Mademoiselle at Arms Read online

  Chapter Three

  Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it.

  Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. But that did not stop Trodger, who had ridden up from Kent for the purpose, from detailing every little inspection and sortie that his men had made in their allotted task of watching Remenham House.

  He might have supposed the fellow would be eager to be rid of the tale, for that he might have longer to enjoy the amenities of the Triumphal Chariot where the meeting had been appointed. The inn was a military haunt. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon.

  Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out.

  That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington?

  The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign.

  Doesn’t know where he is, thought the captain. Looking for something, or someone, probably. Visiting? Dressed for it, certainly. An unwelcome idea came to him. Would Gerald wish his friend to follow the man?

  He had hardly registered the decision that he had best do so, albeit with some reluctance, when his trained senses alerted him to an extraordinary circumstance. The Frenchman was already being followed.

  A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. But his eyes were on the Frenchman, and as Valade moved up the other road a little way, the lad shifted alertly, and swiftly closed the distance to the intersection. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches.

  ‘Sir?’

  Hilary threw a brief glance at Trodger, and quickly returned his intent gaze to the Frenchman, who had halted once more, and stood as if thinking deeply.

  ‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly.

  ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again.

  ‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’

  ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger.’

  ‘But me orders, sir? Are we to—’

  ‘Gad, but that’s her,’ interrupted Roding suddenly.

  The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. But some little distance behind him, someone had come out from the shadow of the building and, seeing the Frenchman reappear, darted back again as quickly. His attention drawn, the captain was easily able to make out the pretty features under the feathered hat, and the same dark riding habit the fugitive had worn on that first occasion at Remenham House.

  Don’t say the wretch was also following Valade. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified.

  ‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her.

  ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow.

  A pair of startled blue eyes looked up into his. ‘Comment? What do you wish?’

  ‘What the devil do you think you’re up to now, I’d like to know?’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘It is in no way your affair, monsieur, and you will unhand me at once.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ The captain grasped her more firmly. ‘I’m taking you to Gerald, my girl.’

  The girl glanced up the road and turned back, annoyance in her face. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. ‘I do not know your Gérard. And I do not know you. Please to release me.’

  ‘I’m not going to release you, so it’s no use complaining. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. And as for not knowing me, you abominable little liar, you’re perfectly aware that we met at Remenham House.’

  ‘Remenham House,’ exclaimed Trodger, who had been watching this interchange open-mouthed. ‘Is she the Frenchie we’ve been watching for then, sir?’

  The lady’s furious features turned on this new target. ‘I am not French in the least, bête.’

  ‘Woof!’ uttered the sergeant, jumping back. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’

  Roding ignored this. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’

  A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them.

  The lady looked them over in silence, and then pouting lips trembled, dark eyelashes fluttered, and in a broken voice, she pleaded, ‘Honoured messieurs, you will not allow this—this pig, to be thus cruel? He cannot arrest me. I have done n-nothing.’

  The pathetic sob which accompanied the last word had a signal effect on two of the company at least. Glancing at each other, they rose from their seats and ventured to address the captain.

  ‘Um—begging your pardon, sir, but—um—what was you meaning to arrest the young lady for?’

  ‘Trespassing, theft, and suspicion of spying,’ announced Roding fluently.

  ‘Woof!’ uttered Trodger, gazing at the lady in some awe.

  ‘Caught in the act by myself and Major Gerald Alderley only last week.’

  The mention of Alderley’s name, as Roding had confidently expected, caused the soldiers’ eyes to veer across to the young lady again, this time with a good deal less sympathy, and much more uncertainty. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again.

  Grimly Hilary smiled to himself at the effect of Gerald’s name. In military circles, highly exaggerated tales of Major Alderley’s derring-do were bruited from lip to lip and passed on to raw recruits to strengthen morale.

  The young lady saw the change, and almost snorted. ‘Very well, arrest me. But if you mean to take me to this Gérard, I shall know what to say to him.’

  ‘Sir!’ called Trodger, as the captain began to lead the young lady off. ‘Shall we abandon the guard, then, sir?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘But if she’s going to gaol—’

  ‘Just keep watch, like you’ve been told,’ Roding said severely, turning to glare at his sergeant. ‘The major will tell you when to stop.’

