Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles

by Patricia Veryan

  "Better I do so a thousand times than have you take so terrible a chance as to try and climb in from the tree!" She saw the stormy look in his eyes and went on desperately, "Dearest love—do not deny me this chance to help you and to be of use to my dear country. Only think—were I discovered—"

  "The devil! That's just what I am thinking! No, Rachel! I'll not have it! It's too risky!"

  "But, Tristram—listen to me! If I were to be caught, I could always say I had come to ask him something. We—" Her eyes fell away from his daunting frown, and she blushed, and faltered, "We are, after all, engaged to be married. And—and however odd it might seem, it is not so beyond accepting as it would be were you to be discovered there! Once I have the key, I will find some way to get it to you. And then—" She trembled suddenly. "And then—die, every second that I wait!"

  He held her close, appalled by her scheme, arguing against it, but knowing in his heart it was their best hope, and eventually agreeing to it only with the understanding that she not attempt it without letting him know. "We will have a signal," he argued stubbornly. "You can wear a shawl or feathers in your hair, or some such, and when you discard them, it will be our signal you mean to go upstairs. Dev or I will be alert then, and at the first sign of trouble, will come to you. And another thing—" He took her by the shoulders, his face very stern. "I'll have your word you'll not attempt anything if that slippery rogue, Gerard, is near you! If I—" He broke off, looking sharply toward the sounds of approaching wheels. "Here they come! Your word, love! Or I'll not allow you to attempt it at all!"

  He stood and pulled her to her feet, and she said quickly, "But—what shall we do if I do not have a chance to get up there?"

  "Follow my original plan. By God, I think I'd sooner than have you—"

  "No!" And glorying in his concern for her, in the love that shone so clearly in his steadfast eyes, in the wonder of having his strength to support and cherish her, she breathed, "I swear, my Tristram. I swear."

  Luncheon was served alfresco, a long table having been set up on the terrace. It was a pleasant meal, for several of the guests had already arrived and they constituted a distinguished gathering. There were three highly placed diplomats from Belgium, France, and Holland; a German General; an Italian Count and his Countess; a renowned and eccentric inventor who was related to Claude in some way, and who escorted an extremely well-endowed lady of middle age whom he persisted in introducing as his "aunt"; a French Chevalier with a bitter mouth and brooding eyes, also related to Claude; and a Swiss gentleman named Monteil, quiet of manner, with dark, watchful eyes, who exuded wealth, and who was, Guy imparted to Devenish, "in munitions."

  Tristram made not the slightest attempt to communicate with Rachel and, when he was able to decently excuse himself, returned to his bedchamber with Devenish to discuss plans for the night ahead. Devenish was afire with enthusiasm. Once they had the key, he felt it would be less than no time before they were on their way home to England, for they'd soon discover all Claude's secrets, and be off.

  "With the girls," said Tristram.

  "Of course!"

  "How?"

  Devenish stared at him. "What?"

  "I wish you will tell me, for I've wracked my brains and— short of stealing the carriage of one of the other guests, and hiding the girls under the seats—I cannot come at an answer!"

  "Oh. Well—that's it! That's just what we shall do!"

  "Right under the noses of all the grooms and guards—to say nothing of the coachmen and grooms of the guests!"

  Devenish looked stunned, but fortunately was not obliged to provide an alternative suggestion, since the groom of the chambers arrived with their ball clothes. True to his promise, the tailor had completed Tristram's attire and done a most creditable job. Devenish grumbled that his own pantaloons were so loose he "could conceal a crossbow in the dratted things!" But although Tristram assured him that were they any tighter he would be unable to sit down, he was not reassured. When the groom left them, he confessed he was worried about Mrs. O'Crumbs. "I wish I could take her down with me," he said, locating the duck asleep in a half-open drawer. "If we've to run for it, I'll not abandon her, Tris. They'd have her for dinner tomorrow!"

  "With all our lives at stake, and England's security in jeopardy," Tristram said in mild exasperation, "all you can think of is that bird!"

  "She is my pet!" Devenish bristled. "And I'll take leave to remind you, Colonel, that were it not for the dear little soul, my cousin would not have allowed you on board Ma Fille—and then where would you be?"

