“Chérie,
you are incurably frivolous.” Looking melancholy, Edouard approached the window seat. “The breadth of my plans would amaze even you. Do you not comprehend Bonaparte’s genius? He has ended the Revolution, has restored the Church and recalled the exiles. Bonaparte will not retire in favor of the Duke of Angouleme. France needs its little Corsican more than ever now—but you do not attend.
Eh bien!
Attend to this, Minette: I do not forget those who aid my efforts.” He rested the head of his walking stick against her cheek. “Especially I do not forget you,
ma cocotte.”
Which was all of a piece with her current wretched luck, Minette mused: for Edouard to reappear just when Minette was on the verge of securing herself a fortune confirmed her long suspicion that fate was unjust. However, Minette had contrived to outwit more devious adversaries than fate. Edouard vowed to remember her? She sought to appear gratified.
Apparently she succeeded; warmth kindled in his cool eye. He took her hand. “Titles are in use again,
petite—
monsieur and madame, your highness and my lord. I don’t despair of achieving one. How will you like having a noble kinsman, Minette? I shall give a dance in my spacious hotel, all decorated in the highest style. When the guests weary of dancing, a supper will be served. At the close of supper, the doors will be flung open into the gardens, lit by colored lamps. The trees will bear crystallized fruits, the fountains iced liqueurs. We shall be
très magnifique.”
Minette liked not at all his assumption that she would attend these revels.
“Mon dieu!
It all sounds very grand.”
Edouard turned over her hand, traced an aimless pattern on her palm. “The shades most worn in Paris now are
fumée de Londres, Terre d’Egypte, Nègre.
I will purchase for you a shawl embroidered in gold and silver acorns, and a sable muff. Perhaps you would like one of the new short coats of many colors that are all the rage? And with it you must have a gown of Cambrai muslin and a large straw hat trimmed with poppies and cornflowers and marguerites. You see how largely you figure in my plans.”
Perhaps, were Minette to pretend to believe him, she might discover more about those plans.
“Merci!
We are all the family left to each other,
n’est-çe pas?
It is only right that we stand together, eh? We will find this memorandum and return together to France, where the first consul will take you to his breast.” She essayed a guileless expression.
“Allez!
And then what?”
“Ah.” His grip tightened on her hand. “Have I not been telling you that very thing? Then I will be in a position to offer you a highly flattering alliance,
cherie.”
“A—oh!” Minette hoped her face did not betray the revulsion that she felt. She would much rather set up as a high-class gentleman’s companion than hobnob in any manner with her kinsman. “You take me by surprise.”
He had meant to, of course, had for that very reason made her the object of his calculated gallantry. Were Minette convinced his affections were fixed on her, she would make even greater efforts in his behalf—or so Edouard would think. That Minette might not be flattered by his hints would not occur to Edouard. He would not imagine that his kinswoman might be so deficient in good taste.
Nor did she so inform him, but sat with gaze demurely downcast. Edouard leaned forward, caught her chin, forced her to look at him. “We were parted a long time,
mignonne—
due to that meddlesome Mountjoy. Else you would have known before that I have taken quite a fancy to you. You do not speak. I understand it! You are overwhelmed.”
“Oui.”
It would please his vanity to think so. In truth, Minette would more willingly have endured her kinsman’s vicious anger than his caress. Edouard must not be allowed to realize that. Minette leaned slightly forward, lips parted, eyes wide and—she trusted—innocent.
He released her, moved away. “We have shared a charming tête-à-tête, but without the memorandum all else is an air dream. You begin to comprehend the urgence of our endeavor,
ma chere.”
Minette comprehended that it was imperative she find the memorandum first. Whether or not she then gave it to her kinsman would depend on what information the paper contained.
“Oui.”
“Then I may trust that you will not cry craven or, ah, peach on me.” The chill expression in Edouard’s eyes belied the indolence of his words.
“Que nenni!”
Minette rose from the window seat, moved toward the door. “You may trust that I shall put forth my best efforts, Edouard. But I’ve been gone from the gaming rooms too long, and the others will begin to wonder what has become of me.” Coyly, she fluttered her long lashes. “To my sorrow, I must leave you to your hunting,
mon chou.”
