Mademoiselle At Arms (6 page)

‘I thank you,’ Gerald said drily. ‘And I suppose I shall be
obliged to endure another nonsensical tale about your husband.’

‘What husband?’

‘Precisely.’

The lady sighed and spread her hands. Here we go, thought Gerald.

‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said
the lady sadly.

‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely.

‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her
role evidently forgotten for the moment.

‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. ‘I
am fascinated.’

She bit her lip, and then turning her face away, emitted
another sigh. ‘My papa he does not wish me to marry the man I choose, and thus
he places me in the convent that the nuns may lock me up and I cannot escape.’

‘As we see.’

‘Yes, but they did do so.’

‘But you managed to escape nevertheless,’ Gerald said calmly,
‘disguising yourself as a nun. And who is the man you are not allowed to marry?
Valade, perhaps?’

‘
Dieu du ciel
,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up. ‘That—that—why
do you speak of him?’

‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but
rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain. He is
already married.’

‘Married?’

‘I did mention
Madame
Valade, did I not?’

At that, a growl of startling ferocity escaped her lips. ‘She?
Sa femme
? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place,
that
salope
. This is altogether insupportable.
Eh
bien
, we
shall see.’ She focused on Gerald’s face. ‘And for you,
monsieur
le major
,
it will be well if you do not make me a shock like this again.’

Turning, she climbed over the low haha wall. Gerald reached
out a hand to stop her.

‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you.’

‘So that you may interest yourself in my affairs even more?’

‘Then I will go with you,’ he offered.

‘No! Let me alone!’

‘It is not safe!’

‘That is entirely my affair, and not your affair in the
least,’ she told him haughtily. ‘
En
tout cas
, I have waiting for
me a cavalier.’

‘Oh, have you?’ grunted Gerald, surprising in himself a surge
of some odd emotion at these words. ‘Damnation!’

Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted
away and was running down the garden.

Gerald watched her vanish into the darkness, unusually
incensed. Hang the wench! Roding was right. He was mad. Lord knew why he had
any interest in an impertinent girl who would certainly have spit him with that
dagger! He reached into his pocket and brought it out, examining it in the
increasing light as he slowly made his way back up the terrace. A pretty piece.
Gold-handled, too. Small, but eminently serviceable. For whom had its sharp
point been intended?

Valade? Or perhaps his wife now that the girl had word of
their marriage. What a heat that news had wrought. Had she expected to wed
Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He
must find out more.

Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl,
he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back
into the house to look for his hostess.

He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had
ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on
him.

‘Where the devil have you been?’

‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens.’

Hilary stared. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’

‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. ‘She’s gone. This time she tried to
kill me with a dagger.’

‘What?’

‘Neat little toy. I’ll show it to you later.’ He glanced
about and saw his quarry holding court at one end of the vast mirrored chamber.
‘At this present, I must appropriate Lady Bicknacre.’

‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was
marked.

‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. ‘I’m following a
scent.’

Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in
her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the
refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy
when Gerald spoke of them. He had adroitly captured her and led her away from
her other guests on the pretext of feigning an interest in her charitable
attitude to the newly arrived French.

Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. ‘Poor
things. Can you imagine how dreadful it must be for them? Most of them arrive
here almost penniless.’

‘Gather their bankers are still able to transfer funds,’
remarked Hilary, who had tagged along, apparently determined not to leave Gerald
to make even more of a fool of himself. He had already spoken his mind on the
folly of allowing a clearly dangerous female to escape a second time.

‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively. ‘Their
lawyers are working tirelessly, but they report that the situation is daily
worsening.’

‘Some, of course,’ put in Gerald, ‘have been unable to
recover anything. Like the Valades, I imagine.’

‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened
tones.

‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major.

‘Still, the comtesse has them well in hand. She has even
found them accommodation in the house where she is putting up herself. In
Paddington. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends.’ She shook
her head. ‘Pitiful.’

‘Very much so,’ Gerald said, matching her tone, and at once
forced the discussion back to his own point of interest by adding, ‘I was
particularly struck by those poor Valades. Do you know much of his background?’

‘Only that he is, or was, related to the Vicomte de Valade. It
seems he does not inherit the title.’

‘Well for him,’ remarked Captain Roding.

‘He could have little comfort there, indeed. But it is not
entirely without hope, for perhaps they may find some succour with Charvill. Personally,
however, I doubt if—’

‘Charvill?’ interrupted Gerald without ceremony, all his senses
at once on the alert. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’

‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. ‘He was our first
commander, and a more stiff-necked—’

‘Exactly so,’ concurred Lady Bicknacre. ‘Which is why I feel
sure he will utterly repulse the girl, even if she is his granddaughter.’

‘What, Madame Valade?’ demanded Gerald. ‘His
grand
daughter?’

‘Yes, his son’s daughter.’

‘What son?’ asked Roding.

‘Precisely,’ agreed Gerald. ‘I thought it was his
great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir.’

‘Oh yes, yes. But this was long ago. Nicholas is dead. At
least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. Not that it would
make any difference if he was alive still.’

‘Why not?’ Gerald asked straightly.

‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of
all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his
father’s wishes and ran away. General Lord Charvill disinherited him for his
pains. I cannot think he will welcome a French
émigré
for his granddaughter.’

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?’