Authors: Mary Nichols
`How clever of
you!'
She did not
detect the note of irony in his voice or, if she did, chose to ignore it. 'But
I am tired of it all, James. When will it end? When can we go back?'
`When I have
done what I have to do,' he said, shutting the box with a snap. 'But without
the Emperor's letter, it will be nigh on impossible. Are you sure you have no
idea where the captain was heading?'
`No.'
`He can't have
gone far.' He thrust the box into her hands. 'Hide this in your room and say
nothing to anyone else about finding it. I am going after him.'
He rushed along
the lines of empty wine racks and disappeared up the cellar steps, leaving her
to hide the box beneath her apron and make her way to her room and conceal it
among her clothes. Now she really was alone and she dreaded to think of the
outcome of a confrontation between James and the captain. It reminded her of
the duel that had never taken place, but this time there was no opportunity to
intervene. That escapade had been less than three months before, but it seemed
like a lifetime and a whole world away. Would James's opponent thwart him
again? Deep inside her, so deep she was hardly aware of it herself, she hoped
he would.
His tall
figure, with its slight stoop, his rugged face, particularly his dark eyes,
were engraved in her memory, just as Philip Devonshire's had once been.
Sometimes one was overlaid with the other and made her more confused than ever.
And again and again her thoughts turned to that last walk with him. He had gone
to great lengths to make sure the others were occupied in order to be alone
with her. Was it simply that he wanted to kiss her or had he been going to tell
her something, something for her ears alone? And it came to her in a flash
which took her breath away that he had been going to speak in English. His last
word was 'I', not the French 'Je'. And then everything fell into place, like
the last piece of a puzzle; his sudden arrival, the way he spoke to her when they
were alone, encouraging her to open her heart to him, the way he looked at her
with those deep, dark eyes, conveying messages she could not read; the smell of
his cigar, so evocative of home. And even when he had kissed her for Henri's
benefit, she had felt that same tremor of excitement and yearning she had felt
when Philip had kissed her on the terrace on the night of her ball. It was
because Philippe was Philip! The similarities between them were not
superficial, as she had thought, they went deep, to the character of the man
beneath the skin. It was the differences that were on the surface, the reddish
hair and untidy beard, the stoop and the scar, all easily contrived, though the
scar was real enough.
She had had the
man she loved here with her and had not even realised it. How could she have
been so blind? Why had he not told her who he was? If only Henri had not
interrupted them, he might have explained why he had come and what he meant to
do. It could not have been to rescue her because he had gone and with him had
gone all her hope. The stoicism with which she had greeted each day in France,
the determination to make the best of it, broke down under this new wave of
grief, and she wept despairingly for a love that had been lost for a second
time.
Philippe had not really doubted that the letter was
genuine, but the rest of the papers certainly confirmed that James's treachery
went far deeper than he had realised. In his hand was enough damning evidence
to convict James many times over. Here were state secrets that could be
invaluable to Napoleon's beleaguered army; copies of despatches to Lord
Wellington in Spain and letters to Prince Metternich of Austria, who had
offered to act as mediator to a settlement in Europe, although Napoleon had
rebuffed him and Austria had recently entered the war on the side of the
allies. How much more had been transmitted during the three years James had
been working at the Horse Guards? Lord Martindale would never have suspected
his own nephew and would have been more open than he might otherwise have been.
He had to get the information to the right quarter so that the breach in
security could be repaired and nothing like it could happen again. But that
meant leaving Juliette and going to Paris. He had toyed with the idea of taking
her with him, but rejected it as impractical. While James was still obsessed by
his search for treasure, she was in no immediate danger at Hautvigne and he
would only be gone a week.
When he
returned, he would be able to tell her the truth, but he had to admit to a
little feeling of disappointment that she had not guessed who he was, which was
illogical when he had taken such pains to conceal it. He would explain how Lord
Martindale had rescued her as a baby and then he could take her home. The rest
was up to her. He had slipped out of the château at dawn and ridden pell-mell,
spurred on by hope. It had taken him longer than he would have liked to reach
the capital, even though his papers were impeccable. Every time he showed them,
he had to give an account of how the war was progressing and answer questions
about sons and husbands who had gone to fight. Did he know so and so? Had he
met this old woman's son, that man's brother? Were they safe? He fobbed them
off with platitudes, but the delay made him fume. The longer he was gone, the
longer Juliette was left alone with James Martindale. The man was mad enough to
do anything.
`He will have
to be stopped,' Martin Reynard said, when given the evidence. He was a portly
little man apparently earning a precarious living as a baker in the shadow of
the cathedral of Sacre Coeur. Philippe did not know his real name, any more
than his was known to the baker. 'He could swing the whole tide of war round
again just when we are beginning to smell victory.'
`Yes, I know.'
`Then you know
what to do,' Martin said. 'Find him and silence him.'
It was an order
Philippe had been dreading and he knew it would be useless to ask to be
relieved of the task. The man deserved to die, but Juliette would never
understand that. She might even think he had done it to rid himself of a rival
and it would always be there between them, an obstacle to their love, even if
he tried to keep it from her. He had been living in a fool's paradise if he
thought they had any future together. If he obeyed his orders, and he must do
so, then he could not reveal himself to her as Philip Devonshire. The uncouth
French captain had to live on.
Martin, unaware
of the torment he was suffering, handed him a sealed package. 'Take this
despatch to Wellington first. It is vitally important he receives it as soon as
possible. There are moves afoot to offer peace, but we must be in an
unassailable position before we do so. The further into France his lordship can
advance the better.' He smiled at the man opposite him. The last time he had
seen him, he had been dressed as a naval officer and here he was now, a cavalry
captain, and a very disreputable-looking one too. 'Whatever you do, do not
allow yourself to be captured.'
