by M C Beaton
She put her hand on his arm, and he led her from the room, carelessly leaving the rest of the jewels in their open box on the table.
As they passed through the hall, they could hear the faint strains of music filtering in from outside. Yvonne stopped and looked about her.
“What is it?” he asked, stopping as well.
“Menace,” said Yvonne slowly. “I feel it. Someone hates me.”
He looked down at her curiously and then his eyes probed into the shadows on the hall.
“There is no one here,” he said. “You are overnice in your sensibilities. This was once a prison. The most evil malefactors were put down in the dungeons below the cellars—the lesser in what are now the cellars, and the debtors and French prisoners up here.”
“Do you mean these were all cells?” asked Yvonne, looking about her. “And what French prisoners?”
“Spies. There were always spies along this coast. The old viscount had all the cells knocked together and made into bedrooms, drawing rooms, saloons, and so on. Perhaps that is why I like the library. It was the old prison governor’s room. No one was ever locked up in there.”
“There is something I must tell you,” said Yvonne urgently. “You will not be angry with me?”
His face softened as he looked at her. “I do not think I could find it in me to be angry at anything you might say.”
“Perhaps,” said Yvonne cautiously. “But it was a very wicked thing to do. I thought you were going to propose marriage to Patricia, and I did not think that would be a very good thing. So I rang the fire bell.”
“So that was you, you minx! I should have known.”
“But listen! When I was in the cellars, I heard someone approaching, and it turned out to be Fairbairn. I hid behind a barrel in the corner of the cellar. As I pressed back against the wall for fear he might see me, I felt it give way. It proved to be a concealed door that led to the old dungeons below.”
“Are you sure? They were sealed off in my grandfather’s time, for the level of the sea had risen and had started to flood the old lower dungeons at high tide.”
“I did not have a light with me,” said Yvonne. “I groped my way through the opening. There were stairs leading down. I thought it might have been an old escape route. When I first heard the diamonds had gone missing, I meant to tell you, because I thought someone might have entered the castle from outside by that way.”
“We shall examine it together in the morning,” he said. “I cannot understand how Fairbairn missed it.”
“There was a piece of canvas pasted over it, painted to match the wall on either side.”
“Strange. Let us return to our guests and forget about it for now. These old places are riddled with unexpected tunnels and passages. There were a few escapes from here in the old days that were never explained. It stands to reason there might be some secret passages that do not appear in the original plans of the castle.”
“And you forgive me?”
“I told you, my chit, that I do not believe you took the diamonds.”
“Not that. I mean for ringing the fire bell.”
The viscount reflected with wonder that he had been about to propose marriage to Patricia on that day. It was like looking back on the actions of a stranger.
“I forgive you.”
“Were you going to ask Patricia to marry you?”
“No,” lied the viscount. “Yvonne…”
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.
“Do you consider me very old?”
“No, m-my lord,” said Yvonne with a catch in her voice.
“We must spend more time together, my chuck. Do you understand? We must be sure. The man you want now may not be the man you will want when you are older.”
“Baise-moi,” said Yvonne in a low voice.
“I cannot continue these familiarities with my own ward.”
“Idiot! Then your ward will kiss you.”
She rose on tiptoe and he felt her lips, warm and soft, pressing against his own. Passion rocked him on his heels, a passion so violent, so shocking, that he wrenched his mouth free. Yvonne looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark with disappointment.
“As I said,” he remarked in as casual a voice as he could manage, “it is important we should get to know each other better.”
But he felt deeply shaken as he led her out of the castle. She was young and innocent and virginal. He felt like a depraved old lecher. How could so young a girl who must surely dream of pure and spiritual romance understand the blazing red-hot passion of a man who only wanted to rip every shred of clothing from her body and make love to her for hour after hour?
Yvonne’s jewels caused a sensation. People crowded around to exclaim and admire, although many young ladies of the county looked daggers at Yvonne. It was well known the Anselm jewels were traditionally worn by the Anselm bride. This Frenchie had stolen a march on them all.
“Have you any dances left?” the viscount asked Yvonne.
“Only a waltz,” said Yvonne.
“But there is a Mr. Grummings’s name written in that space.”
Yvonne turned red with embarrassment. She had invented the fictitious Mr. Grummings in the hope that the viscount would dance with her after all.
“He has the gout,” she said, “and cannot dance.”
The viscount gave her an amused look as he wrote his name over that of Mr. Grummings. “You must introduce me to him. I do not remember inviting him.”
“Oh, here is Patricia,” said Yvonne. “You must have promised her another dance. How is your head, dear Patricia? You made a remarkable recovery.”
