The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (33 page)

Beth had heard of Bach, but had never heard any of his music. The orchestra were to play the first three of the six concertos that were to become known as the Brandenburg concertos.

The musicians stood, bowed to the king, to the audience, sat. The music began. Lord Winter leaned across.

“Do you play an instrument, Lady Elizabeth?” he asked in a stage whisper.

“No,” she lied, not wishing to encourage him.

Sniff.

“Ah, then if you are not familiar with the instruments of the orchestra, you will perhaps not realise what a remarkable instrument the bassoon is. That is the one you can hear now. The gentleman on the left. Listen.”

“I am trying to, my lord,” she said.

Pause.

“It is of course the bass instrument of the wind section. To achieve the lower registers the instrument is actually folded back along itself. If it were not, it would be some five feet in length - far too unwieldy. You will certainly not believe that it is known as the clown of the orchestra, as it is used to produce comic effects at times.”

She did not reply.

“Of course, I now recall you were present at the Fortesques’ little musical affair, were you not?”

She nodded, curtly.

“Ah, then you will remember the instrument from Vivaldi’s bassoon concerto.”

“Yes, I do remember actually being able to listen to that concerto,” Beth replied pointedly.

“Yes, ah, well, we are in France now, and if you have taken the time to visit the dreadful warbling that passes for opera in this country, you will certainly have realised that the French have no respect for good music.” Sniff.

In front of her, Henri’s ears turned a delicate shade of pink.

“I have never heard such noise from an audience,” the stage whisper continued, “although at least it masked the screeching of the singers. The scenery and dancing were quite exquisite though, I must admit.”

The music ended, the musicians stood, and Lord Winter stopped speaking to applaud. Beth unclenched her fists and smashed her palms together. The orchestra resumed their seats. Beth’s palms stung but she had succeeded in releasing a little of her anger. The second concerto began. Lord Winter did not. Beth listened. The music washed over her. It was beautiful.

“You will have noticed that the bassoon does not feature in this piece.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“The trumpet, however, plays an important role. Do you see the bag at the side of the trumpeter’s chair? In it are a series of crooks, which the player uses to change the key of the instrument. To do so he must…”

“Lord Winter,” said Beth softly, but fiercely. “This is very interesting, but I find this movement particularly moving and would be obliged if you would allow me to give it my undivided attention.”

“Ah.” Sniff. “Of course.”

Bliss. The haunting notes of the oboe and flute wrapped themselves around her heart. She began to relax. The second movement finished, and the third began.

“Ah, now you hear what a rousing instrument the trumpet is!”

Henri’s shoulders shook. Beth grimaced. She was glad someone was finding it amusing. She concentrated single-mindedly on the music.

“Of course, it enhances the pleasure of the music greatly if one can follow the score. Do you read music, Lady Elizabeth?”

“No, I prefer to listen to it,
when
I am allowed to.
”

For a moment she actually thought he’d finally got the message. Then he leaned forward and tapped the elderly man in front of him on the shoulder. The man’s head had been bent over a paper, but he now looked round, somewhat red-faced but polite.

“Er…
Avez vous un…
ah…” the lord hesitated. “What is the word for score, Lady Elizabeth? It has temporarily slipped my mind.”

“
Couteau,
” she replied fervently. There was a snort from the seat in front, quickly smothered.

Using Beth’s helpful suggestion, Lord Winter completed his request.

“
Je regrette, non,
” replied the elderly gentleman. “But I assure you, if I did, I would certainly make good use of it forthwith,” he finished in English. He turned forward.

Lord Winter sat back, rebuffed. Three bars of music passed uninterrupted.

“Well really,” said the peer huffily. “His answer was quite incomprehensible. One should not attempt to speak English unless one is quite sure of one’s command of the language. It is perfectly clear that he has the score. If he did not wish to let me look at it, he had only to say so. I am quite capable of understanding that much French.”

Beth leaned forward to the red ears and the shaking shoulders.

“
Au secours,
” she whispered desperately.

