That Yves did not voice these arguments was because of Calliope. The cat had spent several moments stalking the pretty tassels that dangled from his lordship’s calf-length Hessian boots. Hunting instincts all alerted, Calliope now pounced. Lord Stirling swore mightily and leapt backwards, overturning his own chair. Vashti hastened forward to detach the snarling, bristling feline from his lordship’s knee.
“I’m so sorry!” she gasped, seeking to restrain the irate cat and at the same time struggling to avoid succumbing to whoops.
Yves looked down at his white trousers, one knee adorned now with bloody claw pricks. He didn’t trust himself to comment. Calliope leapt out of Vashti’s arms and sat down on Lionel’s shoe to make an indignant toilette. Lest he find himself similarly attacked, the solicitor dared not move.
Came a commotion at the doorway. Charlot strolled into the dining room, accompanied by his menagerie. With a great canine groan, Mohammed collapsed upon the hearth. Bacchus scrambled up a table leg and set about feasting upon oatcake crumbs. “Hallo!” said Charlot cheerfully.
Lord Stirling’s emotions, upon witnessing this spectacle, are impossible to describe. Amber eyes, honey-colored curls, delicately classical features—save for the disparity in age and sex, and the snake coiled loosely around his neck, this boy was as like to Vashti as two peas in the same pod.
Good manners deserted him. “Who the devil is this?” Yves inquired.
Charlot cocked his head to one side, scrutinized the tall, angry-looking gentleman in green frock coat, tasseled Hessian boots, white trousers that were oddly red-flecked. “You must be Vashti’s madman,” he remarked. “You look like you’d show to good advantage, sir. I’m glad she said I needn’t mill you down.”
“Charlot!” Vashti touched her brother’s shoulder, wary of what he next might say. “My brother, Lord Stirling.”
His lordship’s blue eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t aware you had a brother,” he said.
“Why should you have been aware of it?” And why was he regarding her so suspiciously? One answer occurred to Vashti. “Oh!” she gasped.
An altercation at this point occurred, Greensleeves having hopped smack into the butter dish. Gingerly, Lionel retrieved the frog. Diplomatically, the solicitor suggested that Charlot might wish to bathe his pet. “And while we are at it, have you broken your fast? Alas, I have not! Might there be something for us in the kitchen, do you suppose?” Though Charlot would obviously have preferred to remain in the dining room, Lionel inexorably ushered him out.
Lord Stirling frowned at Vashti, demureness personified in her high-waisted cotton dress. Could Charlot be—surely she would have said something— Yves didn’t know what to think. Therefore, he grew all the more irritable. “What in blazes have you been about?”
Whatever Stirling and Valérie had been to each other, he regarded her with no lingering affection, Vashti thought. Prudently, she withdrew behind a chair. “Are you referring to the memorandum? I’ve already told you I know nothing of that,” she responded, her voice faint.
“The devil with the memorandum.” Lord Stirling flung the chair out of his pathway. “There are other matters which concern me more just now, mademoiselle.” He grasped Vashti’s shoulders. Bereft of speech, she could only stare.
How fearfully she regarded him. Her slender body trembled beneath his hands. Surely even the most accomplished actress could not perform so well. Yves succumbed to temptation, bent his golden head, drew her close into his arms. It was an exquisitely satisfying undertaking—but Yves hadn’t hitherto been aware that even the amatory arts grew rusty with disuse.
He released her, stepped back. Her wide amber eyes flew searchingly to his face. More than ever, Yves was convinced that this Vashti Beaufils was not the Vashti he had known.
Yet if not, who was she? Yves thought he must find out. “Let us cry friends!” he said, and smiled. “On the matter of the dratted memorandum, we will declare a truce. As for the other, I mean to renew our old acquaintance—and to continue my efforts to persuade you to sell me Mountjoy House. You must resign yourself to seeing a great deal of me.” He lifted her ungloved hand and pressed it to his lips. Her fingers quivered in his grasp.
