‘And if I have?’ she asked impassively.
‘I’d advise you to tell him, my dear. He isn’t easily shocked, you know – and not in the least prone to condemn.’
A small, wry smile touched her mouth.
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
‘Then why not try trusting him? To speak plainly, it’s what he would want. And I doubt there’s much that he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – put right for you.’
To her utter horror, Adeline felt tears stinging her eyes. She said baldly, ‘Leave it, Jack. I don’t need to hear it – and it’s no help, believe me.’
There was a long silence. Then, ‘It’s as bad as that?’
‘Worse,’ came the bitter reply. ‘But I’ve no intention of telling you about it. Nor – knowing I’ve not even confided in Tracy – would you expect me to. Would you?’
‘No.’ Concern deepened as he took in the hollows beneath the exquisite cheekbones and the strain in her eyes. ‘No. But if whatever it is gets beyond you … if you ever need help … I hope you’ll know where to come.’
‘I will. Thank you.’ Her throat constricted again and, resolutely banishing the subject, she said, ‘I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on what you’ve achieved with my cousin, Althea. You have the distinction of being the first gentleman ever to value her for herself and not be taken in by Diana’s glitter instead. It’s done her so much good – and does you much credit.’
The hint of colour that stained Mr Ingram’s cheek was mercifully lost in the darkness.
‘Mistress Diana,’ he remarked obliquely but with a certain grimness, ‘is acquiring a somewhat tarnished reputation. It would be a pity if Thea – who is worth a hundred of her sister – should be tarred with the same brush.’
‘Quite. But I don’t think she will be. There are surprisingly few people who still can’t tell them apart … and Thea appears to be well-liked.’ She eyed him reflectively for a moment and then said lightly, ‘No. I think the only problem Thea will have to face is a very understandable reluctance on the part of any suitors she may have to relate themselves to her family. But I’m sure a man who loved her wouldn’t let that stand in his way … aren’t you?’
It was a neat little trap but not quite neat enough and it took Jack no more than a few seconds to come up with the answer.
‘Well, you should know,’ he grinned. ‘It didn’t deter Rock, after all. And that ought to be a shining enough example for anyone.’
*
At the end of a fortnight, there was still no sign of Rockliffe and Adeline existed in a limbo of depressing imaginings concerned with what – or who – could be detaining him. Aside from that, life went on pretty much as usual. Richard Horton, having pocketed his five hundred guineas, left her more or less alone; Nell, her indiscretion eclipsed when Lord Maybury married his cook, was accepted back into the fold but remained unduly quiet and submissive; and Harry continued to flirt with Diana. Jack Ingram, meanwhile, went on cultivating Althea but still found time – so it seemed to Adeline – to keep a watchful eye on herself.
Then she attended Lady Marchant’s soirée and was back on a knife-edge again. Across the room, expensively if unbecomingly clad in pink silk with wreaths of roses, Cecily Garfield was talking hard and fast to Cassie Delahaye.
‘Oh God,’ sighed Adeline wearily. ‘That’s all I need.’
Nell followed her gaze and grimaced.
‘Don’t worry. She won’t say anything. And even if she does, Cassie wouldn’t believe it. You know how she admires you.’
‘Cassie,’ came the arid response, ‘is the least of my worries. If Cecily decides to tell the world what she’s convinced happened at that thrice-damned ball – or that, prior to it, I was no more than a sort of upper servant – there’s nothing we can to do stop her. And if she starts to talk, Diana will join in. She won’t be able to resist.’
A shadow crossed Nell’s face but she looked searching around the room and said, ‘I don’t think the Franklins are here – I don’t see any of them. If they’re not, all we have to do for now is silence Cecily.’
Adeline’s brows rose sardonically. ‘All?’
‘Yes.’ Nell’s grin held a glimmer of her old mischief. ‘I can see Lewis. I should have thought that, between us, we ought to be able to charm him into telling his sister to hold her tongue – shouldn’t you?’
