Anything but a Gentleman (15 page)

This one involved Mr Cosgrove senior, marvellously entering into the spirit of the thing, galloping around the room with a skein of Miss Stock’s knitting yarn hanging from the back of his breeches. After much merriment, the word
tail
was guessed.

The final scene showed the whole word. Marianne took her place by the fire with a book on her lap. Mrs Cosgrove and Miss Stock sat on low stools at her feet, turning expectant faces towards her.

‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs Kilkenny to Lord Ravensford, wafting them both with her fan. ‘What can it be?’

‘It’s perfectly clear,’ said Lord Ravensford, his eyes tracing the bright highlights in Marianne’s hair, painted there by the leaping light from the fire. ‘It’s
The Winter’s Tale
.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs Kilkenny. Adding, to display her learning, ‘One of my favourite of  Shakespeare’s plays.’

There was a round of applause, and then the two groups swapped places. Jennifer eagerly tried to lift a desk, which had been brought down from the schoolroom by Figgs and was now standing against the wall, but Lord Ravensford took it from her and carried it into the centre of the room. He gave her an indulgent smile and Jennifer, delighted to be mixing with such handsome adult company, flushed scarlet before applying herself to her rôle. She seated herself at the desk and began scribbling away on a piece of paper. In front of her, Mr Havers turned a globe.

‘Lessons,’ shouted Jem.

Jennifer rolled her eyes in disgust, her expression saying clearly, Trust Jem to get it all wrong!

‘Learning,’ ventured Mr Cosgrove.

Jennifer sighed, then taking her piece of paper she scrunched it up and threw it at Miss Stock. Marianne laughed, remembering all Kit had told her of his schooldays. ‘School!’

Jennifer curtsied, making the most of her part, and then ran to the side of the room, whereupon Mr Kent strolled into the middle of the floor and held up four fingers. Despite the simplicity of the scene, or perhaps, rather, because of it, it took some while for the audience to guess that in fact he did mean
four
, and then the final scene began.

Mrs Kilkenny, looking conscious, reclined elegantly on the
chaise longue
. She held a handkerchief delicately to her nose. Then Lord Ravensford, looking suitably saturnine, appeared from behind the curtains and strode over to her, dropping to one knee beside her and taking her hand. He bent over it and kissed it, and at that moment Mr Kent strode into the scene. He started, looked horrified, and made a dumb show of hitting Lord Ravensford across the cheek with a glove.

‘Duel,’ called Jem.

‘Affair!’ called Mr Cosgrove, forgetting that he was in family company, but remembering shamefacedly as soon as his wife tapped him with her fan.

Then Mrs Cosgrove, who loved the theatre and had already guessed the charade, called out clearly, ‘scandal’. There was a ripple of light laughter, laughter Marianne felt unequal to sharing, and then the tableau for the whole title began. It was not long before
School for Scandal
was guessed, and the afternoon ended with much laughter and good cheer.

Except for Marianne. For her, the sight of Lord Ravensford acting the part of Mrs Kilkenny’s lover had dampened her spirits. She was in no doubt that she would be a fool to think of him any further, after the clear message sent by the charade, and decided she must put him out of her mind.

But deciding what she must do, and being able to do it, were two very different things.

* * * *

By the time she had dressed for dinner, Marianne found that her spirits had been restored, and she could look forward to the evening with composure. As Mrs Cosgrove had sent Nell to her before making use of the maid’s services herself, Marianne was ready early. She sat in her room for a while but then, growing bored, decided to find a book to read until dinner time. She went downstairs, meaning to choose a book from the library, but as she drew near she heard voices: the library was already occupied. They were not the calm, polite voices she would have expected from her fellow guests if they, too, had been ready early. Instead, they were urgent. Realising she would be intruding if she went through with her plan she turned back, but as she did so a name arrested her attention. It was
Kit
.

She stopped, torn between two courses of action. On the one hand she did not want to overhear a private conversation, but on the other she was concerned about her brother and felt that, if something had happened to him, she had a right to know.

As she stood uncertainly in the passageway she heard something that made her determined to push good breeding to one side: a man’s voice said, ‘according to the letter, he’s been badly hurt.’ She went over to the door and resolutely turned the knob.

