“You’re looking cross again,” observed Charlot. “Here, you may hold Bacchus if you wish! If this stranger of yours wasn’t foxed, he must have been a rattle-brain. It’s not likely he would know you, when Aunt Adder never let you meet anyone.”
“He wasn’t a rattle-brain.” How quickly she leapt to take up the cudgels in the lunatic’s defense! Vashti’s cheeks flamed. “How can I explain? He wasn’t so much thick-skulled as he was wrongheaded; he did believe he knew me. He said I was an unconscionable little liar, and that between us there was no need for formality.”
Vashti having overlooked his generous offer of companionship, Charlot cuddled Bacchus himself. Wisely he observed: “Sounds to me like he was talking about someone else.”
“Someone else?” Vashti might have thought of this explanation, had not the stranger’s ardor wreaked havoc with the orderly working of her brain. But who could look so much like her that such an error could be made? Some member of the family, doubtless; the Defontaines all shared the same features.
The answer was not long in presenting itself; only one other Defontaine, to Vashti’s knowledge, had escaped from France. Vashti’s hand flew to her mouth. “Gracious God! Valérie!”
“Valérie?” Charlot looked intrigued. “You think this lunatic of yours knew Valérie?”
“Not only the lunatic,” Vashti answered slowly as she tucked up her feet. “We must stop calling him that, because if what I suspect is true, it is more a matter of mistaken identity. His name is Stirling. Lord Stirling. Orphanstrange informs me that Stirling is a man of wealth and position, who for some reason seems determined to break our faro bank.”
Charlot was too young to be overly concerned with faro banks. “What did you mean by ‘not only the lunatic’? You told me that when Aunt Adder turned Valérie out, she came to London. That is when she would have met this Stirling fellow—but how does he know your name?”
Caught up in the outraged dismay of her conclusions, Vashti did not immediately respond. Her thoughts leapt about in a fashion that would have brought down no discredit upon Greensleeves the frog. There had been a startling similarity in appearance between Valérie Defontaine and herself—and none at all in character. Valérie had from the cradle indulged in behavior that merited the sternest reproof, had run counter to conventional behavior at the drop of a hat—had tossed her bonnet over the windmill so many times that even the most interested of spectators must have eventually lost count. “It would have been like her to use my name,” Vashti said slowly. “She would have thought it a good joke. Valérie must have encountered our cousin Marmaduke in London also; they would have rubbed on together famously, from all accounts. That's why he left me this house; he thought he was leaving it to her. What a wretched coil!” Vashti thrust her hands into her hair.
“Don’t fly into alt, sis!” Charlot reached out, grasped her arm, gave it a little shake. “Are you thinking you shouldn’t have Mountjoy House, since it was left to you by mistake? It seems to me it’s only fair you should have it, after the tricks Valérie played. Anyway, didn’t you tell me she’d gone back to France?”
“Yes, several years ago. Valérie never wanted to leave in the first place, but Papa made her go with us.” Recalling the rigors of that journey and Valérie’s constant complaints, Vashti’s tone was short. She recalled also the details of the accounts that had filtered back from France, the details of which she had not shared with Charlot. Valérie had no sooner returned to her homeland than she had taken up with one of Bonaparte’s generals, a very amiable individual who reportedly saw nothing untoward in his petite amie’s little larks, which included appearing at the opera en amazone in a robe which left her body uncovered from one breast to the opposite hip, and stripping naked in the midst of a dinner party to win a wager concerning the weight of her costume, and strolling bare-breasted in the Champs Elysees. As the family had long predicted, Valérie had come to a Bad End.
No wonder people were prone to look askance at Vashti! She shuddered to contemplate what peccadilloes Valérie had indulged in while making free with her name.
“At least we may clear Stirling of suspicions of lunacy,” she said aloud. “Valérie led him up the garden path.” Then she fell silent again, having realized what manner of relationship Valérie and Lord Stirling had most likely shared.
The realization put her oddly out of humor. No need for formality between them, indeed.
Privately, Charlot thought his sister made an inordinate amount of fuss over a simple mistake. “Did you find anything in the library, sis? I looked all over my room, and this one, and discovered nothing worth a bean.”
