The Disdainful Marquis (32 page)

He looked handsome enough, she thought. His shirt was unbuttoned to the chest. The red bandanna emphasized the tanned muscular neck, and his hair had been artfully arranged by the March wind. Catherine saw the girl give her a speculative sideways look. She probably wonders, Catherine imagined, what such a fine fellow is doing with such a drab quiet little mouse of a wife. She could not know that her own eyes sparkled bluer than the tone of her simple peasant frock or that the wind had flung her dark hair into exquisitely curling tendrils. The serving girl smiled lovingly and helplessly at Sinjun again and went off to find refreshments for the beautiful young couple.

When Jenkins joined them, they fell to their food in continued silence. Only when Catherine had done and looked up did she find Sinjun watching her with a troubled expression in his eyes. It was gone in the moment she saw it. He looked at her coolly and then said in a low voice, “Catherine. Jenkins and I now have to go and find lodgings. We'll try for this inn, but I fear it's too crowded here. Then we will have to saunter over to the waterfront and look up a few local fellows well known for turning a blind eye to the cargo they carry. More importantly, Jenkins knows of a few English fellows who might be ready to start home again. For if we had our way, we'd rather go home with an English crew than find ourselves at sea with a crew of suddenly patriotic Frenchmen. So it will take time. Stay here and sip your chocolate. Speak to no one. If you spy your own sister walking by, do not speak. Do you understand?”

Catherine nodded.

“Buck up, Miss Catherine.” Seeing her quiet compliance, Jenkins put in softly, “With any luck, we'll be out of here by the rising of the tide.”

Catherine watched as Sinjun and Jenkins strode out the door, telling her in French that they'd return shortly.

But the afternoon lengthened and Catherine sat mutely stirring the third cup of chocolate the serving girl had brought her, and still they had not returned. She had sat impatient and feeling as cramped and bottled up as an ill-tempered genie as the time had gone by. She watched all sorts of people pass the window of the inn, and had difficulty swallowing when she noted that there were soldiers in the town, strolling by and looking at all the passersby. A few had looked in the window at her. But aside from one cheeky young fellow who had winked at her, they seemed to pay her no special attention.

She was wondering whether it might be possible that she could be on English soil again before another day passed, when she noted a group of people who had entered the inn and had come into the room where she sat. So she turned and stared out the window, pretending to be oblivious to her surroundings when she realized that one of them had come up to her table.

“Good evening, Miss Robins,” Henri Beaumont said silkily. “It is a great pleasure to find you here. I do not care for your new style of dress, but I must say you do nonetheless look as enchanting as ever.”

Henri Beaumont pulled out a chair and sat smiling benignly at Catherine. He noted the shock in the girl's eyes and the distress which had sent the color flying from her cheeks. It pleased him to see her in such distress for it had been a long and uncomfortable chase, and at least her consternation in some small way repaid him for his discomfort.

He did not blame her, he thought, watching her sit and blink at him as though he were a specter, for opting to go off with her countryman. Even he could see that the English marquis was a better example of manhood than his poor friend Hervé. After all, she was a woman as well as a businesswoman. When he discovered she had flown, and that the marquis had flown as well on the same day, his chagrin had been genuine. Still, he would have been content to shrug the whole matter off if it had not been for two unexpected factors.

One was that Hervé had been horrified to find that he was not to be presented with the English miss his brother had been so sure he would have for his own. For, as Hervé had explained, sputtering and banging upon the table, Beaumont had promised the woman to him. And he had told his brother he was to have her. And now, he had gone on, flapping his arms in fury, he would look like a fool. For while it would be delicious to be in power again, to live in splendor and deign to give charity to his brother, it would be as nothing if he had not the whole of it. What use, he had screeched, to be generous and dole out coins to Pierre? What use to see Pierre give up his splendid apartments to live in a hovel? It would not be complete if he could not see Pierre dying of envy as he nuzzled the neck of the very woman Pierre had thought to have. And implicit in every furious gesture Beaumont read the message: If Henri Beaumont could not procure him all that he desired, what sort of a friend was he? And what did he need him for when soon his beloved general would reward him so well for his loyalty?

