by Joan Wolf
Menteith asked with surprise, “Is Nanda back in London, then?”
“Yes. She and the children arrived two days ago from Scotland. There is smallpox in the village near Pennington, so she decided to return to London. Charles came with her. They brought your mother to Fanly for a visit with the Fleetwoods.” The duc turned once more to Adam. “You will be much more comfortable at Gacé House than at a hotel or in lodgings, Lord Stanford. Please do accept my invitation.”
There was a perceptible pause, then Adam said slowly, “You are very kind, Your Grace. I should be honored to be your guest.”
“Excellent,” said the duc. “We will expect you tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you. Are you sure the Duchesse won’t mind?”
“Positive,” returned Matthieu de Vaudobin. “Menteith,” a nod and he was gone.
Adam turned slowly back to Menteith. “Just who is the Duc de Gacé and why is he so eager for me to stay with him?”
Menteith was looking thoughtful. “Gacé is an unofficial attaché to Louis XVIII and the acknowledged émigré leader in England. I have no idea why he invited you to stay with him, though I think it’s a good idea.” He glanced at Adam’s stick. “My own wife is in the country or I would have invited you to stay with us.” He smiled ruefully. “When Helen is away, I virtually live at my club.”
Adam wasn’t pleased by the assumption that he needed to have someone to take care of him, but he let it pass. “You haven’t told me what Gacé has to do with the Horse Guards.”
Menteith sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Gacé is a protégé of Lord Liverpool. He acts as a sort of liaison between the English war effort and the French government in exile. He’s on his way to Hartwell now to see Louis XVIII, and he also corresponds with the Comte de Artois, Louis’ brother.” Menteith’s face took on a sour look. “It is Liverpool’s idea to appear to be working with the French royal family, and Gacé is connected to the Bourbons by marriage. His first wife was the daughter of the Prince de Condé.” Menteith’s mouth twitched. “His second wife is my sister.”
Adam nodded slowly. “So, as well as being Lord Liverpool’s protégé, Gacé is your brother-in-law.”
“His being my brother-in-law had nothing to do with his position at the Horse Guards,” Menteith said grimly. “In my opinion, the marriage was a mistake on the part of my sister.”
Adam let the comment pass unremarked. “All the same, I am a bit intrigued by the sudden invitation.”
“So am I,” Menteith confessed. “Most of the time Gacé goes around with the air of a prince who holds the rest of the world in supreme contempt. To be frank, I’m surprised he even noticed you.”
Adam grinned. “You paint a delightful picture of my prospective visit.”
Menteith raised his eyebrows. “My dear boy, as the guest of my sister Nanda, you will be the envy of every man in London.”
Adam sighed and tried to shift his leg into a more comfortable position. “You had better tell me about it,” he said resignedly.
“It’s not terribly complicated. My sister Nanda is married to Gacé. She is twenty-three years younger than he; she married him when she was eighteen. Gacé has one daughter by his first wife, Virginie, who is now thirteen. And he has one son with Nanda, Marc, who is four.” He shrugged. “It’s not an unusual household for London. Gacé busies himself with government business and Nanda supervises the house and children.”
“If it’s not an unusual house why will every man in London envy me?” Adam asked bluntly.
The older man smiled. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough, Stanford.”
Adam remembered Menteith’s words as he lay on his hotel bed that evening, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. Evidently the Duchessee was a femme fatale, and he was in no state of mind to cope with a femme fatale, but he had sensed an urgency under the duc’s easy invitation that intrigued him. Why on earth would a man like the Duc de Gacé invite an unknown Englishman to be his houseguest?
# # #
Nanda de Vaudobin wondered the same thing when her husband told her of the invitation over dinner that evening. She looked at him in deep surprise; he regarded her blandly.
“It was a kind thing to do, Matthieu,” she said in her low, husky voice. “I’ve heard stories about Lord Stanford, of course. Robert said Wellington was in despair over losing him. What is he going to do at the Horse Guards?”
