The laughter died from his face and Davenham stared at her in amazement.
‘By God, you are serious!’
Elinor drew a deep breath. With scarcely a tremor in her voice she replied: ‘I have already told you sir, you waste your time with me. I enjoyed our dance, but I have no further use for you!’ Looking up as she finished this speech, she trembled at the angry look in the viscount’s eyes. For an instant she wondered if he might strike her, and in her heart she would not have blamed him, for her words had been insulting, calculated to repulse, but he made no move towards her. His lips had set into a thin line, and without another word he made her a stiff little bow, turned on his heel and strode back into the ballroom. As soon as he had gone Elinor felt the tears welling up, but she blinked them away, resolving not to give in to such weakness. Besides, she told herself sternly, she had not yet accomplished what she had set out to do – she must put this silly incident out of her mind, for all her courage would be required for the task ahead.
* * * *
When Julian Poyntz and the Duc du Bellay arrived at the Charrière residence, the promised masquerade was in full swing. Du Bellay had provided his guest with a grey domino and mask, and both gentlemen donned their disguises before entering the ballroom. Mr Poyntz, already mellowed by the
duc’s
generous dinner, found the noise and excitement intoxicating and was soon swept up in the dancing from which he emerged some time later feeling very hot and not a little thirsty. There was no sign of du Bellay, so Poyntz set off alone in search of some refreshment, making his way to an adjoining salon where a magnificent supper had been laid out. The main passion of Mr Poyntz’s life was food and he gazed rapturously upon the feast.
It was some time later that he reappeared in the ballroom, having sampled almost every dish and refilled his glass with more of his host’s excellent wine. He stood gazing with a detached interest at the dancers until he became aware of a tall figure in a black domino standing but a short distance away. Poyntz recognized the gentleman, despite his disguise and, tossing off his wine, he bestirred himself to speak.
‘Lord Davenham – servant, sir.’ He sketched a small bow. ‘Thought I’d see you here. Dashed glad to be able to converse in English, too!’
‘It was always my expressed intention to attend tonight.’
Hearing the cold tone, Mr Poyntz wondered who could be responsible for putting the viscount into such a black mood. He tried to dismiss Lord Davenham’s obvious ill-humour with a nervous little laugh.
‘Yes well, I’ve been thinking over the little matter we were talking of –’
‘Have you, perhaps, some information for me?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ murmured Poyntz warily, ‘but it has occurred to me that it might be safer to take up residence here in Paris and to say nothing.’
The viscount bowed, apparently unmoved.
‘As you wish, sir, although I am informed that His Majesty’s government would not be – ah –
ungenerous
to one who helped them in this matter. Also, one must remember,’ - he paused to brush a speck of dust from one velvet sleeve - ‘when a traitor falls, his accomplices are liable to fall with him.’
‘Wait! I own I would be pleased to be out of it, after all these years,’ muttered Poyntz, almost to himself. ‘Oh very well!’ he added decidedly. ‘I will call upon you here tomorrow, my lord, with your permission?’
‘Certainly, sir. I shall look forward to it.’
The viscount moved off and Mr Poyntz returned his attention to the dancing, where the excitement was now much more intense. A figure suddenly appeared beside him, a lady swathed in a large cloak of green and gold, with a gilded head-dress that concealed all of her hair and half her face, save for a dainty chin and a pair of cherry-red lips that now smiled invitingly. She pulled him into the whirl of dancers and Poyntz entered into the spirit of the occasion, gallantly leading his partner around the floor and performing the rigaudon as energetically as was possible for a man of his stature, but after a few minutes he drew her to one side, wheezing and panting from the exertion.
‘A- a thousand – apologies, madam, but – I must rest – not as young as I was!’
‘It matters not,
monsieur
. Let us take a glass of wine together.’
He stared as the masked face, frowning. The lady’s English was perfect, with scarcely a trace of accent.
‘Have we not met before? I would swear I know your voice.’
‘Oh, ‘tis quite possible,
m’sieur.
’ The lady’s eyes glittered through the slits of her mask, a warm smile curving her red lips.
