‘I do not know, sir. I have not remarked your behaviour particularly.’
‘Alas, all my good motives gone for nothing! You are heartless, Miss North.’
‘Not I,’ retorted Jane with a reluctant laugh.
‘When you laugh like that with that beautiful mouth of yours, I feel like kissing you.’
‘Monsieur le Comte!’
‘Why not? Do you not think of me even a little, Miss Jane North? Do you never wonder what it would be like to feel my lips against your own?’
‘If you are determined to continue in this strain; then I suggest you take me home.’
‘Home being?’
‘Why, Harriet’s – the duchess. Where else?’
‘I mean your home. You never said where it was.’
‘Durbyshire.’
‘Exactly where?’
The parasol tilted to hide her face. ‘Oh, look,’ said Jane, ‘there is Mrs Barber.’ The comte bowed in Mrs Barber’s direction and Jane nodded. Mrs Barber, who barely knew either of them and whom Jane had only recognized as one of Mrs Haggard’s friends who had been pointed out to her at a party, looked gratified.
Now they were among the throng of Fashionables and so were too busy nodding and bowing to make conversation. Jane began to relax. They would make the round a couple of times and then the comte would take her home and she could settle down again to contemplate the idea of marriage to Mr Farley. He was on the point of proposing, of that she was sure. All she had to do on the road home was to parry the comte’s questions. Nothing out of the way would happen.
Harriet had been enjoying her husband’s letter. He was on his way home and would shortly be in Paris. Paris! Her eyes glowed. He said that by the time his letter reached her, he might even be at the coast, finding a ship to Dover. The servants would meet him at Dover and he planned to drive to London as fast as possible. She relished every affectionate phrase. There was still pain over the loss of her child, but now sheer gladness as well that the estrangement between herself and her husband was over. And then she got to the end of the letter.
‘I did not tell you of an intriguing adventure on the road to Milan,’ the duke had written.
I was at an inn and overheard conspirators plotting the release of Napoleon. This, my dear, is nothing out of the common way, as many who gained power and influence under that monster’s reign of terror wish their positions back. But one of them was English, I will swear, and they were planning to kill a certain Comte de Mornay who has, it appears, been instrumental in foiling other plots. A friend in Milan before I left told me that Mornay was in London. I wrote to Horse Guards telling them to warn him. And now, my beloved wife . . .
Harriet put down the letter. Jane was driving with the comte and someone was trying to kill the comte and that put Jane in danger. She called for her maid and changed into a carriage dress and sent a footman with an urgent note to the Poor Relation calling for help, never for a moment in her distress thinking that it would have been more sensible to call out the Runners than to send to such elderly people as the colonel, Sir Philip, and Lady Fortescue for help. Then, with her coachman driving, she set out for the Park herself.
The hoteliers felt they could not wait to order a carriage from the livery stables, and with Sir Philip, exhausted and shaky after his adventure of the night before, complaining loudly that this is what came of being too mean to own a carriage of their own, they hailed a smelly hack and howled to the driver to take them to the Park.
But when they got to the Park, they were stopped by a ranger who was not going to let a battered hack anywhere near the fashionable throng and so they had to get out and walk, with Sir Philip stumbling after them over the grass, clutching his side and moaning he was not long for this world.
The comte, unaware of all these people rushing to his rescue, reached the end of the second round and regretfully decided he must obey the dictates of fashion and take Jane home.
And then a shot rang out, a loud report, and he felt the wind of a ball as it whined past his face. His horses reared and plunged in fright and then took off across the grass, with Jane screaming and clinging to the rail. To Jane the Park passed her in a blur of frightened staring faces from carriages and trees and bushes. Shouting and swearing in French, the comte eventually controlled his maddened horses, hanging on to the reins, letting out a slow breath of relief when they finally slowed. He had left his tiger behind that day, so first he jumped down and ran to their heads, patting and soothing them, until the quietened horses began to crop the grass.
Then he returned to Jane. He lifted her gently in his arms down from the carriage and set her on the grass. He looked solemnly down into her white face and said gently, ‘We are safe now.’
