by M C Beaton
He walked across the hall. The library door had been left ajar, and there was the soft glow of candlelight streaming out into the hall.
He crept to the door of the library and looked in.
Yvonne de la Falaise was sitting at his desk, reading something. He strode quickly into the room and snatched the papers out of her hand.
“How dare you read my correspondence!” he said in an angry whisper.
Yvonne sat stricken.
The viscount lit an oil lamp and then studied the papers she had been reading. They were Patricia’s references.
“What on earth were you doing with these?” he demanded.
“I was disturbed because I find Patricia’s educational qualifications are not as high as she would have us believe.”
“She is teaching you science, a subject of which most women are entirely ignorant.”
“I am teaching myself science,” said Yvonne hotly. “Patricia merely bought me the books and sits and sews while I study.”
“You are a jealous little cat,” said the viscount roundly. “Oh, never fear, I know you are not jealous because you entertain any tender feelings toward me. You are simply a spoiled child who wants all the attention. How can you? Miss Cottingham has already saved your life on two occasions. Is this how you thank her?”
Yvonne bit her lip. To say that she had come to doubt both happenings—the fire and the capture—would make her sound even worse. She remained silent.
“Go to bed,” snapped the viscount. “We shall not distress poor Miss Cottingham by telling her of your disgraceful disloyalty and ingratitude.”
Yvonne trailed miserably to the door. The viscount eyed her with disfavor. She was wearing quite the most frivolous nightgown he had ever seen.
“And if you must wander about the castle at night,” he called after her, “for goodness’ sake, put some clothes on!”
The only answer was the slamming of the library door.
Perhaps he would take her to London the following year, thought the viscount. Many men would wish to marry her. Those huge eyes and midnight-black hair would seduce any man not as hardened to the female sex as he was himself.
CHAPTER FIVE
A disgraceful old carriage swayed and rumbled over the stony country roads, driven by a coachman who looked as ancient and battered as his vehicle.
But Yvonne was content. She had made her escape from the castle by riding off before dawn. At the nearest town, Penryn, she had stabled her horse and hired the only carriage available, which belonged to the driver, Mr. Tom Bodkin. There was a prizefight in the neighborhood, and all of the best carriages and gigs had been rented.
Yvonne had not been able to memorize the address of Mrs. Benham in Exeter, but she had been able to memorize the name and address on Patricia’s other reference—Mrs. Paxton, Corby Hall, Truro.
She hoped to reach Truro before midday. The old horse pulled the old carriage so slowly that at times Yvonne thought she would be better to get down and walk.
The day was too bright. A yellow glaring light flooded the moors.
At times Yvonne thought uneasily of the consternation her disappearance might cause if she stayed away too long. Yvonne promised the gods that if Patricia’s reference should prove valid, then she would bow to the inevitable and let Patricia have the viscount.
By the time they reached Truro, it was two in the afternoon.
“Where do you want to be set down, miss?” called the coachman.
Yvonne lowered the glass and stuck her head out. Truro looked a pleasant, prosperous town. The overhanging buildings shut out the ominous darkening of the sky to the west.
“I think I shall walk,” said Yvonne, impatient to get out of the smelly old carriage.
She climbed down from the carriage, and the coachman heaved his great bulk down from the box.
“I shall meet you at that inn over there,” said Yvonne, pointing to a hostelry called the Three Feathers.
“I think miss ought to be a-paying me half the fare,” said the coachman.
“Oh, very well,” said Yvonne crossly. She paid the driver and then set out along the main street of Truro. The shops were very fine, and she was so engrossed in examining all the wares displayed in their windows that it was some time before she realized her appearance was occasioning comment.
The people of Truro had never before seen such a beautiful and fashionably dressed young lady alone and on foot. Yvonne was wearing a dashing riding dress of grass-green velvet with gold frogs. Her green velvet hat, high-crowned and with a curled brim, was tipped over her black curls at a rakish angle.
Several gentlemen tried to accost her, and, at last, Yvonne went in to the most fashionable-looking shop she could see to avoid them.
The shopkeeper was very helpful. To her inquiries he replied that there was a Corby Hall at the west end of the town, but a family called Battersby from Yorkshire had been living there for the past twenty years.
Yvonne, determined to have exact proof of Patricia’s lying, was just asking him directions to Corby Hall so that she might question the Battersbys herself—after all, they might have had relatives called Paxton living with them—when the shopkeeper exclaimed, “Why, if it isn’t Mrs. Battersby herself!”
A lady who looked, thought Yvonne, like a particularly mondaine ferret advanced on them. She had reddish eyes and a long thin nose and very sharp teeth.
“If you please, madam,” said Yvonne with a very low curtsy, “I am Lady de la Falaise. I am checking the references of my governess, Miss Cottingham, who claims to have been employed by a Mrs. Paxton of Corby Hall.”