With a queer reluctance, he released her, took a polite leave. If an actress, she was a consummate one. Not since his salad days had a simple kiss—and she had returned his embrace, however inexpertly— left Yves Santander tingling all the way down into his toes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Minette could not recall when she last enjoyed a good night’s rest. Even now, with the gaming rooms left temporarily in Orphanstrange’s capable hands, she dared not relax her guard. Edouard’s search must be confined to those areas where others had already been.
At the moment, he was perched atop the library steps, amusing himself with an illustrated edition of Tom Jones. Minette closed the volume she had been leafing through in a desultory manner. “Voyons!” she sighed, placing the book back on its shelf. “We will never find your memorandum in this manner, I think. It would help immensely, Edouard, if you had some notion where it was hid.”
He marked his place with his finger, cast her a brief disinterested glance. “You are looking somewhat hagged, ma cocotte. Such effort you have been expending—in my behalf.”
The only effort Minette would willingly expend upon her kinsman would entail shoving over the library steps in the hope that he might break his neck. Lest she succumb to the violence of her feelings, she moved to the library table supported by intertwined dolphins. “You would look somewhat hagged yourself, had you as little sleep as I. If this memorandum doesn’t soon come to light—” She shrugged. “Are you certain it’s here, Edouard?”
He returned Tom Jones to the bookshelf, raised his quizzing glass to contemplate the remaining volumes. “There’s no place else it could be, by my reckoning.” The quizzing glass swung toward Minette. “Let us understand each other! You think you may turn the missing memorandum to your good advantage. I should be very sorry if you were so foolish as to try.”
Minette suspected she would be even sorrier than her kinsman, if he learned her plans. She wrinkled her pretty little nose. “Me, I’m not one to bet against a dark horse.”
“You relieve me, petite.” Gracefully, Edouard descended the library steps. “I shouldn’t like to resort to harsh measures—but make no mistake, I will resort to them, do you give me cause. No matter how it goes against the grain.”
It meant so much to him as that? Minette’s gaze was curious. “Reassure yourself, Edouard. I will make no faux pas. Just what do you intend to do with this so-important memorandum—if it’s ever found?”
He did not reply directly, but with quizzing glass upraised sauntered around the room. No detail was too minute to receive Edouard’s attention, not even the chimneypiece inspired by tombs, or the sofa and chairs. Any other man would have looked ludicrous bent over to closely scrutinize the apple-green damask. Edouard, as always, looked perfectly correct, his evening attire enlivened by a fifteen-guinea embroidered waistcoat, bamboo walking stick and quizzing glass.
Abruptly, he straightened, turned toward Minette— who, if not perfectly correct, looked absolutely luscious in an evening dress of light voile over flesh-colored tights, damped to cling even more closely to her opulent little person, belted under the breasts. “Fireworks begin in Paris now, each night at ten,” Edouard said. “The Théâtre Français has been reopened as the Odeon. Every morning the First Consul is provided with bulletins by his police, who are everywhere. He is presented with a digest of everything of importance in the newspapers, with analyses of books and pamphlets and plays. Hotel and innkeepers supply daily lists of everyone beneath their roofs. No detail escapes Bonaparte. For details such as are set out in this memorandum—” He spread his hands. “The reward would not be inconsiderable, ma petite.”
“The rewards for you, hein?” Edouard would be angry if he knew the library had already been searched, and to no avail. Naturally Minette wou
ld not divulge that information. She moved from the library table to a window seat. “You mean to use this memorandum as your ticket back to France. With it, you will curry favor. Life in Paris is expensive, eh? You will wish to hire a spacious hotel and decorate it in style. You’ll rig yourself out in the highest kick of fashion, and visit the Opera and the play, and wangle an invitation to one of Madame Bonaparte’s Sunday receptions at St. Cloud. But what of me? I lose my sleep—and grow hagged!—for what? You’ve told me only what will happen do I fail to obey your instructions. I would hear more of this shared reward, enfin!”
