by M C Beaton
“I… do… not… believe… those… men… were… real… footpads,” choked Patricia in a hoarse whisper.
Yvonne’s black eyes narrowed. “And why should you think that, dear Patricia?” she hissed.
Gustave came up and lifted Patricia in his arms. Yvonne followed them to the carriage. The full shock of the whole episode now hit her. Her knees wobbled and her eyes filled with tears. She longed to throw herself back into the viscount’s arms and cry her eyes out. But he must see how brave she was. He must! So Yvonne climbed into the carriage and sat with her back rigid, staring straight ahead while Gustave helped Patricia into the gig. Yvonne did not know that the viscount had noticed Yvonne’s eyes, bright with unshed tears, had noticed the faint trembling of her hands, and was overcome by a wave of tenderness that no stoic bravery could have roused in his bosom.
Patricia was put to bed as soon as they reached the castle. Yvonne sat beside her until the sleeping draught that the governess had been given began to take effect.
But before Patricia’s eyes closed, Yvonne leaned over her and said, “You must know now that the footpads were real, Patricia. They have been taken off to prison in Penryn under armed guard. What made you think otherwise?”
Patricia’s blue eyes looked sleepy and puzzled. “I do not know what it is you are trying to say.”
“When you recovered consciousness,” said Yvonne, “you said the men were not real footpads. What did you mean?”
She waited eagerly for the governess’s reply. If it turned out that Patricia had heard gossip from the village that two young men had been paid to act as footpads, then it would follow that she had every reason to believe the attack a vicious trick.
But Patricia’s clear gaze only registered surprise. She put a hand to her head. “I cannot recall saying any such thing, Yvonne,” said Patricia. “We were both shocked, and the mind can play strange tricks. Please leave me.”
Her eyes closed.
Yvonne slipped quietly from her room and went to her own sitting room and sat looking out at the sea, thinking hard.
Patricia had said those words. Why should she think the whole attack a charade unless… unless she herself had been guilty of organizing such a sham attack.
She went in search of her guardian, only to find that he had gone into Penryn with the armed guard. She wandered off to the stables and told Gustave to make ready to accompany her to the village.
But Gustave said roundly he would do no such thing. Her ladyship should be in bed after the shocks of the day. He himself would not move an inch from the castle grounds unless it was with the permission of Lord Anselm.
He glared suspiciously at his mistress when she meekly accepted his rebellion and watched her with narrowed eyes as she went back into the castle.
Yvonne went straight into the library and climbed out through the open window and then made her way on foot toward the village of Trewent.
The sun was setting by the time she reached the village, and she was hot and cross and suffering from reaction to the fright she had received.
As she walked along the harbor, the first person she saw was young Jim Widdicombe, one of the “footpads” she had hired.
“Oh, my lady,” he said, turning beet red. “I am sorry me and Peter did not come, like. ’Twas like this, ma’am. Father, he says to me, he says, mat there’s this here eddicated pig a-showing his tricks at the fair in Penryn. Well, that there pig fair drove everything out o’ our heads, and me and Peter went over. ’Twas a wunnerful sage animal. You never did see the like. Could count up to ten, which is more ’n me nor Peter can.”
“You will be glad to know,” said Yvonne icily, “that while you and Peter were consorting with an educated pig, two real footpads set on me and Miss Cottingham.”
“So’s I heard,” said Jim, staring at her in openmouthed admiration. “Two o’ the worst villains in the county. ’Tis said you shot the one. I says to Peter, I says, happen we were right not to go. Might have been shot as well. It was God lookin’ arter us, if you take my meaning.”
“I will take my money back,” said Yvonne with some asperity.
“Have it right here. My little brother, Ebenezer, we forgot to tell him not to go, us not remembering on account o’ the pig, which is why he went to the castle. So you see, ma’am, if he hadn’t gone, like, chances are you might have been seriously dead.”
Yvonne sighed impatiently as she took the money from him. She extracted a shilling and told Jim to give it to his young brother. She was about to turn away when a thought struck her.
“Tell me, Jim,” she said, “have you ever heard tell of anyone trying the same sort of trick in these parts? That is, anyone telling any of the local boys to dress up like pirates or brigands to give me a fright?”
“No, ma’am. Frightening a governess is one thing,” said Jim, “but frightening the quality’s a hanging matter. No one would dare.”
“And so you are—how shall I put it—respectable and God-fearing?”
“Yes, ’cept for those in the Kennel.”
“What is the Kennel?”
Jim lowered his voice and looked about nervously. “It’s a collection o’ huts along to the north o’ Trewent. Nasty, dirty bunch lives there. Gets their living from pickin’ things off the beach. Folks say hereabouts they might be wreckers.”