It was not, as it happened, very difficult for Mr Garfield had some very natural misgivings about facing a lady to whom he’d once made a dishonourable proposal and who had since become a duchess. It was a relief, therefore, to have Adeline offer her hand with complete cordiality and behave as though she was genuinely pleased to renew his acquaintance. Perhaps he had been worrying unnecessarily and she really had misunderstood him, after all. Looking at her now, his only regret was that he hadn’t had the same foresight as Rockliffe … for there was no doubt that she had more style and presence than any other woman in the room – including Lady Elinor.
He found himself asking both of them to dance. Nell dimpled roguishly and Adeline gave him a breathtakingly dazzling smile. They both accepted. Then, with such delicate artistry that he scarcely even noticed it, they came to the point. Whilst in Oxfordshire, dear Cecily had been led into certain misconceptions. It was by no means her fault but it would be better for all concerned if she could be … encouraged to recognise her error.
‘Of course,’ agreed Mr Garfield, fathoms deep in dark-fringed pools of aquamarine. ‘I always thought it a prodigious unlikely story and will be happy to drop a word in Cecy’s ear. Your Grace need not give the matter another thought.’
‘I knew,’ said Adeline charmingly, ‘that I might rely on you. Did I not say, Nell, that one might place absolute faith in Mr Garfield’s powers of perception?’
‘Those,’ vowed Nell gravely, ‘were your very words.’
Mr Garfield puffed out his chest.
‘Your Grace is too kind. I am overwhelmed.’
Her Grace finished binding her spell.
‘I shall be holding a reception when Rockliffe returns from Paris – just a small, intimate affair, you understand – and shall send you a card. In the meantime, I hope you will call at Wynstanton House … and bring dear Cecily, of course.’
And that, she thought cynically, ought to be a big enough carrot to stop dear Cecily’s mouth permanently.
It was, however, belated. Even as she spoke, Cecily was reiterating her tale to Mistress Delahaye in the hope, this time, of convincing her.
‘It’s true,’ she finished stridently. ‘Rockliffe had to marry her. He didn’t have any choice. Her gown was torn and he was kissing her. I saw it myself.’
‘I still don’t believe it,’ said Cassie stoutly. ‘It sounds to me like utter nonsense.’
‘Of course it’s nonsense,’ said a light, musical voice behind her. ‘And I’m delighted that you recognise the fact.’
With a gasp of pleased surprise, Cassie whirled round to meet a remote violet gaze set beneath slender brows, arched like bird’s wings.
‘It’s Cassandra, isn’t it?’ continued the lady smoothly. ‘And … your friend?’
‘Cecily, my lady,’ replied Cassie thankfully. ‘Cecily Garfield.’
The beautiful eyes moved to where Cecily was standing with her mouth open, staring.
‘Well, Mistress Garfield … allow me to point out that if you are wise you will not repeat this foolishness about Rockliffe and his duchess. No one will believe you, you see – and therefore you will only make yourself ridiculous.’
‘I know what I saw,’ said Cecily doggedly. ‘And if you don’t believe me, you can ask Mr Richard Horton.’
‘My dear, I don’t need to ask anyone. I know Rock – and that is more than enough.’
‘But I - ’
‘Cecy!’ Lewis, arriving with Adeline on his arm, felt his muscles go into spasm at the thought that his sister might already have ruined everything – and apparently done so in front of a lady he had o
nce asked to be his wife. ‘Come with me. I’ve something important to say to you.’
‘Why?’ Cecily’s eyes travelled unrecognisingly over Adeline and then back again. ‘I was just - ’
‘Then don’t!’ Her brother was too harassed to be polite. ‘Just do as I ask. Now!’ And he hauled her away.
‘Nasty, lying creature!’ muttered Cassie crossly. ‘Honestly, Adeline – you won’t believe what she said about you. It makes my blood boil just to think of it.’
‘Thank you, Cassie. You’re a comfort,’ smiled Adeline. And then, looking at the silent figure in amethyst taffeta, ‘But won’t you present me?’
‘Oh!’ Cassie looked faintly stunned. ‘But don’t you know each other?’