“Chérie, you are incurably frivolous.” Looking melancholy, Edouard approached the window seat. “The breadth of my plans would amaze even you. Do you not comprehend Bonaparte’s genius? He has ended the Revolution, has restored the Church and recalled the exiles. Bonaparte will not retire in favor of the Duke of Angouleme. France needs its little Corsican more than ever now—but you do not attend. Eh bien! Attend to this, Minette: I do not forget those who aid my efforts.” He rested the head of his walking stick against her cheek. “Especially I do not forget you, ma cocotte.”
Which was all of a piece with her current wretched luck, Minette mused: for Edouard to reappear just when Minette was on the verge of securing herself a fortune confirmed her long suspicion that fate was unjust. However, Minette had contrived to outwit more devious adversaries than fate. Edouard vowed to remember her? She sought to appear gratified.
Apparently she succeeded; warmth kindled in his cool eye. He took her hand. “Titles are in use again, petite—monsieur and madame, your highness and my lord. I don’t despair of achieving one. How will you like having a noble kinsman, Minette? I shall give a dance in my spacious hotel, all decorated in the highest style. When the guests weary of dancing, a supper will be served. At the close of supper, the doors will be flung open into the gardens, lit by colored lamps. The trees will bear crystallized fruits, the fountains iced liqueurs. We shall be très magnifique.”
Minette liked not at all his assumption that she would attend these revels. “Mon dieu! It all sounds very grand.”
Edouard turned over her hand, traced an aimless pattern on her palm. “The shades most worn in Paris now are fumée de Londres, Terre d’Egypte, Nègre. I will purchase for you a shawl embroidered in gold and silver acorns, and a sable muff. Perhaps you would like one of the new short coats of many colors that are all the rage? And with it you must have a gown of Cambrai muslin and a large straw hat trimmed with poppies and cornflowers and marguerites. You see how largely you figure in my plans.”
Perhaps, were Minette to pretend to believe him, she might discover more about those plans. “Merci! We are all the family left to each other, n’est-çe pas? It is only right that we stand together, eh? We will find this memorandum and return together to France, where the first consul will take you to his breast.” She essayed a guileless expression. “Allez! And then what?”
“Ah.” His grip tightened on her hand. “Have I not been telling you that very thing? Then I will be in a position to offer you a highly flattering alliance, cherie.”
“A—oh!” Minette hoped her face did not betray the revulsion that she felt. She would much rather set up as a high-class gentleman’s companion than hobnob in any manner with her kinsman. “You take me by surprise.”
He had meant to, of course, had for that very reason made her the object of his calculated gallantry. Were Minette convinced his affections were fixed on her, she would make even greater efforts in his behalf—or so Edouard would think. That Minette might not be flattered by his hints would not occur to Edouard. He would not imagine that his kinswoman might be so deficient in good taste.
Nor did she so inform him, but sat with gaze demurely downcast. Edouard leaned forward, caught her chin, forced her to look at him. “We were parted a long time, mignonne—due to that meddlesome Mountjoy. Else you would have known before that I have taken quite a fancy to you. You do not speak. I understand it! You are overwhelmed.”
“Oui.” It would please his vanity to think so. In truth, Minette would more willingly have endured her kinsman’s vicious anger than his caress. Edouard must not be allowed to realize that. Minette leaned slightly forward, lips parted, eyes wide and—she trusted—innocent.
He released her, moved away. “We have shared a charming tête-à-tête, but without the memorandum all else is an air dream. You begin to comprehend the urgence of our endeavor, ma chere.”
Minette comprehended that it was imperative she find the memorandum first. Whether or not she then gave it to her kinsman would depend on what information the paper contained. “Oui.”
“Then I may trust that you will not cry craven or, ah, peach on me.” The chill expression in Edouard’s eyes belied the indolence of his words.
“Que nenni!” Minette rose from the window seat, moved toward the door. “You may trust that I shall put forth my best efforts, Edouard. But I’ve been gone from the gaming rooms too long, and the others will begin to wonder what has become of me.” Coyly, she fluttered her long lashes. “To my sorrow, I must leave you to your hunting, mon chou.”
