The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

  Verwood gestured, with a hand Amelia could barely see, that they were to slow to a walk again. This indication that they were getting close to the scene of action did not encourage her. She could feel a bolt of lightning fear shoot up her spine, which caused her to tremble all over. They followed the trail along the marshy land a little farther before dismounting and tying the horses to the stunted bushes along the way.

  Her voice trembled as she asked, “What do we do now?”

  Verwood came forward to lay his hand on her shoulder. “We wait,” he said. “There isn’t much cover here, so we can’t get too close to the shore without being seen. When there’s activity down by the water, we’ll close in on them.”

  “Do you and Peter have p-pistols?”

  “Of course.” He patted the deep pocket in his dark coat. “Primed and ready..”

  “You wouldn’t actually kill anyone, would you?”

  “Only if necessary,” he assured her.

  Amelia was not comforted. Her hands were icy and shaking; she wished he’d take hold of one of them. But he had moved away to consult with Peter in hushed tones she was not able to overhear. She felt wretchedly isolated on the black marshlands, unable to see clearly as far as the water’s edge, and therefore fearful of what might be happening without her knowledge. The men had ceased talking and for some time the only sound was the lapping of the water.

  By the time she could make out some sort of movement on the beach, she was almost paralyzed by the wish to be in her own bed. Not that she wanted Verwood and her brother to be out here alone; she wished the comfort of their beds for them, too. Let someone else find out if Chartier was a spy. But she was impressed with the sheer confidence radiated by the viscount and the earl; they stood at their ease watching what for them must have been much more distinct activity down by the water.

  “Now,” the viscount said, drawing his pistol from his pocket and grabbing hold of Amelia’s hand. Peter instantly produced a pistol too, and took her other hand. Wonderful, she thought. If they shoot at anyone, and are shot back at, I shall be the easiest target of the three of us, right in the middle. But she assured herself she would prefer to be the one to receive some fatal injury, rather than either of them, her brother and the man she loved.

  They were walking at a pace it was difficult for her to keep up with. Her feet seemed to stumble continually on the uneven ground. By now she could see the scene before them with more clarity... but even less fortitude. There seemed to be an awful lot of people there, far outnumbering the three of them. A small boat was being launched into the waves. Amelia was surprised that no one had as yet noticed their approach. Didn’t they keep some sort of lookout?

  Yes, they did. Suddenly there was a bellow that reached her with astonishing clarity. “Ho, revenuers!” The cry was taken up by what seemed a chorus of thousands, like a refrain sung at Covent Garden. Verwood and Peter never hesitated in their progress, dragging her along between them. There was a flurry of movement by the men on the beach as they scattered here and there. A shot rang out.

  “Oh, my God,” Amelia moaned.

  “Are you hit?” Verwood demanded.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  Another explosion roared, and this time Amelia could see the flash from a pistol in a man’s hand. For the briefest moment she thought she would faint, but she gathered her faltering courage about her and hurried on, since the two men still had not paused. She considered this foolhardy of them, but hadn’t the breath left in her fright to tell them so.

  “We’re not revenuers!” Peter called. “We’ve come for the Frenchman.”

  There was more activity, another shot was fired, and the cry went up, “There he goes!”

  Amelia could see a lone figure racing up the beach, ducking and weaving in an erratic pattern. Beside her Verwood spoke to Peter. “You stay here with the smugglers. They won’t bother you now they know you aren’t after them. I’ll take Amelia with me, after Chartier. It’s only fair she be in on the capture.”

  She wanted very much to tell him she wouldn’t mind not being there, but it seemed a cowardly thing to do and she didn’t want him to think she was a coward. Besides, she didn’t want to be separated from him. He kept hold of her hand as they ran after the diminishing figure. Amelia had never run so fast in her life, but the pantaloons helped. There was a freedom her skirts had never given her. And it was encouraging, if also nerve-racking, that they were gaining on the dark figure.

