by Louise Clark
"Yes." Nicholas pretended disinterest, but his every sense was alert. Tony Baxter was no man's fool.
"Ahh," Tony remarked in disbelieving tones. "And how did you come to know the Marquis de Mont Royale when you spend all of your time immured in the country?"
Only months of experience kept Nicholas from cursing aloud. His expression sardonic, he said lazily, "The benefits of our difference in age, my dear boy. You may not remember, but I did the Grand Tour several years ago, before the revolution began in France. Included in my itinerary was a stay in Paris and one at Versailles."
It was both an answer and not an answer. Nicholas waited with well-hidden tension to see if his young cousin would accept it.
"The Grand Tour," Baxter muttered. "I'd forgotten... hadn't known. Well, that explains it. Some fellows," he added gloomily, "have all the luck."
"Perhaps, perhaps not." Stephanie was laughing up into the Vicomte's smooth features. Nicholas resisted the urge to stride onto the dance floor and separate the couple.
"Mademoiselle de la Riviére seems much taken with the Vicomte," Tony drawled, watching his cousin and not the couple on the dance floor.
The Earl's eyes hardened to a cold blue as he gazed at Stephanie and the Vicomte. If she had known the true character of the man she would never have consented to dance with him. He could tell her; but would she believe him? Whether she accepted his information or not, she would ask questions that he could not answer, such as where he had acquired his knowledge of St. Luc's activities. His inability to act was a new and unpleasant feeling for Nicholas. He hated it.
"Mademoiselle de la Riviére will tire of the man in time." Nicholas hoped it was true. He would, if necessary, invoke his rights as guardian to separate the two, but he preferred not to force the issue in that manner.
"I'm sure she will. The Vicomte is really quite a dull fellow, you know. I'll admit he has a ready stock of polite conversation, but he hasn't got a brain in his head. I tried to draw him out about his experiences in France, but couldn't get more than a dozen coherent words from him." Thoughtfully, Tony added, "Of course, it could have been the difference in language. He may not have understood what I was aiming at."
"I doubt it." Nicholas could not control the venom that laced his voice.
His cousin grinned, apparently under the impression that Nicholas's ire stemmed from his own frustrated interest in the lovely Mademoiselle de la Riviére. "And how are you getting along with your delightful ward, cousin?"
"Splendidly," Nicholas said trenchantly. "She argues at the breakfast table and flouts me at every turn."
Baxter laughed. "She's a handful, is she?"
This was safer ground and Nicholas allowed himself to relax. "Mademoiselle de la Riviére is wilful, opinionated and obstinate."
"And utterly charming."
A rueful grin quirked the edges of Nicholas's mouth. "Quite true—" He stiffened suddenly as he saw St. Luc take Stephanie's hand and detach her from the rest of the dancers. A few steps away were the tall doors leading to the terrace. These had been cracked open to provide cool air in the stuffy heat of the ballroom. Moments later, Nicholas watched with fury as St. Luc coaxed Stephanie through the doors.
"A word of advice," Tony Baxter said roughly in his ear. "Your expression makes a thundercloud look mild-mannered. I can understand your desire to turn the Vicomte into mincemeat, but you don't want to do it in front of every scandalmonger in town."
"Damnation!" Nicholas growled, even as he forced his emotions back under control. "If you will excuse me, Tony?" Without waiting for a reply, he strode purposefully across the room.
Baxter laughed softly. "Bonne chance, cousin."
* * *
The March evening was cool and damp. Clouds covered the moon and stars, darkening the night sky. Stephanie shivered as she allowed herself to be guided through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors.
"Monsieur le Vicomte, I am sure we could discuss our mutual interests just as privately inside, in fact, much more comfortably as well."
"Mais oui," the Vicomte agreed amiably, "but I had in mind an intimate discussion, my lovely companion. The ballroom would not suffice." He drew her away from the light. Stephanie noticed that a sharp breeze had come up. She shivered, not entirely from the cold.
"Monsieur." He had her pinned against the Portland stone of the mansion's wall, in a secluded corner where even shadows could hide.
"Ah, Mademoiselle de la Riviére. Such a charming countenance, such soft, silky skin..." He ran his thumb along the rapidly beating vein in her neck, mistaking her growing dismay for desire.
Stephanie was not particularly concerned for her safety, or her virtue. There were over a hundred people only a few yards away, and the orchestra was between compositions at the moment. All she had to do was scream and she would be rescued. If she did, however, there would be an embarrassing scene and the Vicomte, who wielded a certain unmistakable power in émigré circles, would ensure that her reputation became as tarnished as his.
Somehow, she would have to escape from him without involving anyone else. "Monsieur, you flatter me, truly you do!" she said, a little breathlessly as he pressed against her.
"Your skin is so pure and fine, it should be adorned by more precious stones than those simple pearls you wear."
She pushed at his shoulders. "Monsieur, we did not come out here to discuss my skin, or my pearls. I agreed to speak privately with you because you hinted that you might be able to smuggle a letter to my father in France."
