Milady in Love (The Changing Fortunes Series, Vol. 5)

by M C Beaton

  “I must return and find my vinaigrette and a handkerchief, Gustave,” Yvonne called.

  Her groom obediently wheeled his placid mare in the direction of the castle.

  “No, Gustave,” called Yvonne. “Wait here. You cannot ride fast enough.”

  Before Gustave could protest, she was off like the wind, and he knew his own bad horsemanship, combined with his slow mount, would prevent him from catching up with her.

  Suddenly suspicious, he urged his slow horse up on top of one of the little hills on the moorland, and, screwing up his eyes against the sun, he watched the little flying figure that was Yvonne.

  She rode almost to the castle walls and then veered away to the north, in the direction of the village of Trewent.

  Gustave set out for the castle as fast as he could manage to go. He knew where his duty lay.

  Yvonne rode at full gallop until she was above the village, which nestled in a cove at the foot of the cliffs. She did not go down into the village but carried on to the north, where she was sure she would recognize the place called the Kennel when she saw it.

  She slowed her mount to a walking pace. A thin veil of cloud now hid the sun. The air was warm and heavy, and everything was a strange pearl gray. The sea was a sheet of motionless gray glass, and there was hardly a breath of wind.

  She plodded on and was beginning to wonder whether she had passed the Kennel, whether it might lie down at the foot of the cliffs at the bottom of some concealed path, when she heard the thud of hooves in the distance.

  She looked to right and left, but there was nowhere she could conceal herself or her horse. Fear sharpened her wits. The approaching rider was coming at such speed that to flee would be useless. Her mount was already tired from the gallop.

  She swung her horse around, prepared to face whoever was coming, and drew her loaded pistol out of her saddle-bag and laid it across the pommel of her saddle.

  Then she gave a sigh, half of relief, half of exasperation, as the approaching horseman turned out to be her guardian.

  She dropped her pistol back into the saddlebag as he reined in beside her, his eyes hard and angry.

  “A stupid trick, Yvonne de la Falaise,” he said. “Have you lost your wits? You will return with me immediately. Gustave told me you had tricked him, and I knew you meant to disobey me and come here.”

  “Where is this Kennel?” asked Yvonne, seemingly indifferent to his fury.

  “Half a mile ahead.”

  “Please, now that you are here, cannot I just look?” begged Yvonne.

  He surveyed the slim figure in the elegant riding dress and his anger left him. He had been so afraid she might have landed in some scrape that visions of giving her a good hiding had consumed his thoughts as he pursued her. But now that she was safe and well, he found he could not continue to rage against her.

  “Very well, you selfish child,” he said. “But I doubt if we shall see any of the inhabitants. They disappear as soon as any stranger approaches.”

  They rode on side by side until the viscount pointed his riding crop at a partially concealed track leading down the cliffs. He swung his horse down it, and Yvonne followed behind, seeing a huddle of huts far down below on a shingle beach.

  What an odd day it was, thought Yvonne. All color seemed to have been drained out of the landscape. The huts were dark gray against the pearl gray of the unnaturally still sea.

  There were figures grouped about a boat on the shore, and other figures, foreshortened by the height of Yvonne’s precipitous view, clustered around the huts.

  Then one of the figures turned and pointed toward them. One minute they were all there, and the next they had gone, having melted away into the gray landscape.

  By the time the viscount and Yvonne rode along the beach to the Kennel, there was no one in sight except an old man, a huddled bundle of rags sitting on a rock, staring out to sea.

  “Well, this is the Kennel,” said the viscount, “and now that you have seen it, I suggest we return to the castle.”

  But Yvonne was already approaching the old man on the beach. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a normal tone of voice, for it was tempting to whisper in the middle of all this unearthly quiet.

  His rheumy old eyes swiveled up to meet hers and then turned back to resume gazing out to sea.

  “Where is everyone?” went on Yvonne brightly.

  “Hereabouts,” said the old man laconically. “Don’t like strangers. Better run along, missie, ’fore Black Jack gets you.”

  “Black Jack,” said the viscount in a bored voice, “was hanged for his crimes ages ago.”

  “But his ghost walks, guv’nor.”

  “Black Jack?” Yvonne frowned and then her face cleared. “Oh, the pirate.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Yvonne.

  “Come along, Yvonne,” said the viscount, walking back toward where their horses were tethered.

  “Course they walk,” said the old man. “Ain’t I seen Black Jack’s granddaughter?”

  “Tell me about her,” said Yvonne, who loved stories.

  “Can’t,” said the old man peevishly. “Ain’t got no ’baccy. Can’t think without ’baccy.”

  Yvonne drew a shilling from the pocket of her riding dress and held it out. “This will buy you tobacco.”

  He took the shilling in one grimy, arthritic paw, examined it carefully, and stowed it away somewhere among his filthy rags.