‘Come then. Let us sit here while I try to discover your identity!’ cried the gentleman gaily. He led his partner to a vacant sofa, provided two glasses of champagne and spent a very pleasant half-hour in dalliance with his mysterious partner.
Nothing could have exceeded the lady’s amiability: She gently flattered him, laughing at his attempts to name her and ensuring that he was kept supplied with drink. The gentleman pushed his round, flushed face close to hers.
‘Well, this I will say, madam! You’re dam’ - dashed good company, whoever you may be!’ He stumbled over his words, but the hand gripping her knee was very sure.
She did not move away, and through the slits of her mask the green eyes were inviting.
‘It will soon be time for the unmasking,’ she said softly. ‘A pity that it is so noisy here. Shall we find a quieter spot in which to declare ourselves?’
There was no mistaking the eagerness in the gentleman’s voice as he agreed. The lady led the way out of the crowded ballroom and along a corridor to the wide staircase. By the time they reached the next floor the noise from the ballroom was but a distant murmur.
‘You appear to know the house well, ma’am,’ remarked Mr Poyntz as he followed her along another corridor.
‘I have often stayed here with my husband.’
‘I trust that gentleman will not disturb us tonight.’ He gave an uneasy laugh.
‘He need not concern you, sir. He is dead.’
She stopped at a door. Poyntz followed her into a large guest-bedchamber, handsomely appointed with gold hangings at the windows and around the large bed. A cheerful fire blazed merrily in the hearth and the lady stepped forward to light a taper from the flames, then she proceeded to light candles until the whole room was illuminated. Poyntz looked about him curiously.
‘Your room, perhaps, madam?’
‘I do not stay here tonight,’ she said, untying her cloak. ‘Doubtless it has been given over to some guest, but it will do for our purposes.’
He laughed, moving towards her.
‘By Gad, lady, you are a cool one!’ He reached out to pull her into his arms, his lips eagerly covering her mouth with hot kisses while one hand tried to remove the concealing head dress.
‘Not yet,
m’sieur
!’ she struggled to hold him off, ‘someone may discover us. Let me lock the door.’
She went to the door and turned the key, afterwards slipping it into her pocket. Turning back she saw that the gentleman had removed his domino and mask.
‘Will you now let me see your face, fair charmer?’ he asked her.
She put up her hands to take off the head-dress, revealing her face and an abundance of thick auburn curls, gleaming in the candlelight. It was a few moments before Poyntz recognized her and his look of surprise when he did so was almost comical.
‘Madame de Sange! This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect. At our last meeting you gave me no reason to think-’
‘That night, Mr Poyntz, I was still in mourning.’
The gentleman laughed, and began hurriedly to unbutton his coat.
‘Then, tonight, Madame, it is time to celebrate!’
She stepped close to him, assisting his fumbling efforts to remove his tight-fitting coat; then, as he struggled with the buttons of his florid waistcoat, she unbuckled the ornate dress-sword with her long, steady fingers. He glanced at her, his round face glowing with eager anticipation.
‘In grey you were enchanting,’ he told her rapturously, ‘but now, with that glorious hair and such exquisite eyes, I vow I have never before seen such a combination!’
‘Oh I think you have, Mr Poyntz.’
She stepped back and he found himself staring at the blade of his own dress sword, its point pressed lightly against the fleshy folds of skin beneath his chin. He tried to retreat, but found the way blocked by a heavy wooden writing table behind him.
‘I – this is dangerous funning, ma’am!’ He tried to laugh.
‘But I am deadly serious, Mr Poyntz. Please do not attempt to move or I shall be forced to pierce your throat. Put your hands behind you.’
The very calmness of her speech unnerved him and he did as she ordered.
‘What – what is this?’
‘Do you not remember me?’
He began to shake his head, then remembered the steel at his throat.
‘No, I cannot recall having seen you before, save at the Briàre’s soirée. Pray put down the sword and let us talk sensibly.’
The blade pressed deeper into his flesh and he feared that at any moment the point would puncture the skin. The lady’s eyes were hard as stone as she watched him.
‘Think back, Mr Poyntz. Think back to a winter’s day in December, eight years ago.’