  ‘Your major will tell you nothing at all,’ put in the young lady acidly, ‘because certainly I am going to kill him.’

  ‘You ain’t never!’

  ‘Back to your post, Trodger,’ ordered the harassed captain. ‘As for you—’

  ‘Do not address me. You are without sense and not sympathique in the least. And when I have finished killing your major, I shall also kill you.’

  The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands. His face warm, Captain Roding glared them into silence, and firmly marched his captive off down Piccadilly, heading for Stratton St
reet where the town house of the Alderley family was situated.

  ‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. ‘What Gerald wants with you has me beat.’

  He received a glare from his captive. ‘You are rude, and stupide, and altogether a person with whom I do not wish to speak. So now I will say nothing more to you, and you will please to say nothing more to me, for I do not reply.’

  It was thus in stony silence that the pair traversed the short distance to Stratton Street, where Roding knocked on the major’s door and entered a pleasant wood-panelled hall, with his prisoner firmly in tow.

  ‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over.

  ‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side.

  ‘Good. I’ll announce myself.’

  The footman did not object, but it was plain he felt he was neglecting his duty, for he emitted an admonitory cough, causing the captain to pause in his way to the library across the hall.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’

  ‘You can leave the young lady to me.’

  ‘What young lady?’ demanded a voice from the back of the hall. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found her!’

  ‘Ah, Gérard,’ uttered the girl in a gratified tone as Major Alderley walked through into the light. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me.’

  ‘Of course he will release you,’ Gerald said at once, concealing his delighted satisfaction at this unexpected piece of good fortune. ‘I’m only surprised you have not released yourself. No pistols, no daggers today?’

  ‘Would you have me show a pistol with so many soldiers? I am not a fool. And you have stolen my dagger.’

  ‘Had the advantage of her this time,’ Roding put in before Gerald could respond. He let go of the girl’s arm. ‘Caught her sneaking after that Valade fellow. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day.’

  ‘Ah, the matter begins to come clear,’ Gerald said. ‘The place was full of barbers and military men.’

  ‘Exactly so. And she—’

  ‘She!’ interrupted the young lady crossly.

  ‘Yes, very rude,’ agreed the major. ‘Hilary, you must stop referring to mademoiselle as “she”. But we cannot discuss this here.’ He bowed and indicated the open door at the back of the hall. ‘Mademoiselle.’

  Gerald was relieved to find the girl did not attempt to run away, but meekly allowed him to usher her into the spacious and comfortable library which was his habitual haunt when at home. This lapse was possibly due to her apparent determination to make full protest of Hilary’s conduct.

  ‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you. And this idiot, he has threatened to arrest me and make them take me to prison. What would you? I cannot fight them all.’

  ‘No, of course you could not,’ Gerald soothed. ‘Monstrously unfair of you, Hilary.’

  ‘Unfair!’ echoed his junior.

  ‘And this is not all,’ went on the lady, evidently determined to disclose all her wrongs. ‘When I thought to make them sympathique for me, with a little tear, you understand, and some tricks feminine of this kind—’

  ‘Feminine tricks, too?’ cut in Gerald admiringly, controlling a quivering lip. ‘Very useful, of course.’

  ‘Useful certainly. But he tells them that I am a spy. One cannot expect that soldiers can be sympathique to one they believe may be a French spy. That is not reasonable.’

  ‘A very low stratagem, Hilary,’ Gerald said, turning on his captain with mock severity. ‘How could you? No wonder mademoiselle is angry with you.’

  ‘What?’

  Roding’s glare tried Gerald’s control severely, but he pursued his theme unheeding. ‘I am extremely displeased. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off.’

  Mademoiselle, who had been nodding in agreement at Roding during the first part of this speech, abruptly turned to face Gerald again.

  ‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. ‘You imbecile. You make of me once more a game? Eh bien, I have told your friend that I will kill you, and if you will give me my dagger this minute, I shall do so at once.’

  ‘But what have I done?’ protested Gerald innocently. ‘I’m on your side.’

  ‘You are not on my side at all, and it will be better that, instead of saying such things to him, you would say them to yourself.’

  Gerald opened his eyes at her. ‘You mean I should give myself a dressing-down? Very well.’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. ‘Gerald Alderley, I don’t know what you deserve. It will serve you out if I give her dagger back to mademoiselle, so that she can plunge it right into your chest.’

