The Reluctant Bride (29 page)

‘Jessamine,' said Angus, ‘was nothing like you. Her nervous temperament caused her skin complaint. When she was particularly distressed I gave her duck fat to ease the itching. She said that was what you used to do.'

As he took a step forward Madame Fontenay raised the pistol, warningly.

‘You could have found that out in a conversation.' Her shoulders heaved.

‘I could have,' Angus conceded. ‘However, I have Jessamine's locket and the painting you inscribed for her five years ago. In 1808. You wore a white dress with a tricolour sash. Jessamine said it was a hot day and you disliked the painter's desire to have the windows closed. Jessamine said she sat on the chaise longue and watched the portraitist at work, wishing she were as beautiful as you.'

Madame Fontenay's shoulders slumped.

‘Where is Jessamine now?' The question was borne upon an exhalation of defeat.

Angus shook his head. ‘You are naïve, Madame Fontenay, if you think I will tell you that while Emily and I remain in danger.'

Despite her shock, Madame Fontenay maintained her steady grip on the pistol. ‘You underestimate my mettle, Major McCartney, if you think I would put family considerations above the future of France.'

Sauntering into the ballroom dressed as Madeleine and asking where she could find the general had been the most terrifying moment of Emily's life.

Never had she undertaken a charade of any kind, much less something upon which so much hinged, including her life and quite possibly the future course of Anglo–French relations.

The admiring look one gentleman had sent her as he'd pointed to a portly, highly decorated old man a few feet away bolstered her confidence, and her doubts regarding this risky charade almost dissipated completely when the general brightened at the sight of her and patted his knee.

He was too drunk to notice she was not Madeleine. If Emily were bold enough, she'd complete her mission with flying colours.

The colours of the English flag.

Shortly after she'd taken him up on his invitation to perch on his knee, the general suggested she might like to help him to his bedchamber. His fleshy lips brushed her shoulder as she helped him to rise.

Fortuitously, after he'd staggered across the threshold of his room, leaning heavily on her, he collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep.

In an agony of indecision Emily stood in the middle of the carpet and wondered if she had the courage to put her hands on his person. Somewhere in his clothing or around his neck she knew he kept the key to the desk which she hoped contained the map of Europe outlining Bonaparte's military strategy.

Nervously, Emily placed her hand on his chest. He stirred, emitting a loud snore and she jumped backwards. If he opened his eyes she'd pretend she was here to assist him to undress. If necessary, she could run faster than he could, she was sure.

The second attempt at undoing one of his brass buttons was more successful and, slipping her hand under his shirt, she felt for the key she desperately hoped she'd find.

It was there but of course undoing the clasp was more difficult as his bull neck pressed into the mattress and it required busy, probing fingers to complete her task.

At last she had the key, and she ran quickly to open the desk, finding to her dismay that it contained two rolled-up maps.

Closer inspection revealed that one was bound with a strip of paper wrapped around it clearly marked:
For M Delon.

Emily gasped. So the general was part of the plan. He knew a young woman would solicit him and that he was to give her false information that she would then pass onto the enemy.

She hesitated. Should she take both?
Dear God, the enormity of the decision
 …

If she swapped the
For M Delon
paper and wrapped it around the other map, the general would assume Madeleine had taken the map while he was sleeping. He'd be unconcerned when he awoke to find only one map. Probably he wouldn't even study the remaining map, assuming the false one had simply been dispatched.

But no, she thought in sudden indecision, turning back to the desk. For how could she prove her innocence with only the one?

With both maps slipped inside her bodice, Emily hurried from the room and into the passage.

Right into the path of a monk who raised his cowl upon impact so that she found herself staring into the disbelieving green eyes of none other than Major Woodhouse. Foolishly she began to run, for it may have been possible that he'd not have recognised her, she thought afterwards. But it was too late. She'd drawn attention to herself. Ducking down a narrow, darkened passage she sprinted for the stairs, veering past the heavy newel post then down another narrow, darkened passage in the hope of confusing him in the gloom.

Once he grasped her shoulder but she shrugged free as she passed Madeleine's room from the servant's corridor, dashing down another corridor at right angles before finally, gasping with relief, she pushed open the door to the withdrawing room of Angus's chamber. She tried to slam it shut behind her, but with the major pushing against the door from the corridor, she was unable to shut it completely. Panic rising, she threw her weight against it but to no avail. Major Woodhouse would breach her defences within seconds and he would haul her away as a traitor, before Angus could testify to her innocence.

