Authors: Mary Nichols
And though she
answered when she was spoken to, there was a brittleness in her voice and no
life in her eyes, which was strange because if he had been asked to describe
her he would have said that, of all things, she was vitally alive, a
personality in her own right, not the sterile product of an over-protective
mama who had taught her not to say boo to a goose. Now she looked as though she
had been dealt a mortal blow and Lady Martindale was doing her best to cover up
her daughter's shortcomings by talking too much. And that, in itself, was
unusual.
He listened and
answered, but he could not take his eyes off Juliette. For the second time in
as many weeks, there stirred within him an overwhelming urge to comfort her, to
take her in his arms, to kiss her as he had done before, to make her smile, but
she would not meet his gaze.
`Boney's
mistake was to march on Moscow last year,' his lordship said, helping himself
from the dishes on the table. Whatever was troubling his daughter had not been
communicated to him, Philip decided. But how could he not see something was
wrong? 'He should have known the Russian winter would beat him.'
`Do you think
the war will soon be over?' her ladyship asked. 'Now that Lord Wellington is at
last turning the tide, Napoleon cannot hold out, can he?'
`We must not
underestimate him, my lady,' Philip said. `He is cunning and persuasive. While
the French continue to believe in him, he will fight on. It is necessary to
undermine their faith in him. It will be his own supporters who will bring him
down in the end.'
`Then we shall
have peace at last,' his lordship said. `France and Britain will become friends
again and we shall be able to resume trading and make visits. You should ask
James to take you to Paris, Juliette. It is a magnificent city. If peace is signed
by the new year, you could make it your wedding trip.' He stared in
astonishment as Juliette sprang to her feet and rushed from the room. 'What is
the matter with her?' he demanded of his wife.
`Nothing,'
Elizabeth answered calmly. 'James is due to visit soon and she is a little
nervous, that is all.'
'Then go to
her, my dear. I do not want her to be unhappy. I had rather cancel the wedding.
Tell her that.'
`No.' Her
ladyship's voice was sharp. 'It is simply nerves, nothing more.' She stood up
and turned to Philip. `Please excuse me.'
Philip watched
her go, pondering on the single-mindedness of a woman who could see her child
unhappy and remain so cool about it.
`Well, young
man, have you cracked it?' his lordship asked, pouring himself a glass of port
and handing the decanter to Philip.
`Cracked it?'
He was filling his own glass but his mind was still on Juliette. Had she been
coerced into accepting James Martindale? It might account for the tears she had
shed in the garden after the ball, but she had denied it when he questioned
her. And Lord Martindale undoubtedly loved his daughter; surely he would not
force her to marry against her will?
`The identity
of Le Merle.'
`Oh, yes.' He
forced himself to pay attention. 'He is Captain Michel Clavier, one of
Napoleon's Old Guard. He was captured at Fuentes d'Onoro in 1811 but escaped
soon after arriving in England.' He gave a faint smile. 'One of the few who
managed to return to France and fight again. He was taken again at Cuidad
Rodrigo the following January, possibly on purpose. He has been engaged ever
since on escorting escaped prisoners on to fishing vessels held off the coast
for the purpose, taking vital information with them.'
`And his
British contact, the traitor?'
Philip
hesitated. He would say nothing until he was sure. 'I have not yet discovered
his identity, my lord, but I will, I promise you.'
`And that other
matter? Lieutenant Pierre Veillard?'
`Apparently he
had seen a similar portrait in Paris and simply copied it. A coincidence, no
more.'
At that point
Lady Martindale returned to say that Juliette had decided to retire and begged
to be excused from bidding him goodnight. He took his leave, to ride the four
miles back to Peterborough where he was to resume his disguise as a prisoner of
war and allow himself to be recaptured. It had all been arranged with the
commandant, including the punishment he was to receive for attempting the
earlier escape. His contact inside the camp had told him of furtive comings and
goings, whispers, sidelong glances that betrayed the fact that something was
afoot, a mass breakout perhaps, and though he wanted to be there when it
happened, he was reluctant to leave Juliette. If only he could have had a few
words alone with her he might have discovered what was wrong.
From her bedroom window Juliette watched him ride away,
her heart torn to shreds and her eyes red from weeping. The startling
disclosure of her origins had felled her like the kick from a horse; she had
been, and still was, winded by it. From anyone else she would have dismissed
the tale as fabrication, but coming from someone she had always trusted,
someone who rated truthfulness as one of the foremost virtues, she had to
believe it. Mama - it was difficult to break the habit of calling her that -
would have had no reason to lie to her. But now she knew the truth, she could
not carry on as if nothing had happened. Her whole life had been a sham. Who
would want her now? Certainly not any of the young bloods who had courted her
so assiduously in London, believing her to be the legitimate daughter of Lord
and Lady Martindale. Nor James, who expected to marry an English heiress not a
French bastard. He was entitled to the Martindale inheritance, money and all,
without recourse to marrying her. As for Philip Devonshire, he had sat at the
dinner table making polite conversation, totally unaware that she was not the
sort of person with whom anyone of note should be conversing at all.
Or did he know
already? Was that why he had held back, deciding it was easier to intimate he
had another love than admit it? But why then had he kissed her and spoken so
softly to her, telling her to wait and he would be back? He had come back, but
now he was riding away again, sitting tall and upright in his saddle and taking
all her love and hopes with him.
Pierre had said
he would be in the summerhouse again that night if she should have need of him.
And she did need him because there was no one else. As soon as the house was
quiet, she flung her burnous over her shoulders and left the house by a side
door, making for the summerhouse.
