by Mary Nichols
Her misery and frustration made her less than careful; she began pulling out drawers, rifling through their contents, crying in desperation. She found a duplicate key, at last, tucked away at the back of the escritoire. She sat on the bed with the box on her lap and the key in her hand and did nothing. It was a wicked thing she was doing, a deceitful, wicked, disloyal thing and she could not bring herself to insert the key in the lock. But she did not intend to take anything, so it wasn't stealing, was it? And besides, it was all a hum and there would be nothing there. Better to get it over and be done with the uncertainty. Slowly she inserted the key and turned it.
The box contained a collection of necklaces, brooches, armlets and rings, some set with precious stones, others not so valuable, but none resembled any in the portrait. There was certainly no great ruby pendant. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and began putting them all back. What a ninny she had been! How Pierre must be laughing at her! Then, right at the bottom, she found a little velvet bag closed with a drawstring. She loosened the neck and tipped it up. Into her lap fell the ruby in its silver filigree heart; not the whole necklace, but enough of it to be unmistakable. She picked it up and laid it on her palm, twisting it to catch the light. It was so beautiful it made her catch her breath, now the rich colour of blood, dark and a little menacing, and now light, transparent as wine was transparent, winking up at her, telling her... what? That Pierre had told the truth? Could there be any other explanation? She was so engrossed she did not hear the door open and close again. `Juliette! What are you doing?'
She looked up to see Lady Martindale standing over her, white-faced with suppressed anger. 'I...' She swallowed hard, then found the courage to tell the truth. 'I was looking for this.'
`Oh, I see.' Her ladyship's voice was perfectly controlled. 'And why were you looking for it? And what are you going to do now you have found it?'
'I... I don't know. I thought... Oh, Mama, I knew you were angry when P- Lieutenant Veillard painted me wearing all those jewels and I could not understand why. He said you were afraid...'
`And when have you seen him to speak to him about it?'
`I met him at Mrs Golightly's. He was helping with their harvest. He asked me if you were still angry about that portrait...'
`I had forgotten it, as you should have done. You have disobeyed your papa's express orders not to speak to that young man again and now you have made the situation far worse.'
`What situation, Mama? The lieutenant told me such a Banbury tale. I don't know what to believe.'
`Did he, now?' Her ladyship seemed lost in thought. Even her anger had evaporated. 'He told us he could not remember.'
`But he has now. He saw all those jewels on a portrait of the Comtesse de Caronne in the Louvre. He said the whole family had been guillotined, except one. He said I was that one.' She paused, gazing up at her mother's implacable face. 'Mama, tell me it isn't true. I am not French, am I? I am yours and Papa's. Your daughter.'
Elizabeth sat on the bed beside Juliette and took the ruby from her unresisting fingers. 'I had hoped that you would never have to learn the truth, Juliette, but fate has decreed otherwise.' She gave a little twisted smile. 'But the lieutenant is only half right.'
Juliette waited, hardly daring to breathe.
`You were born in France, Juliette. And you are the daughter of the Comtesse de Caronne, as the lieutenant suggested, though not of her husband. When the Caronne family went to the guillotine, you were saved because...' she gulped once and then went on '... because your father was English and he claimed you.'
Juliette looked up at her in shocked disbelief. 'You mean Papa?'
`Yes.'
`But that means...' She could not go on. Her heart was thumping against her ribs and her limbs were shaking visibly.
`Yes.' The one word was repeated firmly, without any effort to soften the blow.
`Oh, no, no! I cannot believe it. I won't. It is even worse than I thought.'
`I had lost three infants,' her ladyship went on in a matter-of-fact voice, while she relocked the box. Her upright posture did not relax for a minute. 'I could not give your father a legitimate heir. He persuaded me I should come to love you.'
Juliette was silent; there was nothing she could say. She looked back on her childhood and realised there had always been an aloofness in her mother that she had not understood at the time. Always she thought it was something she had done to displease her, some childish mischief that must be punished. And she had tried all the harder to be good.
`I tried to love you.' For the first time there was anguish in her ladyship's voice. 'It is not your fault, child, and so I tell myself every day of my life. I have tried to think of you as my daughter and, as far as the world is concerned, that is what you are.' She paused. 'I did my duty and now you must do yours.'
`Marry James, you mean. Is that why Papa did not oppose you over that?'
`Yes.'
`I cannot believe he could be so cruel. It is not like him at all.'
`Juliette, it will not be so bad. We have been over it again and again and you agreed.'
`Oh, I did not mean about James, I meant about making you bring me up as your own. Does anyone else know?'
`No. '
`But how did you keep it from the servants?'
`When my last little one was due to be born, your papa was in France on a diplomatic mission. I was lonely and afraid and your grandmother persuaded me to visit her in Scotland. It was thought the bracing air might be good for me.
`Only Anne came with me and she was there at the birth of a boy. He lived only three weeks. If I had remained at Hartlea, where it is comfortable and warm, he might have survived.' The bitterness was there in her voice, though she tried to conceal it.
Even in her own misery, Juliette could feel for her. 'I am so very sorry.'
Her ladyship did not appear to hear. 'I stayed in Scotland until your papa returned. When he came to fetch me, he had you with him. Later we returned to Hartlea and everyone was allowed to think...' She stopped speaking, stood up and returned the jewel case to the drawer before turning back to Juliette, her voice once more brisk. `Nothing has changed, nothing at all.'
`Oh, but it has!' Juliette cried. Her whole world had been torn apart; everything was ruined. She was a by-blow, a nobody, someone who should never be seen in polite Society. What would everyone think when the truth came out? James? He would reject her and demand his birthright and who could blame him? The thought of James being put off marrying her lightened her spirits for the space of a heartbeat, no more.