Philippe took
the package and left the shop. Looking carefully about him, he strode off to
find his horse, hidden in a stable about half a mile away. His route to the
Spanish border would take him close to Hautvigne and, for once in his life, he
intended to interpret his orders freely. Juliette must be taken out of harm's
way before any confrontation with James Martindale. He dug his heels in and
galloped through the night.
The family accepted the disappearance of the captain and
James with indifference and tolerated her because they knew, jewels or no
jewels, that she was truly Juliette Caronne. They even helped her in the
vineyards and showed her how to prune the vines, talking to her of wine-making.
The subject of the missing jewels was never raised. Neither did they mention
James or the deserter. But Juliette, busy about her self-imposed tasks, could
not helping thinking of them, particularly the captain, remembering the soft
way he had sometimes looked at her even when he was taunting her, the things he
had said. She recalled every word again and again, trying to make sense of
them, to see some glimmer of light in the darkness of her despair. Why had he
come to Hautvigne and then gone away again without saying a word? Did he
imagine she was happy with James? No, she decided, he was too astute for that.
And there was that letter. He must have had good reason for taking it. Surely
he knew he could trust her? Would he come back? How much danger was he in? Had
he come to France because of her? Then why leave without telling her so? Her
questions plagued her, night and day, but she could find no answers.
She rose one morning, after a sleepless night, to find the
first frost of the year had touched the pines with white. It was unusual to
have frost so far south, Anne-Marie told her when she went down to breakfast,
though later in the year it might snow on the mountains, but there was no sign
of snow today and she was glad to go out and work on the slopes.
The year was
drawing to a close and next year, with luck, they might harvest some worthwhile
grapes and begin wine-making again. And the war might end. The week before they
had learned from a courier who passed through Hautvigne on his way to Paris
that the British forces had established a toe-hold in the south-west corner of
France, and two weeks later, from another going in the opposite direction, that
Napoleon had been decisively beaten at Leipzig. The tide of war had, at last,
turned against the dictator and she began to wonder how long it would be before
the allied armies reached Toulouse, not so many miles to the south.
She remembered
her father saying that when the war ended, France and England would be friends
again and it would be possible to travel freely between the two countries. When
that happened, she might write to him; he might even visit her, if Lady
Martindale allowed it. She had given up all idea of returning to Hartlea
herself, she had been gone too long. Besides, how could she leave while Philip
was in France? He was Philip, wasn't he? She had not dreamed it? The longer he
was absent, the more questions she found to ask herself and the more her
certainty changed to doubt. If and when he returned, she would be sure, but he
had been gone ten days and so had James.
Had James
caught up with him and killed him? He had been angry enough. That idea bothered
her more than any other; she could not banish it from her mind. 'Lord, keep him
safe,' she prayed, as she worked on the slopes, and it was for the enigmatic
captain she prayed.
Hearing the
sound of horses, she straightened her back and looked out towards the road
which led down to the town, almost as if she expected to see him, and caught
sight of a troop of cavalry, trotting up the narrow road towards the château.
She put down her tools and went to meet them, arriving at the front door just
as they came to a halt and Henri came out onto the step.
`We've nothing
for you,' the old man said, assuming they were looking for food. 'Everything
has already been taken. All we have left are a few scrawny chickens.'
`Rest easy, mon
vieux, we are not after supplies,' their leader said. The sound of his voice
made Juliette look at him more closely. It was Michel Clavier! He was wearing
the insignia and red sash of a major of the Old Guard, and behind him, sitting
easily in his saddle, was Pierre Veillard. He smiled and gave her a mock bow.
'Ah, ma petite Juliette, we meet again.'
Shocked to the
core, all she could manage in reply was, 'What are you doing here?'
`What do you
think, mam'selle?' Michel queried. 'We are looking for that double-crossing
English husband of yours.'
Instinctively
she moved to stand beside Henri, who had been joined by Jean and Anne-Marie. 'I
have no husband.'
He grinned.
'Then we can save you the trouble of becoming a widow.' He pulled some
documents from inside his jacket and handed them to Henri. 'I have orders to
search the chateau and arrest James Martindale.'
`James
Martindale?' repeated Henri. 'Who is he?'
Michel laughed.
'James Stewart, if you prefer. He has several names, that one. It depends where
he is and whom he is trying to deceive. She will tell you.' He nodded at
Juliette.
Henri, Jean and
Anne-Marie turned in unison to look at her. 'What do you know of this?' Jean
demanded.
`Nothing,' she
said. Had someone discovered James was a British agent? 'I know nothing, I
swear it.'
`Then you will
not mind if we search the château,' the major said, making his way up the
steps.
Henri, who had
been standing in front of the door, moved aside. 'Do as you wish. You will find
nothing.'
The men
dismounted and crowded into the kitchen, demanding food. Juliette, helping
Anne-Marie to serve them, wished they would go. James might come back and she
did not relish the thought of what these men would do to him.
`The man left
over two weeks ago,' Henri said, hovering over the major, anxious to rid
himself of his unwelcome visitors. 'We don't know where. He had a letter. ...'
`Of course he
had a letter. An Englishman in France would be courting an early death without
one. How could he have done the Emperor's work without carte blanche?'
`The Emperor's
work?' Juliette echoed, almost dropping the tureen she was carrying.