“Capital!” Charlot further disrupted his menagerie to give his sister a quick hug. “But I don’t think you should trust that Minette. Mr. Heath will look after the business for us if you ask him, surely—why should he not? He looked after it for Cousin Marmaduke.”
“Not too felicitously,” Vashti responded drily. “Cousin Marmaduke was fairly deep in debt.”
Lest his sister rescind her decision, Charlot adjudged it time to withdraw. “It’s not Mr. Heath’s fault if Cousin Marmaduke was a loose fish!” he observed as he gathered up his various pets, including Greensleeves from atop the lacquered cabinet, and trotted toward the door. “You won’t be sorry, Vashti, I promise! When I find Marmaduke’s treasure, you may set yourself up in the very latest mode!”
Alone at last—save for Calliope, who had usurped her pillow—Vashti drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees, staring at the cold hearth. It was a posture in which most ladies would have appeared ludicrous. Vashti, instead, was infinitely provocative, though she did not realize how compelling were her looks, having been granted scant opportunity to indulge the sin of vanity during the past ten years.
As was her habit when perplexed, Vashti nibbled on her lower lip. There was scant relief for her in the decision so reluctantly made. Did Charlot not patently enjoy the notion of living in London, were he not convinced a treasure was hidden somewhere in this old house— Vashti could not bear to cause her brother’s spirits to plummet as low as her own. Little enough harm would be done by indulging him, she thought. And she herself would benefit from a brief retreat from Aunt Adder’s bitter tongue.
But after that respite, then what? They couldn’t live indefinitely in a gaming hell, even were the establishment profitably run. As for Marmaduke’s treasure, of which Charlot had such high hopes, Vashti wasn’t even certain that such a thing had ever existed. If it had, what could it have been? From what she’d heard of Marmaduke, he’d have hoarded nothing that could be readily exchanged for wealth.
Vashti firmly removed the indignant Calliope from her pillow and lay back. As she had anticipated, slumber proved elusive. Vashti clasped her hands behind her head, once more went over the events of the day. What preconceptions had people of Marmaduke’s heiress? What expectations had she failed to meet—and why? Mr. Heath’s reservations she could understand; Vashti had her own reservations about residing in Mountjoy House. But Mr. Heath had remarked upon her appearance, and Minette had also said that Vashti was a surprise.
Surprise? Minette herself was that. Vashti glanced at Calliope, who had settled down, muttering, atop her feet. “Minette is a baggage!” she remarked aloud.
Came a burst of ghostly laughter, hard upon her words, so abrupt and brief Vashti might have thought she imagined it, save that Calliope’s fur stood straight on end. Motionless, frozen, they waited, but the eerie sound was not repeated. Looking baleful, Calliope subsided once more onto Vashti’s feet.
What precisely had they heard? Vashti suspected she’d rather not know. If ever there was a place ripe for haunting, it was Mountjoy House. Vashti pulled the covers up over her head.
CHAPTER SIX
In an amazingly short time, the massive doors of Mountjoy House were thrown open to the public once again, by means which the house’s owner didn’t care to guess. Wine flowed copiously in the public rooms, where reckless gamblers clustered around the faro table and the E.O. stand. No game of chance had been overlooked. For those not addicted to faro and E.O., there were hazard and whist, piquet and macao, a form of vingt-et-un. To tend to the visitors, and the house itself, an appropriate number of servants had been hired.
On one of those servants, Lord Stirling was currently venting his spleen. Because he would rather have been a great many other places, it was in no good temper that Yves had arrived at Mountjoy House. Nor had his ill humor been alleviated by exposure to the more fanciful aspects of the house’s interior, not even the entrance hall and vestibule, with simple graceful vaulting, nor the carved staircase where the late Marmaduke had taken his final tumble. Indeed, so annoyed was Lord Stirling with the footman who guided him so inexorably toward the gaming rooms that he was tempted to dispatch the servant to a similar fate.
“Devil take it, I do not wish to play!” he snapped, at the top of the stair. “I guarantee Mademoiselle Beaufils will see me, do you but present her my card.”