‘No.’ It was the lady who spoke and, though her voice did not vary at all, the pansy eyes held an odd gleam. ‘No, we don’t. But I should like, if you don’t mind, to introduce myself.’
Cassie blinked and then laughed.
‘By all means! I ought to be listening to March’s verses, anyway.’ And she whisked herself off.
Adeline was left staring at the most beautiful woman she had ever seen and who, at length, said simply, ‘I know who you are, of course. Truth to tell, I’d probably not have come to London at all just at present except that it seemed so odd not knowing Rock’s wife that I was determined to meet you at last.’ She paused and gave a smile of delicious sweetness. ‘I’m the Marchioness of Amberley, you know. But I’m rather hoping you’ll see fit to call me Rosalind.’
*
Thinking about it afterwards, it seemed to Adeline that nothing anyone had said had in any way prepared her for Rosalind Ballantyne. True, the unexpected gift of the gold pin for her wedding had betokened warmth and Nell had spoken of her with considerable affection … then, eventually, they had told her about the blindness. But that was all. Nothing to warn her of that shining beauty – or the grace and charm and wit that went with it; or even the sheer, unadulterated friendliness.
It was, of course, impossible not to like her – and equally impossible not to feel suddenly and hopelessly outclassed. It was also tempting to encourage Nell to talk … for that way she could discover if Tracy had ever aspired to Rosalind’s hand himself. But that was stupid; stupid and dangerous. What ought to concern her was why he was so long in coming home – and it did. The thought could not help but occur that, following their last conversation, he might have decided to seek consolation elsewhere … and even, by now, have found a replacement for Carlotta Felucci. It was a possibility that began to haunt her nights; for if he had done so, she had only herself to blame.
~ * * * ~
NINETEEN
As it happened, Adeline need not have worried. Rockliffe had neither the time nor the inclination to set up a mistress and would probably have started for home after ten days, had he not – by the merest chance - stumbled upon the very information that Mr Osborne had been so diligently and unsuccessfully seeking.
Mr Osborne, as it turned out when the Duke finally ran him to earth, had drawn a series of blanks and was rapidly losing heart. He had found three gentlemen to whom the name du Plessis was vaguely familiar but no one who appeared to actually know the man … and the Maréchal Rebec, du Plessis’ one-time commander, was currently serving in the Americas.
This piece of information, combined with the lamentable stews at the Coq D’Or, brought on a severe attack of colic followed by a fresh spurt of effort. France, in Mr Osborne’s book, was quite bad enough; nothing … not even his noble employer … could induce him to sail half-way round the world to a land peopled by savages and at war with his own countrymen.
To his relief, however, the Duke showed no sign of suggesting this but merely sent him to find out if Joanna Kendrick – or possibly Joanna du Plessis – was known at the Embassy. Mr Osborne departed with alacrity only to return with lagging feet and nothing to report. His Grace sighed and desired Mr Osborne to widen his acquaintance with the French army. Mr Osborne also sighed – and then consoled himself with the thought that, tedious as this would undoubtedly be, the choice between America and dismissal was worse.
Rockliffe, meanwhile, visited a few old friends and accepted more invitations than he could possibly hope to attend whilst attempting not to miss his wife. He also began making the occasional reference to the business that had brought him to Paris – namely, his hope of tracing and acquiring the rare and particularly fine ivory snuff-box recently sold in London to one Michel du Plessis. Fortunately, his collector’s passion was widely enough known for this to cause nothing more than mild amusement; and, if there should be anyone in a position to question it … well, it followed that that person must also be in a position to lead him to du Plessis.
He was not surprised, however, when the name fell repeatedly on stony ground for it had always been unlikely that Joanna had eloped with a gentleman from the upper échelon of French society. After more than a week of casting his bread uselessly upon the water, Rockliffe came to the depressing conclusion that – unless he found out something in the next day or two – he might as well go home and leave the matter to Mr Osborne. And he would undoubtedly have done so had not the Vicomte de Charentin persuaded him to share his box at the Comédie Française … and one thing had, unexpectedly, led to another.