  Her heart stood still when the man turned slightly and fired a pistol over his shoulder. Verwood reacted by firing the pistol in his hand, its report so loud she nearly cried out. The dark figure fell and she blinked in horrified astonishment. “Oh, you shouldn’t! You shouldn’t!” she wailed. “What if you’ve killed him?” She was panting as they raced up to the downed man, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. “He may not have been a French spy at all. Oh, what are we going to do?”

  “Well, he shot at us,” Verwood pointed out as she bent over the crumpled figure. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. How do you tell?” Poor Amelia already sounded frantic, but when she had crouched down and gotten a look at the fellow’s face, she thought she would die. “Oh, my God, Alexander, it’s not Chartier.”

  “How’s that?” The viscount bent over the recumbent form and gave a tsk of annoyance. “So it’s not. Well, these things happen.”

  Amelia stared at him, incredulous. Could a human being possibly be that callous? And then she saw that his shoulders were shaking, and she thought perhaps he had only spoken so offhandedly to make it seem that he wasn’t upset. She was about to rise and comfort him when he gave one of his shouts of laughter, just as he had after they visited Mrs. Carson. Amelia had the most awful feeling she had been caught in a nightmare.

  The crumpled figure stretched out his arms and legs and rose to his feet. It was Terwick; Amelia should have recognized him immediately, but she’d been too overwrought, thinking it was Chartier. She allowed herself to slip from her crouched position to a sitting one on the ground, unable for a moment to take in exactly what had happened.

  “Great sport,” Terwick was saying. “Hope I didn’t shoot too soon, milord, but I was right there in the spirit of the thing, you see. I thought about reloading, but you and Lady Amelia were gaining on me so fast I figured it would be better to just fall down then. She’s a fleet one, for sure.”

  “Yes, she’s going to lead me quite a chase,” the viscount said ruefully, reaching a hand down to help Amelia to her feet. As Terwick moved off toward the group that waited by the water, Verwood asked, “So how did you like your adventure, my love? Was it as exciting as you’d hoped?”

  Amelia was furious with him. She brushed away his hand and leaped to her feet, but her knees were a little weak yet and she swayed. Verwood’s arm came around her waist, pressing her against him. “Now, don’t be angry. It was your own stubbornness forced us to do it, Amy.”

  “Where’s Chartier?” she demanded. But she didn’t try to move from his sturdy comfort.

  “Should be back at Margrave with Upham by now.”

  “And all this was for my benefit?” She waved an unsteady hand that encompassed the beach area.

  “Yes, but don’t feel guilty about putting everyone to so much trouble. They’ll be paid for the night’s work, and besides, I think they all quite enjoyed it. I know I did. There’s a lot of thespian talent lying around unused, you know.”

  “What did you tell them you were doing it for?”

  “We didn’t give any explanations. These people are used to the eccentricities of the aristocracy.”

  They had begun walking along after Terwick, but Verwood halted and cocked his head at her. “Do you think I could have a kiss? Something to show your gratitude for all my effort?”

  “You’re lucky you don’t get a kick in the shin,” she muttered.

  Chapter 21

  Peter insisted that she change into a dress before she joined the
m in the drawing room. “After all, Chartier is going to be my brother-in-law, and I won’t have him seeing you in a pair of pantaloons, Amelia, even if he is a spy.”

  “But you’ll start talking to him before I get back,” she protested. “If I wear my cloak, he’ll hardly notice.”

  “He’ll notice,” Verwood said, grinning at her. “If you hurry, we’ll wait here for you before we go in.”

  This offer didn’t seem to sit very well with Peter, who was anxious to get the matter settled, so Amelia dashed up the stairs before he could disagree. Getting out of the shirt and pantaloons wasn’t all that difficult, but getting into a dress (heaven knew what one was expected to wear at two o’clock in the morning) took a great deal longer. She fretted over every stupid button and paid not the least heed to her hair, which had become hideously tangled on the ride. Instead she pulled a night cap over it, which made her look adorably young and innocent.