“Um?” Vashti had been teasing herself with the implications of Lord Stirling’s misunderstanding, as result of which her temper soared even as her knees grew weak. They also grew cramped, having been sat upon so long. She sighed and stretched out on the bed, thereby interrupting Calliope in the process of bathing Python. The cat hissed.
“Do hush, you wretched beast! No, Charlot, I found nothing to signify. But Stirling said something else that was very strange. At first I thought he referred to Marmaduke’s treasure, but now I am not certain— he mentioned a memorandum and practically in the same breath offered to buy me off. Yes, and he also said he wasn’t surprised my sympathies lay with the French—which, since he thought he was talking to Valérie, made perfect sense.”
“A memorandum.” In good imitation of his sister, Charlot nibbled his lower lip. “I don’t like the sound of that. It seems as if Cousin Marmaduke was meddling where he shouldn’t, and we know already that he was a bad lot.”
Gloomily, Vashti stared at the canopy. “I was afraid you’d say that. Orphanstrange told me also that Lord Stirling is a strong Whig, whose godpapa once shocked the House by arriving in top boots and a greatcoat with watchman’s capes—and that Stirling himself never set foot in this house before tonight. It is Orphanstrange’s opinion that there are queer goings-on afoot. How queer, he cannot know. Fortunately!”
Deep in concentration, Charlot stroked Bacchus. The rat was curled up on his shoulder, whiskers tickling his cheek. “If Stirling is looking for a memorandum, then a memorandum must be missing,” he said logically. “And if a memorandum is missing, it must have to do with France. I was listening to some people talk tonight—no one saw me, so you needn’t poker up! They said that Bonaparte has annexed Elba and much of Napoleon’s Italy, even though we’re supposed to be at peace; and that he has repeatedly seized English vessels driven by bad weather onto the French coasts. Now he’s quarreling with the British ambassador. There’s talk of the militia being ordered out.” Vashti didn’t immediately respond, and he prodded her with his foot. “I said we’re likely to hear any day that England is again at war with France!”
“Hmm?” The hour was very late and the day had been very arduous, and Vashti experienced considerable difficulty in concentrating. Truth be told, Vashti could not wholly condemn Valérie for her long-ago indiscretion concerning Lord Stirling—or “Santander the rogue,” as he had styled himself. There was something about those blue eyes that strongly tempted a lady to misbehave herself along those lines. Not that Vashti would ever so disgrace herself, was not even altogether clear in her mind what such misbehavior meant.
Charlot prodded her again. “Marmaduke’s treasure can’t be the memorandum,” she protested. “And if it is, it can’t be anything to do with France, because Papa told me about it before we ever left. I can’t imagine anyone would be concerned with a memorandum gone missing so long.” Irritably, she pushed away Calliope, who was trying to atone for earlier ill temper by kneading her hair. “I hope you’re wrong about the militia, Charlot. If hostilities resumed, we might never find Papa.”
“Bother Papa!” Charlot’s unfilial attitude is partially explained by the fact that he remembered his parent not at all. Too, the hour grew steadily later, and his sister more obtuse. “Didn’t you hear me just tell you that it is very likely our Cousin Marmaduke was a spy?”
>
“A spy!” Abruptly Vashti sat up, tumbling various members of Charlot’s menagerie every which way. “Surely not!”
“From what Aunt Adder said, he would be! Anyway, what else would he be doing with a missing memorandum?” Charlot gathered up his pets. “The crux of the matter is, for which side?”
“Which—” Vashti stared at her brother, horrified. “You don’t think he could have been acting for the French?” She recalled the émigrés who flocked to her gaming rooms, and Lord Stirling’s comments about her own supposed sympathies. “If this business should come out—”
“It mustn’t, sis! I shouldn’t wonder if people would think we were involved in it. We might even lose the house. French spies wouldn’t be permitted to own English property, I’d think. And Aunt Adder would never speak to us again, not that we want her to, but it’s nice to know she’s there, just in case!” He shook his head. “We’re going to have to find the memorandum ourselves.”
