The Ruby Pendant

by Mary Nichols

  `Where is he?' Pierre asked. 'If you told us that, we might let you go.'

  `Who?'

  `Martindale, of course. He promised information, reliable information, enough to turn the tide of war in our favour. He should have handed it over when he came on board the fishing boat at Lowestoft but when he found you he changed his mind. He said it was too important to trust to a courier and he was going to deliver it personally.' He grinned suddenly. 'He thought he could have the jewels and his pay.'

  `Traitors, I spit on them all!' Michel said, suiting action to words and only just missing Juliette's skirt.

  She hitched herself a little further away and spoke to Pierre. He seemed a little more civilised than the others. `It was your idea for me to come to France. You arranged it.'

  `So I did, but how was I to know our contact was your husband-to-be? I did not even know his name. I would never have brought you if I had. What is the English expression, set the cat among the pigeons? That is what I did.'

  `We need the information he brought to France with him,' the major said. 'And we need the man who followed him. I nearly had him once, but he's as slippery as an eel. Slid through my fingers, though I did mark him.'

  She knew they were talking about Captain Devereux. Did they know who he really was? She thought it wiser not to ask. Instead, she said, 'But I am a loyal citizen of France, just as you are, though I was kept in ignorance of it until this year, just as I was ignorant of what James was doing.'

  `Maybe,' Michel said. 'Maybe not. We shall soon see. Now get some sleep, all of you. We move on at dawn.' He went over to the line of horses and pulled a blanket roll from one of them, which he threw at Juliette's feet. `Here, wrap yourself in this.'

  She stood up and picked it up. It was smelly and dirty, but this was not the time to be fastidious. She dropped it, took up her own bag and set off for the river bank to perform her ablutions, but though they pretended not to look, she knew they were watchful and alert; running away was out of the question. Besides, the water was icy; she did not dally but washed quickly and put her riding breeches on under the old skirt she had been wearing when she left England. When she returned they were all grinning, but she ignored them and, picking up the blanket, took it to a spot beneath the tree where the horses and donkey were tethered.

  `Where do you think you are going?' Clavier demanded.

  `Over there. To get a little privacy.'

  He laughed. 'You prefer the company of horses to humans, do you?'

  `Yes,' she snapped. 'They smell sweeter.'

  He laughed again and ordered two of the men to stand watch, then made up the fire and rolled himself in his cloak beside it. Soon all but the sentries and Juliette were asleep.

  Her mind was buzzing. Had James really betrayed his country? Was he a traitor or a British double agent? She could not understand how a man like James, heir to a great estate with everything to live for in England, could turn traitor. It was easier to believe he was a patriot. Easier, but was it true? The more she thought about it, the more doubtful she became. But what did that make Philip? Was he a traitor too? Another escaped. prisoner'? A French spy? No, that was not possible, given all the years her father had known him. And she loved him. She had to escape before they forced her to talk.

  She raised her head to look about her. The guards were talking together on the other side of the clearing. Then they turned and patrolled the perimeter, before retracing their steps.

  She watched them make the circuit several times, wishing they would stop on the other side long enough for her to make a run for it, but there was never enough time. A twig snapped among the trees that encircled the clearing, and both guards dashed off towards it. Blessing whoever or whatever had made the noise, she seized her opportunity. She rose, slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up a saddle from the heap nearby and hoisted it on to the horse Michel had been using, praying the animal would not whinny and alert the sleeping men. She did not notice the sentries return until she became aware of someone moving among the horses; he would reach her in a matter of moments. Having put the saddle on, she undid the rope that tethered all the horses and took hold of the reins. In her haste, she pulled too hard on the bit and the horse snorted and pawed the ground. Before she could calm it, someone grabbed her from behind and put a hand over her mouth. She struggled to free herself but he was far too strong for her.

  `Don't make a sound.' The words were said in a whisper. 'Not this way, you will rouse them. Walk. Quietly.'