‘That was a shot,’ cried Jane. ‘Someone was trying to kill us!’
‘Me, I think. How white you are. You need colour. Even your beautiful lips are white.’ He bent his head and kissed her on the mouth, and Jane, too overset, as she told herself later, to push him away, clung to his shoulders and let his mouth caress hers in a long, lingering kiss.
The comte at last freed her mouth and smiled down at her dreamily. ‘Would that an assassination attempt happen to me every day so that I might claim such a reward.’ He turned his head and looked across the Park. ‘Good heavens, here comes your patroness, looking like thunder, and with those hoteliers.’
Harriet had taken up the hoteliers who, unlike Harriet, had not stopped to change into appropriate dress. Miss Tonks was wearing a morning gown and lace cap, the colonel certainly was as correct as usual, as was Lady Fortescue, but Sir Philip was in his dressing gown and nightcap and Mr Davy in his shirt-sleeves.
‘We are safe,’ said the comte, hoping Harriet had not witnessed that kiss.
‘What happened?’ demanded Harriet. ‘People were shouting about a shot.’
‘Someone shot at me,’ said the comte pleasantly, as if, thought Jane, someone trying to kill you were an everyday occurrence. ‘Why are you all here?’
‘The Park rangers are coming,’ said Harriet. ‘I received a letter from my husband in which he said he had overheard a plot in an inn near Milan to kill you. I will take Jane home with me and perhaps when you have dealt with affairs here you may join us, Monsieur le Comte, and tell us about it. Jane, come with me.’
Jane, overset with conflicting emotions, felt that she should tell Harriet about that kiss, but at the same time she hoped Harriet had not seen anything, or she would forbid Jane to see the comte again. Not that it was important that she see the comte again, for she was surely going to marry the bad-tempered Mr Farley, was she not? Jane felt quite dizzy with all these thoughts. She was squeezed into Harriet’s carriage beside the hoteliers.
As she was driven out of the Park, she saw Mr Farley standing up in his carriage and staring at her. Oh, heavens, he would call to see how she was. But if she was even considering marrying the man, she should not be, oh, dear, dismayed at the thought of his breaking into what, now the shock was receding, seemed like an exciting adventure.
She replied to the others’ eager questions. All she knew, said Jane, was that there had been the sound of a shot which had narrowly missed the comte; his horses had bolted, but fortunately neither of them had come to any harm.
And then Harriet said, ‘It would be as well, dear Jane, to keep clear of this comte in future if he is going to be the target for some assassin.’
‘That seems too hard,’ protested Jane. ‘He needs our help, surely.’
‘We will see what he has to say,’ said Harriet. ‘I think we could all do with a refreshing dish of tea.’
‘Brandy, more like,’ muttered Sir Philip. He was feeling old and tired and he knew he must set out for the duke’s country home on the following day to return the real necklace to its case.
They had been seated a few minutes in Harriet’s pleasant drawing room when Clarence Farley was announced. It was a day of surprises. Jane said hurriedly, ‘I am too overset to see him. Pray
say we are not at home.’
And so Clarence, looking every bit as angry as the comte had claimed he was, stomped off. But he waited outside in his carriage and had the doubtful pleasure of seeing the Comte de Mornay arrive and be admitted. He waited all the same, expecting the comte to reappear shortly, having been given the same message as himself, but as the minutes dragged on he realized to his increased fury that the comte was a welcome guest where he himself was not.
The news of the attempt on the comte’s life spread through the West End like lightning. Frances and her mother received the news very quickly, for Mrs Barber had just been about to leave the Park when the assassination attempt happened. She had driven straight to her friend, Mrs Haggard, to tell her the news.
‘Poor Jane!’ exclaimed Frances. ‘Mama, I must have the carriage. I must call.’
‘But Mrs Barber is just arrived.’
‘I do not need you to come, Mama,’ said Frances, already halfway out of the room, and without waiting to hear any protest from her mother she shouted down the stairs to the butler to have the carriage brought round and then called up the stairs to her maid to make ready to accompany her.