“Really, Lady Elizabeth, I must say, it is very rude to use a man’s ignorance of a language against him,” Henri admonished insincerely as they strolled down a nearby gallery five minutes later. He had responded to her cry for help by extricating her from the room the moment the interval began, with the excuse that he had a private message from the king for her. Lady Winter’s ears had been out on stalks, but she could hardly follow them from the room uninvited. “What would you have done had M. Feuillet provided him with a knife, as he unknowingly requested?”

“Snatched it from him and cut my throat, I think. Or his. He’s unbearable. I would rather sit next to Cousin Edward. He’s as pompous as that idiot, but at least he would sulk silently through the concert. I didn’t hear a thing.”

“When we return I shall endeavour to seat us in another part of the room. I think there were a few empty chairs at the back,” Henri said.

“You will have my undying gratitude if you do,” said Beth. “I take it that the important message from the king was a fabrication? If it was I will have to think of something to satisfy Lady Wilhelmina’s curiosity later.”

“It was, but I must admit I had hoped to get a chance to speak to you alone.” He had led her back through the Diana salon and out onto the gallery. At the moment they were its only occupants, but it was eminently possible that other courtiers would take the opportunity to stretch their legs during the interval. Beth wondered if this was private enough for Alex to have his ‘wee chat’, and thought it probably was.

It was clearly not private enough for Henri, though. Taking her arm, he led her to the end of the corridor, through the
Salon de L’Ovale,
which was, unlike many of the more elaborately frescoed public rooms, painted white, the plaster mouldings etched in gold. Beth looked around with interest as Henri led her to a door, also white, at the end of the room.

“The king prefers to hang pictures on the walls of his more private rooms than to have permanent paintings as his predecessor did,” Henri explained.

Before Beth could ask whether or not they should be walking in the king’s apartments, Henri had opened the door and led her into Louis’
Cabinet des Livres
, which was, as the name suggested, completely lined with white and gold cabinets filled with books. And the inevitable marble busts, of Aristotle, Plato, Socrates.

Beth smiled, thinking of Angus and wondering whether he had managed to plant the incriminating letter yet. Her smile faded, and a wave of guilt washed over her. Would Alex find them in here? Maybe not, but he had not seemed too bothered whether he spoke privately with Henri or not. The main thing was to stop Henri returning to his room. Beth sent up a silent prayer that Louis would be lenient with his employee and tried to dismiss the matter from her mind.

Henri had left the door open for propriety’s sake. If they were disturbed, people would be unlikely to think they had any improper intentions. He turned to her now, smiling, his green eyes warm.

“You told me that you are leaving for England in a few days,” he said. “I hope you will not think me too familiar when I say that I shall miss your company greatly. I have enjoyed our talks enormously. I only hope your husband appreciates what an exceptional wife he has.”

“I am sure he does,” Beth murmured.
He is the enemy,
she reminded herself.

“We must return to the salon soon if we are to find seats away from your tormentor,” Henri continued. “I wanted to see you alone to give you a small parting gift.”

Before she could protest he took a slim volume from his pocket and held it out to her. She took it automatically. The book was beautifully bound in soft red leather, tooled in gold. She looked at the title, and then up at him.

“Please, do not refuse it. I put you under no obligation. I have another copy of
Paradise Regained
, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to share this with you. You said you have not read it?”

“No,” she said. She looked back at the book, and the gold shimmered mistily. She blinked several times.
He is the enemy.
“Thank you,” she said, running her fingers reverently over the cover.

Henri smiled broadly.

“If I may be so bold, may I request that you write to me with your opinion, once you have read it?”

She succumbed.

“Yes,” she said, smiling up at him. His eyes were very green. “Of course I will. I do not think Anthony would object.” She tried to imagine how angry Alex would be when she told him she was going to write to an enemy. She would not ask his permission, nor would she conceal her intention from him, which would be easier. They kept no secrets from each other.

“You have made me very happy,” said Henri. “Now, I think we should return to the salon before the concert resumes.”

