In front of her, Henri’s ears turned a delicate shade of pink.
“I have never heard such noise from an audience,” the stage whisper continued, “although at least it masked the screeching of the singers. The scenery and dancing were quite exquisite though, I must admit.”
The music ended, the musicians stood, and Lord Winter stopped speaking to applaud. Beth unclenched her fists and smashed her palms together. The orchestra resumed their seats. Beth’s palms stung but she had succeeded in releasing a little of her anger. The second concerto began. Lord Winter did not. Beth listened. The music washed over her. It was beautiful.
“You will have noticed that the bassoon does not feature in this piece.”
Oh, for God’s sake.
“The trumpet, however, plays an important role. Do you see the bag at the side of the trumpeter’s chair? In it are a series of crooks, which the player uses to change the key of the instrument. To do so he must…”
“Lord Winter,” said Beth softly, but fiercely. “This is very interesting, but I find this movement particularly moving and would be obliged if you would allow me to give it my undivided attention.”
“Ah.” Sniff. “Of course.”
Bliss. The haunting notes of the oboe and flute wrapped themselves around her heart. She began to relax. The second movement finished, and the third began.
“Ah, now you hear what a rousing instrument the trumpet is!”
Henri’s shoulders shook. Beth grimaced. She was glad someone was finding it amusing. She concentrated single-mindedly on the music.
“Of course, it enhances the pleasure of the music greatly if one can follow the score. Do you read music, Lady Elizabeth?”
“No, I prefer to listen to it, when I am allowed to.”
For a moment she actually thought he’d finally got the message. Then he leaned forward and tapped the elderly man in front of him on the shoulder. The man’s head had been bent over a paper, but he now looked round, somewhat red-faced but polite.
“Er…Avez vous un…ah…” the lord hesitated. “What is the word for score, Lady Elizabeth? It has temporarily slipped my mind.”
“Couteau,” she replied fervently. There was a snort from the seat in front, quickly smothered.
Using Beth’s helpful suggestion, Lord Winter completed his request.
“Je regrette, non,” replied the elderly gentleman. “But I assure you, if I did, I would certainly make good use of it forthwith,” he finished in English. He turned forward.
Lord Winter sat back, rebuffed. Three bars of music passed uninterrupted.
“Well really,” said the peer huffily. “His answer was quite incomprehensible. One should not attempt to speak English unless one is quite sure of one’s command of the language. It is perfectly clear that he has the score. If he did not wish to let me look at it, he had only to say so. I am quite capable of understanding that much French.”
Beth leaned forward to the red ears and the shaking shoulders.
“Au secours,” she whispered desperately.
“Really, Lady Elizabeth, I must say, it is very rude to use a man’s ignorance of a language against him,” Henri admonished insincerely as they strolled down a nearby gallery five minutes later. He had responded to her cry for help by extricating her from the room the moment the interval began, with the excuse that he had a private message from the king for her. Lady Winter’s ears had been out on stalks, but she could hardly follow them from the room uninvited. “What would you have done had M. Feuillet provided him with a knife, as he unknowingly requested?”
“Snatched it from him and cut my throat, I think. Or his. He’s unbearable. I would rather sit next to Cousin Edward. He’s as pompous as that idiot, but at least he would sulk silently through the concert. I didn’t hear a thing.”
“When we return I shall endeavour to seat us in another part of the room. I think there were a few empty chairs at the back,” Henri said.
“You will have my undying gratitude if you do,” said Beth. “I take it that the important message from the king was a fabrication? If it was I will have to think of something to satisfy Lady Wilhelmina’s curiosity later.”
“It was, but I must admit I had hoped to get a chance to speak to you alone.” He had led her back through the Diana salon and out onto the gallery. At the moment they were its only occupants, but it was eminently possible that other courtiers would take the opportunity to stretch their legs during the interval. Beth wondered if this was private enough for Alex to have his ‘wee chat’, and thought it probably was.
It was clearly not private enough for Henri, though. Taking her arm, he led her to the end of the corridor, through the Salon de L’Ovale, which was, unlike many of the more elaborately frescoed public rooms, painted white, the plaster mouldings etched in gold. Beth looked around with interest as Henri led her to a door, also white, at the end of the room.
“The king prefers to hang pictures on the walls of his more private rooms than to have permanent paintings as his predecessor did,” Henri explained.
Before Beth could ask whether or not they should be walking in the king’s apartments, Henri had opened the door and led her into Louis’ Cabinet des Livres, which was, as the name suggested, completely lined with white and gold cabinets filled with books. And the inevitable marble busts, of Aristotle, Plato, Socrates.
Beth smiled, thinking of Angus and wondering whether he had managed to plant the incriminating letter yet. Her smile faded, and a wave of guilt washed over her. Would Alex find them in here? Maybe not, but he had not seemed too bothered whether he spoke privately with Henri or not. The main thing was to stop Henri returning to his room. Beth sent up a silent prayer that Louis would be lenient with his employee and tried to dismiss the matter from her mind.
Henri had left the door open for propriety’s sake. If they were disturbed, people would be unlikely to think they had any improper intentions. He turned to her now, smiling, his green eyes warm.