Thoughts of searching through the vast recesses of Mountjoy House for a single piece of paper caused Vashti’s head to ache. Morosely she glanced out through the gauzy draperies at the bedchamber. The lacquered cabinet, the bureau bookcase, the carved mantel—in this very room there were countless potential hiding places, probably some that, search as they might, they would never find. “Even if we do discover it, then what?” she asked. “What will we do with the accursed thing?”
Charlot’s voice was impatient. “What do you think we’ll do with it, sis? Restore it to its rightful owner, of course!”
Fond as Vashti was of her brother, he could at times try her civility too high; and it was hardly seemly of a young man to insult the intelligence of a lady more than twice his age. She had parted her lips to deliver this opinion when her attention was distracted by a now-familiar rustling in the walls. She paused, staring at the carved fireplace, from which the noise seemed to emanate, half expecting a repetition of the ghostly laughter she had once heard in this room. “And how do we determine who the rightful owner is, pray?”
Aware that he had come close to a rare trimming, Charlot did not express the impatience that he felt. “You’ll have to find that out from Lord Stirling,” he said.
“Stirling!” By the prospect of further confrontation with that abominably provoking gentleman, Vashti was not a little bit alarmed. “I’m supposed to walk up to the man and ask on whose behalf he’s looking for the memorandum, I conjecture? You’ve taken leave of your senses, Charlot!”
In Charlot’s unstated opinion, he was the only member of his family currently in possession of that faculty. “Of course not! But he’ll tell you, all the same.”
Bewildered, Vashti stared at her young brother. “He will?”
“I’ll lay odds on it.” Charlot made room for Mohammed, who had padded across the room to join the others on the bed. “It isn’t Stirling’s fault if he barked up the wrong tree! He thinks he knows you, right? He said you shouldn’t stand on ceremony.”
Vashti had a suspicion where her brother’s conversation was leading. “Oh no! You don’t mean that I should pretend—”
Charlot shrugged. “I don’t see why you should cavil at pretending that you’re Valérie—or she’s you. You know what I mean! You must try and persuade Stirling to tell you why he wants the memorandum.”
Vashti didn’t hesitate long in making her decision, despite her alarm. What alternative had she, if they weren’t to take the chance of losing everything they possessed—not to mention the greater peril to the country where they had sheltered during the upheavals in France? The memorandum must be restored to its proper owner, and history allowed to take its course. Vashti would do her duty, even though in so doing she would place herself in dangerous proximity to a blue-eyed rogue.
CHAPTER NINE
At last the hour had advanced so far as to see the last gambler depart. Orphanstrange watched those ripe young bloods weave their unsteady way out into the street, voices upraised in undulcet song. The gamblers’ voices, that is. Orphanstrange’s own superior tones were put to more productive use, chivvying maidservants and footmen and waiters to speed their tidying-up, exchanging opinions with the ex-pugilist about the conduct of the guests, quizzing dealers and croupiers concerning the evening’s success.
As he exhorted and cajoled, the valet was himself very busy in what appeared an onslaught upon the furnishings, or perhaps the onset of some debilitative disease that caused its victim to assume inexplicable postures and in general hop and crawl about. Orphanstrange was aware he made himself ridiculous. Of more importance was his need to assure himself that no coins lay overlooked on floor or under chair.
Having satisfied himself about all these particulars, the valet withdrew and descended to the kitchen, from whence he emerged in a very furtive manner a short time later, carrying a flickering candle and a heavily laden tray. It was in no wise a part of his duties to function in so menial a capacity, of course. Mountjoy House had secrets that no newcomer should share. Fortunately, none of the newcomers whom Orphanstrange encountered dared inquire where the valet was bound, thusly laden, at so ungodly an hour. Had any been so presumptuous—and had Orphanstrange deigned to reply—the explanation would have astonished them. Orphanstrange’s destination was the chapel of Mountjoy House.
Located in the tower, the chapel was Gothic at its best and worst, primarily the latter. From the stone floors rose pillars with Gothic capitals that supported miniature vaulting. A perforated oak screen stood at one end of the small chamber; pulpit and reading desk faced each other, the once-fine wood obscured by countless layers of grime. A richly carved canopy formed seats for the family. Beneath those stalls were pews for the servants. Spiders worshipped here most frequently now, judging from the profuse cobwebs. Tattered tapestries hung from the stone walls.
