by M C Beaton
“We should never have come to this accursed country,” he said. “They hate us because we are French.”
“But, Gustave, I have not met with any unkindness at Trewent, nor have you. England is at war with France. It is natural they should say bad things about the French.”
Gustave sniffed and poured himself some brandy.
“And who would play such an evil trick on me?” demanded Yvonne.
“I told you,” said Gustave. “Any of them. They hate the French.”
“But listen, Gustave, when Lord Anselm was first showing me the jewels, I thought I saw a face at the window. But when he looked out, there was no one there. Gustave, it must be Patricia. I feel it is all to do with her.”
Gustave gave a very Gallic shrug. “Me, I think it is the French haters. Do you know what they call you behind your back, milady? Frenchie.”
“That is… is not so bad,” said Yvonne cautiously.
“You need a good night’s sleep, milady. His lordship will see sense in the morning. I shall speak to him.”
“No, you must not bring yourself to his attention. He might accuse you of being in league with me, and then he will send you away. I could not bear that, Gustave. You are all I have. Oh, Gustave, his lordship says that after the ball he is going to take me to London and arrange a marriage for me.”
Gustave’s face brightened. “That is well. That is the French way. You will have your own household, milady, and your old Gustave along with you.”
“I don’t want an arranged marriage,” said Yvonne, beginning to cry again.
“You want Lord Anselm,” said Gustave harshly. “Even after this, you want his lordship. You cannot have him. Besides, a man who does not trust you is not worth your love.”
After she had left, Gustave shaved and put on his best livery and presented himself at the castle, demanding to see Lord Anselm.
Fairbairn shook his head gloomily, saying he doubted that Lord Anselm would see anyone, but returned some moments later, looking surprised, and ushered Gustave into the library.
Lord Anselm was sitting behind his desk. Gustave stood in front of him, noticing the new harsh lines cutting down either side of the viscount’s mouth.
“Well?” demanded the viscount.
“Milady did not take your jewels,” said Gustave, standing rigidly to attention.
“Oh, no? Then who did?” asked the viscount sweetly.
“That I do not know, milord. I have known milady since she was a baby, and I, Gustave Bouvet, tell you this. She could not… She is…” His English ran out, and he looked at the viscount, fumbling for the right words.
“Your loyalty does you credit, Gustave,” said the viscount in perfect French. “But the evidence is damning.”
“Evidence does not matter,” said Gustave, speaking in his native tongue. “Trust is what matters. Trust and loyalty and the use of one’s common sense.”
The viscount sighed. “I saw you, Gustave, for I hoped against hope you would give me some material proof of her innocence. Loyalty blinds you. I know my ward. I know women! Pah. I do not think she planned any villainy or to keep the jewels forever. They sparkled; she wanted them like a child wants a glittering toy. She could not even wait until the ball.”
“You do not understand. She is French, not English, and therefore much older than her years. Milady is not stupid. Let us suppose she wanted the jewels for some reason. Then she would not hide them under her mattress. She would know there would be a search of the rooms. She would hide them outside the castle, somewhere you would not think of looking.”
The viscount frowned. “In Portugal,” he said, “I gather your late master ran out of funds. You must have needed every penny, and yet Yvonne de la Falaise obviously spent a great deal of money on clothes. That shows a frivolous and heedless spirit.”
“The clothes were made by a dressmaker in Lisbon to milady’s designs,” said Gustave. “This dressmaker, she had a gift, a talent, but she was not a great couturier and did not charge high prices. It was milady who discovered her talent. Oh, milord, you should have seen her this evening in my little room, crying fit to break your heart, had you but heard her.”
“Enough. You may go. Do not trouble me again until you have something to tell me other than your own opinion of her character.”
Gustave searched the viscount’s face for some signs of softening, but his eyes were hard and implacable.
Yvonne’s broken sobs sounded in his ears. He decided to try harder. “Milady suspects her governess of trying to discredit her,” said Gustave.
The viscount gave an impatient exclamation.
“Me, too—I think she has become obsessed with this Miss Cottingham. But think! Miss Cottingham lied about her references. Understandable, you might think, since she explained she had no other alternative. She needed the work, and that work she could not get without references.
So all is forgiven, and yet nothing is done to try to find out if she is really what she says she is.”
“Why on earth would Miss Cottingham try to discredit Yvonne?”
Gustave looked at the viscount out of the corners of his eyes. “Perhaps because—I repeat only the rumors, you see—perhaps it is because this governess has hopes of marrying you herself and fears milady might take away your affections.”
“You go too far,” said the viscount, turning red.