“Wreckers?”
“Folk what shine a light from the shore to lure ships wi’ cargo onto the rocks.”
“You remember hearing how my governess and I were set upon by brigands?”
“Yes, my lady. Militia searched the whole of Trewent.”
“But did they search this other place… this Kennel?”
“First place they went. Found nothing.”
“I should like to see this place.”
Jim began to back away. “Wot? The Kennel! I dursn’t go there. ’Tain’t no place for a decent body.”
“Oh, very well,” said Yvonne. “But do not ever tell anyone I tried to hire you to pretend to be footpads.”
“More ’n my life’s worth,” said Jim fervently. “His lordship might think we was in league with them ruffians.”
“That he might,” agreed Yvonne. “But hear this, Jim Widdicombe; it is just as well your young brother has more sense than you!”
Jim grinned sheepishly, bobbed his head, tugged his forelock, and slouched away.
Yvonne set out, back toward the castle.
But for the first time she felt afraid to be out on her own. The attack by the footpads had shocked her much more than her capture by the brigands. Every bush was a robber and every humped rock a crouched footpad waiting to spring.
A seagull called sharply from overhead, sending her heart jumping into her mouth.
She was nearing the castle when, once more, she saw the dark shape of a boat bobbing on the water in the cliffs below the castle. So it followed she could not have been mistaken that other time, whatever Patricia might say.
The winding cliff path dipped down into the hollow. She was just at the top of the dip when the black bulk of a man rose up in front of her.
Yvonne screamed and turned to run.
Strong arms caught her and held her. She kicked back viciously and struggled and cursed in French until above the roaring in her ears she heard a familiar voice say sharply, “Yvonne! It is I. Anselm.”
With a little broken sob, she turned about and leaned against him, feeling safe and secure and at home.
He gave her a little shake and held her away from him.
“You gave me the fright of my life,” he said, “when I returned from Penryn and found you missing. Where were you?”
“I went for a walk to the village,” mumbled Yvonne.
“After your experience today, you went out alone?”
Yvonne hung her head.
“Gustave said you had asked him to accompany you to the village,” he went on when she did not reply. “He quite rightly refused, feeling you had had enough shocks and excursions f
or one day. He felt sure you had returned to the castle and not gone out again. But I think I know you better. I came in search of you. Why did you go to the village?”
“I felt shaken and uneasy. I wanted some fresh air,” mumbled Yvonne.
He tilted her chin up and she could see the white gleam of his teeth as he grinned down at her.
“Liar,” he mocked. “They were real footpads who attacked you and not some deep dark plot of Miss Cottingham. I should have thought the fright they gave you would have been enough to keep you indoors for weeks.”
“I know they were real,” said Yvonne sharply. “Who should know better than I?”
“Yes, you with your pistol. If, as you say, you were so strictly chaperoned, how did you come to be so expert in the use of firearms?”
“My grandfather taught me,” said Yvonne. “In these troubled times, he said, it was important every young lady should know how to defend herself.”
“A remarkable man. Well, come along, Yvonne. Since it is obvious you are not going to tell me why you went to the village, you leave me to assume you are romancing some poor lad.”
“Not I!” exclaimed Yvonne, falling into step beside him. “What is this place—the Kennel?”
“A nasty hamlet full of nasty people.”
“But when the brigands attacked me, no one at the castle could seem to think who might be to blame, and yet it appears you have a whole community of villains living nearby.”
“Any villains who would attempt to abduct two ladies from Trewent Castle are of a breed unknown on this coast. Anyone from the Kennel would know it would be the first place we would search.”
“Still…”
“No, Yvonne,” he said. “No. You are not to go to the Kennel.”
Yvonne gave a little shrug. He looked at her suspiciously, his eyes glinting down at her in the moonlight, but those black eyes of hers were unreadable.
“What of these fairies that local people believe in,” said Yvonne, changing the subject. “People hereabouts are very superstitious, I think.”
They were quite near the castle. The air was warm and sweet, and the night smells of crushed thyme and roses from the castle gardens appeared to heighten the viscount’s senses, and he was sharply conscious of that dainty, voluptuous little body of Yvonne’s so very close to his own.
“Me, I do not believe in fairies,” said Yvonne.
Then she let out a terrified scream and threw herself into the viscount’s arms as a cloud of winged creatures rose out of the heather and flew straight at her face.
“It’s moths,” he said, holding her tightly. “Only a type of moth we have about here.”
Yvonne, who had burrowed her head against his chest, peeped nervously around his sheltering arms. “Not fairies?” she asked timidly.
“No, my sweet idiot,” he said, smiling down at her. “Only moths.”
