Feather Castles (24 page)

“I'll c-cork you!” raged Devenish. “Damn you, Tris! Let me go!”

“If'n he does, I'll wrap this 'round yer ear 'oles,” the carter promised, flourishing his cudgel.

He was powerfully built, if short of stature, and very near to losing his temper. However, Tristram managed to convince him that to attract the attention of the village constable over so trite a matter would result in unnecessary delays for them all. He dragged Devenish away. The carter tossed a disparaging remark over his shoulder, having to do with moth-eaten ducks, and he and Devenish exchanged pleasantries until they were separated by distance. His mouth open for a final sally, Devenish thought better of it; partly because he was becoming hoarse, and partly because Tristram looked decidedly grim. “What d'you mean—decided not to go to town?” he demanded as they started into the lane. “I thought you was desperate to get to Whitehall?”

“I was. But the more I think of it, the more I realize they would likely forbid me to search for the nun. Diccon said no one will believe his warnings about Sanguinet.”

“Then, what shall you do? Send a message to the convent?”

“I fancy Diccon already did so. No. I'll go to Dinan.”

Devenish's jaw dropped. “You'll … go to—the devil! How d'you propose to get there?”

Tristram began to count out their meagre funds. He looked up and said with a rueful grin, “Not enough to pay for passage, I fear. Unless—did you not say your cousin has a boat? Might he allow us to work our way across the Channel?”

“No doubt of that. And he makes a regular run to Dinard. But—for lord's sake, why, man?”

Restoring the cash to his purse, Tristram shoved his hands into his pockets and walked on. “After Miss Strand brought me off from Waterloo,” he said slowly, “I fell asleep and dreamed a strange sort of dream. It has been rather annoying me. You know how it is.”

“Gad, do I not! I recall a dream I had wherein I cornered Old Boney, took off my glove and flung it in his face. And just at that moment I heard something and turned around to find a whole regiment of Ney's blasted cavalry galloping straight at me! Sabres drawn! I ran like fury, with them thundering on my heels, but—dash it all! I never did recall what happened! Do go on, old fellow.”

“Well, I finally did recall my dream. Just now, while we were riding with our friendly carter. Diccon and Sister Maria Evangeline were talking about Miss Strand. Only—it was no dream.” He was silent, his black brows pulling into a dark line across his forehead.

Devenish waited uneasily. From what he'd heard, there was no telling what outrageous conduct Tristram might have learned of.

“They're fanatics, of course,” Tristram muttered. “I suppose they're a necessary type—God knows, they're courageous. But they would sacrifice anyone to England's cause. And—I've an idea they've sent that girl in there to spy for them.”

“Good God!” breathed Devenish. “Surely you must be wrong. A girl—all alone? Besides—if she's as fond of Sanguinet as you think, she's not likely to betray the fellow.”

“True. But I believe she loves England very deeply. If she
should
try to discover something and Sanguinet found out…” His lips tightened; he turned to Devenish, his eyes very stern. “She's just a girl, in a strange country and with an invalid sister on her hands. She fancies Diccon is there if she gets into a real scrape. Only he's not, Dev.”

Devenish's lively imagination ran riot, so horrifying him that he exclaimed, “Oh, pshaw! There's likely nothing to this tale beyond Diccon's hope for a promotion. Miss Strand knows what she's about. You're not responsible.”

“I'm alive. Save for her, I might not be.”

“Hmmn. Well, even if you should reach Dinan, what hope would you have of getting into the chateau or finding out anything?”

“I don't know. But something will occur to me.”

Devenish persisted, stubbornly, “And—then?”

“Then—if Miss Strand's position is endangered, I'll simply take her and her sister away from the mess.”

“You'll … simply…” Devenish gulped, his eyes as wide as his mouth. Recovering, he burst out, “You're downright looby, that's what it is! They've likely got a special cell in Bedlam reserved for you! For lord's sake, Tris! Nobody
takes
anything from Claude Sanguinet! His estate, so I understand, is a regular fortress! It would be a blasted miracle could you gain entry. And if you did, and he so much as suspected what you were about, he'd have you flogged and thrown to the dogs for sport!”

Tristram threw back his head and shouted with laughter.