“You told me that you are leaving for England in a few days,” he said. “I hope you will not think me too familiar when I say that I shall miss your company greatly. I have enjoyed our talks enormously. I only hope your husband appreciates what an exceptional wife he has.”
“I am sure he does,” Beth murmured. He is the enemy, she reminded herself.
“We must return to the salon soon if we are to find seats away from your tormentor,” Henri continued. “I wanted to see you alone to give you a small parting gift.”
Before she could protest he took a slim volume from his pocket and held it out to her. She took it automatically. The book was beautifully bound in soft red leather, tooled in gold. She looked at the title, and then up at him.
“Please, do not refuse it. I put you under no obligation. I have another copy of Paradise Regained, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to share this with you. You said you have not read it?”
“No,” she said. She looked back at the book, and the gold shimmered mistily. She blinked several times. He is the enemy. “Thank you,” she said, running her fingers reverently over the cover.
Henri smiled broadly.
“If I may be so bold, may I request that you write to me with your opinion, once you have read it?”
She succumbed.
“Yes,” she said, smiling up at him. His eyes were very green. “Of course I will. I do not think Anthony would object.” She tried to imagine how angry Alex would be when she told him she was going to write to an enemy. She would not ask his permission, nor would she conceal her intention from him, which would be easier. They kept no secrets from each other.
“You have made me very happy,” said Henri. “Now, I think we should return to the salon before the concert resumes.”
“It has already resumed,” came the cold reply from the doorway. “You have been absent for longer than you thought. But time flies so quickly when one is in thrall to Venus, does it not?”
Beth and Henri turned to the door. He
nri was clearly surprised, but not worried, in spite of Sir Anthony’s comment. He had not been caught in a compromising position, after all. Beth and he had not been touching, and he would hardly engage in a clandestine romantic liaison and leave the door open.
Beth, who had been half expecting her husband to make an appearance, was nevertheless as surprised as Henri, by his attitude and his eyes, which were ice cold. He moved into the room, and to Beth’s further surprise, she saw Angus behind him. What was he doing here? As a servant, he should be waiting with the coach, or hanging around in the courtyard with the other menials.
“I have suspected something was amiss for some days,” the baronet continued, his voice high-pitched and indignant. “And now I see what it is.”
“I do assure you, Sir Anthony,” Henri began earnestly, “that your wife is the most virtuous…”
“Do not tell me what my wife is, sir!” shrilled Sir Anthony. “I think I should know her better than you. Although perhaps I do not.”
Beth moved forward, puzzled. She had expected her husband to engage Henri in friendly conversation. Not this.
“Jim,” her husband said to his servant, before she could speak. “Would you be so kind as to escort my wife to our hotel? I wish to have a word with Monselle in private.”
Angus moved to Beth’s side, his expression neutral, obedient. He took her arm. She pulled away from him. This was not what she had expected Alex to do. As Angus was here, he had presumably planted the letter. Now it seemed Alex wanted her to leave him and Henri alone to talk. She didn’t think this was the best way of going about it, but she would fall in with him, be indignant, return to the concert as he no doubt intended she should.
“I have no intention of returning to the hotel!” she cried. “I wish to listen to the rest of the concert. I assure you that nothing untoward has taken place between myself and Monsieur Monselle. You are being quite ridiculous. I will return to the salon.”
She made a move to leave, but to her surprise Angus took her arm again, and this time when she tried to pull away he did not release her. Sir Anthony stepped towards her, glared down at her, his eyes chips of blue ice.
“Madam,” he hissed. “You are unwell. You will go home voluntarily. If you do not, I assure you my man will carry you bodily from the palace, and you will make a spectacle of yourself. Go. Now.”
She stared at him for a moment, utterly confounded. The blood roared in her veins. Then she obeyed, tearing her arm once again from her brother-in-law’s grip as they left the room, and storming from the palace, obviously far from unwell. Angus followed behind, face closed, ready to intercept her if she changed her mind and decided to return to the concert, or the library. She did not. She was so angry she knew she was in danger of losing her temper, letting something slip, perhaps.
She managed, barely, to wait until she was in the coach
“Angus,” she said, the moment they were under way. “What the hell’s going on?”
He put his finger to his lips by way of reply.
“Jim,” she amended hotly. “What the hell’s…”
He lunged across the coach and put his hand over her mouth, stifling the rest of the sentence.
“Isd!” he whispered. “Ye ken the rules.”
Yes, she did. Don’t speak when you might be overheard. Maintain the pretence until you were sure of privacy. Let the left hand know what the right hand’s doing. Damn him. What was he up to? And why hadn’t he told her?
She stormed through the foyer of the hotel much as she had through the palace, taking the stairs two at a time in spite of her cumbersome dress. They entered the room, she hurled the key at the table, slammed the door and rounded on Angus.
“What are you up to?” she said, her eyes blazing. “And why wasn’t I told? Is it a sudden change of plan? Has something gone wrong?”
Angus looked deeply uncomfortable, and remained uncharacteristically silent. She observed him intently for a moment. It was not a sudden change of plan, then.
“Did you manage to secrete the letter in his room?” she asked. “Can you tell me that much, at least?”