The other factor that had precipitated Henri Beaumont's chase across the country was the man that the English female had fled with. For there was no question that the Marquis of Bessacarr was on clandestine business in Paris. Beaumont had known it, but had been helpless to stop it while peace and Louis reigned.

But now that the regime was changing, matters were different. The moment Napoleon once again set foot upon the throne, all the marquis' immunity would vanish. Even now at this delightful moment as he recovered the girl, he could not take the Marquis of Bessacarr. For, with all his far-ranging network of informants, still he had not gotten certain word of Napoleon's arrival in Paris. That he had left Elba, Beaumont knew. That he was coming to Paris was also certain. But as yet there had been no word of his triumphant arrival. And he had to wait upon that word.

Still, he thought, it had not been a wasted trip. Here was the girl. She was not a titled Englishwoman; she had no immunity. He could deliver her to Hervé and be in the excellent position of having Hervé Richard deeply indebted to him. He looked at the girl as she sat, pale and transfixed with terror, gazing at him. She was lovely, he noted dispassionately. Fleshly passion was not one of Henri Beaumont's sins. Women were in all, he thought, rather boring creatures. Power was Henri Beaumont's only passion, and he felt a distinct twinge of pleasure as he contemplated the girl he had gone to such lengths to discover.

“So,” he said, placing his hands upon the table, “now you will come with me, Miss Robins.”

“No,” Catherine said, “I shall not. I told you so in Paris. And I say so again. For I am an English citizen and I am free to go home if I wish.”

“This is so very tiresome,” he said. “I know you are loath to leave your good friend the marquis, but I assure you Hervé is a generous man. While, admittedly, he is not so fine a specimen as the marquis, he is a good enough chap in his own way and you will be recompensed more than adequately for your services.”

He stood and motioned to two of the soldiers who had entered the inn with him.

“Please stand and go with them quietly, Miss Catherine,” he said, “for it will be no use for you to make a to-do.”

Catherine rose and began to walk with the two soldiers. She knew she could leave a message for the marquis, but she feared even letting his name slip in M. Beaumont's presence. In her confusion Catherine could only hope that Sinjun had seen what was happening and was wise enough to stay away in safety.

But as they approached the door she saw Sinjun and Jenkins enter. Jenkins was breathing heavily, as if they had run a long way.

Sinjun stood and stayed the soldiers with one imperious uplifted hand. He turned and stared at M. Beaumont. Even though Sinjun was dust covered and dressed as a peasant, still he had an air of command that communicated itself to the soldiers.

“M. Beaumont,” he bowed, “how unexpected to meet you again.”

Henri Beaumont stood quietly, a solemn gray-coated insignificant man beside the marquis. The two men measured each other with their eyes.

“Not entirely unexpected, Your Lordship,” M. Beaumont smiled, returning the bow. “For surely a gentleman such as yourself would have patronized finer establishments than stables and barns on his journey if he had not been at least halfway expecting to see me again?”

Sinjun acknowledged the words with a tight smile.

“And,” M. Beaumont went on glibly, “I admire your caution. But you could not know that the landlady in Saint-Denis wondered why the little simple lad never got on the diligence. Nor could you have known that Mme. Boisvert in Louviers noticed that your charming French wife spoke English when she thought no one was listening. And I pride myself on reasoning that Dieppe would be too obvious a place for you to return to and Calais too far in these so troubled times.”

“Very reasonable pride,” Sinjun said, “but why are you taking my lovely companion away? Is it sheer revenge?”

“You know better than that,” M. Beaumont said. “I must deprive her of your company. Alas, she is lovely, but she is also a thief. See what I have discovered she had upon her person when I apprehended her.”