  To his intense satisfaction, mademoiselle burst into laughter. ‘I have a very good mind to do so, imbecile.’

  Gerald turned and came back to her. ‘That’s better. Come now, I am very glad to see you again so soon, mademoiselle whatever-your-name-is. We have a great deal to discuss, you and I.’

  A wary look came over her face, and Roding intervened. ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. Not if I read her aright.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t, Hilary,’ Gerald said mildly, smiling at the young lady and indicating one of the wide window seats. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He crossed back to Roding and said low-voiced. ‘A word, if you please, my friend.’

  They moved to the door, while the lady shrugged, and then seated herself, glancing from the window into the street below, and then turning again to watch them in their huddle at the other side of the library.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Roding. ‘What do you mean to do with her?’

  ‘Just keep her talking, that’s all,’ Gerald said quickly. ‘Long enough for you to see Frith for me.’

  ‘Your groom? What for?’

  ‘Get him to wait outside. Sooner or later she’s going to run away again, and I want Frith to follow her and find out where she’s living.’

  Roding gave him a look of respect. ‘For once, you’re talking like a sensible man. I’ll do it. Seems you were right about Valade. She was definitely following him. Mark you, she wasn’t the only one. There was a young lad ahead of her. Footman or some such.’

  ‘Indeed? Interesting.’

  ‘Ain’t it? Want me to give you some time with her? Not that I think she’ll tell you anything.’

  ‘Yes, she will. But probably not the truth.’

  Roding gave a bark of derisive laughter and left the room. Gerald crossed back to the window.

  ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’

  ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. ‘And I do not know why you are so polite, when you have been bad to me last night, and have taken my dagger.’

  ‘You were quite as bad to me as I was to you,’ Gerald protested mildly, sitting down beside her. ‘As for your dagger—’

  She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.

  ‘Lord in heaven, did I do that?’ exclaimed Gerald remorsefully. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers. ‘It must be painful. I’m sorry. Forgive me.’

  Her lips parted, but she did not speak. Only sat, staring at him, a puzzled look in her face. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her w
rist, and that her fingers were trembling in his.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little.

  ‘R-rien. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Gerald argued, frowning. ‘But if you must fight so furiously, I don’t see how I can promise not to do it again.’

  At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. ‘I will fight to the death, if it needs.’

  A faint smile crossed Gerald’s lips. ‘I am sure you will. My death, probably.’

  ‘This, monsieur le major, is entirely your own affair,’ said the lady, haughty again. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid I am far too interested to stop mixing myself in your affairs,’ Gerald said ruefully. ‘I’m determined to find out all about you, mademoiselle. If I am to die in the attempt, then so be it.’

  ‘Dieu du ciel,’ burst from mademoiselle as she jumped up. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’

  ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. ‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me.’

  The girl shook her head violently, setting the feathers on her hat bobbing. ‘It is not possible.’

  ‘That we shall see. Why were you following Valade?’

  She shrugged and turned away, moving as if to seek escape among the bookshelves all about one corner of the room. ‘I do not know of whom you speak. As to following, there was no one.’

  ‘Don’t be a little fool,’ Gerald snapped irritably.

  ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. ‘I have said that I will tell you nothing of this soi-disant Valade.’

  Gerald seized on this. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’

  ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. ‘I do not know him.’

  ‘I am not the imbecile you take me for,’ Gerald said with dangerous calm. ‘If you will not tell me about Valade, so be it. What of madame, his wife?’

  ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn. ‘His wife? Pah!’

  ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’

  ‘I am saying nothing.’

  Gerald eyed her. She knew the truth of it all right. ‘Word has it that she is English on her father’s side.’

  ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips.

  ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied.

  ‘Exactement.’

  ‘Damnation!’ Gerald burst out, crossing towards her. ‘Will you stop hedging? I’m hanged if I go on with this ridiculous cat and mouse game. Give me your name, girl!’

  ‘Again?’ Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. ‘Eh bien, Eugénie. Or I should say—’

  ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. ‘I thank you. I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent.’

  ‘The nuns?’ she said, gazing at him innocently. ‘Certainly, if I was a nun, I know of many good names.’ She counted off on her fingers. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’

  Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. ‘I don’t want a list of all the nuns resident in your wretched convent. I am aware that you ran away from there, but—’

  ‘Certainly I ran away,’ she said, meeting his gaze with defiance in her own. ‘And if you like, I will tell you why.’