‘Eight years!’ he repeated in astonishment, ‘how the devil can I recall –’
The look on the lady’s face made him break off and he said in a quieter tone, ‘Well, let me think – that would be ‘forty-five. I seem to remember I spent most of that winter chasing over England – Good God!’
She watched as astonishment and recognition crossed the gentleman’s features and she smiled grimly.
‘The - the girl at the inn?’ he asked her incredulously, ‘but you cannot be – Thurleigh said you were dead! He told me that when he had recovered the ruby he dispatched you –’
‘I know nothing of that!’ she cut him short impatiently.
A wary look came into Poyntz’s eyes. He tried to move, but the steel at his throat never wavered from its target and he changed his mind.
‘You – you appear to have done very well for yourself, Madame de Sange. What is it you want from me? Money for some by-slip of that night? Damme but I don’t see how you can tell which of us fathered your love-child –’
A look of loathing came over her face.
‘How dare you talk of love!’ she cried in disgust. ‘There was nothing but hate and violence on that night and I thank God He spared me a bastard from such a time!’
He looked perplexed.
‘But if it is not a child – what is it you want from me?’
‘Did you think, sir, that if we should meet again I would let any of you go unpunished for what you did?’
‘‘Twas nothing more than a little dalliance –ahh!’ He screamed and fell to his knees as the sword bit into his skin and he felt a trickle of warm blood running down his neck.
‘Next time it will go deeper!’ she promised, her voice low and quivering with anger. ‘You must now realize how much I should like to drive this point through your throat right now – it is only the fact that I need information from you that prevents me from killing you.’
He did not doubt her sincerity, and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, the colour ebbing and flowing from his cheeks.
‘P-please, Madame, consider what you are about! You cannot wish to damn your soul by committing murder!’ he cried shrilly, but she regarded him with cold, contemptuous eyes.
‘But you could save me from sin, and save yourself, Mr Poyntz. If you will but tell me who killed my father.’
‘I don’t know – please!’ He screamed again as the sword once more pierced his neck, ‘I swear I know nothing of this!’
‘My father was an old man, a peaceful man, but he went to the inn in search of justice. They brought him back to us on a litter - one of you had killed him!’
He read the accusation in her eyes and trembled.
‘Not I, believe me! Pray, Madame, consider – it was I who showed you some little mercy and gave you the ruby as some recompense for your suffering. True, I did not then realize –’ he broke off, sweat glistening upon his brow. ‘I – I remember nothing after you had gone, I swear it. Most likely I passed out. I recall nothing more of that evening,’ He held his breath as she stared down at him, then she drew back slightly and he closed his eyes in relief as the sharp point came away from his neck. His heart was still pounding heavily, making it hard for him to breathe, but he struggled back to his feet, nervously eyeing the blade that still hovered menacingly before him.
‘But, Madame, did not Lord Thurleigh come to you to reclaim his ruby?’
‘I know nothing of such a jewel,’ she told him dismissively. ‘I have not seen the marquis or any of you since that night.’
‘Then he did not get it back. He has no hold upon any of us.’ Poyntz muttered to himself, before the lady’s sharp voice brought him back to his present predicament.
‘You will find paper, pens and ink upon the table behind you.’ She told him, ‘I want you to write the names of the men who were with you that night. Move slowly, sir, for I would still very much like to kill you.’
Poyntz sat down at the table and drew the small writing case towards him, thinking quickly. If he could only get the sword away from her, he could overpower her, but the deadly steel remained between them and he read murder in the lady’s eyes.
‘Write the name of the inn and the date you were there at the head of the paper,’ she commanded him.
‘But I cannot recall the inn –’
‘The Black Goose. Write it!’
He gave a shrug and picked up the pen. What did it matter now, if he did give her the names? He had, after all, decided to turn king’s evidence, and bring an end to Thurleigh’s continual plotting. God knows he was tired of it. He wrote steadily, and without a break, hesitating only over the marquis’s name. Thurleigh could be a deadly enemy, as many had found to their cost, but a moment’s reflection convinced Poyntz that he was in no danger. The letter to Charles Stuart that they had all signed was burned and if the ruby was lost, then there was nothing to connect Julian Poyntz with any serious Jacobite plot. He finished the list, put down his pen and sat back, rubbing his left arm, which had begun to ache.