*   *   *

The little black mare was full of spirit, and frisked about playfully when she was pulled up at the edge of the woods. Rachel, however, was pale and nervous and held the reins with an unwontedly heavy hand. Watching her, Raoul said, “Mademoiselle is up betimes this morning.”

Speaking in her own tongue, as he did, she said, “Yes. I was wishful to speak with you. Alone.” She looked at him and found the dark eyes fixed on her gravely. “Agatha,” she said, after a brief hesitation, “tells me that—that you are a good man, Raoul.”

His sun-bronzed cheeks flushed slightly. “Miss Agatha have tell me much of her mistress. You see, mademoiselle, how very good I have the English! Who is loved by my Agatha, is by me also loved. Mademoiselle now has a friend. One who will strive for her to utmost.” He struck himself on the chest. “I. Raoul. Myself.” A faint smile appearing on the lovely face beside him, he went on, “But it does not do for to stop. Many eyes the estate have. We can the more safely speak once down the hill we are.”

Rachel urged the mare on, and they passed through the cool, quiet woods, and came out onto the open slope beyond, bright, but still slightly misted in the early morning.

“We are far from the hill now.” Raoul moved up to ride slightly behind her and asked, “How I may serve my Agatha's so beautiful lady?”

Smiling at this impudence, she answered, “By telling me where a man named Diccon is employed on the estate.”

For an instant he did not answer. Then he said a rather flat, “He is the head groom, mademoiselle.”

His demeanour had changed. Perhaps she should say no more. But—she
must!
Sister Maria Evangeline had said she could turn to Diccon, and if she did not speak to someone, she would surely worry herself into a decline! “I—chance to be acquainted with his—family,” she lied, her lips stiff and uncooperative. “Where may I find him?”

Another pause. Then, he shrugged, “Alas, is impossible, mademoiselle. Diccon is back to England gone.”

With a small, shocked cry, she pulled the mare to a halt and turned a pale face to him. “No, no! He cannot have done so! I was told—” She stopped abruptly.

Raoul searched her face keenly. A smile lit his features. “Does mademoiselle not ride on, our converse it yet may be remarked. Ah, this is better. My good friend Diccon would have pleased himself. Always, he hope you come to him.”

Her shattered hopes reviving, she asked, “Your good friend? You know Diccon well?”

“Raoul knows everything!” he announced proudly. “Diccon is not what he seem. No more is Raoul. Mademoiselle will please now to laugh and her face turn away again.
Merci.
What have set over mademoiselle?”

She said shakenly, “You mean—overset.” And her mind whirled with conjecture. Dare she confide in this man? If her growing fears were justified, dare she? Agatha liked him—loved him, in fact. And trusted him. “I woke up in the night,” she revealed. “I do not know what woke me, but I suddenly remembered something Monsieur Benét had said to me yesterday. It was … horrible. I cannot think why I did not pay attention to it before, but—it had to do with—with being afraid of a pool.”

Raoul nodded solemnly and reined up to ride beside her. “We can be more comfortable,” he said. “It is truth about this pool. The Pagoda Pool.
Tiens!
Is an evil pond, that one! I will tell you something of it. This Raoul, he have once a good friend, a fine gentleman by the name—Philippe, who work as footman in the chateau. Philippe, he is ask something to one day carry upstairs. Mistaking what is meant, he go on to the second floor which is for some cause unlocked. He then come upon Monsieur Benét in a room with the door open. You know this foolish one? This so small man, he sit and dab with paints. To me, Philippe say it was a picture most stupid. More than this he never say, for he is called away and then removed outside to work. They build the red little bridge by the Pagoda. This is not work for my Philippe. I see his face. It is not happy. It is afraid. Philippe he go on the second floor and see monseigneur's so foolish kinsman. He have anger monseigneur.”

Rachel's heart was thundering. “But—surely,” she faltered, “that cannot be? Why would he be punished for so small a mistake?”

“I do not know, mademoiselle. Even my Diccon—he does not know. But—one thing I do know. Philippe is dead.”

“Wh-What…?” Rachel whispered, horrified.

“
Oui,
mademoiselle. They say he fall into the pool. He is not the first.”