“French!” exclaimed Mrs. Battersby, drawing back her skirts. “This country is riddled with French spies. Paxton, indeed. That for a tale. Never heard of them or this Miss Cottingham. Get along with you, you—you frog eater.”
“Your manners, madam,” said Yvonne, her cheeks flaming, “are as bad as your appearance. Good day to you!”
She marched to the door of the shop, her head held high.
As she gained the street, Mrs. Battersby stuck her head around the shop door and shouted after her, “We don’t need no Frenchies here!”
People turned to stare at Yvonne. She felt ready to sink through the pavement with embarrassment. But she had achieved her object. Patricia had lied about the Truro reference and no doubt had forged the other one as well.
With a sigh of relief, she turned in at the doorway of the Three Feathers. Soon she would be on her way, and with any luck the viscount, finding her horse gone from the stables, would have assumed she had gone out riding for the day.
But disaster stared her in the face when she opened the door of the taproom. Her coachman lay slumped in the corner, dead drunk.
Although Yvonne’s accent was now very light, it was unmistakably French, and when the men in the tap heard her exclaim, “Parbleu! What am I to do now? How did he become drunk so quickly?” there was a hostile murmur.
“Where d’ye come from, Frenchie?” growled a beefy-looking man. “Looking for frogs to eat?”
“I am not called Frenchie,” said Yvonne haughtily. “My name is Lady de la Falaise.”
“So you says,” growled another voice. “That’s what they all says. Every Frenchie’s an aristocrat that comes here. Struttin’ about with their foreign ways, takin’ bread out o’ the mouths o’ good Englishmen.”
Yvonne retreated quickly. It was useless to stand in a common tap listening to insults. She would need to find another carriage.
But on hearing her accent, the two livery stables in the town refused to hire her a carriage. England was at war with France. Yvonne was French. She was the enemy. Had she explained she was the ward of Lord Anselm of Trewent Castle, all animosity would have faded, but Yvonne, who was used to being treated with respect by the castle servants, was too bewildered to think clearly and did not realize the hatred for the French that gripped England.
Insults were beginning to be shouted at her in the streets as th
e news of her nationality spread. Yvonne thought quickly. It was only a matter of three leagues to Penryn. She would walk.
Once clear of the town, she heaved a sigh of relief. A good steady pace for a few hours would take her to Penryn. At least she was moving faster on her own two feet than she had done when riding in the antiquated carriage.
A heavy drop of rain struck her cheek. She looked up. The sky was purple-black. On the horizon a fork of lightning stabbed down, and there came the menacing rumble of thunder.
Yvonne quickened her pace.
Viscount Anselm rode out before the rising storm, his face as black with anger as the storm clouds piling up on the horizon.
When Patricia had told him that Yvonne had not put in an appearance at her lessons, he had assumed she had gone out riding. He would have gone on assuming this had not the carrier from Penryn arrived with a parcel of books and told the interested servants that a French lady who was said to be Lord Anselm’s ward had arrived in Penryn on horseback, had stabled her horse, and had hired Tom Bodkin and his broken-down old carriage to take her to Truro. Bets were being laid in the town as to whether Tom—a notorious drunk—would ever make it.
This fascinating piece of intelligence was duly communicated to his lordship by the butler, Fairbairn. Gustave Bouvet was sent for but disclaimed all knowledge of his mistress’s whereabouts, adding coldly that he would never have allowed her to ride out alone.
The viscount was about to send for Patricia when he suddenly remembered Yvonne’s curiosity about Patricia’s references. He took both of them from the desk and studied them. One, he noted, came from Truro.
All at once he became convinced Yvonne had set out to check Patricia’s Truro reference. He decided to go after her himself. He would not tell Patricia. Her charge’s hurtful, suspicious behavior must be kept from her.
He found Yvonne’s horse stabled at Penryn and then rode off once more in the direction of Truro, the rising wind lifting his black cloak from his shoulders and sending it streaming out behind him.
The storm finally broke over his head. Blinding sheets of rain swept over the moors. Thunder rumbled and rolled, and hellish flashes of lightning pierced the nightmare scene.
By the light of one of these flashes he saw a solitary little figure trudging along the road toward him.
He reined in his horse and glared down at Yvonne de la Falaise. Her riding hat was a soaking ruin, and her velvet riding dress was plastered to her body.
He held his hand out. “Up,” he commanded.
Yvonne swung lightly up behind him. He could feel her body trembling with cold, and she kept saying over and over again, “I am so sorry.”
“Save your apologies until I find us some shelter,” he shouted over his shoulder. He spurred his horse toward Truro.
As they reached the outskirts of the town, the clouds rolled away and the sun shone down on a wet and glittering world.
The viscount rode straight to the George, Truro’s biggest posting house. He dismounted and lifted Yvonne down, barked at her, “Follow me,” and strode into the inn.