  She recognised Philip's voice and suddenly she felt so happy she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, but she did neither because he did not remove his hand from her mouth as he propelled her between the trees, leading the horse she had saddled.

  The others were moving about restlessly as if, discovering they were free, they were uncertain whether to take advantage of it. Still holding her, he picked up a stick and hurled it at the horses. It hit one on the rump and, with a snort of annoyance, it trotted quietly away, followed by the rest. 'That should delay them. Now, if I let you go, will you keep quiet?'

  She nodded.

  He released her. 'I am sorry if I was rough,' he said, still whispering. 'But if you had simply ridden away, they would have heard you and caught you again immediately. Hurry now.'

  He held her arm to help her along and five minutes later they came upon his horse tethered to a tree. He tossed her up in the saddle of Michel's horse, before untying his own and mounting. 'Come on, before they round up their horses and come after us.'

  Almost giddy with relief and happiness, she rode out behind him on to a road that ran alongside the wood, sometimes in shadow, sometimes bathed in moonlight. There was no one else to be seen.

  `How did you know I was with them?' she asked

  `I was returning to the chateau when I saw them bring you out. I could not let them take you, could I?'

  When he spotted the band of mounted soldiers, he had been riding along the rough unsurfaced road from Hautvigne up to the chateau, wondering how to persuade Juliette that her best hope of safety lay in going with him and whether to tell her he meant to take her to the Spanish border and the British lines or whether it would be safer, for her own sake, to keep her in ignorance. He could say nothing about his Intelligence role because if they were ever captured, she would be interrogated, probably tortured, and he could not, would not, expect her to withstand that. The despatches he carried could shorten the war and save hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives on both sides. But he had to protect her; if he allowed anything to happen to her, he would not want to live himself.

  They had not seen him and he had lost no time in turning off the road and hiding himself and his horse in a ditch. Peering out, he had watched them ride towards him, six of them with Michel Clavier and Pierre Veillard at their head. And then he had seen Juliette on the donkey. Her hands were tied and all her concentration was on trying to stay on its back. He had cursed under his breath, but managed to resist the impulse to rush out and try to tackle them. He loved her with an intensity that burned in him like an unquenchable fire, but he had to guard against acting rashly for fear of endangering her. And he was only too aware of the despatches he carried and his orders not to allow himself to be taken. And where was James Martindale? He had curbed his impatience and followed at a safe distance.

  `Why not?' she asked.

  `Why not?' he repeated and smiled. 'Because you are too young and beautiful to be left to their tender mercies. They have ways of making you say anything that suits their purpose.'

  `About you or about James?' she asked, turning in the saddle to look at him. He did not seem half as uncouth as he had when she first set eyes on him, but that was because he was not the rough French captain he pretended to be, but her dearest Philip in disguise and a very clever one at that. Should she tell him she knew or wait until he chose to reveal himself?

  `Where is Monsieur Stewart?' he asked.

  She laughed suddenly. 'You know that is not his real
name, don't you?'

  `Do I?'

  `Oh, yes. You followed us to France from England. It wasn't simply chance which brought you to Hautvigne.'

  `Who told you that?'

  `Pierre. He said James was a traitor, that he had used his position at the War Department to gather information. He was supposed to pass it on to someone in the French command, only he went to Hautvigne instead. You have been following him.'

  `Do you believe that?'

  `I do not know what to believe.' She was thoughtful for a moment. 'Do you remember telling me that if he was a double agent he was playing a very dangerous game?'

  `Yes.'

  `Perhaps that is the way of it.'

  `Perhaps, but if that is so, should you be telling me?'

  She smiled suddenly and the moonlight, falling on her face, gave it an ethereal beauty which made him catch his breath. 'Why not? I do not think you are the common soldier you pretend to be,' she said. 'Major Clavier was also very interested in you. He wanted to know where you were. He called you a thorn in his side.'

  He laughed and it was Philip's laughter that fell on her ears. 'And what conclusion do you draw from that?'

  `You are no Frenchman. I do not think you are Philippe Devereux at all. In fact, I know...'