Her thoughts flew to Philip Devonshire. If she had been harbouring a faint hope that James's rejection of her might bring about a change of heart in that young man, it died before it could flicker into life. He would not have her. No one would, not when the truth became known. She would be an outcast. 'I must talk to Papa...'
`No!' her ladyship almost shouted. 'You will not speak of this to your father at all, do you hear? It will never be mentioned. I do believe he is ashamed of what he did and we have been happy in our way. I have no wish to reopen old wounds. In a few weeks you will be married and it will no longer matter.'
`Is James not to be told?'
`No, there is no need.'
`He would not want me if he knew.'
`You will say nothing, child. Think of the scandal if such a thing became public. We should never be able to show our faces in Society again. It is one thing to have a skeleton in the cupboard as long as you keep it there, quite another to let it loose for every tattlemonger to rattle. I should be ostracised, you would never marry and your papa would lose his position in the government. Think of him, if you can think of no one else.'
She paused to let her words sink into Juliette's benumbed brain. 'Now, please go back to your own room and change for dinner. We have a guest.'
At Hartlea they kept country hours; dinner was at three and supper at eight. 'James has arrived?' He was the last person she wanted to see.
&nbs
p; `No, James is not due for several days, you know that. Mr Devonshire is in the area and your papa has invited him to dine with us.' She paused to look at the young girl who still sat on the bed as if she did not have the strength or the will to rise. 'You are looking exceedingly pale, so wear your blue jaconet, it will give you a little colour. I shall tell Anne to put a little rouge on your cheeks too.'
Philip. Philip, who had told her to play for time, Philip who had kissed her and whom she loved. How could she face him? 'I cannot sit and eat and pretend nothing has happened.'
`Yes, you will. Even though the man is no longer acceptable in Society on account of that duel, that seems not to count with your father, so you will act with dignity and good manners.'
Juliette returned to her room on leaden feet and said nothing at all while Anne helped her dress and arranged her hair. 'I do not believe you have quite got over that cold,' the maid said. 'You are white as a sheet.'
`Am I?' She could not pay attention to Anne, her head was swimming. Today she had died a little. Today she had learned that she was an imposter; not only that, but a bastard. The dreadful word rang round and round in her brain, along with 'duty' and 'dignity' and 'good manners'. Was that all there was to her life?
`You had best tell me why you are having such a fit of the dismals,' Anne said, dabbing Juliette's cheeks with safflower powder.
`You deceived me too,' Juliette said. 'You knew...'
`Knew what?'
`That I am not who I seem.'
`Who told you that?'
`Mama. But she is not my mama, is she?'
`Oh, I see.' Wondering why her ladyship should have chosen this moment to speak, Anne put the rouge pot down and took Juliette's hands in her own. 'Listen, my love. Her ladyship did not give birth to you, but in all other respects she has been your mother. She has loved you in her fashion, brought you up, guided you, taught you how to behave. In fact she has been a better mama than many I could name who have little time for their children and consign them permanently to the nursery until it is time to bring them out and marry them off. You have had a happy childhood and you cannot deny it.'
`And now I must grow up.'
`And now you must grow up.' She smiled reassuringly. `You are what you are, not who you are. Can you not understand that?'
`Do you know who I really am?'
`No, and I do not want to know. And neither should you. There is nothing to be gained by prying into the past.' She took a last look at her charge. 'There! You look very charming. Off you go and see if you cannot bewitch Mr Devonshire. I have just seen him and he is looking as handsome in country clothes as ever he did wearing the latest fashion in town.' She had either forgotten, or chosen to ignore, the fact that Juliette was engaged to marry James Martindale.
Not even the thought of seeing Philip Devonshire again could bring Juliette out of her gloom. If anything, the prospect of having his searching eyes delving into her soul, revealing all the pain and misery there, made matters worse. She had never been able to hide her feelings from him; he could read her like a book. And he would turn the pages until he had found out all he wanted to know. Would it make any difference to him? No, she decided. Although he had kissed her and comforted her, he had never said a word about loving her. And he knew she had accepted James.
`Nothing has changed,' her mother had said. But Lady Martindale was not her mother. Her mother was a French countess who had lost her head in more ways than one. And everything had changed. No matter what her mother said, James must be relieved of his obligation towards her. She could never marry.
She took a deep breath and went downstairs, holding her head high and feeling for the steps with her toes. She was almost at ground level when her parents came out of the library accompanied by Philip Devonshire. She paused, clinging to the bannister until she could make her trembling limbs obey her, then forced herself to smile, and completed the descent.
`Mr Devonshire, how nice to see you again.' Her voice, as she curtsied, was clear and brittle as ice.
`Miss Martindale, your obedient.' He returned her smile and bowed. 'I trust I find you recovered.'
`Recovered?' she queried, her head so full of the revelations of the last few hours she could think of nothing else. He couldn't know, could he?
`I collect you were unwell in London and that is why you curtailed your Season.'
`Yes, of course. I had quite forgot it. I am quite recovered, thank you. The country air, you know. There is nothing like it for effecting a cure. I have been watching the harvest...' She was prattling now, babbling like a lunatic, and he was looking at her with those dark penetrating eyes and even at the distance of two paces, she could feel the warmth of him, the power in him, and it was all she could do not to faint at his feet.
Lady Martindale inadvertently rescued her. 'Come, let us go into the dining room,' she said and led the way.
Chapter Six
There was something wrong with Juliette, Philip thought, as he picked at the bones of the fish on his plate. She not only looked ill, but desperately unhappy. She was toying with her food and taking gulps from her wine glass as if the answer to her problems lay in its ruby liquid.
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 for
ce 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.