Viscount Anselm was immediately recognized. Despite the fact that his lordship was muddy and wet and had a disaster of a female with him, the landlord appeared bowing his nose down to the ground and offering every kind of service and help.
Yvonne was handed over to two housemaids and hustled up to a bedchamber. Her wet clothes were removed, and she was dressed in a clean nightgown and wrapped in a quilt and told to sit beside the fire until clothes were found for her.
The maids were soon back with bundles of clothes. The landlord’s servants had run hither and thither requesting dry clothes for Lord Anselm’s ward. It seemed every genteel female in the town who heard of Yvonne’s predicament wanted a chance to find favor in the handsome viscount’s eyes. The landlord’s wife selected what she thought was the best and sent the rest back. She was quite puffed up with the importance of caring for the viscount’s ward, declaring Yvonne to be the prettiest miss you ever did see and quite forgetting she had been jeering at Yvonne in the street earlier in the day.
Such was the viscount’s importance in the area that all Yvonne’s Frenchness disappeared from the eyes of the townspeople.
Yvonne received a curt message from her guardian saying they would need to stay the night, as the roads were too bad to travel. She was to present herself at the dinner table at five o’clock.
Yvonne worked hard on her appearance. She selected a pretty pink muslin gown that tied under the bosom with long satin ribbons. Since she was still feeling cold, she draped a fine Paisley shawl about her shoulders and arranged her now dry and shining hair in the most modish of Grecian styles.
She did not feel in the slightest ashamed of her behavior. Lord Anselm should learn how that paragon of a governess had tricked him.
And she would be alone with her guardian. No Patricia to take his attention away from her.
Her heart beating hard with excitement, she pushed open the door of the private parlor where the landlord’s wife had told her dinner was to be served—and then stood on the threshold, struggling to hide her dismay.
For her guardian was not alone. With him at the table was a prosperous-looking couple. The gentleman was fat and rubicund, and his wife was small and faded.
“My ward, Yvonne, Lady de la Falaise,” said the viscount, rising to his feet. “Yvonne, may I have the honor of presenting my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Leamon. They are residents of Truro, and Mr. Leamon, on hearing of my predicament, found dry clothes for me. They have graciously accepted my invitation to dinner.”
The viscount frowned at Mr. Leamon, who was goggling at Yvonne.
Yvonne shook hands with them both. The viscount pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down at the table.
“Est-ce-que that vous likez notter payee?” asked Mrs. Leamon suddenly.
The viscount saw Yvonne’s startled look and translated Mrs. Leamon’s bad French. “Mrs. Leamon is asking whether you like our country,” he said.
“Very much,” replied Yvonne demurely, casting a glance at Mr. Leamon from under her long lashes. She knew Mr. Leamon was much taken with her and hoped the viscount noticed.
The viscount had noticed his friend’s thunderstruck admiration and was extremely irritated by it. Tommy Leamon was the same age as he was himself and ought to be above goggling at pretty misses in their teens, thought the viscount sourly.
He would not admit to himself that he had been taken aback by Yvonne’s great beauty when she had first entered the room. It struck him like a hammer blow that she was not the child he had imagined her to be but a highly desirable woman. She had none of the gauche manners of an English miss of the same age.
Mrs. Leamon tried again to speak to Yvonne in broken French and looked very disappointed when Yvonne said politely that she spoke English very well, so there was no reason to try to address her in French.
“I was not trying,” said Mrs. Leamon rather huffily. “All my friends say I speak French like a native.”
The viscount thought Yvonne murmured “of the South Seas,” but she returned his suspicious look with a limpid gaze.
During that long and tedious dinner, the viscount could only admire his ward’s tact and behavior. Although he had known Tommy Leamon and his wife for some years, their company in the past had always been diluted with other people, and therefore it had not been brought to his attention before that both were colossal bores.
Yvonne surprised him by smiling charmingly and saying little. At one point she gave a little start and looked rather reproachfully at Mr. Leamon and said, “I fear the space under the table must be a trifle cramped, Mr. Leamon, for you have pressed my foot by accident several times.”
It was then that the viscount realized he was tired. His ward needed an early night, he said, and the port was quite dreadful, so Tommy would no doubt forgive them.
Mr. Leamon and his wife reluctantly took their leave.
“Now, Yvonne,” said the v
iscount grimly, “it is time we had a talk.”
“I find it incredible you can actually bring yourself to talk to me without the presence of a chaperone,” said Yvonne. “Besides, you chased the Leamons away saying the port was too dreadful to drink and yet you are pouring it out.” She gave him a mocking look, but the viscount would not be drawn into criticizing his friends.
“I want to get to the bottom of this,” he said, “I understand that your jealousy of Patricia Cottingham—that sterling lady who has twice saved your life—drove you to check the validity of the Truro reference.”
“Intelligent suspicion drove me,” said Yvonne. “And I was right! The reference is false.”