As she tripped out onto the pavement, she stopped in surprise. Jamie was standing there. He saw her and a rather sheepish smile crossed his face. Frances thought quickly. The other callers had left an hour ago. Either he had already visited Lady Dunwilde and returned, or he had been there all along.
He bowed low and said, ‘It is late to go driving.’
‘I am on my way to see Jane,’ said Frances. ‘Someone tried to kill your friend, the Comte de Mornay.’
‘Good heavens! May I come with you?’
‘I should be glad of your escort,’ said Frances, wishing her maid were not with her, not to mention the coachman in front and the footman on the backstrap. She wanted to ask him about Lady Dunwilde, but could hardly ask him outright in front of the servants.
‘What happened?’ he demanded as the carriage moved off. She told him the little she knew and then said in a low voice, ‘And how was your friend? Your female friend?’
‘I am afraid I do not know,’ he said. ‘The air was so pleasant outside your house that I felt rooted to the pavement and could not move.’
Her eyes were shining under the little brim of her saucy hat. ‘You did not go?’
‘No, Miss Frances, I did not.’
‘Why?’
‘Later,’ he said. He did not quite know himself. Only that as he stood outside her house, he had felt that as long as he stood there he was safe from taking an action which might leave him feeling nothing but shame. He felt he had managed to hang on to his immortal soul, and then almost laughed out loud at that dramatic thought.
When they were both ushered into Harriet’s drawing room, they stared in surprise at the hoteliers. Sir Philip, in his dressing gown and nightcap, was curled up in an armchair by the fireplace, fast asleep.
They listened to the comte’s account of his adventure. ‘But why should anyone want to kill you?’ asked Frances.
‘I may as well tell you now that I am retired, so to speak, from business,’ said the comte. ‘I proved myself useful to the British government as a spy. In the earlier years, before I knew my City ventures would become profitable, it gave me adventure and provided me with an adequate income.’
‘So you are not just a dilettante! You are a brave man!’ said Frances ingenuously. ‘But what danger you are in! How can you protect yourself ?’
‘Things are not so black. I have a surprise for you. Just before you arrived, the authorities called here, for I told the Park rangers where I could be found. The culprit was seen.
‘Who is he? Some ruffian?’ asked Harriet.
‘No, it was young Freemantle.’
Jamie gasped. ‘Not Jerry Freemantle?’
‘The same.’
‘But he is of good family!’
‘Let us think about Mr Freemantle,’ said the comte. ‘Deep in debt and duns at the door, as everyone knows. Cut off by his family. Wild, heedless, and usually drunk. Suppose someone approached him with an offer of money to shoot me? It would look like a very easy way of making money. I do not think for a moment that young Freemantle is a supporter of Napoleon. I think what is interesting is who paid him to try to kill me. The militia have gone to try to find him, and weakling that he is, I have no doubt he will talk, and then, dear Duchess, we will find the name of this Englishman your husband overheard. An Englishman who speaks fluent French is a rarity.’
‘But we in society speak French the whole time,’ exclaimed Jamie, who prided himself on his knowledge of that language.
‘At the risk of hurting your feelings, mon ami, society appears, during the long wars with the French, to have developed a French language of its own which bears little resemblance to the original. I heard a young lady say the other day, “Donnez-moi ça dos,” by which she meant, “Give me that back.”’
‘And what was up with that?’ asked Jamie, puzzled.
The comte raised his eyes to heaven. Harriet’s butler interrupted by saying that there were ‘some persons’ below who wished to speak to the comte.
‘I shall return soon,’ said the comte, ‘and hopefully with the news that young Freemantle has been found and has revealed the name of the arch-conspirator.’
They waited anxiously while he went belowstairs. ‘I do hope it will soon be over,’ said Harriet, finally breaking the silence. She looked up as her butler came back into the room. ‘A message from Mr Farley, my lady,’ he said, handing her a note folded in the shape of a cocked hat. She read it carefully and then looked at Jane with a little wry smile on her lips. ‘Mr Farley is to call on me tomorrow afternoon to discuss a matter of some importance. You are, if I am not mistaken, to receive your first proposal, Jane.’