His attention was no longer on her. “Alors, hop!” he replied indifferently. Minette departed, convinced she had lulled her kinsman’s suspicions, at least temporarily.
Edouard had intended she should think just that. No sooner had the library door clicked softly shut behind Minette than he abandoned all pretense of interest in the bookshelves, let his quizzing glass drop, walked across the room. At the door he paused, listening, then stepped out into the hall. He was in time to see Minette vanish into the gaming room, from which issued the sounds of masculine revelry. Edouard did not follow, but set out in the opposite direction.
Minette had seemed very wishful of confining him to the library. Therefore, he would search elsewhere. Edouard didn’t trust his kinswoman so much as an inch. Nor did he intend to share the fruits of his endeavors, despite his honeyed words.
The upper hallway was lit by occasional tapers that cast dim pools of brightness amid the prevailing gloom. Here, no sounds of revelry penetrated the hushed and brooding atmosphere common to old houses in the middle of the night. Edouard surveyed the shadowy corridor. He had no fear of man or beast, but even the most intrepid of villains must hesitate at the prospect of so many closed rooms.
What was that? A flicker of movement at the far end of the corridor? Eyes narrowed, Edouard stepped into the shadows. It would go hard with all involved if he discovered an intruder other than himself. Again, that faint quick movement. He moved forward silently.
Did his eyes deceive him? Edouard blinked and frowned. Surely he hadn’t glimpsed an old woman in the garb of another time disappear into one of the closed rooms? For one brief startled moment Edouard wondered if among its other atrocities Mountjoy House numbered a resident ghost.
“Que diable!” he muttered, as he sidled toward the door in question; Edouard had scant belief in the supernatural. But if no incorporeal spectre, who prowled the deserted corridors—and why? He leaned forward to press his ear against the door. No sound issued from within. Curiously, Edouard bent to apply his eye to the keyhole.
At that moment, the door swung open. Edouard stared up at a raddled apparition in a turban-like headdress of pink and green, and a yellow-striped redingote. “Blood and ‘ouns!” swore the apparition, and gave him a hard shove. Edward tumbled over backwards, with a great clattering of his cane. From behind another door came a volley of sharp barks.
Cursing, Edouard struggled erect, as the apparition darted behind a large tapestry. No ghost was so corporeal, he thought as he briefly inspected himself for damaged limbs. And no time, just then, to ponder the possible identity of the old woman. In response to the accursed dog’s barking, another, younger woman had emerged sleepily into the hallway. Before she could turn and see him, Edouard felled her with his cane.
What now to do? He could hardly leave the woman where she lay, lest Minette immediately guess who was
responsible for this outrage. Swiftly, Edouard picked up his victim. Doubtless this was Mountjoy’s heiress, and comely enough, from what he could see. Edouard wondered how seriously he had injured her. She was still breathing, at any rate, though she wouldn’t recover her senses for some time.
Still, the blasted dog barked. He must find someplace to hide. The other rooms might also be inhabited, and Edouard dared not disturb anyone else. He moved toward the tapestry behind which the old woman had vanished. It was a singularly ugly specimen of the art, hung on iron rods that protruded from the wall. Hardly the hiding place Edouard would have chosen, it would have to suffice. Even now people came to investigate the uproar. He heard Minette’s voice.
Unaccustomed as he was to fear, Edouard experienced a moment’s distinct unease. Were he discovered in so compromising a position as this, Minette would expose him. Edouard cherished no delusions regarding his kinswoman’s sentiments about himself. Minette wouldn’t waver a single instant, had she the opportunity to place him safely behind bars.
That opportunity must be denied her. In a futile effort to make himself smaller and less visible, Edouard pressed back against the wall. His shoulder encountered an protuberance. Suddenly, the wall swung open. Still clasping the unconscious Vashti, Edouard staggered back into darkness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Slowly, Vashti returned to consciousness. Once she had achieved that feat, she wished she had not, because of the horrid aching in her head. Thought was an agonizing effort, let alone movement; opening her eyes required more resolution than she possessed.
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