How had she come to this sorry pass? Vashti couldn’t quite recall. Mohammed had set up a dreadful clamor, and she’d gone to investigate—that much she could remember, but no more. Alas, Vashti had no clue as to what had next occurred. Certainly, she didn’t know how she had come to be lying on what felt to be a very comfortable couch. Perhaps it had all been a nightmare?
But no. No dream, however unpleasant, could account for her abominable headache. Reluctantly, Vashti decided she must make an effort to piece together her immediate past. Cautiously, she opened her eyes.
In fact, Vashti did lay upon a couch, in a small room she had never before seen. Lit dimly by a window set high in one wall, the chamber was crammed to overflowing with furniture—a small portable desk with inlaid checker ornament, plump chairs, a luxurious settee covered in Aubusson tapestry. On the desk sat a mahogany table clock enriched with brass mounts.
Painfully, Vashti raised her head, the better to see. Abruptly, she lowered it again. Her case was worse than she had suspected. Not only had Vashti an aching head, but also an affliction of the senses. She could have sworn she saw a figure sitting in one of the plump chairs.
It was impossible, of course. Perhaps she was dreaming. Vashti hadn’t thought her imagination so potent. She had conjured up a strange room and peopled it with a raddled elderly female in a turban-like headdress of pink and green and a yellow-striped redingote. Slowly, she opened her eyes. To her dismay, the room and the old woman were both still there.
“Alive, are you?” inquired the apparition, in tones that suggested she wasn’t best pleased by this development. “I don’t mind admitting you gave me a nasty start.”
The old woman was not alone in that affliction. Remembering ghostly shrieks and screams and noises, Vashti closed her eyes. Common sense was outraged by the suggestion that she engaged in conversation with a spectre—yet no other explanation sufficed.
“What happened?” she inquired faintly, eyes still firmly closed.
The apparition snorted: “Well you may ask! Though ‘tis no more than you deserve for taking the air in the middle of the night, adzooks! The blighter nabbed you a rum ‘un, my pretty—with his cane. Stab me if he ain’t a bad lot! You might thank me for saving your bacon. If not for me, it might have been all up with you.”
Curiosity won out over cowardice; Vashti peeked at the old woman again. “Forgive my presumption, but where am I? And who are you?”
“Hoity toity, ain’t we?” The apparition bridled, not attractively. “You’re in my room, you little twit. This used to be an oratory, if you care about such things. Now I shall have to find another room, which is a devilish nuisance, but I refuse to be plagued by people traipsing in and out.”
“I don’t understand.” As result of her efforts to concentrate, Vashti’s head swam. “You live here? Are we not in Mountjoy House?”
“Where else would we be, ninnyhammer? Mayhap the blow to your head has addled your brains.” The old woman dangled a dainty foot. “And you needn’t try and turn me out, because it won’t do you a particle of good. I’ve lived here forever and I mean to go on doing so.”
This was not, Vashti decided, an unreasonable attitude for a ghost. “I wouldn’t think of turning you out,” she said weakly. “In truth, I doubt I could.”
“Well, you’ve some sense, at any rate,” the apparition grudgingly allowed. “Though not enough to boast upon, from what I can see! Still, that popinjay wouldn’t likely have set upon you had I not already startled him half out of his wits, so you can’t be held entirely to blame. But you’ll think twice before you go roaming alone about this house, miss!”
Vashti could well imagine how her unknown assailant had been taken aback by encountering this bizarre creature in the dead of night. “Sticks in your craw?” the old woman inquired when Vashti made no reply.
“No—I mean, yes!” Vashti pressed her fingers to her throbbing brow. “That is, I’m not accustomed to talking with, er, such as yourself.”
“Such as I?” The apparition leaned forward in a very menacing manner. “A pox on you, chit! What did you mean by that?”
“No offense, I swear it!” Vashti shrank back. “I meant only that I’ve never before spoken with a ghost. Indeed, I’m not certain that I am speaking with you. This must be just a horrid dream. Not that I mean to infer you are horrid! Pray don’t take offense.”