He dug into his pocket and held up a chamois purse. Lovingly, he withdrew a strand of pearls. As Catherine gaped, he took an emerald and diamond brooch from its folds and, lastly, held up the duchess's finest sapphire and ruby pendant.

“And not only that,” he said sadly, “but I have also the dear lady who owns these trinkets to testify as to their theft.”

He nodded to one of his minions, who quickly went out into the street to a waiting coach.

“Now what magistrate could deny the word of a titled English lady against her former companion?” he asked.

As Catherine watched in horror, M. Beaumont's man returned with the Duchess of Crewe following him. She appeared supported by Rose on one side and a wretched-looking James on the other. She was blinking in the light as though she had just been awakened from sleep. No trace of her former dignity showed, and when she spoke, it was not with command, but with a cranky querulousness.

“Yes. Those are my jewels,” she said immediately upon entering, never once looking at what M. Beaumont held up in his hand. Her eyes wavered over to Catherine for a moment and then hastily darted away from her.

“And that's the gel. Now I must go. You said I could go home now. Give me my jewels back and let me go.”

“I must keep the stolen goods, for evidence,” M. Beaumont said calmly. “Surely you do not object to that? For if you do, you can always wait until the matter is settled and then claim them from me.”

“No,” the old woman gasped, “no. Keep them, but you said that I could go home now. I've told you all I know. I want to go home. Rose, tell him he must let me leave now,” she whined.

“Certainly,” M. Beaumont said, as he dropped the jewels back in his pocket. “Now that you have spoken in front of witnesses, you may go.”

“But, Your Grace,” Catherine called, unable to restrain herself, “and Rose. And James. You know I did no such thing. Oh, why don't you tell them it is untrue?”

But the dowager only hastily and ungracefully made for the door. Rose's face was red, but she and James only helped the old woman on her unsteady way and did not look back.

“So you see,” M. Beaumont said helplessly, spreading out his hands, “I have no choice. I shall keep Miss Robins here securely for a day or two. Then we shall return to Paris and justice. But,” he said slyly, “you may visit her in her incarceration if you wish, My Lord. I am not a heartless man, after all.”

“And you hope I visit often, often enough to let time pass and tides turn?” Sinjun snapped.

“Oh, well,” M. Beaumont shrugged, “time has a way of doing that, hasn't it?”

“Time enough,” Sinjun said bitterly, “for news to come from Paris, no doubt?”

“We both await such news, Marquis,” M. Beaumont said smoothly, “for even as we stand here talking, such news may be old in Paris. But, alas, there is no glass to see so far nor any voice to carry.”

“And,” Sinjun said carefully, “there is even a chance that such great events might miscarry, is there not? For otherwise, I think, you would not be so content to let me go.”

“All things are possible,” M. Beaumont said, “and I am a careful man. You are free, of course, M. Marquis. But the moment you become Citizen Marquis I shall know of it. Mlle. Robins will be safely kept in the jail here. But the tide runs high tonight, so you may visit or you may go. It is all the same to
me.

He signaled to the soldiers to proceed and they motioned Catherine to go with them. She stared at Sinjun and shook her head fiercely.

“Good-bye, Your Lordship,” she said tersely. “Please do not fear for me. Please leave while you can, for I see this is
a
coil you cannot extricate me from. Good-bye, Jenkins. Good luck.”

And, head held high, Catherine looked away from Sinjun's despairing face and followed the soldiers from the inn.

*

Catherine sat on the wooden bench in her cell and actually smiled to herself. For, she thought, M. Beaumont was a great one for effect. She knew that there were large clean cells above stairs, for she had seen them when she had been brought in. But here in the dank basement the cells looked like something out of a picture book of medieval tortures. They were made of cold gray stone with an ancient vaulted ceiling. The bars were thick enough to keep in a ravening murderer, and the one high window only showed a patch of light while it was still day.