“I am still feeling rather dizzy,” said Patricia, and, indeed, she did look very pale.
“Then let me take you for some refreshment instead of dancing,” said the viscount, and then cursed, since it would mean half an hour of intimate conversation in Patricia’s company.
As they walked into the refreshment tent, he could only be glad that she appeared more subdued than she had earlier.
“It was a noble and courageous gesture to let Yvonne wear the Anselm diamonds,” said Patricia. She drank a full glass of wine in one gulp.
“There was nothing noble and courageous about my behavior,” he said. “I should never have suspected my ward in the first place.”
“But how could you not? The diamonds were found under her mattress.”
“How did you know that?” he asked sharply. “Only Fairbairn and Mrs. Pardoe knew where they were found. As far as everyone else is concerned, I made a mistake.
“So, I repeat, who could possibly have told you? And why should you find it a noble and courageous gesture when my ward had not been accused of theft?”
“Yvonne must have told me,” said Patricia, looking at him in surprise.
“I shall ask her.”
“My lord, Yvonne is scatterbrained and does not remember from one moment to the next what she has said. Like a magpie.”
“You imply that she takes bright objects—just like a magpie?”
“No, no,” said Patricia wretchedly. “That is not what I meant. Oh, my poor head.”
He sat looking at his untouched glass of wine, his mind racing. Mrs. Pardoe would not have told the governess of the theft, nor would Fairbairn. He was sure Yvonne would not have told the governess either—unless, perhaps, to accuse her of having taken the jewels herself.
“At one time, my lord,” said Patricia, drinking another glass of wine as if it were lemonade, “you were kind enough to say I could always make my home at Trewent Castle, even after Yvonne married. You started to say I could stay as your… but, if you remember, we were interrupted. What were you about to say?”
The viscount felt trapped. He felt as if some woman had surfaced from his far past with a claim on his affections. And yet he had wanted to marry her. He had wanted to marry her because she had seemed so calm, so unruffled, so passionless.
I cannot remember telling a
lie in my life, he thought, and yet this evening I have already lied to Yvonne and I am about to lie again to her governess.
Aloud he said, “I meant to add, as my pensioner. On reflection, however, I see you are quite right. You could not possibly stay with me were I still unwed. But I own some cottages on the outskirts of Penryn, and one even now stands vacant.”
“My lord,” said Patricia in a thin, hard voice, “I do not believe you.”
“I admit it is unusual and generous to pension a servant who is neither old nor infirm,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding her, “but I owe you much.”
Patricia had turned very white indeed. He took her wineglass from her hand and put it on the table away from her. “You must not drink so much,” he said. “I am afraid the blow to your head was more severe than we had at first thought. You should not have attended the ball.”
“No, my lord,” said Patricia in a flat voice. “But I had hopes… hopes, my lord, that…”
He rose hurriedly to his feet. “You must forgive me, Miss Cottingham. I have neglected my ward for too long.”
Patricia sat very still, watching him go. Then she reached for the decanter and poured herself another glass of wine.
Yvonne was beginning to think the viscount had forgotten their dance, but as soon as the waltz was announced, he appeared at her side.
“Can you waltz?” he asked. “Perhaps it was considered too fast a dance in staid Portugal.”
“Oh, I learned the steps,” said Yvonne airily. “In secret.”
He placed his hand at her waist, marveling at the feeling of longing and desire that simple touch brought. Yvonne had been feeling tired and depressed. The diamonds weighed heavily on her small head, and the weight of the necklace dragged at her neck.
But at his touch she forgot all her fatigue and discomfort and floated off in his arms.
This must be love, thought Yvonne. This wanting to dance forever, this feeling of having come home.
They did not speak, although each longed to say words of love. Yvonne was kept silent by a fear the viscount might take her in dislike or be alarmed if he began to guess how deeply she had fallen in love with him. The viscount was still worried that young Yvonne viewed him only as some sort of uncle figure—fun to tease, fun to flirt with, but nothing more.
All too quickly the waltz spun to an end and Yvonne’s next partner was waiting to claim her.
All her fatigue returned. Would the ball never end? Yvonne danced on and on, comforted a little by noticing the viscount no longer chose to dance but circulated among the older guests who were content to sit and watch.
There was no sign of Patricia.
And then as a red dawn streaked the sky, the guests began to take their leave. One by one the carriages began to roll out through the tall iron gates. One by one the guests who were too drunk to walk were carried out. Many of the local people set out for Trewent village on foot.
The feeling of menace that Yvonne had felt in the hall earlier returned, and she was glad the castle was full of guests.