  For the space of half a minute, Gerald continued to scowl in silent frustration. But the sheer tenacity of the girl defeated him. He laughed suddenly, and released her.

  ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you.’

  ‘Comment? You wish to murder me?’

  ‘No, I wish to beat you,’ he retorted. ‘In fact, I’ve never met anyone who goaded me to so much violence.’

  The girl nodded understandingly. ‘Yes, that is what the nuns they said of me.’

  ‘You surprise me.’ Relaxing back, Gerald folded his arms. ‘Very well, then. Tell me why you ran away from the convent.’

  ‘So would you run away,’ she uttered impulsively. ‘I do not mind to pray, no. Even, I do not mind to study this Latin so abominable. But this is not sufficient. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady.’

  ‘How shocking.’

  ‘Yes, but I do not like to scrub the floor and peel the vegetables and feed the pig. So it is that I do not do these things. But I must, they say, and try to make me with the punishments.’

  ‘Poor little devil,’ said Gerald, genuinely sorry for her.

  A radiant smile astonished him. ‘As to that, I am a devil, say the nuns. Because for the punishments je m’en moque.’

  ‘You didn’t care. Yes, I can readily believe it.’

  ‘In one little minute,’ she said, snapping her fingers, ‘it is over and voilà tout.’

  ‘Forgive me, but if that is the case, I don’t quite see why you should run away.’

  ‘Ah, that was an affair altogether different,’ she explained and fluttered her long lashes at him. The by now familiar dramatic sigh came. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. He tried to make love to me. Oh, it was very bad.’ She spread her hands. ‘What would you? The nuns they would not believe me, and so it was not possible for me to stay. I was compelled to run away.’

  ‘All the way to England?’

  She opened wide eyes. ‘But it is entirely natural that I choose my own country.’

  Footsteps sounded just outside, and Captain Roding walked in. The major hailed him with a show of relief.

  ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword.’ He moved to his friend and grasped his hand in a gesture as deliberately dramatic as the storytelling of mademoiselle. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. Or run me through. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales.’

  ‘Dieu du ciel,’ came from the lady in a furious tone, before the astonished Roding could respond. ‘This is insupportable. There is no need of your friend to kill you, imbecile, because I shall do so this minute.’

  Leaning down, she raised the hem of the petticoat of her habit to reveal a neat little pair of boots on her feet. Gerald saw her extract something and leapt aside, calling a warning to Hilary.

  There was just time for the girl to raise her arm to chest height and draw it back before Roding seized her. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid.

  Furiously, she dashed his hands away. ‘Bête. I will arise myself.’

  Ignoring this, the major slipped his hands about her waist and lifted her to her feet.

  ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ protested Hilary angrily. ‘You should rather be arresting the girl and throwing her into gaol for attempted murder.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t accuse her of murder,’ begged Gerald, retrieving the lady’s hat and handing it to her, ‘or she’ll be challenging me to a duel again.’

  ‘You,’ announced the lady, throwing an explosive glare at the captain, ‘are a person entirely without sense. Certainly I would not murder monsieur le major, even that he has made a threat to beat me.’

  ‘I like that,’ Gerald protested. ‘After all the threats you’ve made, that is hardly fair.’

  ‘I’m hanged if I can make out either of you,’ complained Hilary. ‘Mad as hatters!’

  ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. ‘Gérard is not mad, only of a disposition entirely interfering.’

  ‘And you are of a disposition entirely untruthful,’ retorted Gerald. ‘Have you
any more pretty toys like that knife about you?’

  ‘The girl’s a regular arsenal,’ Hilary snapped, giving up into his senior’s hand the nasty little weapon he had snatched.

  ‘It is necessary that one is at all times ready to protect oneself,’ explained the young lady flatly. ‘So Leonardo has taught me.’

  ‘Leonardo?’ An abrupt sensation of severe irritation attacked Gerald.

  ‘Who the devil is Leonardo?’ demanded Roding impatiently, asking the question that had leapt into the major’s mind.

  ‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk. Diable.’

  Then she jammed her hat on her head all anyhow and ran from the room.

  Hilary started after her, but Gerald stopped him.

