, who made the trip of twenty-five miles for the express purpose of trying to talk Miranda out of such a misalliance. They might as well have saved their horses the trip. Miranda only laughed at their dire warnings.
Rotham had changed. Like any new convert, he was quite fanatical about his reformation, but she knew that would not last, nor did she want it to. For Rotham to be sensible and dull would be like a unicorn losing his horn and becoming just another horse. She preferred the romance and excitement of the unicorn. She had fallen in love with the old Rotham and meant to resuscitate him. There were rumors of Napoleon trying to escape from France by boat. Some even said he would seek safety in England. Rotham had a fine yacht.
“Let us go on a cruise for our honeymoon,” she suggested.
“We shall tour the Greek islands.”
“Oh, do you think all the way to Greece? I thought perhaps France....”
Rotham met the challenge in her twinkling eyes. “The on dit is that he will head for Plymouth. A nice tour of Lyme Bay should put us in the vicinity.”
“I should love a honeymoon at Lyme Bay of all things!”
“And in the worst case, if Boney does not come to England—you know I always like to prepare for the worst case—we still have the more customary delights of a honeymoon. I half hope he does not interrupt us.”
“Meeow! Your stripes are fading, Rotham!” she scolded.
“You know how to bring out the beast in me,” he said, but as he attacked her, he did not seem to need any help.
Copyright © 1995 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (ISBN 978-0449223802)
Electronically published in 2016 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part,