The scene which met her eyes as she opened the door was business-like. Lord Ravensford, Figgs and Henri were sitting round the library desk, looking at a selection of maps which were spread out in front of them. All three men were in their shirtsleeves. Marianne swallowed at the sight of Lord Ravensford. His superbly toned body, its hard muscles outlined beneath the lawn of his shirt, was lithe and alert. At the sound of the door opening he looked up. As he saw her his face darkened. ‘Marianne. What the devil are you doing here?’

‘I came to get a book –’

He held her with his gaze. Then, sitting back in his chair, he said, his eyes hard, ‘Then take one and go.’

‘ – but then I heard Kit’s name -’ she said, not to be so easily dismissed.

The three men looked at each other.

‘ – and I heard that he’s been hurt. Where is he? What’s happened? Is he back in England? Is he still in France? How badly is he hurt?’ she asked, the questions tumbling out of her in her concern over her brother.

There was silence. And then Henri said, ‘You ’ad better tell ’er.’

‘No.’ Lord Ravensford’s mouth was grim. He looked up at Marianne. ‘All you need to know is that Kit is all right.’

Marianne felt her anger rising. ‘No, that is not all I need to know,’ she said, meeting his hard gaze. ‘I need to know what’s happened to him, where he is, what –’

‘Marianne, we’ll deal with this.’

‘Kit is my brother –’

‘And would not want you to get involved.’ Lord Ravensford stood up in one lithe movement and crossed the room, taking her arm. ‘Come, I’ll take you through into the drawing-room. This isn’t your concern.’

‘I’m not a child, to be ordered about by you,’ she said, shaking off his arm.

‘So I believe you’ve told me.’ His eyes and mouth were grim.

‘If anything has happened I have a right to know.’ She threw her shoulders back, facing him with chin raised.

Figgs, who had been sitting silently throughout their exchange, now spoke. ‘She’s right, Luke. She does have a right to know.’

‘She will worry less, not more, if she knows,
mon ami
,’ said Henri.

Lord Ravensford looked into Marianne’s eyes as if trying to read her thoughts, and then gave a curt nod. ‘Very well.’ He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘We have twenty minutes before dinner. If you feel you can behave as though nothing has happened for the rest of the evening, once you know what has happened to Kit, then you can stay. I hardly need to remind you that if word of this gets out then Kit could be at risk. Sit down.’

His tone was curt, but Marianne realised that, hard though he sounded, he was actually paying her a compliment; because instead of treating her like Miss Travis, he was treating her like an equal. With a minimum of fuss she sat down on the chair Henri had pulled forward. Lord Ravensford resumed his seat and the conversation continued. After a few minutes of studying the maps, the significance of which Marianne did not as yet understand, Lord Ravensford turned to her and gave her a brief overview of the situation.

‘Kit has managed to find Adèle and get her to the French coast, but no further. He had arranged for a ship to bring them across the Channel, and had paid the captain accordingly, but the man was a rogue and betrayed him to the Jacobins.’

‘But why . . .?’

‘Double the money,’ said Lord Ravensford curtly. ‘One payment from Kit and another from the Jacobins; together with considerable respect for helping the Revolution.’ He frowned, then resumed. ‘Kit realised he’d been set up just in time and when he was ambushed he managed to break free. But not before he was bayoneted. We think the wound is in his leg but we don’t know for sure. The message we received was written on a scrap of paper and by the time it reached us it had been torn in half.’

‘If Kit was able to send a message, then he can’t be too badly hurt,’ said Marianne.

‘The message didn’t come from Kit.’

Henri looked at him reproachfully but he said ruthlessly, ‘If Marianne wants to know what’s going on then it’s best she should know the truth. Half-truths are no use to anyone.’

Marianne nodded. ‘Yes. I want to know.’

There was a lessening of the severity of his expression, as though her courage had impressed him. He continued a little less harshly, ‘Adèle found a fisherman who agreed to get a message out of the country. Their situation is desperate. It cannot be long before their hiding place is discovered. We need to get over there and get them out.’

‘I’m going, too.’ Marianne’s voice was resolute.

Lord Ravensford glowered at her. ‘I said you could sit in on our discussion. I didn’t say you could get involved.’

‘I’m already involved. Kit’s my brother. And besides, he’s hurt. If I go with you I can look after him once he’s on board ship.’