The footman had his orders, queer as they might seem. “I will apprise Mr. Orphanstrange of your request, milord,” he responded with a wooden countenance and a stiff little bow. His impassivity thawed somewhat as Lord Stirling reached into a pocket and withdrew a coin. The coin changed hands. “Now that I think on it, I believe I saw Mademoiselle Beaufils go into the library, milord. The last door on your left, there along the hall.”
His temper no bit soothed by this exchange, Lord Stirling strode down the hallway, paused before the library door, grasped the knob. Silently he entered, curious as to what he’d find.
The room was large and dark, its central point a chimney piece apparently inspired by tombs, in front of which snoozed an Afghan hound. Atop the chiffonier snoozed a multicolored cat, sprawled on its back, with all four furry legs extended straight into the air. Rows of books lined the walls, some bound in velvet, some fastened with tarnished metal clasps. Piles of books were stacked upon the library table. And an inordinate number of volumes were strewn about the floor.
Of these details, Yves briefly took note. The focus of his attention was the slight figure perched all unsuspecting atop the library steps. Her back was turned to him. As Yves watched, she removed another book from the shelf, shook it briskly, let it fall.
So much for any fleeting hope that she might know nothing of missing memorandums and spies! Lord Stirling strode forward. “Hello, Vashti—or should I call you Mademoiselle Beaufils?” He was barely in time to prevent her tumbling off the library steps, so quickly did she spin around. “You are not happy to see me. Little zany, what the devil have you been about?”
Complex indeed were the myriad emotions Vashti felt at being plucked off the library steps and clasped to a gentleman’s chest. A very handsome gentleman he was, moreover, with his golden curls and blazing blue eyes. “I was, er, dusting the bookshelves! They have been shockingly neglected, as you can see.” The gentleman appeared far less interested in the library shelves than her own face. Futilely, Vashti struggled to free herself. “Sir, I think there is some mistake!”
“If so, it is yours.” Critically, Lord Stirling surveyed his captive, who fit so snugly in his arms. “Don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes. You’re to be felicitated on keeping your looks, my dear.” Belatedly recalling the purpose of his visit, he set her on her feet.
No sooner did the madman—who else but a madman would treat a stranger with such casual familiarity?—release her than Vashti took refuge behind a chair. “You are looking for the gaming rooms, I conjecture. They are back along the hallway. You will find them in a twinkling, sir, do you go back the way you came.”
“A good try, but you may not so easily send me about my business.” Skirting the hearth upon which the hound slumbered, Lord Stirling availed himself of a window seat. “We have a great deal to discuss, you and I—such as the object of your diligent search.”
This madman thought he knew her? Vashti almost wished it were true. He was by far the most attractive gentleman she had ever set eyes upon, his athletic figure set off to good advantage by black breeches and silk stockings, long-tailed dark blue evening coat and white waistcoat and faultlessly pleated cravat.
A pity so very personable a specimen must be deranged, which he clearly was. Despite the restricted life she had led in Brighton, Vashti was not so naive as to believe sane gentlemen went about plucking ladies off library steps and embracing them without so much as a by-your-leave.
“You disappoint me,” Yves remarked. She had changed more than he initially thought—not in appearance, she still looked remarkably young; but in a more subtle alteration
of attitude. The Vashti Beaufils he had known would never have stood staring at him in so shocked and defenseless a manner, nor have cowered behind a chair. Nor would she have ever worn a gown remarkable only for its lack of anything to distinguish it, not even a single tuck around the hem.
For that matter, she would neither have eschewed the noisy gaming rooms for a peek into the library, no matter how great the potential gain. “I begin to think I have erred,” he said slowly. “Or perhaps that is what you would have me think.”
Since the gentleman didn’t apparently intend to offer her further violence, Vashti dared step out from behind the chair. “I’ve changed since when?” she asked. “Forgive me, sir, but I think you must be all about in your head!”
Perhaps he was, mused Yves, else he would not be drawn to this unfashionably clad female with her tousled curls and dust-smudged face. The attraction annoyed as much as it surprised. Yves had learned in his salad days the unwisdom of allowing a woman the upper hand. Especially this woman! Either she’d become a damned good actress, or she had no memory of him. Yves was startled to discover that her forgetfulness stung his pride.
