The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (20 page)

‘
What?
’

‘Quite.
 
But
for certain mitigating factors, my
amour
propre
would have been quite destroyed – but that is of small importance in
the overall scheme of things. Later today, you will receive a note from
Caroline crying off from this evening’s engagement. And at some point tonight,
she and the fellow calling himself Claude Duvall will elope.’

Lady Brassington sat down very suddenly on the
nearest chair.

‘
Claude
Duvall?
 
But he’s dead. This is
ridiculous. What on earth can she be thinking?
 
And how do
you
know all this?’

‘Well, that’s where it becomes complicated.’
 
Sarre withdrew something from his pocket and
crossed the room to let it slide slowly into her lap.
 
‘I daresay you’ll recognise these.’

‘My pearls.’
 
She ran them through her fingers several times and then frowned up at
him.
 
‘I don’t understand. How did you
get them?’

Several seconds ticked by in silence.
 
Then, with a rueful and very Gallic shrug, he
said, ‘I stole them.
 
From you.’

She shook her head, frowning.

‘No.
 
That’s
not possible.
 
You couldn’t have --’ And
then she stopped, as the truth behind what he was saying finally hit her.
 
‘You?
 
You
were the highwayman?’

He made a flamboyant bow.
 
‘Claude
Duvall, Madame. Et tout
à
votre service.’

‘Oh my God.’
 
She continued to look at him as if she expected him to transform on the
spot while the pieces slotted together inside her head.
 
‘But that means … that means Caroline’s
eloping with
you
.
 
Except … except that she isn’t.’

‘Yes.
 
I did
say it was complicated.’

‘
Complicated?
 
It’s a Chinese puzzle,’ snapped her
ladyship.
 
‘What the devil did you think
you were playing at?
 
And for God’s sake,
sit down before I get a permanent crick in my neck.’

Sarre did so and said slowly, ‘I could try to
explain everything from the beginning.
 
But perhaps you would rather know why I’m telling you all this.’

‘I’m not naïve, sir. I
know
the answer to that.
 
You
want someone on your side when the world accuses you of ruining Caroline in
order to force her into marriage for the sake of her dowry.’

‘No.
 
The
world has been saying far worse of me for years.
 
I’m used to it.
 
What I want is to ensure that, when this is
all done, Caroline’s reputation doesn’t suffer by it and I hoped you could help
with that.’

‘It’s possible.’
 
She eyed him narrowly. ‘There are two things, however.
 
Firstly, you can assure me that she’ll return
to society as the Countess of Sarre?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the unpleasant gossip one hears about you?’

‘Is untrue.
 
But denials mean little against such interestingly scandalous
accusations.’
 
He paused and added
impassively, ‘The truth would make an even juicier story. But the only person
who could tell it is myself … and I won’t.’

Lady Brassington continued to consider him for a
moment.
 
Then, nodding decisively and without
troubling to pull the bell, she called, ‘Soames?’

The butler appeared immediately.
 

Her ladyship said crisply, ‘Soames – you will
forget everything you have just heard.’

He bowed.
 
‘Naturally, my lady.
 
Does your
ladyship require anything else?’

‘Yes. Bring the best brandy. And
you
, my lord, can start again at the
beginning and explain everything … including the story of my pearls.’

*
 
*
 
*

Bertrand arrived in Cork Street at a little after four
o’clock, looking frayed at the edges.

Adrian said, ‘Any problems?’

‘Unless you count the fact that I’m tired, hungry
and about to set off for bloody Kent again in the next few hours – no.’

‘Well, at least you won’t be riding this time.’

‘Some comfort that is.
 
It’s damned cold out there.’
 
He threw his hat and cloak on to a
chair.
 
‘I left Argan stabled at The Ship
in Faversham, by the way, and rode the rest of the way on a hired nag. You’ll
be able to pick him up
en route
.’

‘Good.’
 
Adrian nodded.
 
‘And the house?’

‘Should be cosy enough by the time we get there.
 
Your caretaking couple have kept it in
reasonable shape.
 
Mrs Clayton’s prepared
to cook for you and she’s hired a maid.’
 
He shot a sideways look.
 
‘Not the
easiest place to find, is it?
 
Remote,
too.
 
Is that why you bought it?’

‘I didn’t buy it.
 
I inherited it.
 
The only thing I
did
inherit, actually – and that purely
because, for some God knows what reason, it was entailed.’
 
He handed Bertrand a glass of Burgundy and said,
‘Drink that.
 
Get warm, have something to
eat and put your feet up for a couple of hours.
 
I’ve packed a bag for myself and will see to the carriage and anything
else that needs to be done.
 
We collect
the bride-to-be at eight.’

‘Can’t wait,’ muttered Bertrand.
 
And, with a sly grin, ‘Bet she can’t either.’

*
 
*
 
*

In fact, despite everything having gone
surprisingly smoothly, Caroline’s nerves were stretched as tight as violin
strings.
 
Lord Sarre had received her
refusal with grace and a hint of mingled regret and concern.
 
She’d delivered the one bag she’d permitted
herself to the wiry, sandy-haired fellow who spoke truly awful English.
 
She’d sent her apologies to Lady B and
received a sympathetic note in return.
 
And she’d written a letter to Mama and her sisters meticulously designed
to reassure them.
 
Following Claude’s
plan had kept her occupied.
 
Once it was
done, however, her insides shivered with excitement and nameless anxiety.

The trouble with making it appear that she was
attending the usual sort of social event with Lady Brassington meant that she
had to dress for that instead of being able to wear something suitable for
travelling. Repressing a sigh, she chose the least dreadful of her evening
gowns – a vivid pink shot silk from which nearly all of the silver-floss
trimming had been removed – and laid out a gun-metal grey velvet cloak, lined
with fine wool. Lavinia eyed the latter questioningly but made no remark.
 