  Tristram laughed, bowed, and acknowledged, "True. You have my humble apology." He stroked the duck's motley feathers while the "dear little soul" eyed him with hostility. "Very well. Take her down to Raoul—or better, ask Agatha to take her down there for you. You'd likely have a better chance to collect her from the stables."

  "Good thought, old fellow. Agatha can slip her down the servants' stairs at the back." He scratched Mrs. O'Crumbs' neck, and she swung her head to gaze up at him with what must only be complete devotion. "Silly old lady," he murmured fondly, "did you think Alain meant to abandon you in this nest of vipers?"

  Tristram shook his head wonderingly. "Look at her doting expression! By Jove! One would swear she understood every word you said!"

  "Perhaps she does. I'll tell you one thing, Tris. Most folks don't talk to their animals. And the more you do talk to them, the more you'll find they respond. Which reminds me— I wonder what you'll find up on Claude's sacrosanct top floor. How I should love to go with you. Are you quite sure—"

  "Quite sure," said Tristram firmly. "I need a rearguard, Dev. I'd not dare venture up there, did I not know you were guarding my back. The one thing I ask, above all others, is that should I be caught, you'll do all you can to get the girls away—even if it means slipping away yourself so as to return with help. I'm quite sure I do not need to ask that, however."

  Devenish's indignant expression eased to a grin. "Good. For you don't. And it appears to me, friend, you jump the wrong hedge—our first concern is to get you up those stairs without four or five of Claude's trained herd following you. You ain't exactly the type can slip past unnoticed, y'know."

  "True. My best chance will be to get to the back stairs. To do that I'll need a diversion. And you, my friend, have been placed in charge of Diversions!"

  By eight o'clock, when they were to gather for a light supper, the great house hummed with chatter, the rustle of silks and satins and taffetas, and the click of high heels that occasionally wandered from the carpets. The air was sweet with fragrance, for flowers were everywhere. On the stairs, Tristram and Devenish encountered a charming group composed of a French nobleman, his wife and their two marriageable daughters. The girls were shy and their parents gracious, but there was a trace of strain about Monsieur le Comte, and his Comtesse looked nervous and unhappy. Unwilling guests, thought Tristram, and wondered what hold Claude had on the gentleman, and how many of the guests would be here tonight were it a matter of choice.

  A touch on his elbow alerted him to the presence of Guy Sanguinet, and he dropped back to walk with him. Despite cosmetics, the cut on Guy's face was still visible, and he seemed subdued, his sombre gaze flickering over Tristram's snowy cravat, the plain jacket that set off the broad shoulders to admiration, and the knee breeches that fit like a second skin over the well-shaped legs. "For your own sake, monsieur," he said softly, "I could wish you did not look so well."

  "Your brother's tailor is most skilled. And I believe I owe you my thanks, sir. I gather you have not informed Claude of my—er—escapade with Miss Strand this morning."

  Guy looked at him steadily. "I would not advise you to repeat it, Captain. Further, I would suggest you leave here— at your very earliest opportunity! Ah, Madame Aunt—how pretty you are. May we escort you?"

  The white and gold drawing room, itself a thing of beauty, was the more lovely now by reason of the colourful gowns of the ladies; the pastel shades wor
n by the unmarried girls enriched here and there by the brighter hues of the matrons' gowns, and the purples and blacks of the dowagers. The arrival of the three young bachelors created quite a stir, many coy glances coming their way, while fans fluttered and whispered comments were exchanged. Tristram saw nothing of this, however, his eyes flashing to Claude, elegant as usual, escorting a vision in a very simple, Grecian style ball dress of cream silk, the bodice crossed with bands of blue French beads beneath which the skirt fell in a long flowing line of voluminous yet clinging fabric. The great emerald glittered against Rachel's ungloved hand, but no brighter than her eyes tonight. Entranced, he thought that no other lady could possibly be more beautiful.

  "Jupiter!" muttered Devenish. "What the deuce is he doing here?"

  Wrenching his eyes from his love, Tristram was in time to see a slender man across the room, in the act of turning away. "Who is he?"