  She had guessed after all! His spirits soared, then plummeted again. If she had said that at Hautvigne, before that ride to Paris and he had been given his orders to dispose of James, he might have admitted the truth and sworn her to secrecy, but now it was too late. Much too late.

  `Oh, but I assure you I am, mam'selle,' he put in before she could finish. 'I was born and raised in a little village close to Hautvigne, son of Antoine and Marie Devereux. I was not lying when I said my father knew Henri. He was our neighbour before he moved to the chateau.'

  `I don't believe you,' she said. 'I understand you have your reasons for pretending to be someone else - after all, we are in France - but you do not have to pretend with me.'

  `There is no pretence, Countess. If we had time, I could prove it to you.'

  `Oh.' She was bitterly disappointed and tears filled her eyes. She blinked hard to stop them falling, but one escaped and ran down her cheek. Ever since she had made the discovery, she had been buoyed up with hope, and now to find that he did not trust her enough to admit his identity, was the cruellest blow of all. But could she be wrong? Could there be two men so much alike? 'You really are French?'

  `Naturellement, I am,' he said, watching the changing expressions flit across her face, the hope in her lovely eyes change to despair and fill with tears, and he hated himself for his continued deception. 'Did you think differently?'

  `I thought...' She brushed a hand impatiently over her brimming eyes. How could she have been such a fool? `Oh, it does not matter what I thought. 'Are you taking me back to Hautvigne?'

  `Do you want to go back?'

  `No, there is nothing for me there.'

  `What about James? You are still betrothed to him, after all, and he will surely return for you and the jewels.'

  `Oh, you are as obsessed by hidden treasure as he was,' she retorted angrily.

  `No, I do not believe that fairy story,' he said. 'It is twenty years since the comte and comtesse went to the guillotine and the chateau has been looted more than once since then. It stood derelict for years until Henri Caronne was given permission to live there. Since then he has searched everywhere for the jewels. It is an open secret.'

  `I found them after you left.'

  `Did you? Well, I must own myself surprised. What did you find?'

  'A box hidden in the cellar. It had nothing in it, except a piece of paper, a single blue stone and some bits of broken silver. Major Clavier has it now, so you see there is no point in returning to Hautvigne.'

  `Then we shall have to think of something else,' he said. 'Now save your breath for riding.'

  They rode on in tense silence, each immersed in thoughts they could not convey, feelings they dare not express, doubts and uncertainties and the knowledge that each had secrets that could not be told.

  `I think we should rest,' he said, when dawn lightened the sky. 'It is dangerous to travel in daylight. Clavier is not a fool. He will guess you are not alone and will organise a search.'

  `If you are a loyal Frenchman, then he is surely more interested in James than you.' Her voice was flat, every emotion seemed to have been drained from her.

  `Where is James?'

  `I told you, I do not know. He went after you to retrieve his letter. Why did you take it?'

  `I thought it might be useful.' He would have liked to tell her the real reason, that without that piece of paper and the other documents James Martindale could not do his traitorous work, but to have done so would have revealed where his own loyalty lay. He spotted a shepherd's hut about half a mile away on the slope of a grass-clad hill. 'We will rest there,' he said, turning his horse towards it.

  The hut was deserted; the sheep had been taken down to a lower level for the winter. They dismounted and tethered the horses between the hut and the rising ground behind it. He took a haversack and a rolled-up blanket from his saddle and ushered her inside. There was no furniture and it had a strong smell of sheep, but it was shelter from the cold wind. 'Not a palace, but it will do,' he said.

  Juliette sat on the floor, leaning against the rough wall, her hands clasped round her knees, her skirt tucked around her feet. 'How long must we stay here?'

  `Until dark.'

  `Oh.' She could not stifle the little tremor of alarm she felt. To be riding beside him was one thing, but alone in the confines of this isolated hut, was another altogether. What would he do? What did she want him to do? Again she wondered if she was being rescued or whether he had some other reason for taking her. Did he imagine she would lead him to James?