Why was the gentleman looking at her in so forbidding a manner? Vashti edged toward the fireplace. “Perhaps you have merely taken a drop too much to drink,” she offered. “I understand it can lead a person to take very queer turns, though I never indulged myself.”
Lord Stirling decided it was impossible for a lady to entirely forget a gentleman with whom she had shared a grand passion, however long ago and brief. Therefore, Mademoiselle Beaufils was prevaricating mightily. In truth, she should have gone upon the boards. Did he not know better, Yves would swear she was a delightful innocent.
But he did know better. Sternly, Yves reminded himself that the character of Mademoiselle Beaufils was not half so lovely as her face. “I haven’t overindulged in the grape, I promise you, although I perfectly understand how it is you might wish I had. You may put down that poker, Vashti. My thirst for violence is temporarily slaked. Come, let us cry friends. Sit down and talk to me.” She hesitated, and he looked rueful. “I promise to offer you no further abuse.”
Far more experienced ladies had failed to withstand that rueful look. Vashti sat down, as requested, but in the farthest chair. Despite his annoyance, Yves found himself amused, so excellently did she portray the country mouse.
Shyly, she glanced at him. “How is it that you know my name, sir?”
How deftly she pricked his pride! Yves refused to play her game. “I am Santander, ma’am!” he responded, so harshly that Calliope rolled over and hissed, and Mohammed opened one faintly curious eye. “If it offends you that I call you by your Christian name—”
“Not a bit!” Vashti said hastily, determined to humor her uninvited guest. She wondered if he might be both inebriated and lunatic. “You may call me anything you wish. And I shall call you Santander, shall I? Was there something in particular you wished to speak to me about, Mr. Santander?”
“Just plain Santander will do nicely, although I think I would prefer to hear you call me Yves.” Lord Stirling’s blue eyes were alert for a reaction but, save for a deepening of confusion, saw none. “Yes, I would prefer it! I think I must insist.”
“Very well, Yves.” Vashti blushed at her temerity in thus addressing a gentleman she had scarcely met. Yet what choice had she? Did she not humor this queer gentleman, he was apt to turn violent. “What did you wish to speak to me about, Yves?”
Lord Stirling arose from the window seat, walked to the library table and inspected the volumes piled thereupon, to the extreme displeasure of the multicolored cat. Foxe’s Book of Martyrs; Lily’s Euphues and His England; Sir Walter Raleigh’s The Discovery of the Large, Rich and Beautiful Empire of Gwana, with a Relation of the Great, Golden City of Manoa (which the spanyards call El Dorado) and the Province of Emeria, Arromaia, Amapaia, and other Countries with Rivers Adjoining, the title of which was considerably longer than the book. He picked up and leafed through Painter’s The Palace of Pleasure. “A veritable treasure trove,” he said aloud in reference to the volume, a collection of wonderful fables and tales.
Treasure! Vashti was very disappointed to discover that this gentleman of fashion and rank—and undeniable good looks—was motivated by emotion so ignoble as avarice. She had liked him better when she had simply thought he’d shot the cat.
Cat? Vashti rose from her chair and swept the hissing Calliope up into her arms and out of harm’s way. “Well, you shan’t have any treasure!” she snapped. “This house and all that’s in it is mine!”
Lord Stirling was briefly disconcerted to find himself confronted by four extremely hostile eyes, two amber-colored and two feline. Then his own blue orbs took on a dangerous glitter. “Yours, is it? No matter what’s at stake? I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me to discover that your sympathies lie with France!”
Not surprisingly, because she had no knowledge of spies and missing memorandums, Vashti was nonplussed. “I suppose also that you still may be bought off,” Yves continued, misinterpreting her frown. “Name your price!”
“My—?” Had she just been insulted? Vashti assumed all the dignity of which she was capable, considering she had her arms full of angry cat. “I am sorry to disoblige you, sir, but I haven’t the most distant guess what you are talking about!”
Almost Lord Stirling believed her, so sincere was her tone—but his vast experience with the opposite sex had led him to conclude that a damsel’s seeming sincerity almost always masked some deviousness. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Yves,” he corrected. “We have already agreed that between us there need be no need for formality.”
