The Ruby Pendant

by Mary Nichols

  `No. That is true.'

  `Do the others believe it?'

  `Yes, or they would not have given us shelter.'

  He smiled knowingly. 'Or they fear that Monsieur Stewart is really who he purports to be and his papers are genuine. They are simple people accustomed to bowing down to authority and looking on the Emperor almost as a god. They dare not disobey what they see as his orders.'

  `Perhaps, but they also know I am who I say I am, and blood is thicker than water.'

  `As long as the jewels remain unfound. They are motivated by greed, not family feeling.'

  `Are you always so cynical, Captain?'

  `That is not cynicism; it is facing up to reality,' he said. 'It is a dangerous game you are playing.'

  `No more than yours, for now you have to climb down again.'

  He laughed. 'Now who is unfeeling? For one moment I felt like Romeo, reaching out towards his Juliet and you have spoiled it all.' He gave a melodramatic sigh. 'Ah, well! "Good-night, good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good-night till it be morrow."'

  In spite of her misery, in spite of her confusion, she found herself laughing. A French soldier who could quote Shakespeare was the last thing she expected. `Oh, that's better,' he said, then let go of the creeper and disappeared. She gasped and leaned out of the window, expecting to find him laid out on the ground, but he knew how to fall and was standing below her, brushing down his overlarge breeches. It seemed to her at that moment that he looked taller, less bent, but it was an illusion, she realised as he walked away. He was as unprepossessing as ever, certainly no handsome Romeo.

  Chapter Eight

  In the following days, Juliette thought she must have imagined the soldier who quoted Shakespeare. Captain Devereux was there, to be sure, lazing about the house, grooming his horse, riding out to explore the countryside surrounding the chateau, playing cards and drinking noisily with the other men. But he was as far removed from the romantic man who had intrigued her the night of his arrival as James Martindale was from the gentleman she had once believed him to be. There was something about him she could not fathom and, as the days went by, she began to wonder why he had come to the chateau. His story of being on his way to rejoin his regiment in Spain did not ring true. She was convinced he was a deserter and yet she could not quite believe he lacked courage. He would laugh and joke with Henri and Jean and treat James with thinly-veiled contempt, but there was about him a watchfulness, a way of moving which reminded her of a cat, a large and powerful cat, a lion or a tiger. The claws were sheathed for now, but she knew they could be deadly. But if that were so, who at the chateau was his prey? Had it anything to do with the pendant? Or the war? It was like living on a knife edge.

  And then one day, when they were alone in the kitchen, he began talking to her, asking her about her life in England and treating her with a deference he had never shown before. Although his accent did not lose the patois of the region, his voice softened, its cadences became sympathetic to her ear and she was almost lulled into believing he was a friend.

  She longed for someone to confide in, someone who would not laugh at her as the others did, finding amusement in her mistakes with the language and her ignorance of viticulture, someone who was not heartless as James was heartless, and so she sat at the table opposite him and told him of her childhood, of the portrait and her come-out, of James and Philip Devonshire.

  `They arranged to fight a duel,' she said. 'But Mr Devonshire did not turn up. James said he was a coward.'

  `There is a little of the coward in every man,' he said, resisting the temptation to reach across and take her hand. Already it was becoming work-worn. 'And a little of the hero, too. Circumstances dictate our actions; one man's honour might be another's shame and there may have been mitigating circumstances.'

  `I should like to think so, because nothing he had done before indicated he was anything but an honourable man.'

  `Do you miss your old home?' he asked softly.

  She looked at him sharply, wondering if he were trying to trap her. She must not let him think she was yearning for England, in spite of what she had said. 'I am a Frenchwoman, Captain,' she answered carefully. 'And this is now my home.'

  'And you are determined to make the best of it,' he said softly. 'I admire your courage, mam'selle.'