Shrilly, the old woman cackled. “A ghost, am I? Plague on’t, ‘tis close enough. You ain’t dreaming, gel, much as we both might wish it. I’ll have to tell them you’re here, more’s the pity; you’ve set the household on its ear. It ain’t like in the old days. A person is hard-put to find some privacy.”
Vashti’s effort had exhausted her, and the pain grew ever more intense. The room swam around her, and the old woman’s voice faded in and out. There was something she must ask; what was it? Vashti tried very hard to think.
“Who was he?” she whispered. “The man who struck me? What was he doing in the hallway?”
“Blessed if I know!” The old woman’s voice now seemed very close. Vashti opened her eyes. Looming over her was a raddled face, its expression malevolent. Vashti’s shattered sensibilities could not withstand this further shock. She swooned.
Considerably later, she dared open her eyes again. No nightmare, then; she was still in the small overcrowded room—but now there was a cool cloth upon her head and a warm heavy weight upon her chest. Surreptitious investigation revealed that this latter was Calliope, curled up very comfortably and fast asleep. Vashti was not especially concerned with how the cat had found her, just then. Cautiously, she glanced at a certain plump chair.
Lord Stirling lounged there, in the old woman’s stead. Very fine his lordship looked, in his long-tailed blue coat and breeches of fashionable yellow and top boots. Any discriminating lady must admire his high-collared waistcoat and faultlessly tied cravat. A great deal less did Vashti admire his lordship’s expression, which was murderous.
Murderous? Was it he who had struck her down? Who better to roam Mountjoy House in the dark of night than Lord Stirling, in search of his curst memorandum?
He had not seen her watching him. Vashti closed her eyes. But she couldn’t sham a swoon forever, and Stirling gave every appearance of remaining at least that long in the plump chair. “I don’t suppose,” she said faintly, “that you saw an old woman sitting there.”
“You’re not to move until the sawbones has a chance to look you over.” Lord Stirling evidenced no relief that the object of his vigil showed renewed signs of life. “The French chit went to fetch him. Quite a household you run here, Mademoiselle Beaufils. Who is this old woman you spoke of?”
“I daresay I imagined her. That, or my ‘queer household’ includes a ghost.” Because Lord Stirling had told her not to move, Vashti strove to do the opposite. Calliope’s slumbering weight made the task no easier. She struggled up onto an elbow. To her horror, the room began to spin.
“Pea-goose!” His lordship abruptly quitted the plump chair, caught Vashti by the shoulders, forced her to lay back.
“Don’t come near me,” she gasped, a trifle after the fact. “I warn you, I shall call for help!”
“Who do you think would hear you?” To demonstrate his lack of intimidation, Lord Stirling retained firm grasp on Vashti’s shoulders despite the fact that his support was wholly unneeded, Vashti being unlikely to fall off the couch. “And help against what? What the devil are you talking about?”
Hard to think him a villain, with those piercing blue eyes and handsome countenance and golden hair—yet Vashti had been attacked, as her throbbing head attested. “You said you’d have your memorandum back by foul means or fair. I can conceive of little fouler than hitting me over the head!”
Lord Stirling picked up the cool cloth from the floor where it had fallen and plopped it unceremoniously back upon her brow. “Let me understand this. You claim to have been attacked?”
“Claim—” So indignant was Vashti made
by his inference that she gazed upon his lordship’s handsome countenance with a very hostile scowl. “How else would I have come to this sorry pass?”
A sorry pass, was it? Yves was not accustomed to hearing his ministrations referred to in such ungrateful terms. “You might have gone exploring in the middle of the night and discovered a secret room and knocked yourself unconscious trying to get out.” His frown was every bit as ferocious as her own.
“Knocked myself—oh! You attempt to cover up your own villainy. Well, you may bamboozle others with your taradiddles, but I serve you fair warning that I am not so easily deceived!” Could she be mistaken? He looked villainous enough—so villainous that Vashti wondered if she might knock him unconscious in turn with some handy object, perhaps the silver chamber pot.
Happily, Lord Stirling had no inkling of this ignominious plan. “You think I’m responsible for your idiocy? Yes, idiocy! I was not even in Mountjoy House last night.”
“Last night?” Vashti pushed aside the damp cloth, which in her agitation had slid forward to obscure her sight—and so thunderous was his lordship’s face that she wished she had not. “How long have I been in this room?”