  "Garvey. See there? The curly-haired dark Dandy, wearing the red jacket."

  "So that's the famous James Garvey. Friend of Prinny's, isn't he?"

  "Yes. And a deuced rum customer, so I've heard. He was staring at you damn near goggle-eyed, Tris. I'll warrant he knows you!"

  "Jove! Then I shall have to have a word with him."

  This ambition was destined to be thwarted, temporarily at least, when the dinner gong was sounded and Claude, with Rachel on his arm, led his guests to the dining room.

  The dinner was both light and delightful. The conversation was bright and witty, the room a picture of elegance. Concentrating politely upon the remarks of the ladies to his left and right, Tristram was conscious always of Rachel's beauty, and of the benign affability that cloaked Claude Sanguinet. Farther down the table, Devenish was doing his best to ignore Antoine Benet, seated directly opposite, and so ill mannered as to try to engage him in conversation across the table. Charity was not present and, since he knew she was in the habit of coming down for dinner, Tristram wondered rather anxiously if her ride had overtired her.

  Seated beside Claude, Rachel had to fight her eyes away from Tristram, but all through her dutiful attention to her betrothed, her thoughts were with her love. The knowledge of what might lie ahead brought a cold dampness to her palms and a trembling she was able to control only by reminding herself that he loved her, that whatever was to be faced, they would face together.

  When the time came to leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, her heart began to beat erratically. Soon now—very soon, she must play her part in their scheme. If only she had been able to warn Tristram of her change in plans, but this way was better—she was sure. In the drawing room her acceptance by the other ladies was the same as she had been accorded at luncheon. To her face they were polite, gushing, and slightly condescending. Were she to catch them unawares, however, they were whispering behind their fans, or giggling together, their sidelong glances obviously directed at her. Such behaviour, which once would have hurt her, she found laughable. Their barbs could not so much as touch her, for she was quite secure now. She belonged to a true gentleman, and none of these posturing, frightened people who came to pay homage to the man who owned them could arouse any other than a feeling of pity.

  A formidable, purple-clad dowager was favouring her with a description of "Dear Claude's" hotel in Paris when Agatha edged into the room and beckoned shyly. Excusing herself, Rachel went to the obviously agitated abigail.

  "Have I come at the right time, ma'am?" Agatha whispered, clasping her hands tragically. "Oh, do I seem proper cast down with despair?"

  "You do," murmured Rachel. "But not too cast down, dear Agatha. My sister is ill—not expiring!" She nodded, patted Agatha's hand, and sent her off. Returning to Madame Fleur, she explained softly that Charity was become unwell. She must go upstairs for a little while, but would doubtless be down again before the gentlemen joined them.

  "No, my love." Madame started up determinedly from her chair. "I will go. You are the guest of honour, and Claude would expect that I help."

  "You are so kind," Rachel smiled gratefully. "And I doubt it is contagious after all."

  Madame paled and sat back again. "Con… ta-gious… ?"

  "Just a rash, I don't doubt. Now, ma'am, have no fears, I shall say nothing. You know how people tend to panic if they hear of anyone throwing out a spot or two—as though scarlet fever was inevitable. Charity has been a little sick, poor darling, but—"

  "Oh, my!" gasped Madame. "If I could but get out of this ridiculous chair! But I suppose she would be more comfortable with you beside her, poor child. Dr. Ulrich should have been here long since, wretched man! I shall send him upstairs directly he arrives."

  A moment later, hurrying up the grand sweep of the staircase, Rachel was watched by only two lackeys hovering beside the front doors and knew she had timed this well; the servants were enjoying their own feast below stairs.

  She ran into the bedchamber and embraced Charity, who lay in bed propped with pillows, reading Cowper. Her sister's hands were very cold and, peering into that thin, pale face, Rachel said, "Do not worry so, love. Everyone is safely occupied. Madame means to send Dr. Ulrich to you when he reaches here. You must tell him—"

  "Yes, yes. Never fear, I know how to be the invalid. Go now—I shall not breathe easy until you are come back safely!"