  `I am going out to feed and water the horses and make sure we have not been followed,' he said. 'I won't be long.'

  He went out. She sat still, listening to him moving about outside, talking soothingly to the horses. If he was not Philip, then who was he? He was not the simple soldier he claimed to be, she was sure of it. The haversack lay just out of her reach. Could it hold the answers to her questions and his identity? She crawled over and pulled it towards her. She had just opened the flap when he returned.

  `What are you doing?' he demanded, grabbing the bag and showing for the first time that he could be angry. She felt the colour flood her face and was glad of the gloom in the hut to hide it. 'I...I thought you might have some food. If it needs cooking...'

  `It doesn't,' he said. 'We cannot risk a fire.' He sat beside her and delved into it, producing bread and cheese, cooked chicken legs and a flask of wine. 'You have nothing to fear from me,' he said, softly, laying out the food on a surprisingly clean cloth he had taken from the bag. 'But you must learn to curb your curiosity. It could be dangerous.'

  `What would you do to me?'

  `Not me, my love,' he said quietly. 'Others. I would not harm a hair of your head.' He smiled and reached out to push a tendril of hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. His fingers were gentle, the look in his eyes belied his fierce appearance and she found herself trembling, though she was not particularly cold. 'Believe me I have only your safety and happiness at heart.'

  `I know.' He was a inscrutable as ever but, in spite of her disappointment, she knew she could trust him.

  `Have something to eat,' he said, handing her a chicken leg. 'And then you must rest. We have a long ride ahead of us.'

  She gnawed at the bone. It had very little meat on it. `Where are we going, then?'

  `Did I not tell you I was returning to my regiment?'

  `I did not believe it. I still don't.'

  Maintaining his coolness and self-control was hellishly difficult, especially when she looked at him with those brilliant eyes and asked questions that required him to lie to her. He smiled. 'That is the second time you have doubted my word. If you were a man, I would not let you call me a l
iar.'

  `You would call me out?' She giggled suddenly. `Pistols at dawn, or would it be rapiers?'

  `You would have the choice, being the one challenged.'

  `Then I should choose feathers.'

  He laughed. 'And tickle me to death. It is good to see you have not lost your sense of humour.'

  `How do you know I ever had one?'

  `Oh, I guessed,' he said quickly.

  `You know, when you laugh, you remind me of Mr Devonshire,' she said, hoping to make him give himself away. 'He had a happy kind of laugh, as if he could always find something amusing in any situation, however serious.'

  Must he also cease to laugh? 'And were you in love with him?'

  `I am not sure,' she said slowly, unwilling to admit it. `It seemed as though we had known each other for ever, though it was only a few weeks. We talked about being in love and agreed that it had to be a meeting of souls, a feeling that each could not live without the other...'

  `And that did not happen?'

  `I left before...' She smiled, giving her small face a piquancy that tore at his heart. 'You know, you are very like him, except Mr Devonshire was clean-shaven and did not have a scar. He was not a dandy by any means, but he was always impeccably dressed and his manners were exquisite.'

  `Ah, I see now. In the depths of your despair, your imagination conjured him up. You transformed a rough and ready rogue of a French soldier into a London dandy.' He fingered his beard and smiled, sorely tempted to tell her the truth. 'I must be a dreadful disappointment to you.' He paused. 'War makes ruffians of us all, Chèrie. If this were a London drawing room instead of a shepherd's hut, I might be shaved and dressed for the occasion.' He smiled suddenly, making his eyes twinkle. 'Let us imagine it, shall we? There is a sofa over there,' he said, pointing. 'There is a table with chairs about it, and more chairs against the wall. And above us there is a crystal chandelier, blazing with light. And there is an orchestra on a dais, playing a waltz. Can you not hear it?'

  `Oh, yes. And I am the belle of the ball. The eligibles are all clamouring for me to stand up with them.' He scrambled to his feet and executed an elegant bow. `Mam'selle, may I have the honour of this dance?'