The Earl Next Door (5 page)

Figgs nodded. ‘As we have to be here anyway, to be a back up for Kit, so to speak, it makes sense for you to keep an eye on Marianne. We don’t want Kit returning home to find her on the brink of exhaustion from looking after the estate - he has enough troubles.’ He looked around the room thoughtfully. ‘It’s lucky we were able to rent this place. It’s ideal: right next door to Kit's home, and with its own coves and beaches so that if we're needed we can put a small boat out to sea without attracting too much attention. And, once Kit's rescued Adèle, we can help him to land.’

Luke nodded. ‘Yes. It was fortunate Mr Billingsdale was looking for a tenant. This place makes an excellent base. But that doesn’t solve the problem of Marianne. As things stand, she doesn’t like me. She doesn’t even trust me - though I can't say I blame her,' he said, angry with himself at having so misjudged the situation. 'Even so, if she neither likes nor trusts me she won’t turn to me for help if she needs it.’

‘Oh, well, it could have been worse,’ said Figgs with a shrug. ‘At least you didn’t tell her to call you Luke.’

Luke gave a wolfish smile, which widened into sardonic laughter. ‘That would have put the cat among the pigeons, would it not?’ He sobered suddenly. ‘It goes without saying that she must never learn who I am. If she discovers that the Earl of Ravensford and Luke Somerville are one and the same person, she’ll refuse to trust me altogether. With all the rumours that are flying round she will blame me for leading Kit into temptation and will fight me at every turn. Marianne is no milk and water miss. She would not forgive me if  she thought I had injured her brother.’

'You could always tell her you didn't lead Kit into temptation,' Figgs said practically.

'And you think she would believe me?' asked Luke with a lift of one eyebrow. 'No. Of course not. Not unless I could prove it. Which I can't - at least, not unless I tell her the truth, which would mean telling her that Kit has gone to
France
. And that is something I have promised not to do.'

‘It’s just a pity Kit couldn’t tell his family what he's really up to,’ said Figgs.

‘He didn't want to worry them. Besides, his father wouldn’t have given him the money to fund the expedition if he had known what it was for. On the contrary, Mr Travis would have done everything in his power to stand in Kit’s way. Which is why Kit had to make up the story about needing the money to cover gambling debts.’

‘The old man would have objected, then? Doesn’t he approve of Adèle?’ asked Figgs curiously.

‘Oh, he likes her well enough. In fact, as Adèle is his god-daughter, he likes her very well. But Kit is his heir, and his only son. He wouldn’t want him to take any risks.'

'Kit is happy to take them,' shrugged Figgs.

Luke nodded. As he did so he was conscious of a twist inside. It wasn’t that he was envious of Kit, but it was something close. Because he realised that Kit, who, at twenty-five, was three years his junior, had found something in life that he himself had been denied. Kit had found a woman he would willingly risk his life for, whereas he himself had found nothing but idle distractions: barques of frailty and bits of muslin with whom he had had a string of unsatisfactory affairs.

It's no wonder Kit's determined to marry Adèle, he thought. If I found a woman I'd risk my life for, I'd marry, too. But it's hardly likely.

‘I don’t like deceiving Marianne – or Miss Travis, as I must try and remember to call her, at least to her face; although it will be hard, when I am so used to hearing Kit talking about her as Marianne.’ He rose and went over to the mantelpiece. Then, standing with his back to it, he turned his eyes towards the window, through which he had seen Marianne leave the house. ‘I never liked the idea of deceiving Kit’s sister, and now that I’ve met her I like it even less. However, to spare her the worry and anxiety she will feel if she knows that Kit is risking his life in a rescue attempt, it’s something I have to do.’

Figgs nodded slowly.

‘There is one thing, though,’ said Luke thoughtfully. ‘Marianne told me she has taken in a man whose leg has been caught in a trap: a stranger, not someone from around these parts. Fortunately, he wasn’t too badly hurt. But the thought crossed my mind that he could be Henri.’

‘Ah. That would be useful,’ said Figgs. ‘If it is him, he may be able to win her trust even if you can’t. And it would explain why he didn’t join us last night as arranged. But how will you discover if it is Henri?’

Luke turned his eyes back to his friend. ‘Because I intend to go over to Seaton Hall and find out. In the meantime, we need to get things moving here. Has the luggage arrived?'

'Yes. It came yesterday.'

'And the servants?'

'They should be here this afternoon.'

'Good. The house needs putting in order. We might as well be comfortable. After all, we will be here for some time.'

As Marianne made her way home she was glad she had drunk a glass of Canary wine. The day had turned colder, and now that her stone hot water bottles had lost their heat the wine’s warmth was the only thing that made the journey comfortable.

As she traversed the country lanes she could not help thinking over her meeting with Lord Ravensford. Although in the end it had gone well it had nearly proved disastrous - because she had ignored Trudie’s advice and gone out without a chaperon.

Without a chaperon, and in a horse and cart.

Her thoughts went to the Travis carriage, which was tucked away in a corner of the stables. Her family no longer boasted the number of servants needed to polish its brasses and buff its squabs, as their fortunes had been adversely affected by the turbulence in
France
. But even so, despite its dilapidation, Marianne would have taken it if Tom had been available to drive it. Her second choice would have been to go on horseback, but with Dapple ill that, too, had been impossible.