His attention was no longer on her.
“Alors, hop!”
he replied indifferently. Minette departed, convinced she had lulled her kinsman’s suspicions, at least temporarily.
Edouard had intended she should think just that. No sooner had the library door clicked softly shut behind Minette than he abandoned all pretense of interest in the bookshelves, let his quizzing glass drop, walked across the room. At the door he paused, listening, then stepped out into the hall. He was in time to see Minette vanish into the gaming room, from which issued the sounds of masculine revelry. Edouard did not follow, but set out in the opposite direction.
Minette had seemed very wishful of confining him to the library. Therefore, he would search elsewhere. Edouard didn’t trust his kinswoman so much as an inch. Nor did he intend to share the fruits of his endeavors, despite his honeyed words.
The upper hallway was lit by occasional tapers that cast dim pools of brightness amid the prevailing gloom. Here, no sounds of revelry penetrated the hushed and brooding atmosphere common to old houses in the middle of the night. Edouard surveyed the shadowy corridor. He had no fear of man or beast, but even the most intrepid of villains must hesitate at the prospect of so many closed rooms.
What was that? A flicker of movement at the far end of the corridor? Eyes narrowed, Edouard stepped into the shadows. It would go hard with all involved if he discovered an intruder other than himself. Again, that faint quick movement. He moved forward silently.
Did his eyes deceive him? Edouard blinked and frowned. Surely he hadn’t glimpsed an old woman in the garb of another time disappear into one of the closed rooms? For one brief startled moment Edouard wondered if among its other atrocities Mountjoy House numbered a resident ghost.
“Que diable!”
he muttered, as he sidled toward the door in question; Edouard had scant belief in the supernatural. But if no incorporeal spectre, who prowled the deserted corridors—and why? He leaned forward to press his ear against the door. No sound issued from within. Curiously, Edouard bent to apply his eye to the keyhole.
At that moment, the door swung open. Edouard stared up at a raddled apparition in a turban-like headdress of pink and green, and a yellow-striped redingote. “Blood and ‘ouns!” swore the apparition, and gave him a hard shove. Edward tumbled over backwards, with a great clattering of his cane. From behind another door came a volley of sharp barks.
Cursing, Edouard struggled erect, as the apparition darted behind a large tapestry. No ghost was so corporeal, he thought as he briefly inspected himself for damaged limbs. And no time, just then, to ponder the possible identity of the old woman. In response to the accursed dog’s barking, another, younger woman had emerged sleepily into the hallway. Before she could turn and see him, Edouard felled her with his cane.
What now to do? He could hardly leave the woman where she lay, lest Minette immediately guess who was responsible for this outrage. Swiftly, Edouard picked up his victim. Doubtless this was Mountjoy’s heiress, and comely enough, from what he could see. Edouard wondered how seriously he had injured her. She was still breathing, at any rate, though she wouldn’t recover her senses for some time.
Still, the blasted dog barked. He must find someplace to hide. The other rooms might also be inhabited, and Edouard dared not disturb anyone else. He moved toward the tapestry behind which the old woman had vanished. It was a singularly ugly specimen of the art, hung on iron rods that protruded from the wall. Hardly the hiding place Edouard would have chosen, it would have to suffice. Even now people came to investigate the uproar. He heard Minette’s voice.
Unaccustomed as he was to fear, Edouard experienced a moment’s distinct unease. Were he discovered in so compromising a position as this, Minette would expose him. Edouard cherished no delusions regarding his kinswoman’s sentiments about himself. Minette wouldn’t waver a single instant, had she the opportunity to place him safely behind bars.
That opportunity must be denied her. In a futile effort to make himself smaller and less visible, Edouard pressed back against the wall. His shoulder encountered an protuberance. Suddenly, the wall swung open. Still clasping the unconscious Vashti, Edouard staggered back into darkness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Slowly, Vashti returned to consciousness. Once she had achieved that feat, she wished she had not, because of the horrid aching in her head. Thought was an agonizing effort, let alone movement; opening her eyes required more resolution than she possessed.
How had she come to this sorry pass? Vashti couldn’t quite recall. Mohammed had set up a dreadful clamor, and she’d gone to investigate—that much she could remember, but no more. Alas, Vashti had no clue as to what had next occurred. Certainly, she didn’t know how she had come to be lying on what felt to be a very comfortable couch. Perhaps it had all been a nightmare?