“Damned if I know!” Tired of bending over, Yves sat down beside her on the couch. “I arrived to pay a morning call and discovered the household on its ear. No one knew where you’d gotten to until your coquettish little friend suddenly remembered this room, at which point I was pressed into service, no one else caring to run the risk of happening upon a corpse.”
“You came to see me?” Lord Stirling’s proximity wreaked havoc with Vashti’s already over-stimulated mind. “Why?”
“Why else?” His lordship looked very unapproachable. “I warned you I meant to renew my offer for Mountjoy House.”
Folly to wish he had wanted simply to enjoy her company. “And I told you that I have no intention of selling. We have reached point non plus. My head aches, sir, and I’m feeling altogether wretched. I go away and leave me in peace!”
A gentleman would have, however reluctantly, complied with this request. Yves Santander did not, remaining at heart very much a rogue. Instead of immediately departing the couch, he settled all the more comfortably, and subjected his companion to a leisurely scrutiny. Her honey-colored hair was wildly tousled, her peignoir and petticoat mussed and dust-smudged. Idly, he reached out and fingered the peignoir. Coarse cotton was not what he would have expected of Vashti Beaufils, nor the furious look she gave him, nor the delicate color that suffused her cheeks.
Vashti was in an agony of embarrassment. “I credit that you are used to visit ladies in their boudoirs,”»she said waspishly, “but I am not! I—”
“Shame, Vashti!” Lord Stirling was at his most blasé. “This is hardly the first time I have seen you en déshabillé.”
Thus was Vashti reminded of his lordship’s prior acquaintance with Valérie and her own speculations upon the nature of that relationship. Here was further proof that her wildest, most shocking imaginings had been no less than the truth. Vashti could think of nothing to say.
Though Yves did not share that affliction, speech was the furthest endeavor from his mind. Intent upon pursuing his own more immediate interests, he eyed the slumbering cat, reached out. Calliope was not to be so easily dislodged. Lord Stirling swore and withdrew his hand, adorned now by claw marks. Had not Vashti giggled, he might well have abandoned his intention to embrace her—but Vashti did giggle and Yves did embrace her, damp cloth, snarling cat, and all.
Some several minutes later he released her. “How can you take such chances?” he asked.
Did his lordship sound a little breathless? Doubtless Vashti imagined it, just as she had earlier imagined her conversation with a ghost. “I didn’t mean to,” she said meekly. “I only stepped out into the hallway because I heard Mohammed bark.” Then she thought of her brother. “Charlot! Is he all right?”
“Right as a trivet.” Reminded of his companion’s as-yet unsatisfactorily explained dependent, Lord Stirling’s tone was short. “I wish that you might trust me. You’re obviously protecting someone. You can’t want the memorandum for yourself.”
The memorandum? Vashti had briefly forgotten the wretched thing. “Thank you, sir; you are very good! You think me incapable of some villainy, at any rate!”
Clearly she did not intend to confide in him. Yves rose, curiously disappointed and equally incensed. “You still claim to be Vashti Beaufils? You may have deceived the others, but I’m not a pigeon so easily plucked. I have the advantage of prior acquaintance, after all. I’ll wager you didn’t allow for that when you made your plans. Oh, you couldn’t have anticipated my involvement in this business—but you should have anticipated encountering someone who knew Vashti.”
Vashti didn’t know quite what to say. “I—”
His smile was mirthless. “And so you would have anticipated, had you been acquainted with her at all. Vashti Beaufils was a very, er, congenial young woman. I’m not the only gentleman who knew her well enough then to recognize an impostor now.”
He was convinced she was an adventuress. Odd, how that realization stung. “Believe what you like, sir. I am who I claim.”
She was a damned good actress; sincerity could not be better played. Yves thought he would have liked to throttle her, were she not already in obvious pain. “You have very much the look of her,” he said coolly, “but your nature is not at all the same. Vashti Beaufils might well have decided to wander through dark halls in the middle of the night, for reasons we will not delve into just now; and she might well have decided to explore, had she come upon a hidden passage; but she would not have been so bird-witted as to accidentally shut herself in a hidden room and then knock herself senseless trying to get out!” He paused. She might yet explain.