“Then I will go further,” said Gustave stoutly, “and you must forgive an old and loyal servant for speaking so plain. I am an old man and have seen much. If you do not go very carefully, you may find one day you have lost a treasure of value—of more value than the Anselm diamonds or of the crown jewels.”
The viscount pointed to the door.
“Go!” he said.
And with bowed shoulders and lagging footsteps, Gustave went.
As he crossed the shadowy hall to the main door, he heard a light step up on the first landing and swung around. There came the quick, light patter of footsteps and the glimpse of a long skirt whisking away out of sight.
Milady, thought Gustave. Eavesdropping. He wondered whether he should go after her but decided against it. The viscount had said nothing he could repeat that might cheer her.
And, unaware that Yvonne had fallen into an exhausted sleep half an hour before, he opened the door of the castle and let himself out into the night.
CHAPTER NINE
Yvonne de la Falaise stood beside her guardian at the entrance to the marquee on the lawn where the guests were to assemble. There were three marquees, the one where the company was to be received, another where wine and food were to be served, and the third for dancing.
Many of the guests who were to stay overnight had already arrived.
Yvonne had kept to her sitting room for most of the day. Patricia had knocked at her door several times, demanding to know if all was well, but Yvonne could not bear to see her. Somehow she felt Patricia had been responsible for her disgrace. Why she should continue to suspect the governess, Yvonne did not know, but suspect her she did.
She had joined the viscount in the hall, and together they had walked to the entrance to the marquee where they were to receive their guests.
All her hurt and misery had returned full force at the sight of him, but she allowed none of it to show on her face. The viscount barely looked at her.
They stood side by side, smiling and shaking hands, each of them feeling thoroughly miserable.
Yvonne was wearing her finest gown. It consisted of a scarlet and gold tissue robe, trimmed with scarlet and gold, and worn over a petticoat of white satin, which was edged with scarlet and gold fringe. The front of the robe was fastened over the petticoat with gilt clasps so cleverly made that they looked like real gold. Yvonne had been grateful she had saved this favorite gown for the ball, but since the disgrace brought down on her by the taking of the diamonds, she gloomily felt it did not matter what she wore. She had dressed her hair in a severe coronet on top of her small head with gold rib
bons threaded through the braids as her only ornament.
Beside her, Lord Anselm was wearing the latest thing in evening dress—black pantaloons that hugged his long legs like a second skin, stopping at midcalf to reveal a length of green and gold stocking. His coat was black, and his waistcoat was of white piqué with diamond studs. Diamonds blazed on his fingers and among the snowy folds of his cravat. As a concession to the old-fashioned ways of the country, he wore his thick fair hair powdered and confined at the nape of his neck with a black silk ribbon.
Despite her misery, Yvonne was amazed at the democracy of an English country ball. They were all there, from the lord-lieutenant of the county to the village milkmaid.
If only he would believe me, then I might enjoy all this, thought Yvonne later as she footed her way nimbly through the steps of a country dance with the baker’s boy.
When Lord Anselm led Patricia Cottingham onto the floor for a waltz, Yvonne closed her eyes, stabbed with sudden jealousy and fierce longing.
He should have been holding her, Yvonne, and guiding her through the steps of this new exotic dance where the man clasped the woman about the waist.
Patricia was wearing her favorite blue silk, cut much too low at the bosom for a governess, thought Yvonne, smiling automatically at her own partner and wishing she were dead.
There went Patricia, floating in the viscount’s arms, while she herself was clasped in the clumsy, sweaty embrace of the captain of the local militia.
Oh, horrors! The good captain was stammering out his wish to take her into supper.
Yvonne gave a sad little smile and accepted his invitation with as much grace as she could muster. If the point of this ball is to find me a husband, she thought as she shook out her napkin, then my guardian must be all about in his upper chambers. There is not one marriageable man here. They are either old and elegant or young and uncouth.
Then she became aware that the captain was talking about her adventures.
“It is thanks to you, my lady,” he was saying, “that we caught those two footpads.”
“Not at all,” said Yvonne modestly. “Lord Anselm’s arrival on the scene at the right moment did that.”
“These are bad times,” said the captain, fingering his military sideburns. “And that was not the first time you were attacked.”
Now he had Yvonne’s full attention.
“Tell me, Captain…?”
“Jenkins, my lady.”
“Tell me, Captain Jenkins. Is it not odd that brigands should attack two ladies on a sunny day?”
“Very odd,” agreed the captain. “I have been puzzling over it. I thought it might be some of those ruffians who live in the Kennel. But they have been toothless for decades. No major piracy or crime since Black Jack was caught, and that was in my grandfather’s time.”
“What was also very strange,” said Yvonne, “was that the boat, the Trewent Castle, was returned the next day.”