But no. No dream, however unpleasant, could account for her abominable headache. Reluctantly, Vashti decided she must make an effort to piece together her immediate past. Cautiously, she opened her eyes.
In fact, Vashti did lay upon a couch, in a small room she had never before seen. Lit dimly by a window set high in one wall, the chamber was crammed to overflowing with furniture—a small portable desk with inlaid checker ornament, plump chairs, a luxurious settee covered in Aubusson tapestry. On the desk sat a mahogany table clock enriched with brass mounts.
Painfully, Vashti raised her head, the better to see. Abruptly, she lowered it again. Her case was worse than she had suspected. Not only had Vashti an aching head, but also an affliction of the senses. She could have sworn she saw a figure sitting in one of the plump chairs.
It was impossible, of course. Perhaps she was dreaming. Vashti hadn’t thought her imagination so potent. She had conjured up a strange room and peopled it with a raddled elderly female in a turban-like headdress of pink and green and a yellow-striped redingote. Slowly, she opened her eyes. To her dismay, the room and the old woman were both still there.
“Alive, are you?” inquired the apparition, in tones that suggested she wasn’t best pleased by this development. “I don’t mind admitting you gave me a nasty start.”
The old woman was not alone in that affliction. Remembering ghostly shrieks and screams and noises, Vashti closed her eyes. Common sense was outraged by the suggestion that she engaged in conversation with a spectre—yet no other explanation sufficed.
“What happened?” she inquired faintly, eyes still firmly closed.
The apparition snorted: “Well you may ask! Though ‘tis no more than you deserve for taking the air in the middle of the night, adzooks! The blighter nabbed you a rum ‘un, my pretty—with his cane. Stab me if
he
ain’t a bad lot! You might thank me for saving your bacon. If not for me, it might have been all up with you.”
Curiosity won out over cowardice; Vashti peeked at the old woman again. “Forgive my presumption, but where am I? And who are you?”
“Hoity toity, ain’t we?” The apparition bridled, not attractively. “You’re in my room, you little twit. This used to be an oratory, if you care about such things. Now I shall have to find another room, which is a devilish nuisance, but I refuse to be plagued by people traipsing in and out.”
“I don’t understand.” As result of her efforts to concentrate, Vashti’s head swam. “You live
here?
Are we not in Mountjoy House?”
“Where else
would
we be, ninnyhammer? Mayhap the blow to your head has addled your brains.” The old woman dangled a dainty foot. “And you needn’t try and turn me out, because it won’t do you a particle of good. I’ve lived here forever and I mean to go on doing so.”
This was not, Vashti decided, an unreasonable attitude for a ghost. “I wouldn’t think of turning you out,” she said weakly. “In truth, I doubt I could.”
“Well, you’ve some sense, at any rate,” the apparition grudgingly allowed. “Though not enough to boast upon, from what I can see! Still, that popinjay wouldn’t likely have set upon you had I not already startled him half out of his wits, so you can’t be held entirely to blame. But you’ll think twice before you go roaming alone about
this
house, miss!”
Vashti could well imagine how her unknown assailant had been taken aback by encountering this bizarre creature in the dead of night. “Sticks in your craw?” the old woman inquired when Vashti made no reply.
“No—I mean, yes!” Vashti pressed her fingers to her throbbing brow. “That is, I’m not accustomed to talking with, er, such as yourself.”
“Such as I?” The apparition leaned forward in a very menacing manner. “A pox on you, chit! What did you mean by
that?”
“No offense, I swear it!” Vashti shrank back. “I meant only that I’ve never before spoken with a ghost. Indeed, I’m not certain that I
am
speaking with you. This must be just a horrid dream. Not that I mean to infer
you
are horrid! Pray don’t take offense.”
Shrilly, the old woman cackled. “A ghost, am I? Plague on’t, ‘tis close enough. You ain’t dreaming, gel, much as we both might wish it. I’ll have to tell them you’re here, more’s the pity; you’ve set the household on its ear. It ain’t like in the old days. A person is hard-put to find some privacy.”