There was a faint sound from somewhere near the door that could have been a footstep. St. Luc glanced impatiently in that direction, but the deep shadows kept their secrets.
Sliding his hand up her arm, he said suggestively, "I am able to do anything, cherie. For a price, you understand."
"Price?" Stephanie's voice was rough with shocked surprise.
The Vicomte, toying with the lobe of her ear, misread her husky tone. "For one letter the cost would be small—say one hundred English pounds? But if you would like to arrange a regular correspondence, my price would be higher."
"How much?" Stephanie's voice was controlled and level, danger signals to anyone astute enough to read them. The Vicomte was not amongst that number. He laughed. Excitement and the power of certain conquest echoed through the sound. "The use of your fair body, cherie, for as long as the exchange of correspondence continues."
Stephanie's hand struck his cheek with the full force of her body behind it. "Odious, contemptible, disgusting knave!"
St. Luc staggered back, rubbing his cheek. The slap and Stephanie's low-voiced, but nonetheless furious, condemnation served to cover the sound of a sudden sharp movement on the other side of the stone terrace.
Deliberately, Stephanie stepped into the light spilling from the doorway. "I suggest, Monsieur de St. Luc, that you retire to the ballroom. If anyone saw us leave together and questions your solitary return, you may say that I did not feel quite the thing and wished fresh air. Good-bye, Vicomte."
The Frenchman's face twisted with fury, but after a brief inner battle, he bowed and slipped past her into the building. Alone on the terrace, Stephanie inhaled deeply, then slowly allowed her breath to escape. She moved to the balustrade. Staring sightlessly at the tiny garden beyond, she spread her palms over the railing as if to extract strength from the cold stone.
Drawing another deep breath, she exhaled it on several muttered comments, directed at herself. Then she sighed and said clearly in French, "Stephanie, you are an idiot."
She turned. Slowly, head high, she glided back into the ballroom.
* * *
A rather grim Earl of Wroxton emerged from the shadows after Stephanie had gone inside. It had taken every ounce of control he possessed not to simply walk out, order Stephanie into the ballroom, then challenge the offensive Frenchman to a duel. But that would have created exactly the kind of scene Tony Baxter had reminded him they did not want. So he had curbed his natural instincts, slipped u
nnoticed and unheard into the inky darkness of the terrace, and listened to the strange dialogue.
He had guessed what St. Luc's price would be long before the fellow had said the words. Anger had simmered in his heart, but he made himself wait. More astute than the Vicomte, he had realized that Stephanie was deeply offended by the turn the conversation was taking. He wanted to see if she could handle the Vicomte herself.
An appreciative smile chased the grimness from his expression while he savored the memory of the loud crack as her palm connected with St. Luc's cheek. Her dismissal of the man had been masterly. Her absolute certainty that her words would be obeyed reduced the Vicomte to the status of a servant. And he had reinforced it by slinking away at her command.
Nicholas leaned against the balustrade and wondered if she realized she had made an enemy. Possibly not. He thought he was beginning to understand Stephanie de la Riviére. Imperious, a little naive, passionate and intelligent—she was also a woman who acted first and thought later. Whether she knew that she had gained the Vicomte's enmity or not, the incident tonight had probably frightened her. For a time she would avoid the man's company.
And hopefully, when she had once more decided he was harmless enough, Nicholas would have been able to use the interesting, incriminating admission St. Luc had inadvertently made that involved him in underground traffic in information to ensure that the Frenchman left England for good.
Chapter 4
"I don't know why I allowed you young people to persuade me to agree to this mad scheme," Madeleine said crossly as the coach lurched over yet another pothole.
Stephanie shot her a mischievous look. "You were quite enthusiastic two days ago, Tante Madeleine." That had been when it seemed that Nicholas, not Tony Baxter, would be their male escort for the evening.
"Everyone has lapses of good sense. To agree to attend a masquerade is bad enough. To agree to attend one held ten miles out of town is ridiculous!"
"I hear the grounds of Pendleton House are magnificent," Baxter remarked mildly.
"It is full night! How can we be expected to view the gardens when it is pitch black outside?"
Stephanie and Tony exchanged exasperated looks that melted into affectionate smiles as yet another bump in the road caused the dowager to bite off a curt comment. "Chère Tante Madeleine, we are not so far along that we must continue our journey. If you would rather turn back..."
Madeleine glared at Stephanie, then her expression softened. "Dear Stephanie. I am being a tiresome old bore, am I not? No, I will not spoil the evening's fun, especially when you have gone to so much trouble arranging costumes."
Though Madeleine had chosen to wear a magnificent gown of deep violet with the overskirt open to show a lavender petticoat, her only concession to disguise being a domino and black silk mask, Stephanie was dressed in a gown from the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The high ruff framed her face with piquant charm, while the stiffened bodice emphasized her slender shape. Tony Baxter had decided to be a pirate—a very elegant pirate whose tunic and hose were immaculate, but a pirate nonetheless. His mask was a patch set rakishly over one eye. Stephanie thought that if he had attacked her ship on the high seas, she would have felt more relieved than frightened. A ruffian he was not.