Angus. With a shock she realised he was in his room, for she could hear voices: a woman's and her husband's.

Madeleine? In
Angus's
room?

Oh God! Angus was in danger from a woman who intended to kill him, and if Madeleine heard a disturbance next door, it could push her into action.

Emily swung the door open and with a harshly whispered, ‘Hush!' she put her finger to her lips, turning the major's attention to the voices in the next room. Snatching the two maps hidden in her bodice, she brandished them at Major Woodhouse.

‘I found these in the General's desk after pretending I was Madeleine,' she told him in an urgent whisper. ‘Can you see there are two, one marked for Madeleine Delon who I gather was to give it to Angus.' Trembling, trying to keep her voice low and level, she added, ‘My maid and I overpowered Madeleine earlier, but I can hear her in the next room with Angus. Yes, I know now she is my sister and that Madame Fontenay is my mother, but they are traitors and I am not. You
must
believe me, Major Woodhouse.'

The major, raising his head from a quick perusal of one map, levelled an incisive look at her. ‘Rooms like this are used for intrigue and usually contain a sliding panel.' He'd put down the maps and was testing the thin wooden partition as he added, in a tone that suggested he accepted they were now fighting the same cause, ‘We
must
hear what they are saying. You try over there.'

And when Emily stepped upon the banquette that rested against the wall and began to test each panel, she was rewarded. At eye level she found one which, when pressured with her forefinger, yielded slightly, then slid smoothly to reveal an inch through which Emily was able to observe the events in the next room.

‘I can hear every word, Major,' she whispered excitedly as she put one eye to the gap. Unfortunately she could not see much, but she could hear two distinct female voices. The woman speaking was older than Madeleine. Her confident, icy tones were the first to suggest she held the upper hand. Her next statement confirmed it.

Emily beckoned to the major to stand on the banquette beside her. As she inched the panel open wider, her fear increased. It stung the surface of her skin and her heart began to hammer as she whispered, ‘Something is wrong, Major Woodhouse. Angus is in grave danger.'

‘You underestimate my mettle, Major McCartney, if you think I would put family considerations above the future of France.'

Emily clapped her hand to her mouth. It was impossible to see what was happening without exposing herself, though when fully extended the sliding panel would likely be made large enough to view much of the room.

‘That's abundantly clear'—the coldness in Angus's tone matched the other woman's—‘since you abandoned Emily and abused and exploited Jessamine.'

‘You're hardly in a position to take the moral high ground with me, Major McCartney. You married Emily when she got herself with child because it was the only way a poor soldier like yourself with no prospects could find a wife. Bartholomew told me Emily never stopped crying from the moment she accepted you until her wedding day.'

Emily shivered as she listened to the mother she'd never known push her point with seemingly characteristic remorselessness. ‘I'll wager she's still crying, Major McCartney, and she'll never stop. From where you're standing, the future doesn't look too rosy.'

A short silence followed, then Angus's voice, thoughtful as he replied, ‘I'd been in love with Emily for years.' Emily fancied she could hear the smile in his voice and warmth flowed through her as he went on. ‘I met her at a Regimental Ball and I was captivated. After Noble's death I married Emily because I wanted a woman capable of the kind of love she'd shown her false fiancé. You say Emily doesn't love me … Why do you think she's here?'

‘Because she had nowhere else to run. She has played into our hands very nicely, the little fool.'

Emily turned to Major Woodhouse. He'd heard Angus's words and her mother's harsh assessment. Relief coursed through her. Her mother might be a traitor but at least she'd just exonerated Emily.

Major Woodhouse sent her an assessing look, then put his mouth to her ear. ‘Perhaps I will have no choice but to commend you for your bravery and loyalty to your husband when this is over, Mrs McCartney.' He glanced at the maps on the table by the fireplace. ‘Angus always was a good judge of character.'

For the first time since Major Woodhouse had met Emily as a radiant bride-to-be, clinging to Jack's arm with such pride, he smiled properly at her. Then dismantling the crucifix around his neck, he withdrew his pistol, turning to add, ‘Stay here while I assist Angus.'

He bypassed the door which adjoined the two rooms and instead exited into the hall.

The moment the major slipped out, Emily returned to eavesdropping.

‘Enough, Major McCartney.' She heard Madame Fontenay's tone change. It was hard to remember this was her mother. She was even less her mother than Micklen was her father, she thought with poisonous rage.