  Rachel left at once. The hall was empty. From downstairs drifted a few faint strains of music as the orchestra rehearsed a tune for the ball that would commence in a little over an hour. She hurried along and around the corner into the south wing. There were rooms on each side for a way, and far at the end, the large door across the hall that led to the master suite. Her mouth was dry suddenly, and her breathing fast and shallow. The door seemed to fly towards her. Suppose it was locked? And good heavens! Why had she not thought of that possibility? She sped on and at last stood before that fateful door, her knees trembling with the fear that someone behind her was watching. She threw a terrified glance over her shoulder, but the hall stretched away, luxurious, serene, and unoccupied. Her scratches and then a bold knock brought no response and with a fluttering gasp of relief she turned the handle of the door. It opened soundlessly. She went inside, and seeing no one, closed the door and leaned back against it, breath seeming to elude her.

  She stood in a sumptuous parlour. The walls were hung with a glossy black paper upon which red lions, rampant, alternated with red fleurs de lis, and here and there a golden crown. The furniture was just as impressive: a huge desk with red leather chair, teakwood bookcases and chests, several red armchairs, and thick black carpets. Two lamps were lighted, their wicks turned low, the red glass shades creating rich pools of brightness in the dramatic room. Rachel ran to the fireplace. Raoul had said the hidden compartment was opened by turning a rosette in the mantel caning, but this mantel was not carven, being instead a sweep of white marble ingrained here and there with red. The fireplace to which Raoul had referred must be in the bedchamber. Gathering her courage, Rachel moved towards a door at the left and leaned her ear against it. What if she opened it to find herself face to face with Claude's valet? She scratched softly and waited, scarcely daring to breathe, her ears straining, but she could detect no sound and she opened the door cautiously. Another majestic room, still in the prevailing black and red, stretched before her. The main piece of furniture was a great bed with rich curtains of crimson velvet tied back to reveal a crimson velvet eiderdown with long black tassels at the corners. Her awed glance travelled from a large brass lion, rampant, hanging on the wall at the head of the bed, to the winged chairs on each side of the fireplace wherein the fire was laid, but not yet lit. The mantel was old and elaborately carven, and again, above it was a splendid wood carving of a rampant lion, a crowned lion, the gems in the crown looking very real, as they probably were. That carving alone, thought Rachel, must be worth a king's ransom! The fireplace was enormous, and the mantel therefore very-wide, the entire length of it rich with flowers and leaves and twining branches. There were at least a dozen ros
ettes, but she decided to start with those at each end. She twisted, pulled, and pushed the one on the left, to no avail, and hurried to the right end. At her second twist her foot slipped off the extended hearth and as she instinctively clung to the rosette it swung back and to her unspeakable relief revealed a small aperture in which were two little boxes and a key. She snatched up the key, but curiosity overcame her and she picked up one of the boxes. It was a miniature chest, leather bound and edged with gilt. She opened it and discovered another key. This one was very large and looked extremely old, the stem being wrought into the shape of a thistle. Certainly, it was not the key she sought, and to stand here poking about like a mutton-head, as Justin would say, was reckless in the extreme. She replaced the box, closed the secret door, and turned round.

  She gave a small scream. The key fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers, as she shrank back against the fireplace, half fainting from shock.

  One of the wing chairs was not empty! A man sat there, half hidden by the dimness, silent and unmoving. Panting and sick, Rachel swayed before him, waiting for him to get up and strike her, or curse her.

  "Please," she implored weakly. "I—have no—no excuse to—"

  And she stopped, hope beginning to reawaken. He was so still… She crept forward a pace, peering. It was Dr. Ulrich! A half-empty glass sagged in one limp hand, and his breathing was soft and rhythmical. He was fast asleep!

  She felt limp with relief, and threw up one hand to stifle the joyous sob that rose to her lips. Then, retrieving the key, she started for the door.

  Her fingers had grasped the handle when the line of light beneath the door brightened and she heard the outer door close. With a choke of horror, she spun round. Where could she. hide? If she crouched on this side of the bed, the newcomer would see her directly he opened the door. If she hid on the far side, the doctor would see her when he awoke! Frantic, she raced to the bed, knelt, and rolled underneath. She had no sooner ceased to move than she saw a man's legs go past.