“Decoding, according to Menteith. I don’t doubt myself that he will be involved in the planning of the spring offensive.” “That seems likely,” she agreed. “Has he recovered from his wounds then?”
“No, he looked to be in pain, which is why I invited him here. You will take much better care of him, ma belle, than they ever would at the Clarendon. He is to come tomorrow morning.”
Nanda was further surprised by the quickness of the invitation, but she held her tongue, saying instead, “It’s fortunate I am in London.” She couldn’t repress a sigh. “This is the first Christmas we won’t be spending at Pennington.”
“You could hardly have stayed at Pennington with smallpox in the village,” he said dryly.
“No.” She took a bite of her roast lamb, then said carefully, “Well, it was a thoughtful gesture on your part, Matthieu, to invite him to stay with us.”
“Thank you, ma belle.” Then, as she continued to regard him, “My dear Nanda, do not look so astonished. Give me credit for a sincere wish to be of service to someone who has done so much to serve the cause of Royalist France.”
She lowered her lashes. “Of course I do, Matthieu,” she returned gently.
And perhaps that did explain it, she thought later, after she had read Marc his book and kissed Ginny goodnight. She was seated in the drawing room waiting for her brother Charles, who had promised to escort her to a party.
It was difficult for Matthieu, she told herself for perhaps the thousandth time. He had been forced to flee France when he was twenty-one, and in twenty-four years of living first in Germany and then in England he had never reconciled himself to exile. But, compared to many emigres, her husband was fortunate, Nanda thought. His father had been one of the few aristocrats to read the signs of the coming storm; with the result that he had sent most of his money and valuables out of France before it was too late.
Unlike his father, Matthieu had waited in France until his own life was imperiled and then had escaped to Germany disguised as a peasant. By the time he reached Baden his father was dead and he was the Duc de Gacé. But the Chateau de Gacé, which Nanda was familiar with through pictures and Matthieu’s loving descriptions, was in alien hands. Its beauty and its location on the bend where the river Maine met the Loire had saved it from destruction. It had been taken over first by the local mayor, then, in 1806, it passed to the minister of finance, who still held it.
As Nanda well knew, the one aim in her husband’s life was to recover the chateau, property of the de Vaudobins since the fifteenth century. It was an obsession with him. It made him incapable of finding satisfaction in anything else, not in his marriage to the daughter of a royal prince, not in his marriage to her.
Gacé’s obsession had so circumscribed his life that when he did something outside his usual rigid circle of friends and activities, Nanda was shocked. This invitation to Lord Stanford, a total stranger to them, had come as a bolt from the blue. It was clear, however, that he expected her to exert herself on behalf of the man. And Nanda, who greatly valued the equilibrium she had struggled to achieve in her marriage, intended to do just that.
The arrival of her brother Charles broke her train of thought. She smiled at his handsome, dark-eyed face and he bent to kiss her cheek.
“Survived the journey all right I see, Nan,” he said easily. “How are the children?”
“They’re fine. The young have such a great ability to bounce back – even from a three-day-long journey.”
“Where is Gacé this evening that you had to press me into service as an escort?”
“Matthieu we
nt to White’s, I believe. It was lovely of Kitty Jermyn to give this party for those unfortunates like ourselves who have to be in London in December, but she is not one of Matthieu’s favorite people.”
“Not high-born enough for him, eh?” Charles said cynically.
Nanda didn’t try to contradict her brother, saying instead, “I have always found her to have a kind heart, so I promised to attend.” She stood and allowed Charles to place her fur-lined cloak about her shoulders. She walked with him to the door, then stopped and looked up at him. “The strangest thing has happened, Charles. Matthieu has invited Lord Stanford to stay with us while he does some work for Robert at the Horse Guards.”
Charles’ brown eyes widened in surprise. “Stanford? I thought he was badly wounded at Burgos.”
“He was. But apparently he is well enough to do a desk job.”
“And Gacé invited him to stay with you? That is peculiar.” As he prepared to follow her out the door she heard him murmur to himself, “Damned peculiar. Wonder what the fellow’s up to.”