“Oh—my God! How—awful! But perhaps, it was just … an accident.”

He gave a scornful grunt. “Raoul have not so many friends, and first, he say to himself, ‘Raoul, leave this evil place!' Then, he answer himself, ‘No! Philippe was too good of friend to die for no reason. Raoul will stay and see what he shall see.' Then, Monsieur Diccon arrive. He and Raoul become fine friends, but this Diccon, he have the eyes that crawl inside a man's head, and soon, what Raoul knows, Diccon also knows. We shake the hands and swear to be comrades and foil this bad monseigneur however we might. Diccon, he is very brave, and Raoul also; who knows what together we may work? Before he take a fine horse to Monsieur Parnell in England, Diccon say, ‘Raoul, if the English lady is in distress, you will help her.' So—how I may help?”

Rachel did not answer. Her resolutely suppressed doubts and half-formed impressions were condensing into a terrible suspicion that made her breath flutter in her throat and her bones become weak as jelly. Was Claude one of those individuals whose kindness and love is extended to one person only, and who show quite another face to the rest of the world? Her attempt to convince herself that she must judge by what she herself had seen, and not be swayed by the opinions of others, was doomed. Sister Maria Evangeline had sought to warn her; her own instincts had warned her. Her picture of Claude as a kindly, benevolent protector, someone who would ensure Charity's well-being, was gone, replaced by a picture the more sinister because of his mild and gentle manner. The recollection of how he had kissed her, of his caresses, made her skin crawl. She could not wed him! She
could
not! However disgraceful, better to be ruined for ever than to marry a man who terrified and revolted her! She
must
get them back to England. But her beloved sister's health was so precarious. Only yesterday, Dr. Ulrich had paid a brief visit and said Charity seemed to have taken a slight downturn and was on no account to try and walk as she so longed to do. Charity had been downcast and withdrawn since he left, her cheerful gaiety banished by a weary listlessness and a complete lack of appetite that was frightening. Despite her efforts to be brave, sudden tears stung Rachel's eyes. She had tried so hard, subjugating her own hopes so as to provide for Charity, but her well-meant efforts seemed to have resulted in disaster. If only, she thought forlornly, Justin were here. Or dear Tristram. And God forbid they should be, for if Claude was as merciless as she now suspected, any opposition could only be extremely dangerous. She must handle this alone, but she felt so crushed and confused. Whatever
could
she do?

Raoul had seen that proud back wilt and, his kind heart touched, said staunchly, “Mademoiselle will not now despair. Raoul is here! We will contrive, I have said it! What do you wish?”

She pulled up her head, and blinking away her tears said in a very small voice, “I wish to go home. Before monseigneur returns. Can you help me?”

“With anything, mademoiselle. Within my power. This is not within my power. Raoul cannot the miracle perform. For Diccon we must wait, and in the meantime, should monseigneur come, mademoiselle must be careful—very careful. Never must mademoiselle forget her sister is here also. To get her safely away against the wish of monseigneur, this would be of the impossible.”

A shiver slid between Rachel's shoulder blades. “I—will do as you say,” she gulped. “Thank you. You are very brave, Raoul.”

“Oui,”
he agreed. “I am. Which is well, for this monseigneur is not good for your England,
n'est-ce pas?
Someone his schemes must stop.”

Then this was true as well! Sister Maria Evangeline had not exaggerated. Claude really
did
plot against England. Feeling as though she were sinking in quicksand, Rachel said feebly, “B-But—England is not your country.”

“This is true. My France have her differences with all Europe, alas, and many, many young men have die. It is done now. It must not again come. This Raoul, he will fight bravely to stop so bad a thing.” He paused, then added softly, “Diccon, he hope mademoiselle might be willing to also help.”

Rachel shrank. “But … how? I—I could not hurt monseigneur.”

“If he has done nothing bad, how may you hurt him, mademoiselle? All Diccon hoped was for a key. You know where is monseigneur's bedchamber?”

“Yes. But—heavens! I've not been near it!”

“Of course. Now in the carving of the mantel is a little place concealed that may be opened by twisting of a rosette. And in this tiny place is a key to the door that close off the stairs to the top floor. If mademoiselle—”