  They were still there when she scurried down the stone stairs, and she smiled her thanks as she followed them into the drawing room, where Chartier and Upham sat drinking brandy as though it were the most normal occurrence in the world, this gathering in the middle of the night. On coming closer, however, Amelia could see the nervous strain in the Frenchman’s face, and she felt almost sorry for him. Not as sorry as when she thought he’d been killed, but mildly sympathetic.

  He wore rough, dark clothes, peasant’s clothes, and he wouldn’t meet Amelia’s eyes when she gazed at him. The sleeve was torn off one arm, which was bandaged from wrist to shoulder. “Were you hurt?” she asked, alarmed.

  Michael Upham answered. “No, it’s to keep from being conscripted when he gets there. Any healthy-looking fellow his age daren’t wander about the countryside in France.”

  Peter took a chair directly opposite Chartier, and Verwood seated Amelia beside him on a sofa, where his arm stretched behind her along the back. Her brother studied the Frenchman for a moment and then began the proceedings. “The reason we detained you from your trip, M. Chartier, is that the circumstances seemed suspicious to... some of us. There is the suggestion that you may be going to your native country in some effort to serve it. That is, a few of the people in this room believe you may be a spy.”

  Put so bluntly, it sounded ludicrous somehow. Chartier regarded the earl with astonishment, which appeared entirely unfeigned to Amelia. For a moment he forgot what he was wearing and attempted to straighten a nonexistent neckcloth. Before he managed to speak, Peter added, “Or a smuggler. No offense intended,” he said in an aside to Upham.

  “None taken, I’m sure,” the smuggler replied easily.

  Verwood, whose hand had dropped behind Amelia’s head where it couldn’t be seen toying with the tangled curls there, suggested, “Perhaps you would just tell us what your business was in France.”

  For a moment the only sound was the crackling of the fire, necessary in the middle of the night for such a gathering, despite the daily warm weather. Chartier appeared undecided and shifted restlessly in his seat. When he spoke, it was to say, “First, I can assure you my business had nothing to do with spying, nor smuggling, either, as it is ordinarily meant. All of my belongings were taken from me by this gentleman,” he remarked rather indignantly, indicating Upham. “and I’m sure he can tell you there was nothing among them the least incriminating.”

  Mr. Upham nodded his agreement.

  Chartier fidgeted with the bandage on his arm, looking up at last at Peter. “It’s a rather awkward matter to discuss, your lordship. One of family affairs, you understand.”

  “You have a wife there?” Upham offered.

  “No, no, nothing like that! I have no living relatives in France at all. When I go there, I bring back family... belongings. Things that are hidden away near the old estate. A few at a time. Valuable things. It’s dangerous, of course, but it would be even more so to try to bring much at one time. My sister may need a dowry soon,” he said, avoiding Peter’s gaze, “and I thought I must make a run now to have it when the time arises.”

  “How does it happen your belongings weren’t confiscated when you came to England?” Verwood asked.

  Chartier hemmed and hawed. His eyes bounced from one to the other of them, unable to find someone to light on with impunity. They were all regarding him with curiosity, if not suspicion.

  “It wasn’t because I agreed to spy!” he insisted.

  Peter considered him for a long, moment. “I’m very attached to your sister, but I think it will be necessary to clear up these matters before we come to some understanding on that subject. I can’t very well be left in the dark. I have a duty to my country as well as to myself.”

  The bandage on Chartier’s arm had started to unravel from his nervous picking at it. To give himself something to do other than look at any of them, he wound it off as he told his story. “My father was the Comte de Rocca. He was sixty years old in 1792, and getting a little senile, or at least, a little strange. He had the wild notion that the revolutionaries had right on their side, that the aristocracy had plundered the poor. For siding with their cause, Louis took away his title and would have taken away his riches, only Louis had problems of his own at the time, and my mother’s family was still influential. Their family name was Chartier.”