She looked up at him, her eyes great dark pools and her mouth soft, young, and vulnerable. He felt a tremendous surge of passion mixed with an almost unbearable sweetness. His arms dropped to his side and he said in a voice that did not sound like his own, “It is late. We are nearly home.”
Yvonne muttered something that sounded like a French curse.
The air between them crackled with tension.
“I shall show you the diamonds if you would like,” he said to try to dispel the strained atmosphere. “Would that please you?”
Yvonne gave a little laugh. “I am a woman, my lord. Of course I should like to see the Anselm diamonds.”
They walked around to the front of the castle, and the viscount rang the bell for the gatekeeper. The tall iron spiked gates had been closed for the night.
As they walked side by side into the castle grounds, Yvonne looked up at the ugly bulk of Trewent Castle and felt for the first time she was coming home.
And for the first time a wistful little thought began to form in her mind. What if they were married? What if they were returning home together as man and wife?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The gloom of the castle hall closed around them, a now familiar smell of damp and woodsmoke and dried rose petals.
“This way,” said the viscount rather curtly, almost as if he were already regretting the impulse that had prompted him to offer to show Yvonne the diamonds.
He led the way to a small door at the back of the hall. He searched on a ledge above the door until his groping hands found a key. He unlocked the door and stood aside to let Yvonne past.
Thin shafts of moonlight cut across the darkness of the room. The viscount gave an impatient exclamation, said, “Wait here,” and retreated to the hall to find a lamp.
Soon the little room was bathed in a soft, golden glow. Yvonne looked about her curiously.
It was a pretty little room with comfortable chairs and an old-fashioned sofa upholstered in white and gold chintz. There was a portrait of a long-nosed lady in powdered hair and panniered gown above the fireplace. There were little occasional tables strewn with a haphazard array of embroidery patterns, silver boxes, fans, and china ornaments.
“This is the morning room,” said the viscount. “I never use it.”
“It is very pretty,” said Yvonne, “and must get all the sun in the morning.”
“You may use it if you like.” He shrugged. “But keep the whereabouts of the diamonds to yourself.”
“And where are they?” she teased. “I see no strongbox or jeweler’s case.”
He took the picture of the long-nosed lady down, revealing a square cupboard behind it. “Not a very good place,” he said over his shoulder. “But since no one knows the whereabouts of the diamonds except me—and now you—I see no reason to journey to London to buy one of Mr. Chubb’s safes.”
He opened the cupboard and lifted down a large, heavy leather-covered box.
Yvonne looked in awe as he lifted the lid. Diamonds flashed and blazed.
“How beautiful,” she whispered.
“They are very heavy,” he said, “and cold. There is a tiara, rings, a necklace, earrings, and brooches. Come here, and let us see how you look in all this finery.”
He lifted the heavy tiara and placed it on her head, then the necklace about her neck, and stood back to survey the effect.
The result was breathtaking. She looked like some princess out of a fairy tale.
“You may wear them at the ball,” he heard himself saying.
“Yes,” said Yvonne almost absentmindedly, because she was dreamily watching the expression of admiration in his blue eyes.
Then something made her look over his shoulder and she turned pale.
“A face! A face at the window!” she cried.
He went over and fumbled with the rusty catch of the latticed window and threw it open. Like the library, the morning room looked out onto the terrace.
The terrace gleamed white and empty in the moonlight.
“Idiot,” said the viscount. “Go to bed, my child. You are weary and still shocked. But first come here and let me put these baubles away.”
Yvonne was still shaken. “I saw a face,” she kept saying over and over again, and he took off the jewels and returned them to their box. “I did.”
“These little leaded panes of glass play strange tricks with the eyes,” he said. “Go to sleep. Bright sunlight and a new day will banish all your frights and fantasies.”
Yvonne lay awake that night for a long time. Was she imagining trickery, deception, faces, and frauds on all sides? She had tried the door of Patricia’s room, but it had been locked. All she knew was that she was becoming afraid. Very afraid and apprehensive.
But the bright sunlight and bustle and excitement just before the ball somewhat restored Yvonne’s spirits. Patricia was calm, almost placid, but still obviously much shaken from their adventure. She could not have felt well enough the previous night to go running around outside the castle, looking in at the windows. It was the day before the ball, and Yvonne’s restlessness soon returned and h
er desire to see this place called the Kennel grew.
She decided she would be safe enough if she rode there, and armed herself with her pistol. The difficulty would be in getting her horse out of the stables without alerting Gustave or any of the stable staff.
At last, she hit on a plan and asked Gustave to accompany her. Instead of riding to the north in the direction of the Kennel, she set off east, across the moors. When they had cantered about a mile from the castle, she affected to have a sneezing fit.