Vashti was strongly tempted to do just that. Lord Stirling was a hard man, but perhaps not unfair. “I swear I haven’t lied to you,” she began.
Definitely she was convincing, dangerously so. “Moonshine!” Yves retorted roughly, and turned on his heel.
Left alone, Vashti hugged her indignant cat. How very quiet this little room was. Here were none of the scampering, scraping noises that permeated the rest of the house.
Would Stirling seek to convince others of his suspicions? Vashti thought not. Who would believe him, when even Marmaduke’s solicitor was satisfied? No, Stirling would attempt to unmask the impostor himself.
How would he go about it? Vashti had no idea. Nostalgically, she thought of Aunt Adder. However dreary Brighton may have been, it was free of these dreadful excursions and alarms. But had she remained in Brighton, Vashti would never have been kissed by Yves Santander, who found her so thoroughly despicable.
Unfortunately, Vashti did not find his lordship equally unlikeable. She retrieved the damp cloth, which had fallen onto Calliope’s head, and threw it on the floor.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The late Marmaduke Mountjoy’s solicitor was in his chambers, feet propped up on his desk, having a little snooze. Lionel’s reputation had not yet grown so awesome that clients gave him no moment’s peace. He still had an enviable amount of leisure. However, since a great many of those moments were spent worrying about the goings-on in Mountjoy House, he cannot be fairly said to have enjoyed himself.
Lionel worried, and he didn’t even know of the latest contretemps. At that very moment revelation sped toward him, in the person of Minette. It wasn’t the first time she had visited these chambers near the Temple and the Inns of Court: Marmaduke had dispatched her there often in his own behalf. Never before had Minette arrived in such haste, nonetheless. This day her footsteps were quickened by Mohammed, whose need for exercise had been her excuse for leaving Mountjoy House. Mohammed remembered the sundial located in the center of the square, set upon its neat fluted Corinthian column, the pedestal adorned by naked boys, and water spouting out of triton shells. He bounded forward to inspect the fountain. The resulting indignation, on the part of passersby, roused
Lionel from his fitful nap.
Guiltily, he looked around him, but the barristers with whom he shared the chambers were similarly engaged; then rose and walked to the opened window. It was difficult to secure a clear view of the square from this angle, but by craning his neck and straining his eyes Lionel made out a group of bewigged black-robed figures clustered round a female wearing a flower-wreathed bonnet. Aside from the top of her pretty bonnet, Lionel could see little of the rest of the woman—but all too clearly he espied an Afghan hound. Lionel knew that hound. Hastily, he repaired to the scene of all the fuss.
“Allez vous coucher!” Minette was saying as Lionel arrived; she followed it with various other pithy comments delivered in French. Then she espied Lionel. “Bonjour, M’sieur Heath. I must speak to you on a matter of the utmost urgency! Do tell these silly gentlemen they must go away.”
Lionel didn’t feel capable of dealing in so disrespectful a manner with his esteemed colleagues, and so he grasped Minette’s arm and Mohammed’s collar. Murmuring apologies, he drew them aside.
In response to this masterful treatment, Minette moved a little closer. “Mon dieu! We’ve had such excitement! Mademoiselle Beaufils disappeared last night. You look startled, M’sieur Heath. So were we all! Orphanstrange was rendered so indignant that he threatened to serve notice, in spite of— But you won’t wish to hear that!”
“Disappeared?” echoed Lionel, aghast. Where could they speak privately? He led his charges toward the chapel that lay behind the northeast side of the square.
“Disappeared,” Minette repeated firmly. “I swear it, mon cher. We were in such a whirl.” The solicitor was eyeing her with consternation. “Eh bien. You do not like it that I call you mon cher?”
She looked as though she was prepared to argue the subject. “Not at all!” Lionel said faintly. “That is, call me whatever you like.”
Minette dimpled. “Merci! I see no need for formalities between us. I know you are épris. Where was I? Ah! Mademoiselle Beaufils disappeared.” She snapped her gloved fingers. “Poof! In the middle of the night. Mohammed raised the alarm.”
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