‘A most suitable choice, if I may say so,’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘Quiet, stable, and worthy.’
‘Eh, what?’ demanded Sir Philip, who had woken up.
‘I was commenting on the glad news that it appears Mr Clarence Farley is to apply for her hand in marriage of our Jane.’
‘What’s glad about it?’ grumbled Sir Philip.
‘He is surely a most suitable catch,’ said Miss Tonks.
‘Don’t like him.’ Sir Philip blinked sleepily about him. ‘When we were catering at the ball, a little maid dropped a glass. It did not even break, but Farley snarled at her, reduced her to tears and then told her to leave his mother’s employ.’
‘Perhaps we are all forgetting that the decision to marry Mr Farley or not is Jane’s,’ said Mr Davy.
All eyes turned on Jane. She pleated the fringe of her shawl nervously between her fingers. ‘I do not know Mr Farley very well,’ she said at last.
‘Then I would counsel you to ask for time rather than throw away a good prospect out of hand,’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘Yes, I think that would be best. Plead for a little time to get to know each other better. He cannot take offence at that.’
All eyes turned to the door as the comte re-entered, his face grim. ‘Young Freemantle hanged himself before they could get to him. This is a bad business.’
‘Had he left no clues? No papers?’ asked Jamie.
‘Whatever he had, he had burned.’
‘Then he must have had some loyalty to Napoleon after all,’ exclaimed Jamie. ‘Else why should he try to protect his fellow conspirators?’
The comte shrugged. ‘Who knows? Perhaps he wanted only to protect other poor dupes like himself.’
‘I do not want to appear too hard, Monsieur le Comte,’ said Harriet. ‘But as your life is in danger, it follows that anyone in your company is also putting their life in jeopardy. I must therefore suggest that Miss North should avoid your company for the present.’
‘As you wish,’ said the comte with seeming indifference. Jane found she was bitterly hurt. After that kiss, he should have at least shown some regret. He was a heartless flirt. She found herself becoming extremely angry indeed.
She would see Mr Farley tomorrow, and although she would not accept his proposal, she would follow Lady Fortescue’s advice and not turn him down flat.
EIGHT
Talk’st thou to me of ‘ifs’? Thou art a traitor: Off with his head!
SHAKESPEARE
Jane could see no sign of the angry man that the comte had warned her about as Clarence Farley, seriously and intensely, got down on one knee and asked her to marry him.
‘Please rise, Mr Farley,’ she said, ‘and sit by me.’ Many of her doubts about him had receded. He looked so solid and dependable, a rock in a shifting world.
‘I am very flattered by your proposal. You do me great honour. I have decided to be honest with you. Firstly, I would like a little time to get to know you better. Secondly, I am not Miss Jane North.’
His eyes were sharp. ‘Who are you?’ he asked bluntly.
‘I am Lady Jane Fremney, daughter of the Earl of Durbyshire’
‘But this is bewildering! Why the secrecy?’
In a low voice, Jane told him about how and why she had run away from home. She did not tell him of her attempted suicide, something of which she was now bitterly ashamed. ‘I must make it plain to you, sir,’ she said earnestly, ‘that even if we decide we do suit, then my father might not let me marry you and I will not have freedom to do so until my twenty-first birthday. I may have no dowry.’
His mind worked rapidly. His desire for her was waning fast. Because of the duchess’s patronage, because of Jane’s expensive clothes, he had expected a handsome dowry. He was all at once relieved that she had not accepted his proposal. On the other hand, he had a desire to spite the comte. It would also amuse him, he reflected, to send an express to the Earl of Durbyshire, telling him what his daughter was up to. In fact, he would do it as soon as he got home. Meanwhile he would pretend to want her despite her lack of dowry, and after hearing her story he was perfectly sure her father would not give her any.
He put his hand on his heart. ‘Money means nothing to me. You are all I want. Pray say you will take tea with myself and my mother tomorrow. To get better acquainted, you should know my mother better.’ And that would also keep his mother off his back, he thought sourly. She was always plaguing him to marry.
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