She said good night to the viscount, longing to ask for another kiss, hoping he would escort her to her room, but he only smiled down at her and told her he would wait to supervise the servants who were clearing away the tables and chairs from the marquees.
But he had said he did not believe she took the diamonds, and he had said they must get to know each other better. If only he had not pulled away so roughly from her kiss.
She went into her bedroom and walked across and pulled back the curtains and opened the window. Yawning, she raised her hands to the heavy tiara and removed it from her head.
“I am so tired,” she said aloud.
“Then you are going to feel even more tired by the time I have finished with you, Yvonne de la Falaise,” said a mocking voice behind her.
Yvonne swung round.
In the hectic red light of dawn flooding the room, Yvonne saw Patricia Cottingham sitting in a chair.
In her hand she held Yvonne’s pistol.
And it was pointed straight at Yvonne’s heart.
CHAPTER TEN
“Sit down,” said Patricia. “We are going to wait here quietly until I am sure I can get you from this room unobserved. Take off the jewels, and leave them on the toilet table.”
“I was right,” said Yvonne. “It was you all along.”
“Do as you are told,” snapped Patricia.
Yvonne placed the diamonds on the toilet table and then sat down on the edge of her bed. She felt sick and cold. Patricia must be mad.
As if replying to that unspoken thought, Patricia said, “No, I am not mad. You may stay alive if you behave yourself. I want you out of the way for a little, that is all.”
“Why?”
Patricia looked at her with contempt but did not reply.
Pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Yvonne’s mind. The boat below the castle, the old man at the Kennel who thought he had seen a ghost, the new hard, implacable look on Patricia’s face.
“You,” said Yvonne, “are not Patricia Cottingham. You are Ellen Tremayne, Black Jack’s granddaughter.”
“Too clever, too late,” the governess said, sneering.
“And the fire and the kidnapping—you arranged those?” She nodded.
“And how do I address you now, my good governess? As Ellen Tremayne?”
“I am Patricia Cottingham. I changed my name legally.”
“You have accomplices,” said Yvonne. “I should have thought of that. The door to my bedchamber was locked the night of the fire. Someone disturbed the servants by shouting ‘fire’ from the other end of the corridor, and when they were gone, he or she unlocked the door to my room. It could not have been you, for at that moment you were demonstrating to Lord Anselm how brave you were in rescuing his ward.”
Again, Patricia nodded.
“But who were those brigands in the boat? Local people? Your people from the Kennel?”
“No,” said Patricia. “All they are fit for is scavenging on the beach. Did you not recognize your own race? They were French.”
“French! But I did not understand what they were saying.”
“They are Bretons.”
I must keep her talking, thought Yvonne. “What have you to do with the French—you, who claim they are an excitable and untrustworthy race?”
Patricia looked amused. “I may as well satisfy your curiosity.” She glanced at a watch pinned to her bosom. “We have time.” She had changed out of her ball gown into a serviceable cotton gown with a high neck and long, tight sleeves.
“I am indeed Ellen Tremayne. I was brought up in the Kennel. My mother was believed to have been drowned searching for a chest of gold in a wrecked merchantman. But she did not drown. She found it and brought it home. I was hiding behind the door when she showed it to my father. He said the money should be used to turn me into a lady, to get me away from the Kennel. My mother jeered at him and said the gold had to be shared among their accomplices. He struck her a heavy blow—too heavy. She was killed outright. So he carried her out into the bay and threw her body into the sea.
“I was six years old at the time. We escaped to France after the funeral. The hostilities with England had not yet recommenced, and we were able to go about freely. He settled in Brittany and put me into a convent. At the age of sixteen, he took me out and forced me to marry an elderly French gentleman, a bourgeois. His name does not matter. He did not live long.”
She gave a mirthless laugh, and Yvonne wondered whether her husband had been allowed to die a natural death.
“I asked my father for my share of the gold. He had lost it over the years, gambling in every filthy hovel and den. My husband had left all of his money to his relatives. So I was a lady, an educated lady, but as poor as I had been in the Kennel.
“My father died of an apoplexy not long after the death of my husband. I took another husband to save myself from starvation. People who did not know my background considered
I had married beneath me. He was a fisherman, and I soon found out he was smuggling spies, information, and wine over to England.
“I convinced him I could be a great help to them were I allowed to reside on the English side. That way I could warn them of the movements of the excisemen. I quickly found out about the old dungeons below Trewent Castle. Wine, goods, people, and papers could be stored there. We could come and go at night. I found them an island, several miles off this coast, that they could use as a base.