  She was not afraid of him, was not intimidated by anyone, but he knew that underneath that brave exterior was a young girl who had been dreadfully hurt. Why had Lord Martindale not told her the truth long before and not left it to his wife? Why had he not explained to Lady Martindale how he had brought the tiny child out of France? It would have saved a great deal of heartache for all of them. But there were compensations. If that had happened, he would not be here with her now, learning to love her all over again, not as the pretty daughter of an English aristocrat, but as the wonderful, resourceful, delightful young woman she was when the gloss was stripped away.

  The change in his manner confused her. He was no longer the crude soldier, but a gentleman making reasonable conversation, paying compliments, and what was more, making them sound genuine. It would be easy to forget he was almost ugly with his untidy red beard and heavy eyebrows. What did he hide beneath all that facial hair? She tried to imagine him without it, but gave up when all that came to mind was the image of another man, taller, straighter, with a dimpled chin, a man she would never see again, a man who had touched a chord in her emotions that had never had the chance to develop.

  `It is not courage, it is necessity,' she said. 'The vineyards must be made to flourish again, it needs only a little ingenuity and hard work.'

  `You cannot do it alone.'

  `I am not alone. I have my family.'

  `Yes, I have noticed how affectionate they are and how ready to share the work with you,' he said with studied irony.

  She smiled suddenly and he was reminded of the girl she had once been, carefree and loved. Who was there to love her now besides himself? He was certain James did not. His anger at the man darkened his eyes for a moment and his expression became grim.

  `We have to get to know each other,' she said. `You cannot blame them for mistrusting me.'

  `Your loyalty does you credit. But what about Monsieur Stewart?'

  `What about him?'

  `Are you still going to marry him?'

  She looked at him sharply, wondering what had prompted the question. 'Of course.'

  `Because you love him or because you see no alternative?' She did not answer, but he seemed unperturbed. 'Why have you not married him before now?'

  `It is none of your business.'

  `No more it is, but it seems a strange way to go on. You have come all the way from England and halfway across France with him. Surely his protection would be more effective if you were married?'

  `His protection!' Her lovely mouth twitched into a hint of a smile, proving that, through all her troubles, she had not lost her sense of humour. 'I sometimes wonder who is protecting whom and why.'

  `You have a point,' he said, glad that she did not seem as enamoured of James as he had feared. 'Without you, Henri or Jean might turn him over to the authorities as a spy.'

  `That's nonsense and you know it.'

  `Oh, come, mam'selle', think about it. He says he is Scots and he has a letter supposedly signed by Bonaparte himself. He claims to be the Emperor's agent. Either that is true and he is a traitor to the country where he was born, or it is false and he is playing a very dangerous game of counter-intelligence. Which is it?'

  She decided against telling him she thought the letter was a forgery. 'I think he is more interested in treasure than in spying,' she said.

  'Oh, I do not doubt that,' he said. Her answers convinced him she did not know the truth. What he could not decide was if she was safer not knowing. On the whole, he thought she was. Her safety was paramount. His mission for the British Government was becoming insignificant beside that, although he could not afford to neglect it altogether
. 'But have you wondered what he will do if there is no treasure?'

  She did not dare tell him that she hoped James would keep his promise to take her back to England, though that was becoming increasingly unlikely. 'I have no idea.'

  `If he has been wasting his time here when he should have been elsewhere doing whatever he came to France to do, then his masters, whoever they are, will not be pleased. They will seek to punish him. Have you thought of that?'

  `Would you denounce him?'

  `To whom? If he is working for Napoleon, I, a French soldier, can have no quarrel with him, can I?'

  She got up to fetch a broom from the cupboard and began sweeping the floor, sending up a cloud of dust and cursing herself for a gullible fool. He wasn't interested in her, after all, he had simply been trying to find out what he could about James. She had been deceived once again by soft words. She told herself she wasn't very good at judging the characters of men. Her father, James, Mr Devonshire, Pierre and now Captain Devereux, she had misjudged them all.