CHAPTER THREE
Adam arrived at Gacé House in Berkley Square at eleven o’clock the next morning. The butler had been told to expect him, and his luggage was swiftly removed from the cab and sent, along with his valet, to the bedroom he had been allotted.
“Will you come into the green salon, my lord, and I will have her grace informed you have arrived? Or would you prefer to go straight to your room?” The butler scrupulously refrained from glancing at Adam’s cane.
“I’ll wait in the green salon,” he replied and limped into a lovely room with walls that were hung with green silk. He sat in a large velvet wing chair in front of the alabaster fireplace, his eyes on the tapestry that hung on one of the walls. He had just decided it had to be an authentic Gobelin when the door opened to admit a very young girl. Adam rose to his feet. “Don’t tell me you’re the Duchessee de Gacé,” he said solemnly.
The girl giggled. “Certainly not. I am Virginie de Vaudebin. Mama will be here shortly and she sent me to entertain you until she arrives.”
Virginie came to take the chair opposite his and he could see how alike she was to Gacé. Her hair was ash-blond like her father’s and her features were as finely etched. But the eyes that looked out from beneath her clear arched brows were a warm hazel and full of healthy curiosity. She was a lovely child and would one day be a beautiful woman. “Would you like some tea, Lord Stanford?” she asked politely.
“Not at the moment,” he said gravely, “but thank you.”
She looked disappointed, but Adam wanted to get to the Horse Guards as soon as possible, so he smiled at her and asked, “I hope I am not interrupting your mother’s day.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Lord Stanford, you’re not,” Virginie said. “It’s just that Marc fell down and cut his lip.” She sighed wearily. “It was bleeding a little and he always makes a ridiculous scene when he sees his own blood.” She frowned disapprovingly. “He’s such a baby.”
“How old is he?” Adam inquired.
“He’s four,” she said, with as much indignation as if she had announced he was forty.
Adam made noises of sympathy and understanding, which encouraged Virginie to greater disclosures about the problems of having a four-year-old brother. She was well launched on her favorite topic when a woman and a small boy entered the room.
Using his cane, Adam got to his feet.
The woman said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you myself, Lord Stanford, but I had a small crisis on my hands.” She glanced down at her son, who was standing beside her.
Marc de Vaudobin was a well-built child with silky brown hair and large dark eyes. He wore nankeen trousers and a sky-blue coat. His lower lip was red and swollen. He was looking at his sister. “Where’s the tea, Ginny? Mama told you to order tea.”
“Marc,” the Duchesse said, “where are you manners?”
Thus called to mind, the little boy bowed politely to Adam. Then his eyes discovered the stick in Adam’s hand. “Why are you carrying a stick, sir?” he asked in his clear, little boy voice. “I thought only old people used sticks.”
“Enough, Marc,” his mother commanded. She stepped forward into a shaft of light from the window and Adam saw her fully for the first time.
She was not what he had expected. He had assumed that Menteith’s femme fatale sister would be a blonde and blue-eyed stunner, but the woman before him was dark. Her shining brown hair, in defiance of the current fashion for short curls, was drawn smoothly back off her face. Her skin was pale olive, with a warm dusky rose on lips and cheeks. Her features were finely boned and clearly cut. But it was the eyes that made her so extraordinary. Huge and brown and long lashed, full of light and dark, they illuminated her entire face.
She was still speaking, “Matthieu mentioned that your leg was injured, my lord, so I have put you in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. Can you manage the stairs? If you can’t, we can find some way of housing you down here.”
“Stairs are no problem, Your Grace,” Adam lied coolly.
“Would you like tea or would you prefer to go straight to your room?”
Virginie said, “Lord Stanford said he didn’t want tea, Mama, so I didn’t order any.”
Adam looked at Marc. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Marc, but I am eager to get to the Horse Guards.”
“That’s all right,” Marc said heroically. “Duty always must come first.”
He sounded as if he were quoting words he had heard quite often. Adam smiled at him. “Thank you for understanding.”
