The Ruby Pendant

by 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.

  Chapter Nine

  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 he
r, 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.

  `Naturellement. Did you think he was loyal to King George?' He threw back his head and laughed, making his companions grin.

  She did not answer. She was thinking of something the captain had said about James. If he has been wasting his time here when he should have been elsewhere, then his masters will not be pleased. They will seek to punish him. He had implied James was working for the French and she had chosen to believe differently. Had she been wrong? James had agreed with her theory of why he was in France just a shade too readily and his strange laughter still echoed in her mind. And, on reflection, she realised he had not left the château at all until the letter had disappeared, which he would surely have done if he had had intelligence to gather. His one obsession had been to find the jewels and he had wept with frustration when the box was found to be empty, not the reaction of a man who had been using the search as a cover. But still her mind refused to accept that he was a traitor.

  `The devil of a job we have had to track him down,' the major broke in on her muddled thinking. 'If it were not for Lieutenant Veillard, we might never have traced him.'

  She looked at Pierre who grinned sheepishly. 'I am sorry, mam'selle,' he said. 'I had to do my duty.'

  `We are not the only ones looking for him,' Clavier went on. 'There is a certain cavalry captain. He'd have a scar, a new one. We have to get to him first.'

  Juliette gasped. She looked across at Michel Clavier, whose lips were curled in a cruel grin.

  `This captain,' she ventured, piling the major's plate with chicken, though her hands were shaking so much she thought they could not fail to notice. 'Who is he?'

  Major Clavier, pulling the chicken apart with grubby hands, shrugged. 'We don't know his real name. We only know he is a thorn in our side, a snake in the grass, who creeps about in the dark and disappears when daylight comes. But if he is after our young English friend, then we must find him first. I have a fancy to end this war at home with a nice fat pension. This we have been promised.'

  `There was a cavalry captain here,' Anne-Marie said, because Juliette had been struck dumb. She forced herself to pay attention as Anne-Marie continued. `If we had known, we would have thought of a way of detaining both men, but we were glad to see them go.'

  `No matter, we will find them,' he said, reaching out for a bottle of wine and tipping it up to his mouth.

  As soon as they had disposed of everything that was eatable and drunk the very last bottle of wine, they began a systematic search of the chateau, not bothering to hide their frustration when they realised there was nothing to loot, not even a few bottles of wine, for the last of those stood on the kitchen table, or valuables in the form of jewellery. The inlaid box they found among Juliette's possessions, but its contents were more than disappointing. And Henri, seeing it, laughed himself into hysterics. When they had satisfied themselves that neither James nor the captain were hiding in the house, they began on the outbuildings, but that search, too, proved fruitless.

  `No matter,' Clavier said. 'We'll take the girl with us. She will be better than nothing and we will soon have her chattering like a magpie.'

  `But why?' Juliette protested. 'I have done nothing wrong.'

  They ignored her protests and ordered Anne-Marie to accompany her to her room and watch over her as she packed her few clothes in her old cloakbag. Half an hour later, she was put on Henri's old donkey and led away.

  It was very uncomfortable riding the donkey with her hands tied and several times she t
hought she would fall off. By concentrating hard on keeping her balance, she stayed in the saddle, but it left her little time to dwell on her predicament, or her surroundings. After a few miles they came to a river and followed its line through beautiful rugged scenery, with the sun at their backs, which meant, she concluded, that they were moving in a northerly direction, but it was not until they stopped for the night that she began to wonder where they were taking her and what they meant to do with her. They would not tell her when she asked.

  They made camp in a clearing in a wooded area near the banks of the river, tethering the horses on a line strung between two trees and then building a fire to cook a meal. Juliette was glad of the fire because it was very cold and growing colder, and she sat on the ground as close to it as was safe. She ought to have been glad of the food, but it was an unappetising stew and tasted dreadful. She pushed the tin plate away. 'I'm not hungry.'

  `Eat it,' Michel commanded. 'You'll get no more. Food is scarce, had you not noticed? Everything is scarce.'

  `It's the war,' Pierre added, almost apologetically. 'It has been going on too long. Nothing is left, no food, no weapons, no men.'

  `No pay either,' someone else put in.

  `Then why go on fighting?' she asked.

  `What would you have us do?" another demanded. `Give up? Or turn traitor like that slimy Englishman?'

  `No.' She did not want to talk about James, traitor or patriot, for fear of doing irreparable damage to the allied cause. Her heart was English, as English as Lord Martindale's, whatever else she pretended.