For the first time Marianne realised how she must look, not to her neighbours, who knew that her means were straitened and who were used to her ways, but to a stranger. It was one thing for her to tool about the countryside in a rustic cart with no chaperon at her side when the only people she was likely to meet were the Cosgroves or the Reverend Mr Stock, but when there was a new person in the neighbourhood it had been unwise.

She turned Hercules in at the gate of Seaton Hall, glad that her journey was nearly over. There would be a big fire waiting for her in the kitchen - the other rooms were seldom used unless there was company, it being more economical that way – and Trudie would be on hand to hear all about her success.

Of  her ill treatment at Lord Ravensford’s hands she decided to say nothing. It would only lead to a scolding and an “I told you so”, in addition to making Trudie impossible if Lord Ravensford should ever visit Seaton Hall.

Marianne drove the cart round to the stables. Leaving it in Jack’s willing hands she went to see how Dapple was doing. She was relieved to discover the mare was much better, and that Tom expected a speedy recovery. Then, having satisfied herself that her mare was making good progress, she went into the Hall.

The first thing she noticed on entering the hall was a delicious smell, and then she heard the  sound of a heated argument coming from the back of the house. Curiously, she made her way towards the kitchen. As she opened the kitchen door a strange sight met her eyes. There, brandishing her rolling pin, was Trudie, glaring at the man who, only the day before, had been caught in the jaws of the mantrap. And both of them had fire in their eyes.

‘Miss Marianne! Thank the Lord!’ said Trudie, as she turned towards the door.

‘Ah!
Mademoiselle
! I beseech you –‘ began the small man, turning imploringly towards Marianne. Before Trudie cut him off.

‘I won’t have it, Miss Marianne, I told him plain. Coming into my kitchen and messing with my things. That’s the best chicken he’s had, messing about with it and cutting it up and doing the Lord knows what with it, and how I’m to cook our dinner now I really don’t know.’

‘What . . . ?’ began Marianne, looking from one to the other of them, pleased to see that the stranger was well enough to be up, but unable to work out what had happened.

Trudie, however, was for the moment too incensed to speak.  ‘Goo,’ she declared finally, glaring fiercely at the little man, ‘that’s what he’s done with it. He said so himself. He’s turned the chicken into goo.’

‘
Ra
gout!’ ejaculated the little man, exaggerating the shape of the word with his lips and making a sumptuous gesture with his hands, as though kissing an imaginary plate of food. ‘
Ra
gout! I have turned it into
ra
gout! Ah,
Mademoiselle
,’ he said, appealing to Marianne again, ‘I want only to help. To repay you for your kindness. But what can I do? I am only a poor Frenchman, with nothing to give the kind lady who has taken him in. But then I think, I can cook. Cooking is what I know. In
France
I am the superb chef! I cook for the lords and the ladies.’ His face fell. ‘But now there are no lords and ladies. Now there are only
citizens
.’ He spat the word. ‘And what do citizens eat? Heh? Do they eat the wonderful meals, slaved over by the anxious cook?
Non
! They eat bread, and tear with their teeth at the pieces of meat.’

‘French,’ said Marianne, taking off her gloves and hat and placing them on the end of the kitchen table. ‘
Monsieur
, you are French?’

‘
Mais oui, Mademoiselle
. And I am proud of it. I love my country. But this, it is not a good time to be French. And I say to my brother – I say it when I can stand it no longer, the blood and the pain and the fear – I say, I will go to
England
. I will make a new life for myself. I will get on a boat and cross the Channel and then I will walk to
London
. And then . . . who knows? Per’aps I will cook for the lords and ladies, per’aps I will even cook for the king.
Oui
? But now I cannot walk to
London
. I cannot walk anywhere.’ He looked sorrowfully down at his leg. ‘The young
Mademoiselle
, she has been kind to me,’ he said with a Gallic shrug, ‘but why should she look after me? Heh? No reason. Unless I do something for her. Unless I show her that Henri can be useful. Unless I show her that Henri can cook!’

Marianne looked at Trudie. ‘It does smell very good,’ she said.

‘A- ha!’ The Frenchman beamed at Trudie in triumph, then whisked a ladle seemingly out of nowhere and proceeded to stir the savoury dish that was bubbling on the stove. Scooping up some of the liquid he blew on it and, ignoring Trudie’s indignant grimace, offered it to Marianne. She sipped at the sauce, and her face lit up.

‘A- ha! It is good,
non
?’ he demanded.

‘It is good,
yes
,’ laughed Marianne. ‘It really is,’ she said, turning to Trudie. ‘And it would be such a help to have another pair of hands about the place. You know it yourself. You could leave all the cooking to Henri.’ She knew that here she was playing her strong suit because Trudie, much as she might have protested about Henri’s meddling, did not enjoy cooking. ‘And, as long as he feels well enough, it will keep him occupied until his leg mends.’

Trudie snorted. ‘And a good thing too. A foreigner, getting under my feet every day – I dare say you’d be too soft to turn him out.’

‘It is a good ragout,’ Marianne tempted her.

Trudie fought a visible battle. She was not fond of cooking, but she loved to eat.

‘
Madame —’
 began Henri, turning appealing eyes on Trudie.