Sylvia, whose abilities as a coiffeuse had
improved dramatically over the last few weeks, drew her hair smoothly back from
her face and allowed only three long curls to fall to one shoulder.
 
And suddenly it was time to go.

Caroline managed to leave Mama’s letter in her
room by dint of running back on the excuse of having forgotten her fan.
 
Then a lump rose in her throat along with the
realisation that, much as she wanted to hug her sisters and say goodbye, she
couldn’t do it.
 
So she smiled and waved
her hand just as she did every evening … and left her old life behind.

Claude’s servant dropped down from the box to hand
her into the carriage.
 
Of Claude himself
there was no sign – presumably a precaution in the event that anyone was
looking through the window.
 
Although she
understood this, Caroline wished he was there beside her.
 
Perhaps then she might not feel quite so
sick.

Bertrand set the coach in motion.
 
Behind it, sleek and swift as a cat, a dark
figure moved back to the house and laid something white under a stone in the
shallow portal.
 
Then the same figure ran
down the street in the direction the coach had taken, to the place where a
brown mare stood waiting.

Bertrand pulled the coach to a halt and
waited.
 
Claude Duvall, no longer masked
but with a peculiar hat pulled low over his eyes, opened the door and grasped
Caroline’s cold hands.
 
She said shakily,
‘You’re here.
 
I thought … for a moment I
wasn’t sure …’

‘Foolish Caroline,’ he reproved, his voice warm
and caressing. ‘Of course I am here. How could you doubt it?
 
But there is no time to linger.
 
We must be away.’

‘Yes. I know. But aren’t you going to ride here
with me?’

‘Sadly, no. Bertrand drives, as you have seen.
 
And I will need the horse – so of a
necessity, I must ride him.’
 
He gave her
fingers a comforting squeeze and said, ‘We are going to Kent – a journey of
some hours, I fear – but will pause for a short time half-way.
 
Until then,
ma belle
, you should try to sleep.’
 

And with that, the door slammed shut and he was
gone.

Sleep?
thought Caroline a shade wildly.
I’m
running away to be married.
 
How on earth
does he expect me to sleep?

Oddly enough, however, she did fall into a brief,
uneasy doze so that the next thing she knew was when the coach drew to a halt
in the stable-yard of an inn.
 
Bertrand
jumped down and set about arranging a change of horses.
 
Several minutes later, Claude appeared in the
doorway of the carriage with a mug of chocolate in one hand and a hot brick in
the other.
 
Handing her the first and
busying himself placing the second beneath her frozen toes, he said, ‘This is
Faversham.
 
It will be perhaps two hours
more from here.
 
If you wish to enter the
inn and use the … the facilities, I will find a maidservant.’

Caroline felt herself flush.
 
He was asking if she needed to relieve
herself.
 
She said hurriedly, ‘No.
 
Thank you.
 
I shall be fine.’

‘
Bon
.
 
Drink the
chocolat
.
 
It will warm you.
 
We will be off again in a short while.’

While she sipped the chocolate, she heard him
conversing with Bertrand in rapid and presumably, since she couldn’t understand
any of it, idiomatic French.

Adrian said, ‘Once Canterbury is well behind us,
I’ll ride on ahead.
 
When you arrive, bring
mademoiselle
directly into the house.
 
I’ll see that the maid is waiting to take her
upstairs so that she can refresh herself.’

‘Make sure the girl understands that, for now,
you’re Monsieur Duvall not Monseigneur.’

‘I am aware.’

‘And where will
you
be while all this is happening?’

‘Waiting.’

‘Going to face the music tonight, are you?’

‘Yes.
 
Putting it off isn’t likely to make it any better.’

‘Suppose not.’
 
Bertrand thought for a moment and then said helpfully, ‘There’s a lot of
nasty sharp ornaments in that parlour – along with a good set of
fire-irons.
 
I’d put them out of harm’s
way, if I was you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Adrian dryly. ‘I’ll bear it in
mind.’

Bertrand laughed.

Caroline handed her empty mug through the window
to a passing stable-hand and watched Claude swing himself into the saddle of a
grey horse that, even in the fitful light, looked vaguely familiar.
 
She puzzled over this for a moment or two
then forgot about it as the coach started moving again.

Aside from the occasional village, the road
outside was black as pitch.
 
After an
hour or more, the coach rumbled through a large town which she guessed might be
Canterbury and then passed into more darkness.
 
Time started to drag and Caroline’s muscles began to protest at the
hours of bumpy confinement.
 
As best she
could assess, the time had to be somewhere around midnight. Surely to God they
must be nearly there?

They rattled through another small town after
which the road disintegrated into a rutted track, causing Caroline to clutch at
the strap in order to prevent being jolted to the floor.
 
And then, just when she had given up expecting
it, the coach drew to a halt.
 
She peered
out of the window and saw a house.
 
It
was quite large and clearly old, built of narrow bricks and furnished with tall
chimneys. She wondered who owned it. Then, as Bertrand opened the door and let
down the steps to help her out, she caught the unmistakable tang of the sea.
 
She even thought that she could hear it which
meant it must be very close.

Where on
earth
are
we?
 
Can Claude be thinking of going to France?

Bertrand, however, led her briskly up to the
arched oak door and, without a word, handed her into the keeping of a maid who
curtsied and said, ‘I’m Sally, Miss. If you’ll follow me, the master said you’d
likely want a moment to refresh yourself after the journey.’