Gingerly, Orphanstrange set down his flickering candle on the pulpit and his tray on the reading desk; longingly, he glanced at the fireplace. He dared not light a fire, lest he attract the attention of the newly hired servants to this neglected room. He crossed to the chapel’s beautiful rose window, and looked out. As he did so there came a faint scraping noise from a far corner of the room. Morosely, the valet reflected upon the circumstances that had led him to his position in Mountjoy House. Few gentlemen would be so tolerant as the late Marmaduke of a valet who had an eye for a pretty housemaid. The late Marmaduke himself had possessed such a roaming eye, in fact, not to mention every other vicissitude of character known to humankind. He had understood perfectly how his valet might find other pursuits of higher priority than a well-attended wardrobe. Orphanstrange’s eye glazed as he mentally reviewed the new hires.
The scraping noise grew louder as the valet was thus engrossed, so loud that it finally shattered his preoccupation. Startled, he spun around. The flickering candle cast grotesque shadows upon the walls. To an imaginative beholder those shadows might seem uncannily lifelike, as if the chapel were thronged by dark shades of those who had once worshipped in this eerie chamber—or worse.
Orphanstrange swallowed hard, reminded himself he didn’t believe in ghosts. Then one of the shadows detached itself from the others and glided forward. Orphanstrange shrieked and dived under the carved canopy where once the family had sat for services. In so doing, he sharply banged his elbow.
Inexorably, the shade advanced, until it was caught by the candlelight. A very well-dressed spectre it was, in open robe with puffed-out bodice and triple waist ruffle and apron, a scarf draped around its shoulders, and a towering feathered hat atop its powdered head. Clutching his abused elbow, Orphanstrange crept out from among the cobwebs. “Blood and ‘ouns!” commented Delphine.
“Mon dieu!” scolded Minette from the doorway as Orphanstrange snatched the bottle of excellent Beauvais claret that he had brought up from the cellar on his tray. “Do you wish to bring the entire household down on us? I heard you cry out halfway up the stair!”
“All my eye!” Delphine uttered when Orphanstrange offered no reply. �
��Demned if I see why the pair of you must go about acting like jingle-brains. All I did was step out of the closet.”
Minette glanced around her. “What closet, eh?”
Delphine was not inclined to reveal one of her points of access to the passages that riddled Mountjoy House. “It ain’t my fault you never made a push to be conversant with your surroundings, gel! Anyway, does anyone inquire, you may tell them we have ghosts.” With a hearty appetite, she fell upon the cold collation spread out on Orphanstrange’s tray.
Minette wished that one of their number might be made a ghost, in fact. She moved closer to the candle, held out her hands to its slight warmth. “Ah, ça! There is no time to quibble. We must make our plans.”
“No time, is it?” Daintily, Delphine wiped her mouth on her ruffled sleeve. “Fizgig! You’d time enough to have a bit of frolic with that man-milliner.”
Had Delphine been amid the gargoyles perched upon the tall roof-pinnacles overlooking the garden? This irreverent speculation brought forth Minette’s mischievous grin. “I wasn’t frolicking. Edouard is a connection of mine.”
Delphine wrested away the claret from Orphanstrange and lifted the bottle to her lips. “Diddle-daddle! You were openly intriguing with the fellow.” She set aside the bottle and belched. “Adzooks, but I was sharp-set!”
Minette had spent the larger portion of the evening pondering the various unpleasant means by which Edouard might seek to take his revenge once he realized her determination to play him false. “I’ll thank you, Delphine, to be a little less busy about my affairs.”
“What’s that you say?” Delphine cupped a somewhat grimy hand behind one ear, and with the opposing elbow nudged Orphanstrange, causing him to choke on a swallow of claret. “Would someone care to tell me why the slyboots is squinting at me like a bag of nails?”
Already a little out of sorts, Minette was rendered no more merry by the chapel’s arctic temperatures, which caused her to shiver in her semitransparent gown. “At least I’m not a basket scrambler who lives on someone else’s charity! Tout de même, I will not get to dagger-drawing with you, Delphine. We must pool our resources. You have been skulking about all the evening. What did you learn?”
Lady in the Stray Page 7