“Aye,” he replied. “Aye, I did.”
“Right. Good. So what is Alex doing that he thinks I won’t approve of?”
Angus looked away.
“I have to get back to the palace,” he muttered after a moment.
She moved out of arm’s reach before she lost control and struck him, and threw herself down in a chair. It was not Angus who deserved to be hit. “Sit down,” she commanded. “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve told me what’s going on.”
He remained standing.
“I canna,” he said helplessly after a moment. “He tellt me not to. He’ll explain it to ye himself later. I have to get back. I’m sorry.”
He moved to the table, picked up the key, went to the door.
“Angus,” she said coldly. He stopped. “If you lock that door, I swear by Christ that I will scream the place down until someone comes to let me out, and then I will go straight back to the palace and cause such a scene it will be the talk of Versailles for years to come.”
He looked at her. She meant it.
“He…”
“Tellt ye to,” she finished for him. “And he’s your chieftain, so you do as he says. Well, he’s my chieftain too, I suppose, but if I haven’t earned his trust, then he’s not earned my loyalty. You do as you’re told, then. You’ll see me back at the palace later. Or hear me, anyway.”
He swore, in Gaelic, at who she wasn’t sure. He stood for a full minute by the door, torn.
“He doesna want ye to go back to the palace,” he said finally. “He’ll be angry if I dinna lock the door.”
“And I’ll be angry if you do. Which puts you in an impossible position. If it’s any help to you, I’ll tell you this. I have no intention of going back to the palace tonight, Angus. Unless you shut me in like a naughty child. Then I’ll behave like one, and we’ll all be sorry.”
He came to a decision, threw the key back down on the table and opened the door. Behind him she inhaled sharply, as though in pain. He turned back again. The fact that he trusted her, when his brother clearly did not, had dissolved her anger, making space for something else. She was sitting in the chair, face turned up to his, lovely, delicate, blue eyes brimming.
“Why, Angus?” she cried in sudden anguish. “What cause have I given him to distrust me?”
At that moment he hated his brother with a vehemence that shocked him. He clenched his fists instinctively, then forced them to relax in case she should notice, should think he intended to do her violence. The comforting platitude he had half-thought to utter remained unspoken.
“None,” he said instead. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I dinna agree wi’ him.”
He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. Free to leave, she did not do so. Instead she sat for a time staring into space, unseeing. Then she stood, took off her shoes, turned up the lamp, replenished the fire, poured herself a glass of wine, drank it in one, poured another, then sat down again and settled herself to wait for her husband to come home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At one a.m. there was a light knock on the door. Beth, still in the chair, still wide awake, nevertheless started. No doubt he knew Angus had not locked her in, and thought she had locked the door from the inside.
“It’s open,” she said. “Come in.”
The door duly opened and a head popped round it.
“Are we intruding?” Lady Winter asked. Her voice had the trembling eager tone she adopted when she had great news to impart. Her eyes sparkled.
Yes.
“No,” said Beth. “I wasn’t sleeping. Come in.” She did not stand up to greet them, as propriety demanded.
The rest of Lady Winter appeared, followed closely by Anne, whose eyes were not sparkling, but deeply anxious. If the two women noticed Beth’s lapse in manners, they did not comment on it.
“We have just
returned from the palace and saw the light burning under the door. We thought we would see if you were feeling any better,” Lady Winter said. “Your servant told us you had left the concert early as you were unwell.”
“Yes. I am much better now,” Beth said calmly. Tell me what he’s done; you are dying to, a voice in her head screamed. “I am waiting for Anthony to come home.”
“Oh, is he not here?” cried the lady, looking round as though expecting the baronet to emerge from behind the curtain or under the chair. “He left before us. I thought he would have been home by now.”
But she had hoped he wouldn’t, that was clear. She wanted to be the first to impart the news, whatever it was.
“Oh, Lady Elizabeth, it’s terrible!” cried Anne unexpectedly. “Sir Anthony has challenged Monsieur Monselle to a duel! What can he be thinking of?”
Lady Winter scowled blackly at her companion, thereby missing Beth’s initial reaction to the news. The colour drained from her face and she jerked forward in her seat, almost tumbling to the floor. White flashes sparkled in front of her eyes. I am going to faint, she thought remotely.
Capable hands took her by the shoulders, eased her back into the chair. The strong smell of ammonia assailed her nostrils and she jerked her head away, grimacing. Then her vision cleared and her senses returned to her, in a fashion.
“Really, Anne!” Lady Winter was saying crossly. “Such catastrophic news needs to be broken more gently than that!”
“I’m sorry,” said Anne, her brown eyes full of tears. She was kneeling at the side of the chair, holding one of Beth’s hands between hers. She was, at least, genuinely concerned.
“It’s all right, Anne,” Beth reassured the young woman. “I am fine now. It was a little unexpected, that’s all.” She looked up at the older woman, who was replacing the smelling salts bottle in her reticule. “So Anthony has challenged Monsieur Monselle to a duel. How utterly ridiculous. Did he say why?” She was amazed at how unconcerned she was managing to sound. In a moment she would have her mask back in place.
The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) Page 26