The Duchesse said, “Ginny, will you take Marc back to the nursery while I show Lord Stanford to his room?”
“Yes, Mama.” Ginny held out her hand to her brother. “Come along, Marc.”
He hung back. “Will you play soldiers with me, Ginny?”
Virginie glanced at her mother, then sighed. “All right.”
His voice could be heard as they left the room. “You can be Napoleon and I’ll be Wellington.”
The Duchesse shook her head in rueful amusement and turned to Adam. “Unfortunately, Marc’s nanny contracted a severe inflammation of the lungs while we were in Scotland and is at her sister’s recuperating. I tried to get someone to take care of him until she returns, but Marc hates strange people around him. I’m afraid he’s enjoying quite a bit more freedom than he is usually allowed.”
She smiled at him and the still loveliness of her face lit to heart-shattering beauty. Adam took an instinctive, protective step back. Here was a femme fatale indeed, he thought with some alarm.
“If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room.” Her low-pitched, almost husky voice was extraordinarily attractive.
He followed her out the door and toward the wide staircase. She chatted easily, demanding no response, making it easy for him to concentrate on getting up the stairs. He reached the top, pleased with himself for his performance, and she turned left down the passageway, opening wide the first door she came to. He joined her and saw a warm, cheerful bedroom with the sun coming in the window and hot coals in the fireplace. Graves, his valet, was busily putting clothes into the wardrobe.
“This is perfect, Your Grace,” he said. “Thank you.”
“We are happy to have you, my lord,” she returned. “May I suggest you settle in and rest a bit before you go to the Horse Guards?”
The very last thing Adam wanted at the moment was someone trying to look after him. He stared at her and said nothing.
She gave him that wonderful smile. “I have two children of my own, Lord Stanford. Rest assured I have no intention of mothering you.”
She turned away to go back down the stairs. Adam watched her for a moment, then went into his room to speak with his valet.
# # #
Over the next few days Adam investigated every area of the War Department; he was appalled by the laxity of security he discovered. In a distinctly unpleasant interview with Menteith, he listed wit
h clinical exactitude all the violations of security which he had uncovered. The acid ruthlessness of Adam’s tone brought anger to Menteith’s eyes.
“Dammit, Stanford.” He slammed his hand on the desk. “We never dreamed one of our own people would turn traitor.”
“Someone has been leaking vital information to the French for the last six months, yet you continued to run this office as if it were a club.” Adam handed a piece of paper to Menteith. “If the informer is a subordinate, these measures will eliminate a large number of his opportunities.”
“If the informer is a subordinate…” The words reverberated in the room, and Menteith said carefully, “Do you think…” His voice trailed off.
“I think only that the security surrounding the spring offensive must be maintained. He leaned forward and spoke intensely, his blue eyes hard. “The campaign Wellington has planned is imaginative, comprehensive and irresistible. It will push the French out of Spain for good. But its success depends upon the vital factor of surprise.”
Menteith sustained that blue gaze for a moment, then heaved a sigh. “You are, unfortunately, correct in what you say about us. This office is run like a club.” He picked up Stanford’s list. “But it won’t be any longer. We will do as you ask.”
# # #
Nanda found herself liking Lord Stanford. She liked him principally because he showed a genuine interest in her children. He had told her he was the oldest of four boys, which explained his knowledgeable way of dealing with Marc. With Ginny he was charmingly deferential, and he could make her laugh in a way Nanda had never heard before.
The problem was Lord Stanford didn’t seem to like their mother. He was always courteous to her, but she was keenly aware of the No Trespassing sign he wore whenever they spoke. Nanda was not accustomed to being treated in such a fashion and it bewildered and hurt her.
She was sitting with Stanford in the drawing room before dinner one evening when Ginny’s governess, Miss Braxton, brought in the children. As they heard the sound of Marc’s voice on the stairs, Nanda turned to him. “Now is the chance for you to make your escape, Lord Stanford. Once Marc sees you, you are as good as caught.”