To give the
lieutenant his due, he accepted that she could not go on living at Hartlea and
put forward a plan of his own. 'We will go to Hautvigne and find the surviving
members of your family,' he said. 'There must be cousins, uncles, aunts. You
are so like your grandmere, they will recognise you at once.'
`But how can we
go to France? We are at war.'
He tapped the
side of his nose and laughed. 'Oh, there are ways, ma petite. Leave it to me.'
Still she hesitated. It was such an enormous step to take and once taken, she
could never return. It meant turning her back forever on the man she loved, but
she was beginning to realise that love was not and could not be a
consideration. What right had she to expect love? Her girlhood dreams were just
that. Dreams. And now came the awakening.
`I will look
after you,' he added, as if reading her thoughts. 'I will not hurt you, as
others have hurt you, I promise. When you are with your own people again, then
we can think of the future. Until then, you may be as chaste as you wish.'
It was that
promise as much as anything that decided her. No doubt he would expect his
reward when he had delivered her safely to her family, but she would deal with
that when the time came. 'When do we go?' she asked.
He kissed her
lightly on the cheek. 'Go back to the house and fetch the ruby,' he said. 'We
may need it to convince your family of your true identity. I shall wait here
for you.'
If she had not
been so distressed, if Pierre had not been so persuasive, if Philip Devonshire
had not come to dinner and fixed his dark eyes on her so that she felt
uncomfortably exposed, if she had felt able to trust anyone else, she might
have stopped to consider what a dangerous game she was playing. But all she
could think of was distancing herself from all that had hurt her and finding a
welcome somewhere else. And perhaps her French relatives would be pleased to
see her, as Pierre had said they would. She had not told him that she was a
love-child; she was too ashamed.
Reluctantly she
returned to the house. Her parents were still in the drawing room, she could
hear their low voices as she passed the door. Resisting the temptation to
listen at the keyhole, she crept up to her ladyship's boudoir and retrieved the
jewel. Then she went back to her own room and scribbled a letter to them,
saying she could not go on living a lie and intended to go where she would be
accepted as herself. Having signed and sealed it, she packed a small cloakbag
with a change of clothing, her personal jewellery and five sovereigns his
lordship had given her for pin money. She had no idea how they would make the
journey to France, but she realised it would hardly be in luxury, so she
dressed in a simple homespun skirt, linen blouse and sturdy half-boots that she
wore when helping out in the stables. Leaving the letter on her pillow, she
threw her cloak about her shoulders and left the house, not daring to look
back.
Philip was at his lodgings, putting on the shabby clothes
of a prisoner of war when a message arrived asking him to return to Hartlea at
once. He threw the old uniform back in the cupboard and, unshaven though he
was, dressed in buckskins, top boots, linen shirt, waistcoat and riding coat,
not ostentatious but far removed from the ragged filth of a prisoner of war,
and rode back to Hartlea, fuming at the delay but hoping that he might yet find
an opportunity to speak to Juliette.
He found Lord
Martindale pacing the library, and her ladyship sitting rigidly upright in a winged
chair by the hearth, stony-faced. His lordship turned as Philip was announced.
'Juliette has disappeared,' he said without preamble.
Philip's heart
missed a beat and he felt a constriction in his throat. He coughed to try and
clear it and give himself time to sound calm. 'You mean she has been abducted?
Surely your enemies would not stoop so low...'
`It is
possible, but unlikely. My wife tells me Juliette learned something yesterday
which may have upset her...'
So, there had
been something wrong!
`She has run
away,' her ladyship said, and this time he detected a crack in her iron
control; her voice was hoarse. She had never seen her husband so angry as when
he discovered what she had told Juliette. All those years of misery and
resentment, all so unnecessary. 'She always was impetuous and I...'
Lord Martindale
turned on her, momentarily forgetting the presence of the young man. 'You
should not have told her, especially you should not have filled her head with
half-truths. How did you expect her to react?'
Philip looked
from one to the other. 'You think I can help? I assure you, my lord, my lady, I
have no idea where she may be.'
`We think she
may be trying to go to go France,' his lordship said.
`France? But
why? How?' He looked from one to the other. His lordship looked angry and her
ladyship aggrieved and neither seemed disposed to enlighten him. And all the
time they prevaricated, Juliette might be in danger.
`She has been
seeing the Frenchman,' her ladyship said. 'She admitted that to me yesterday.'
Something
clicked in his brain, like a piece of puzzle finding its place. 'You mean
Veillard?'
`Yes,' his
lordship said. 'We think he means to use Juliette to help him escape.'
`Oh,' he said,
his mind working furiously. If Veillard was involved in the break-out being
planned, he did not need Juliette to help him. In fact, she could very well be
a hindrance.
On the other
hand, he might know nothing of his countrymen's plans, in which case he might
put them in jeopardy by acting alone. The men would not hesitate to rid
themselves of both Veillard and Juliette if it served their purpose. How much
of the secret work he did was known to Lady Martindale? How much did Juliette
herself know?
`Have you told
James Martindale that Miss Martindale is missing?' he asked.
'No. I do not
want him to know,' her ladyship said. `If it became common knowledge... the
scandal. You do see, don't you?'
`Yes, I
understand.' The sooner he returned to the camp the better. Lord Martindale
would understand that better than anyone. He turned towards him. 'You need my
help?'
`Yes,' his
lordship said, then to his wife, 'Will you excuse us, my dear? I need to speak
to Philip privately.'
`Do you really
think Veillard is involved?' Philip asked as soon as they were alone. 'If he is
part of the plot to break out, why take Miss Martindale? The others would see
her as nothing but an encumbrance.'
His lordship
smiled wryly. 'She may not have given him a choice. She must have been feeling
very let down and unwanted and she would think he was the only one who
understood.'