‘It’s a revival of Molière’s La Malade Imaginaire,’ said the Vicomte, as though expecting premature applause. ‘You shouldn’t miss it.’
Rockliffe raised his brows and remarked that, since The Hypochondriac had been written some hundred years ago and he had already seen it twice, he felt quite able to do so.
‘But L’Inconnu will be playing! He always takes the lead when the company does Molière – and the house is invariably packed. Share my box this afternoon and you will see.’
‘L’Inconnu. Really?’
‘Really!’ The Vicomte stopped and then, sighing, ‘You haven’t heard of him, have you?’
‘No. But since he styles himself The Unknown, that’s hardly surprising, is it?’
‘In Paris, he is famous – and also a mystery. It’s said that when he leaves the stage, he vanishes. If he were not such a remarkable actor, one would laugh at such an obvious ploy … but since he is, one goes to watch him.’
And so it was that Rockliffe found himself in an off-stage box in the Comédie Française’s temporary home in the Tuileries. As Charentin had said, the house was indeed full to over-flowing. It was also exceedingly noisy – a fact which his Grace didn’t expect to change a great deal when the play started. He was wrong. As soon as the curtain opened on Argan sitting at a table adding up his apothecary’s bills, the audience fell utterly silent.
‘Three and two make five, and five makes ten and ten makes twenty. Item; on the twenty-fourth, a little emollient clyster to mollify, moisten and refresh his worship’s bowels – thirty sous. Thirty sous for a clyster? In your other bills you charged but twenty; and twenty sous, in the language of an apothecary, is only ten sous – so there they are. Ten sous.’
The first laugh came, one of many. Argan polished his pince-nez, fussed busily with his papers and, timing it to perfection, resumed.
Rockliffe was surprised. The fellow was good. More than that – he was different from the common run of his profession because he was utterly believable. He actually was an old man mumbling over his counters and coins and bills … and he was holding the house spellbound.
‘So then. In this month I have taken one, two, three ……six, seven, eight purges and one, two, three … ten, eleven, twelve clysters; and last month there were twelve purges and twenty clysters.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘I don’t wonder that I am not so well this month as last.’
During the first interval, Rockliffe asked if The Unknown had a name and was told that, if he did, no one knew it. During the second, he reflected that if there were actors of this calibre on the English stage, he might attend the play more often.
And then, in the third act, something odd happened. Whether
it was caused by a certain turn of the head or a particular inflection in the fellow’s voice, Rockliffe couldn’t be sure … but he suddenly had the peculiar feeling that L’Inconnu wasn’t unknown at all; and, consequently found himself caught less in the performance than in mentally eradicating Argan’s old-fashioned wig, false eyebrows and pince-nez. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was downright impossible. It was also probably pointless – since it was highly unlikely that an actor performing at the Comédie Française could, in reality, be a man who’d fled England some eight years ago in the wake of a particularly nasty scandal. Rockliffe was just about to dismiss the notion when, unexpectedly, L’Inconnu’s eyes met his; and, just for a fleeting second – and only because he was watching so closely – his Grace saw recognition in them.
‘Dear me,’ he thought wryly. ‘How very interesting.’
When the performance concluded in a storm of applause, Rockliffe rose and informed the Vicomte that he would like to meet L’Inconnu. Laughing, the Vicomte replied that so would half of Paris but no one had managed it yet.
‘But go ahead and try, my friend. You won’t find him – that I guarantee. My advice would be to try the Maison Belcourt – some of the players go there and you might find someone who’ll talk to you. Though I personally doubt it.’
The Maison Belcourt, being both a gaming-house and a place where the better class of prostitutes hawked their wares, was not a place Rockliffe would normally have visited but on this occasion he made an exception. He did not, as it turned out, discover anything about L’Inconnu. On the other hand, if he hadn’t gone there, he would probably never have run into the Vidame d’Aurillac who - newly released from the Bastille - strolled in just as the Duke was thinking of leaving.
The Vidame had been clapped up for duelling – which was not unusual – and released in less than a month – which was. And he and Rockliffe were old friends.
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