“That makes it odder still. I could hardly believe it when I learned of its return. At first I thought Lord Anselm might have been holding a house party.”
“What would that have to do with it?”
“I thought perhaps some young people might have dressed up as pirates to play a malicious joke on you. Feeling against the French runs high. It had the appearance of a charade.”
“Is there much smuggling on this coast?”
“I believe there is some. I don’t know who runs it, for no one has ever been caught. And there’s no one around here with the brains to outwit the excisemen.”
Yvonne, totally absorbed in questioning the captain, had, for the moment, forgotten about the disgrace of the Anselm diamonds. Her face was animated, and her beauty, which had been somewhat dimmed by misery, blazed out in the room.
No, she did not need diamonds to enhance her looks, thought the viscount. He studied her covertly while trying to pay attention to what Miss Cottingham was saying. He had a dim feeling that the governess deserved a setdown. Her gown was much too low, and her manner verged on boldness. Certainly everyone was drinking rather a lot, and all classes were mixing freely, so it would not occasion much comment, but it made the viscount feel decidedly uneasy.
“Sir Reginald is trying to catch your attention, Miss Cottingham,” he said abruptly, and Patricia reluctantly turned to the gentleman on her other side. Sir Reginald looked gratified at her interest and somewhat surprised, for he had been comfortably enjoying his wine and had not been trying to speak to her at all.
Once the governess was engaged in conversation with Sir Reginald, the viscount heaved a sigh of relief and fell to studying Yvonne’s face.
She was so very beautiful—and so very innocent. That new thought struck him forcibly as he watched her. She looked across the room as if aware of his glance, and their eyes locked and held.
Yvonne’s expressive little face mirrored hurt, sadness, and bewilderment before she dropped her eyes, those ridiculously long eyelashes of hers fanning out over her cheeks.
No, thought the viscount, she did not take those jewels. Gustave is right. She is no fool. Had she taken them, she would have hidden them out on the moors or somewhere on the cliffs, but she would never have concealed them in her bedchamber.
He felt as if he had been looking at her the wrong way, looking at her through a distorting glass.
There were so many thoughts crowding into his mind all at once that he shook his head slightly as if to clear it.
When she had cried out there was a face at the window when they were both looking at the diamonds, he could swear her surprise and shock had been genuine. Then there was that mysterious kidnapping.
He looked at her face again. It was sad now, and drained of animation. There were faint violet bruises of fatigue under her eyes.
Why had he been so determined to believe her guilty? Why did he always want to believe the worst of her? Was it because the increasing attraction she held for him put his independence at risk?
He became aware that Miss Cottingham was trying to catch his attention, and he looked at her impatiently. Where now was the cool and calm governess he had once admired?
Her eyes were glowing with a soft light as she looked at him, and he felt she was deliberately leaning forward to expose even more of her bosom.
He had not noticed before, he reflected, how very white and sharp her teeth were.
She bit into a peach and cast a languishing—yes, voluptuous—look at him.
“Excuse me,” he said abruptly.
Patricia watched while he rose from the table. Her eyes followed his tall figure as he strode down the room. They watched as he bent over his ward and said something. Then Yvonne rose and followed him out.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Yvonne when they were outside.
“I would like you to wear the Anselm diamonds,” he said.
Yvonne stumbled, and he caught her arm to steady her.
“I might run away with them,” she said bitterly.
“No, you would not, Yvonne, and I am a great fool to ever think you would steal them. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes,” gasped Yvonne, lifting up her skirts and hurrying to keep up with his long strides. “What made you change your mind?”
He did not answer her until they were in the morning room.
As he lifted down the picture, he said, “It was your innocent face, my sweeting. I am also a fool to have left the diamonds in the same hiding place. Someone wished you ill. No, don’t try to tell me it was Miss Cottingham. Although I now believe you innocent, it does not follow that I can believe her guilty. There is much anti-French feeling about.”
“Frenchie—that is what they call me behind my back.”
“That does not mean they don’t like you,” he said gently.
He opened the box and lifted out the tiara. “Stand still,” he said.
“I do not think I want to wear them now,” said Yvonne with a shiver.
“You will do as you are told. There!�
� He set the tiara carefully on her head.
“How heavy it feels,” whispered Yvonne.
“Now turn around.”
She felt the heavy, cold weight of the diamonds as he slipped a necklace about her neck.
“Now, look at me,” he commanded.
She turned and obediently looked up at him.
The diamonds blazed with a fierce fire, with a life of their own.
He felt a surge of possession. This beauty was his ward, wearing his family jewels.
“You look… exotic,” he said. “Come, Yvonne, let me show you in all your glory to my guests.”