  He said no more because they were interrupted by Jean coming in and demanding his dinner, and no further opportunity for private discourse came their way. Her relatives did not trust her and were afraid she might be telling him things she had not told them and so they rarely left them alone together. Whether she would have told him more or learned any more about him if they had continued the conversation she did not know. But he had set her thinking.

  If James was a spy, who was he working for? He had told the Caronnes that he was sympathetic to France, but what if he had been sent by the British government, even by her father, to gather information? Until the captain had started to question her, she had been so wrapped up in her own problems, she had not given it a thought. Now he was making her think. She could not believe that a Martindale, a nephew of an English peer with an impeccable reputation, could ever be a traitor. It was easier to think of him as a patriot and the more she thought about it, the more the facts fitted that conjecture. But all this business of spying and counter-spying was doing nothing to help her confused emotions. She was, she realised, a pawn in their game and she was expendable. If only there was someone she could trust, someone to confide in, to lean on. Someone who could put everything right. But that was asking too much of anyone, especially Captain Devereux. But occasionally she caught him looking at her from across a room and then his mouth would lift in a faint smile and his eyes convey a kind of empathy, as if they shared a secret.

  She spent some time cleaning the château and when that was done, started on the upper slopes of the vineyard, clearing the weeds that strangled the vines. It was a far more productive exercise than yearning for what she could not have or looking for treasure.

  `It is a waste of time,' James said, one morning when they were having breakfast. So far, only he and the captain had put in an appearance; the rest of the family were still abed, though she could hear Gerard out in the yard clucking at the hens as he fed them. `Those vines will never amount to anything, they have been neglected too long. You'd have to grub them out and start again. And where's the money coming from to buy fresh rootstock? Unless you think there is a cache of gold buried out there on the slopes.'

  `Oh, for pity's sake, can't you forget about gold and jewels and buried treasure for two minutes together?' she demanded in English. 'It would be more to the point to try and do something to make the château pay.'

  `I know nothing about wine-making and neither do you.'

  `We could learn. And if you don't want to do that, do something about the house, it is falling down about our ears.'

  `No, why should I? As soon as we find what we're looking for, we'll be leaving, you know that.'

  Juliette became aware of the captain watching them from beneath his beetle brows and wondered if he understood English, but Jean and Anne-Marie came into the room before she could put him to the test. Jean sat down at the table and poured wine for himself from the carafe, while Anne-Marie fetched a pan and eggs from the cupboard to cook his breakfast.

  `What were you saying?' Jean demanded, picking up his knife and fork in readiness. 'Speak French, why can't you?'

  `I was talking of organising a new search,' James said. `I might have overlooked something.'

  `We have already looked everywhere,' Anne-Marie said, putting a plate of fried eggs in front of her husband and ignoring everyone else who had to make do with bread. 'If the little vixen does not come up with some ideas soon, we shall turn her over to the town mayor, see what he makes of her.'

  `I heard her telling the Englishman she thought there was a cache buried on the upper terrace,' Philippe said, tearing at a piece of bread and spreading it liberally with butter from a crock on the table. 'It is why she has been working there.'

  `Is that so?' Jean mumbled, egg yolk running down his chin.

  `Yes. Something her foster parents said about a map.'

  `A map!' Jean stood up and waved a fork at Juliette. `You never said anything about a map.'

  `There is no map,' she said. 'The captain made it up.'

  `Now, why should I do that?' he queried. 'I have no reason to lie. I am simply an onlooker. Tell them where you were digging yesterday and save us all a lot of trouble.'

  She could not understand what he was playing at. No mention had ever been made of a map and no one had thought of digging outside until James had taunted her with it that morning. The captain might have imagined he understood something of what they had been saying in English, but if he had, he was far off the mark. 'It is nothing to do with you,' she said. 'Shouldn't you be leaving to rejoin your regiment?'

  `Oh, but I am disposed to help in the search - for a consideration, of course.'