  He fell silent for a moment, then sighed. “I was only a child of ten and didn’t really understand what was going on, but my mother was shrewd. Before Louis was even executed she had spirited a goodly sum out of the country to her cousin in England, who bought the estate near Bournemouth with it. That estate is mine now that my mother is dead, but for certain reasons it has been left in her cousin’s name. My father, despite his revolutionary principles, was guillotined; savage people don’t listen to reason. He was a comte, or had been one, and comtes were executed. But my mother managed to flee the country with my sister and me, though she hadn’t time to bring the rest our belongings with her. They were hidden so well and so secretly that it took me several expeditions when I reached an age of understanding to find them, using her instructions.”

  Verwood continued to twine Amelia’s curls about his fingers, though he listened with as much interest as any of them. “You never shared your father’s revolutionary ideals?” he asked.

  “Never,” Chartier pronounced adamantly. “It was my mother who instilled a love of king and country in my mind. A respect for the position I should one day inherit. And I intend yet to inherit it.”

  Upham shifted restlessly in his chair. The tale, having little bearing on him, also held little interest. “How do you plan to manage that?”

  The shifty-eyed look Amelia had long ago noted in Chartier appeared now. “I’ve planned since I was fifteen,” he said, the proud tilt to his head looking incongruous with his disheveled clothing. “Our Louis in exile is constantly in need of funds. He hasn’t the resources he would have in France. I have pledged him one-half of my hidden property, in exchange for the eventual restoration of my title. It is through his agents that the goods I bring into England are converted into money. Sometimes I think I am shortchanged a little, but...” He gave an eloquent shrug. “It is worth it for my title.”

  “Yesterday, to whom did you send off a message from Tunbridge?” Peter asked.

  Chartier’s brows lifted. “Ah, I was followed, was I? It doesn’t matter. Always I send a message to the agents ahead of time so my goods are picked up immediately. This time, also, I explained the necessity of coming into my own rather promptly, in order that my sister should have a sufficient standing... should her suitor find it important.”

  “It isn’t important,” Peter said.

  “Well, one cannot know. To me it is important. Veronique knows only that our family was once titled. She doesn’t seem to care if we are again, and she doesn’t know of my plans to bring it about.”

  The revelation of the truth of the matter was a bit of a disappointment to Amelia, but she tried not to show it, stifling a yawn behind her hand. She was very aware of Verwood’s f
ingers stroking the back of her neck, but she didn’t dare look at him. And she was tired. It had been an exhausting day. She was ready to excuse herself, hoping Verwood would follow her, when the viscount suddenly said, “None of this explains about the doctor’s records. I saw you come out of Dr. Braithwait’s surgery some months ago, but he had no listing of a Chartier ever having visited him.”

  A ruddy flush stole into Chartier’s cheeks. “It was a delicate matter on which I saw the good doctor. I had no wish to use my rightful name. You will find I used the name Lavalette.”

  Verwood didn’t press him, though he would have been intrigued to hear what “delicate matter” could bring a flush to the cheeks of a twenty-five-year-old man. “It’s late. I shall see Lady Amelia to her bedchamber.”

  All too ready to go, Amelia bounded immediately to her feet. “It seems you are paying quite a substantial duty to your king, M. Chartier. I doubt the English would be justified in taking any more. Forgive me if I’ve been suspicious of you. I’m sure I wish you well.”

  The Frenchman had risen and came forward to clasp her hand, the old admiring look in his eyes. “Perhaps you had reason. Now you will understand. Tomorrow we could take a walk together.”

  “Tomorrow I shall be busy planning for my wedding,” she said, throwing an arch look at Verwood. “His lordship is an impatient, scheming sort of gentleman, but a lady doesn’t go back on her word.” With a bright smile at the assembled men, she glided regally from the room.

  Verwood caught up with her in the hall, having been delayed by the others’ congratulations. “Scheming, am I? I should like to know what you’d have done in my position. Do you wear that cap to bed at night?” he asked as he twitched it off her honey curls.

  “Only when I’m particularly cold.”

  “Well, there won’t be any reason for you to be cold in bed when we’re married. Still, it’s rather becoming, in a way. Makes you look almost demure.”