‘Your wife's sudden appearance is motivated by nothing more than the desire to save her pretty neck and you are a fool to believe anything else. Love is for weaklings.'

Emily had no doubt her mother believed this cold and damning statement.

She waited for Angus's response. He didn't believe love was for weaklings. Emily wanted to hear it, too. Hear that Angus was every bit a proponent of the love match and that his love for Emily would see him defend her to the end.

Instead, an alert silence descended.

Had they heard a noise? Major Woodhouse, perhaps? Sweat prickled the back of her neck. Recklessly she opened the panel wider, risking her own safety, but she had to see what was going on.

Her vision was limited to Madame Fontenay, resplendent in purple with three ostrich feathers in her matching velvet toque.

So this was her mother. This ageing beauty whose lovely face and figure had been the undoing of countless men over the decades, including Emily's unknown, unmourned father.

Leaning in a little further she could see her mother faced Angus across a small table. Madame Fontenay had a pistol aimed at his chest. Angus stood with studied insouciance, unarmed, while Madeleine, lacking some of her regal hauteur now she was dressed in Emily's gown of pink lace and furbelows, stood a little to one side. ‘Someone's coming.' Madeleine's voice was sharp with fear.

‘Then where is your pistol, Madeleine? I cannot cover everyone.' Madame Fontenay did not hide her scorn at Madeleine's lack of foresight.

Relenting, she produced a second pistol from the folds of her skirts. ‘Take this!' she said, tossing it to Madeleine.

Who promptly dropped it.

Emily's stifled laugh as she watched Madeleine scramble to pick up the weapon turned to horror when Madame Fontenay cocked her weapon with an audible click …

… at the very moment the door was thrown open and a male voice cried out in commanding tones.

Dear God … Major Woodhouse!

Madame Fontenay swung her pistol arm round, a rictus of a smile pulling taut her now thin, ungenerous mouth; and Emily saw her mother's sneer of satisfaction and the gloating power that clearly fuelled her as she pulled the trigger.

The blast burst through the silence, filling the room with acrid smoke.

A shrill female scream overlaid a male cry of surprise. Followed by groaning. The sound was terrible: a wet gurgling amidst the ghastly rasping for breath.

Oh God. Emily blinked rapidly as she tried to understand what had happened, but the room was filled with smoke and Madeleine's shrieking overlaid every other noise.

Then the shrieking stopped abruptly. A strange calm seemed to settle over everyone. Rooted to the spot, Emily watched renewed horror contort Madeleine's feline gaze as the young woman stepped backwards, pressing herself against the far wall.

Someone else had entered the room; a tall, well-built figure who stepped over the body to take up position by the doorway. From her limited vantage point Emily could see the black boots and dark clothes of the newcomer and, as the smoke dissipated a little, the upturned boots of the body sprawled on the floor.

Desperately, Emily opened the panel wider, straining to see what was happening.

The stranger's bulk seemed to fill the room with a dangerous kind of power.

It was as if everyone were waiting for him to speak. Finally, his quiet, commanding voice cut through the silence. He took a menacing step towards Madeleine.

‘So this is how you repay the latitude I've granted you,
ma cherie
.'

Madeleine inched sideways, her beauty obliterated by the terror that contorted her features, the wall trapping her as she tried to slide away from the tall, dark-clothed figure.

He spoke in French, his deep mellifluous tones demanding utter obedience. Emily strained to catch a glimpse of his profile in the candlelight. He was dressed in severe evening clothes, unrelieved by any colour. Sharp eyes glittered through the slits of a demi mask and raven black hair swept back from a high forehead above a beak of a nose. He looked cruel and handsome in a bleak, dangerous way. Little wonder that Madeleine looked terrified to death if this man somehow exerted authority over her.

Madeleine was trapped but where was Madame Fontenay? And Angus?

Emily stepped down from the banquette. Her legs felt like jelly but she had to go to Major Woodhouse …
Oh God
, she gasped. Major Woodhouse whom she'd sent to his death.

Madeleine's voice drifted from the next room. She was defending herself in tremulous tones. ‘You don't understand, Levinne.'

‘What don't I understand? That you have consorted with our enemies?' There was no compassion in the hard, flinty tone. Just disgust. ‘Until now, I refused to believe it. But tonight I came to see for myself. You little fool. Did you think you could deceive me?'