  `You had better get on with it then. I wash my hands of it.' She had been avoiding his eye, but now she turned to look at him and wished she had not. He was smiling in that lop-sided way of his, which stretched the scar on his face and pulled the side of one eye down, but the eyes themselves were clear and bright. It was almost as if he were saying, 'You cannot hide from me, I can read your thoughts.' He made her feel weak when it was imperative she should appear self-assured. She stood up and began clearing the table. 'I have better things to do with my time.'

  `I know where she was digging,' Jean said, then turning to James, 'Come on and bring a spade.' And to the captain, 'You keep an eye on her. She's tricky, is that one. And tell the old man to join us when he decides to put in an appearance.'

  `I never heard of a map,' James complained irritably, as he got up to follow. 'She would have told me...'

  `You are a sly one,' Anne-Marie said, addressing Juliette. 'Thought you could deceive us all, did you?'

  `This is a madhouse.' Juliette took her shawl from the hook on the back of the door. 'I am going for a walk.'

  `Then I shall accompany you,' the captain said, getting to his feet.

  She turned back to him. 'I prefer to be alone.'

  `Can't allow it. Jean said not to let you out of my sight.'

  She did not favour him with an answer but left the chateau and made for the pine-clad hills behind it. She knew he was following her but pretended to ignore him. It was all too silly for words and if she had not felt so homesick and miserable she would have laughed. As if she knew the location of precious jewels! As if she had anywhere to go if she left!

  `Where are you going?' he asked, coming alongside her.

  `Nowhere.' Determined not to let him see into her face, she continued to look straight ahead, though she was all too aware of him beside her, matching her stride with his own. 'Anywhere, away from those people.'

  `But they are your family, you told me so yourself not a week ago. And James will soon be your husband. Or have you changed your mind about that?'

  She did not answer and he went on, very softly, so as not to startle her. 'Do you regret promising yourself to him, little one?'

  She turned to look at him, wondering what had prompted the question. From beneath those heavy brows, his eyes were probing
hers, gently, inviting confidences. She opened her mouth to answer him and then closed it again. She must be on her guard, always on her guard. `If you were going to offer an alternative, Captain, I should save your breath. I have no wish to become a camp follower. I assume they have such things in the French army as well as the English.'

  He laughed. 'Yes, they do, but what gave you the idea that I was about to suggest such a thing?'

  `Weren't you?'

  `Supposing you do find valuables, what then?' he prompted, ignoring her question. 'Do you imagine Henri and Jean will allow you to keep them?'

  `No doubt you expect your share,' she snapped. 'It is why you stayed.'

  `I have made no secret of it.'

  `Then why aren't you down there, helping them to dig?'

  He laughed. 'You and I both know there is nothing there, don't we?'

  `Why did you tell that silly story about a map?' she demanded. 'I never mentioned one. I have only been working on the vines to pass the time and do something useful.'

  He chuckled. 'It is one way to have the weeding done for you, isn't it?'

  In spite of everything she laughed. 'Yes, but now I suppose you are going to ask me where the jewels really are? It was a trick to gain my confidence.'

  `Of course.' He was maddeningly self-assured.

  `You have been wasting your time. I do not know the whereabouts of any jewels. If there ever were any.'

  `Oh, I think there must have been. The comte was a wealthy man before the Revolution; he would have showered his wife with jewels and there would have been family heirlooms like that pendant.'

  `What do you know of that?' she demanded.

  `I have seen the portrait.'

  She was instantly alert. 'When? Where?'

  He cursed himself for his slip, then recovered quickly. `Here, at the chateau, before the war, where else?'

  `Oh, you mean the one of my grandmother?'

  `Yes. It showed the jewels clearly enough. If they are not here, where have they all gone?'

  `I do not know. If the pendant was broken up, it was surely done to make it more easily concealed. The comte and comtesse would have tried to take any valuables with them, probably hidden 'in their clothing, to help them to escape or to bribe a gaoler. And wasn't it common practice to give something to the executioner to ensure, a quick and merciful death? What was not used would have been found by those disposing of the bodies. They could be anywhere by now.'