‘Like hell you can.’

Figgs looked at Lord Ravensford evenly. ‘She does have a point.’

‘Whose side are you one?’ he demanded.

Figgs’s reply was simple. ‘Kit’s.’

The answer gave him pause, and Marianne seized her opportunity. ‘I grew up around boats. My father used to own a small yacht before my mother died, and I’m a good sailor. I’m not proposing to go ashore, I know that I would be more of a hindrance than a help there, but I will be safe enough on board, and it means I will be able to see to Kit’s wound as soon as he joins the ship.’

‘Once he’s on board ship we’ll have him home again in a matter of hours. There’s no point you risking the sea voyage; you can tend him as soon as he’s back home.’

‘A few hours might make the difference between life and death,’  she pointed out.

 ‘She is right,’ said Henri.

‘No. It’s too dangerous. This isn’t a picnic we’re going on. Even on the ship there’ll be danger. We stand a good chance of being shot at, and there’s a possibility we’ll be boarded.’ He gave Marianne a hard look. ‘If you’re taken prisoner the French won’t spare you because you’re a woman. In fact, quite the reverse.’

‘I’m willing to take that chance,’ said Marianne.

‘But I’m not.’

‘I –’

‘No arguments. You’re not going and that’s final.’

‘It isn’t for you to decide,’ said Marianne.

‘I am the leader of this rescue attempt. The decision is mine.’

Marianne looked towards Figgs and Henri, to see if they were prepared to support her, but at Luke’s mention of the fact that he was the leader of the rescue attempt she saw their expressions change. They might feel she should be allowed to join them, but they knew they needed to be disciplined in such a dangerous matter, and so they accepted that in all matters of note Luke had the final word.

‘We will go tomorrow evening,’ said Luke. ‘Figgs, tell Captain Gringe we’re going to need him and his ship after all. Tell him to be ready to sail with the evening tide. He’s to bring the ship round to the estate, and we’ll row out to it from here. The estate is large and private, and with any luck the rowboat won’t be seen. Even with Rouget - Windham - gone, the less that gets out about this the better.’

Figgs nodded curtly and went out.

‘And you, Henri, see to the guns and ammunition.’

Marianne shivered slightly. Mention of guns and ammunition brought home to her just how dangerous the venture was.

‘And now,’ he said, turning to Marianne as he shrugged himself into his coat, ‘you will have to pretend you know nothing about this. I expect you to make idle conversation this evening as though nothing has happened.’

‘You needn’t concern yourself,’ she said, throwing her head back. ‘No one will learn of this venture from me.’

‘I didn’t expect you to announce it over the dinner table,’ he said harshly. ‘Just make sure no one can tell by your face or by any fit of abstraction that something untoward has occurred. And now, we had better go out into the hall separately, or we will give rise to gossip of another kind. After you.’

She could have protested, but instead she decided to show him that she knew the value of co-operation when it was needed, and she preceded him out of the room.

Chapter Eight

Dinner was a difficult meal for Marianne. Knowing that her brother was hurt she did not feel like eating, but she forced herself to do justice to the meal. Lord Ravensford was right, no one must suspect that anything untoward had happened. Even here in Sussex, Jacobins were not unknown, and although Mr Windham had gone it was better if no whisper of Kit’s situation got out. Therefore she praised the turtle soup, did justice to the sole, forced down a helping of  loin of mutton and finished off with a syllabub, all the while talking over the latest neighbourhood gossip with her fellow guests.

The tables were then set up for cards. Whilst her partners frowned and considered over their play, Marianne played by instinct. Unlike Kit, she had always been fond of games, and now that she was sitting down to whist she knew that she could afford to let her thoughts wander. She was so used to playing that she need pay only the most cursory attention to the game.

Although Lord Ravensford had forbidden her to join the rescue attempt, she was still uneasy. If Kit was hurt then she wanted to be on board the ship that put out for France. He may well have need of her medical skills before the ship returned to England. Although the return trip should take only a few hours, those hours could prove vital. And if the ship should be delayed, by storms, say, it would be even more necessary for her to be on board. Whatever Lord Ravensford said, she was determined to be there. She still carried the hurt from losing one brother. She did not intend to lose a second.