  “Well, she was the prettiest thing you ever did see,” said the old man. “We ain’t used to prettiness in the Kennel. Women here is most squat and dark. Black Jack was dead, and his son married Kate Harty, a slut. They had this daughter.”

  “Called?” prompted Yvonne eagerly.

  “Called Ellen—Ellen Tremayne—that bein’ Jack’s family name. Well, one night there was this gurt storm, and Kate war out on the rocks with her light, looking for wreckage.” He peered up at Yvonne slyly, and Yvonne had a sudden vivid picture of a ruthless woman waving a lantern to lure the ships onto the rocks.

  “A big merchantman foundered, just out there. None o’ the crew survived.”

  Yvonne shuddered. She had a feeling that none of the crew had been allowed to survive.

  “One dyin’ sailor, he says there’s a chest o’ gold in the captain’s cabin. Kate went diving for it. ’Tis said she never found it, though her body was washed up… drownded,” added the old man with horrible relish.

  “Yvonne!” called the viscount.

  “Go on,” urged Yvonne, ignoring him.

  “Next day, arter we buried her, Black Jack’s son and baby Ellen disappeared. Folks about here said they’d got the gold, see. But they must have been killed. ’Cos I seed her ghost, missie.”

  A strong grip took hold of Yvonne’s arm and swung her about. “When I tell you to come, you will obey me,” said the viscount.

  Yvonne jerked her arm free, rubbing it and glaring up at him in a fury.

  “You have no right to treat me so roughly.”

  “I have every right. I am your guardian.”

  “I, my lord, am going to find a good lusty husband who will give you the thrashing you deserve. You are a monstrous bully. Oh, look!”

  While they had been arguing, the old man had shuffled off. Moving with an odd crabwise gait, he disappeared between the huts. “Now I shall never hear the end of the story,” mourned Yvonne. “It was fascinating. Ghosts and pirates and—”

  “How much did you give him?”

  “A shilling.”

  “My dear child, give him a sovereign and he will invent tales for a month.”

  They rode back to the castle, each thoroughly disappointed with the other.

  The viscount was thinking Yvonne was nothing more than a willful child who disobeyed him because she preferred to listen to the maunderings of a dirty, senile old man. Yvonne thought the viscount stupidly pigheaded and overbearing and heartily pitied any woman who mi
ght be fool enough to marry him.

  They parted in the castle hall without speaking, Yvonne to her sitting room and the viscount to the library.

  But he found he could not remain angry with her for long. He wanted to see her smile at him again, to see her look up into his face with that glow in her large eyes.

  He decided to take the diamonds up to her so that she might have them ready for the ball on the morrow.

  He unlocked the door of the morning room and lifted the portrait down from over the fireplace. He opened the cupboard and took out the box. It felt strangely light. He threw back the lid.

  Empty.

  His heart felt heavy. He sat down on the nearest chair.

  Surely no one else in the castle knew of the whereabouts of the diamonds except him—and Yvonne.

  A sudden burst of rage spurred him to action.

  He sent for Fairbairn and demanded that everyone in the castle be summoned to the hall. Miss Cottingham, too, must be helped downstairs. Everyone had to be present.

  When they were all gathered, he stood up on the staircase, looking down at them. Yvonne was there, wide-eyed and curious; Miss Cottingham, pale and tired.

  “Listen, all of you,” he said. “The Anselm diamonds have been taken from their hiding place. You are all to go outside while the castle is searched.”

  He looked down at their faces. He must have people he could trust to help him with the search. Most of the castle servants had been in service with the late viscount. Only two of the footmen, some of the outdoor staff, and three of the housemaids had been hired that year. Then there were all the workers who had been drafted in to help with the arrangements for the ball—caterers, musicians, builders, and decorators.

  “Mrs. Pardoe and Fairbairn, step forward,” he commanded.

  The butler and the housekeeper edged to the front of the crowd.

  “You will both help me in my search,” he said. “Everyone else is to gather outside on the castle lawn and stay there until I tell you to do otherwise. Make sure there is no one in the stables, or in any of the outside living quarters either.”

  Yvonne followed the others out. She remembered that strange doorway in the cellar. Should she tell the viscount about it? But he would want to know what she had been doing down there, and he might suspect it was she who had rung the alarm bell.

  They all waited outside for what seemed like an age.

  Inside, Fairbairn and Mrs. Pardoe reported to the viscount that they had searched all of the servants’ rooms.

  “We still have the other rooms to search,” said the viscount harshly. “Come with me. We will start with my ward’s bedroom.”

  Fairbairn and Mrs. Pardoe exchanged startled glances, but they followed him to Yvonne’s bedroom.

  They watched nervously as the viscount rummaged through closets, tossing gowns and mantles over his shoulder in his haste. Drawers of lingerie were upended on the floor.