“It has already resumed,” came the cold reply from the doorway. “You have been absent for longer than you thought. But time flies so quickly when one is in thrall to Venus, does it not?”

Beth and Henri turned to the door. Henri was clearly surprised, but not worried, in spite of Sir Anthony’s comment. He had not been caught in a compromising position, after all. Beth and he had not been touching, and he would hardly engage in a clandestine romantic liaison and leave the door open.

Beth, who had been half expecting her husband to make an appearance, was nevertheless as surprised as Henri, by his attitude and his eyes, which were ice cold. He moved into the room, and to Beth’s further surprise, she saw Angus behind him. What was he doing here? As a servant, he should be waiting with the coach, or hanging around in the courtyard with the other menials.

“I have suspected something was amiss for some days,” the baronet continued, his voice high-pitched and indignant. “And now I see what it is.”

“I do assure you, Sir Anthony,” Henri began earnestly, “that your wife is the most virtuous…”

“Do not tell me what my wife is, sir!” shrilled Sir Anthony. “I think I should know her better than you. Although perhaps I do not.”

Beth moved forward, puzzled. She had expected her husband to engage Henri in friendly conversation. Not this.

“Jim,” her husband said to his servant, before she could speak. “Would you be so kind as to escort my wife to our hotel? I wish to have a word with Monselle in private.”

Angus moved to Beth’s side, his expression neutral, obedient. He took her arm. She pulled away from him. This was not what she had expected Alex to do. As Angus was here, he had presumably planted the letter. Now it seemed Alex wanted her to leave him and Henri alone to talk. She didn’t think this was the best way of going about it, but she would fall in with him, be indignant, return to the concert as he no doubt intended she should.

“I have no intention of returning to the hotel!” she cried. “I wish to listen to the rest of the concert. I assure you that nothing untoward has taken place between myself and Monsieur Monselle. You are being quite ridiculous. I will return to the salon.”

She made a move to leave, but to her surprise Angus took her arm again, and this time when she tried to pull away he did not release her. Sir Anthony stepped towards her, glared down at her, his eyes chips of blue ice.

“Madam,” he hissed. “You are unwell. You will go home voluntarily. If you do not, I assure you my man will carry you bodily from the palace, and you will make a spectacle of yourself. Go. Now.”

She stared at him for a moment, utterly confounded. The blood roared in her veins. Then she obeyed, tearing her arm once again from her brother-in-law’s grip as they left the room, and storming from the palace, obviously far from unwell. Angus followed behind, face closed, ready to intercept her if she changed her mind and decided to return to the concert, or the library. She did not. She was so angry she knew she was in danger of losing her temper, letting something slip, perhaps.

She managed, barely, to wait until she was in the coach

“Angus,” she said, the moment they were under way. “What the hell’s going on?”

He put his finger to his lips by way of reply.

“Jim,” she amended hotly. “What the hell’s…”

He lunged across the coach and put his hand over her mouth, stifling the rest of the sentence.

“
Isd
!” he whispered. “Ye ken the rules.”

Yes, she did. Don’t speak when you might be overheard. Maintain the pretence until you were sure of privacy. Let the left hand know what the right hand’s doing. Damn him. What was he up to? And why hadn’t he told her?

She stormed through the foyer of the hotel much as she had through the palace, taking the stairs two at a time in spite of her cumbersome dress. They entered the room, she hurled the key at the table, slammed the door and rounded on Angus.

“What are you up to?” she said, her eyes blazing. “And why wasn’t I told? Is it a sudden change of plan? Has something gone wrong?”

Angus looked deeply uncomfortable, and remained uncharacteristically silent. She observed him intently for a moment. It was not a sudden change of plan, then.

“Did you manage to secrete the letter in his room?” she asked. “Can you tell me that much, at least?”

“Aye,” he replied. “Aye, I did.”

“Right. Good. So what is Alex doing that he thinks I won’t approve of?”

Angus looked away.

“I have to get back to the palace,” he muttered after a moment.