So bewildered was Vashti that she was not certain what she had agreed to at this point. “I think, sir—Yves!—that you may be laboring under a certain confusion of ideas.”
“And I think that you are an unconscionable little liar, Vashti!” Lord Stirling’s temper, never his greatest asset, was again growing short. Uncertain himself whether he meant to caress or throttle Vashti, he wrestled the snarling cat out of her arms and dropped it to the floor. Hissing, Calliope streaked across the room and joined the Afghan on the hearth. A fine guard dog Mohammed was, thought Vashti as the madman grasped her arms. Here was a stranger fit to murder her, and Mohammed lolled panting to the hearth. Or perhaps the stranger was bent on ravishment instead, so gentle was his touch. More than a little breathless, Vashti waited to find out.
Happily—or not—her fate was not just then to be sealed. Though Mohammed and Calliope had proven poor chaperones, a third member of Charlot’s menagerie was made of more intrepid stuff. Greensleeves had observed the entire proceedings from within the shadows cast by Wyken de Worde’s Boke of Kervynge. Now, with a mighty croak, he leapt straight at Yves.
“What the—!” No little bit discomposed to find himself nose to nose with a frog, Lord Stirling released Vashti. “The deuce!”
Quickly Vashti removed Greensleeves from her accoster’s shoulder, lest the madman think to retaliate, and gently saluted the frog’s green brow before gently setting it down amid the library books. This simple act further discomfited his lordship. The Vashti Beaufils he had known would have been more likely to tie her garter in public than to kiss a frog; and he doubted anyone could change so much as all that. But if not Vashti Beaufils, who was this female with so much the look of her? He frowned. “You have been telling a great many clankers, miss!”
First this rude gentleman assaulted her, and now he offered her further insult. A lady of less meek temperament might have hurled several priceless volumes at his insolent head. “I’m not in the habit of telling untruths!” Vashti replied stiffly.
“No?” Lord Stirling looked amused. “I hope you don’t mean to try to convince me that you were dusting the shelves. First of all, that is a housemaid’s duty. Secondly, one does not clean a library by scattering the books every which way.”
Horribly embarrassed, Vashti bit her lower lip. “I wish you would leave!�
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“That much, I have no doubt is truthful!” Carelessly, Yves flicked a finger against her hot cheek. “I will do so immediately we have concluded our business. You’ve said you have a price. You need only name it and I will depart.”
Frowning, Vashti sought to make sense of these comments. Could this madman seek to purchase Marmaduke’s treasure? If so, he must know what the treasure consisted of. Vashti must humor him. “I cannot name a price yet. I haven’t decided what it will be!”
“So!” By this intimation that Mademoiselle Beaufils meant to auction off the memorandum, Yves was driven into a mighty rage. Once more he seized her shoulders, and this time shook her so roughly that she cried out. Her terrified expression, her struggle to escape him, affected Yves even more strongly. He bent and kissed her trembling lips, cursing himself for this consummate folly even as he committed it.
Folly it may have been, but it was extraordinarily sweet. When at length he released her, Vashti backed away from him, her fingers pressed to her bruised lips, her expression stunned. “How ably you play the innocent, Mademoiselle Beaufils!” Yves said, roughly, because he had been no less affected than she. “Almost, you convince even me. But I’m not a pigeon for your plucking, and I mean to have that memorandum, by fair means or foul. Think on that, Vashti!” Angrily he strode out of the room and slammed the door.
“Memorandum?” whispered Vashti. The man was mad. She should be thankful she had escaped with her life, instead of secretly longing for him to kiss her again. Or maybe it was she who had taken leave of her senses! Dazed, Vashti sank down upon a chair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vashti was not the only one who would be confused by mention of missing memorandums this night, although Minette as yet had no inkling of this unhappy fact. With no hint of impending catastrophe to dampen her sunny mood, Minette gazed about the gaming rooms, a series of small parlors which had been set up expressly for the convenience of gentlemen wishing to drink hard and plunge deep. Not only gentlemen flocked to Mountjoy House this night. Several women were present, in addition to the cool young female Minette had hired to preside over the faro bank.
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