  ‘Let her go. Did you warn Frith?’

  ‘Yes. He’s waiting.’

  ‘Good. When he’s found out where she’s staying, I’ll have him keep an eye on Valade’s residence in Paddington, I think.’ Then memory hit and he stared at his friend. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’

  ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly.

  ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. ‘She obviously likes Leonardo. Which means after all that she did not expect to marry Valade. But in that case, why the raging jealousy about Madame having taken her place. Unless—’ Something clicked in his mind and he stared at his friend without seeing him. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.’

  Gerald ignored this. ‘She knows them. Both of them. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it.’ He became aware of his friend’s face before him. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding. ‘I think you’ve gone stark, staring crazy. Why can’t you let it be?’

  Gerald grinned at him. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’

  ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her. My thanks, by the by.’

  The captain shook his head. ‘I just don’t understand you, Gerald. If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’

  ‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly. ‘She’s an evil-tempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. And she’s pluck to the backbone.’

  Hilary stared at him. ‘You’re either mad, or in love.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Alderley in shock. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Then you’re mad,’ Roding said flatly, and suddenly grinned. ‘But I’ve known that for years.’

  Gerald laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘Lucky I have you to keep me from Bedlam, then.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. You’ll end there one day, mark my words.’ Then Hilary became serious again. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’

  ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. ‘As for what to do, I wonder if young Charvill would be worth a visit. And I think I must pursue my acquaintance with the fulsome Madame Valade.’

  Mrs Chalkney, a long-time friend of the late Mrs Alderley, had been delighted to oblige that lady’s son. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy. I am having them to my own soirée on Monday.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Gerald had approved.

  ‘I did not send you a card because in the normal way of things you rarely attend such affairs.’

  ‘Ah, but I have a special reason for doing so this time.’

  Mrs Chalkney lifted her brows. ‘Indeed?’

  Gerald grinned. ‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not.’

  ‘Gracious heaven, Gerald! If your dear mama could not drag you to the altar, I am hardly likely to succeed.’

  ‘In any event,’ Gerald told her, with a grin, ‘I can’t marry this one. She’s already spoken for.’

  He endured the inevitable scold with patience, saluted Mrs Chalkney’s faded cheek, and went off to endure the necessary delay with what patience he could muster. What more was to be done? Frith’s investigations had proved fruitful, and the man was now keeping an eye on Valade. Gerald hoped he had covered all options and had resisted the temptation to pay mademoiselle a visit. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. An action which gave Gerald furiously to think. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course. It was all highly intriguing.

  On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport.

  Madame Valade was looking heartily bored, he noted, as his searching eyes found out the couple. He could scarcely blame her. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms.

  Gerald noted the lady’s eyes brighten as she caught sight of him making his way through the throng towards her. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband?

  His luck was in. Just as he reached them, the Comte de St Erme drew Valade a little apart and began to converse with him in rapid French. Valade accorded the major’s greeting a brief nod and gave his attention back to St Erme.

  Gerald took Madame’s hand and kissed the fingers with a little more warmth than punctilio demanded. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’

  ‘Merci.’ She inclined her head, looking up at him through her lashes, and passing a tongue lightly over her lips.

  Gerald smiled and crooked his elbow. ‘A little promenade, madame?’

  Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. The close-fitting round gown, if a little old-fashioned with its very narrow waist and wide skirts, was becoming on a full figure, and the low décolletage, unencumbered by any form of covering, exposed a good deal of bosom. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm.

  ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. ‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies.’

  Madame gave one of those breathy laughs. ‘They cannot be worse than mine in English, monsieur.’

  While he trod a deliberate path through the pink saloon towards the door, Gerald encouraged a flow of harmless chatter about the people Madame had met and the parties she had attended. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society.

  ‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame.’

  ‘About me?’ The lady’s lashes fluttered and her fan came up. ‘You would know more of me?’

  ‘I would know everything about you,’ Gerald told her, his tone at once provocative and inviting.

  The major might not indulge in this sort of flirtation in the ordinary way, but he had seen enough among his army colleagues to know just how to go about it.

  She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan. ‘I hope I do not understand you.’

  You mean you hope you do, thought Gerald cynically. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive
.

  ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. Your name.’

  ‘Ah, that is easy,’ she began, laughing.

  ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. ‘Let me see if our minds are attuned.’

  The lashes fluttered demurely. ‘You would read my mind?’

  Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so. This was unscrupulous, he admitted, because he had no intention of following through on the seductive promise in his conduct. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. Madame Valade was that kind of woman.

  ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. She waited expectantly.

  ‘Let’s see now. Would it be Thérèse?’

  She shook her head. ‘Quite wrong, monsieur.’

  ‘Alas. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’

  ‘Oh la la! That is not me at all.’

  ‘No, perhaps not,’ Gerald agreed with a smile. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie.’

  ‘But, no,’ She dimpled. ‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur.’

  ‘I’m afraid you are right. Very well, I give up. You will have to tell me.’

  ‘I could have done so at the first and saved you the pain,’ she told him merrily. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation.

  Gerald was instantly on the alert. ‘Something wrong, madame?’

  Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it.

  ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband.’

  Gerald cast a swift look up the corridor, but there was no one there, not even a shadow. His frowning gaze came back to her. She was making it up. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this.” Lord, he was right! But softly now. Let him be sure.

  ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand. ‘I will make certain that we are unobserved.’

  He made a pretence of rising and making a sortie to the corner to see if anyone was there. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon.

  ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command. ‘Not yet, madame. You will leave me utterly distraught.’

  Madame Valade reseated herself, and Gerald set himself to flatter her into relaxation again. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever.

  ‘You will not guess again?’

  ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas. And you promised to tell me. Quick, now. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame.’

  ‘Then you shall no longer do so. I am called Melusine.’

  Gerald let out a sigh both relieved and satisfied and repeated the name.

  ‘Melusine. How perfectly charming.’

  He sat looking her over in silence for a moment or two, his thoughts revolving around the name and the way it fitted so exquisitely on quite another set of features. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and recollected himself, turning on the charm again.

  ‘Now, madame, tell me all about your life in France. Did you grow up at the Valade estates? You were born a Valade, I take it, even though your father is English.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm.

  Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her. ‘Come, I told you I wish to know everything about you. That is my way, my dear. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘—with one I feel to be a stranger.’

  The breathy laugh came, and Madame Valade abandoned her fan. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill.’

  She pronounced it with a French inflexion, but Gerald understood her to mean the English name he knew.

  ‘You are related to General Lord Charvill?’

  ‘Monsieur le baron, he is my grandpére,’ she confirmed.

  As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. ‘I lived with the Valades for some years. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent.’

  ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest.

  ‘Yes, for there were too many females for the vicomte to make me a dowry. It was never intended that I should marry Monsieur Valade, but after the tragedy—’ her eyes darkening in genuine distress ‘—and that he was the only survivor, he came to me in the convent and married me, and brought me to England.’

  So pat, thought Gerald. A neat tale, giving little away. He would have to probe further. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy.

  ‘Ah, the tragedy. Poor little one.’

  Her hand shook as he took it in his, and she uttered involuntarily, ‘Oh, it was so horrible! They came like animals, with long knives that they use to cut grass, and heavy clubs. They set about everyone—everyone. They did not care—servant or master, it meant nothing. People running, screaming, hiding...’ She shuddered, throwing her hands over her face.

  Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. The shock and distress were genuine. She described it so vividly. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. But she was not there. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake.

  In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. She appeared not to have realised the implications of her outburst, but clung a little to Gerald’s hands which had taken hers in a comforting clasp.

  ‘How happy for you that Valade came to take you away from France,’ he said encouragingly, adding with one of those intimate looks, ‘Happy for me, too.’

  She simpered, and withdrew one hand so that she might smack his fingers playfully. ‘You are outrageous.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, smiling. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’

  ‘Oh, but yes. So kind, so good to me always.’

  With difficulty, Gerald bit back a laugh. ‘You must have been an exceedingly good pupil.’

  ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. ‘The nuns, they teach prayer and obedience.’

  Oh, do they? No kitchen service? No feeding of pigs? It was evident that this woman knew nothing of nuns, if a certain young lady’s artless reminiscences were anything to go by.

  ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued.

  Madame shrugged. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew.’

  No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally. ‘How dull it must have been for you, poor little one.’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic.

  She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing.

  He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her su
pposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. She was not Madame Melusine Valade.