  The grim, set look did not leave his face.

  “Don’t seem to be anything here, my lord,” ventured Mrs. Pardoe timidly.

  “I have not finished.” He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the wreck of the pretty bedchamber.

  Then with one quick move, he ripped the bedclothes from the bed and raised the feather mattress.

  Fire and ice gleamed and sparkled and shone. The Anselm diamonds blazed up at him in all their wicked glory.

  Mrs. Pardoe stifled an exclamation and put her hands to her mouth.

  The viscount stooped to scoop up the gems. He bundled them into a large huckaback towel and gave them to Pardoe. “Take these… baubles… to the morning room,” he said heavily. “You know where the key is. Leave them on a table, lock the door behind you, and bring the key to me. You will say I made a mistake. You will say I had the jewels all along. Do you understand?”

  They both nodded dumbly.

  “Mrs. Pardoe, tell everyone to go about their duties and then help Miss Cottingham to her bedchamber. Then when the fuss has died down, go quietly to my ward and tell her to attend me in the library.”

  For the next half hour the castle was in a buzz of excitement, the servants making the most of this brief respite from their duties. Then the men who had been erecting the large marquees on the lawn went back to their work, the orchestra who had been rehearsing in the upstairs saloon tuned up again, and the caterers who had traveled down from Exeter went back to their consultations with the chef.

  Soon the urgency of all of the preparations for the ball took over.

  Mrs. Pardoe found Yvonne standing in the middle of her bedchamber, looking in dismay at the mess.

  “I shall send two of the girls to put everything away, my lady,” said Mrs. Pardoe.

  “But why my room?” asked Yvonne, amazed.

  “Everyone’s room was searched,” said the housekeeper, not meeting her eyes. “His lordship sends his compliments and would like to see you in the library, my lady, as soon as possible.”

  A delicate pink suffused Yvonne’s cheeks, and her large eyes sparkled. “Looked as if she was going to her wedding,” Mrs. Pardoe gloomily reported later to the butler.

  Yvonne sat down at her dressing table and arranged her curls to her satisfaction. She sprayed on a new perfume called Miss in Her Teens, and then, satisfied she was looking her best, she ran down to the library.

  All her anger at the viscount for having lectured her that afternoon, for having searched her room, fled.

  She had just one glorious thought in her head. She was to see him. Her beloved guardian.

  He was standing at the library window, staring out to sea, when she entered.

  He turned slowly around as he heard her light step.

  Yvonne flinched before the blaze of rage in his blue eyes. His mouth was a hard line.

  “Well?” he demanded. “And what have you to say for yourself?”

  “Oh, I thought all that was over,” said Yvonne, disappointed. “Now it appears you are still furious with me because I wanted to go to the Kennel.”

  “I should have left you there with your own kind, you thieving little jade.”

  “Thieving…?”

  “Yes, thieving,” raged the viscount. “The Anselm diamonds, as you very well know, were found where you had hidden them… under your mattress.”

  “I did not take them,” shouted Yvonne. “They must have been left there to incriminate me! Patricia…”

  He took two steps forward and seized her by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled.

  “Patricia,” he said, sneering. “Your governess can barely walk, and it is doubtful if she will even be well enough to attend the ball tomorrow. You are not the scapegoat. Miss Cottingham is the scapegoat for your vulgar, detestable behavior. This is what comes of taking someone French into my home. Of all the treacherous races in the world—”

  “No!” screamed Yvonne. “No. I am innocent.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said with a flat weariness that was more terrifying to Yvonne than his rage. “You will attend the ball as we planned, Yvonne. You will behave prettily and dance and smile. You will not wear the diamonds. After the ball, and after I am sure there has been no scandal, we shall remove to London and a marriage shall be arranged for you.”

  “You would sell me off?”

  “Gladly. It will cost me dear, but it will be worth every penny. Get out of here, and stay out of my sight until tomorrow.”

  He sat down and buried his face in his hands.

  “Anselm,” pleaded Yvonne. “Pay me heed.…”

  He raised a tortured face and looked at her steadily. “Get out,” he said in a low voice. “The sight of you makes me sick.”

  Yvonne could bear no more. She fled to her bedchamber, only to find the maids busily putting everything away. She turned and ran, ran out of the castle and straight to Gustave’s room. He was not there, so she threw herself down on his narrow bed and cried her eyes out.

  When dusk fell, as Gustave slowly opened the
door and stood looking down at the hunched figure on the bed, she was still crying.

  He knelt down beside her, demanding roughly to know what had happened. Still Yvonne continued to sob.

  He poured some brandy into a thick tumbler and held it to her lips, thrusting it against her mouth, coaxing and threatening by turns until she drank some of the spirit.

  Bit by bit the story came out, disjointed, broken by sobs. Gustave listened, appalled.