The carriage continued on, the horses trotting at a moderate pace through the darkness of the night. Inside, harmony had been restored and the occupants laughed and talked as anticipation of the evening's entertainment buoyed them up.
When the vehicle came to a sudden stop, there was confusion inside. "What the devil!" Tony said, concerned.
"I hope one of the horses hasn't thrown a shoe," Madeleine remarked mildly.
Stephanie sat stiffly, memories of her escape from France suddenly flooding her. She had traveled to the coast dressed as a young man, with false papers to protect her, but the journey had been a nightmare of isolation and fear. For the first time in her life, she had been truly alone. Her maidservant had been left behind in Paris, and even the driver of the coach had been a stranger, for the vehicle had been rented in order to ensure secrecy.
She had been stopped once on that desperately long journey when a soldier of the National Guard had taken it into his head to check her travel papers. The man had been unshaven, slovenly, and a little drunk. The terror of that moment swept over Stephanie again as the door of the carriage was pulled roughly open. She could not contain the scream that welled up in her throat.
The simultaneous sound of Stephanie's scream and the appearance of a masked figure in the doorway caused consternation. "My dear!" Madeleine said, turning to Stephanie as Tony reached for the loaded pistol kept in a pouch on the wall of the coach for emergencies.
"I wouldn't, my fine bucko!" rasped the coarsely dressed figure in the doorway. "My shooter be already cocked and my finger itches on the trigger. I'd put a hole in you 'fore you could even aim." Tony's hand grew still, then slowly, carefully, he lowered it to rest on his thigh. His expression was murderous.
"That's better, now." The ruffian grinned at them. The weak light shed by the lanterns hanging from the sides of the coach showed him to be unshaven, dirty, and masked. But unlike the silken masks of those inside the coach, his was made of a rough wool and covered every feature but his mouth and chin.
Waving the muzzle of his weapon, he said, "Right, I want your purses and all the pretty baubles. Hand 'em over."
The rough voice was unmistakably English. The nightmare images from the past retreated, leaving Stephanie shaken and embarrassed. When the coach carrying her from Paris to Calais had been stopped, she had kept her wits about her, remembering her disguise as a young male. She had not panicked.
The danger tonight was no less real than it had been in France. The highway robber's pistol was as lethal as the rifle slung over the National Guardsman's back had been, but she could not forget that then she had remained in control of her emotions, while tonight she had behaved no better than a silly, spoiled female unused to the least danger. Meekly, resentfully, she handed over her purse. She balked a little when the thief demanded the string of pearls around her neck, but as the man waved the pistol irritably, she surrendered those as well.
The door was slammed unceremoniously. The rasping voice ordered the coachman to drive on. As the vehicle lurched into motion, Stephanie shuddered.
"Damn the man," Tony muttered. He hammered on the side of the carriage with his cane. Slowly, almost reluctantly, it drew to a stop. A footman appeared at the doorway. "Turn the coach around when there is an opening in the road. We are returning to London."
"Yes, sir." The servant glanced at his mistress, who was patting Mademoiselle de la Riviére's hand in a comforting way; he hastened to pass along the instructions, and the carriage began to move again.
"I am sorry for my outburst," Stephanie said. She was sitting stiffly, her back very straight. "I am afraid I mistook that ruffian for another sort entirely."
"There is no need to be sorry for anything, Stephanie," Madeleine soothed, squeezing Stephanie's hand reassuringly. "I am appalled that a highwayman should be operating so close to London."
"Probably got wind of the party at the Pendleton estate," Tony said grimly. "I'll wager we are not the only ones he'll stop this evening."
Stephanie shivered. Madeleine shot her nephew a murderous look and he reddened. Hastily, Stephanie intervened. "You must understand! In France we have become used to the danger that surrounds us at every turn. But here in England, it is different. No! It seemed different! I thought this country was safe, but if it is true there is no security here in England, how much more so is it true for France? My Papa remains in Paris, exposed to the animosity of the revolutionaries because of his position at court. How long will it be before he is swept away by the tide of events? How long?"
"Your Papa is a sensible man," Madeleine said reassuringly. "If he thinks there is a need, he will leave France and come to England."
"How?" Stephanie snapped, her dark eyes smoldering. "He had all of
our funds changed into jewels and he sent them out of France with me, to ensure my future. Where will he get the gold he needs to buy his way out of France? Tell me where?"
There was an uneasy silence in the carriage. Two and a half years before, the National Assembly had abolished the feudal dues of the old regime. Peasants were no longer expected to pay rents and fees to their lords, thus depriving the aristocracy of its income. Stephanie's father was indeed vulnerable.
"I thought Mont Royale was on land rich in minerals," Tony remarked carefully. "Could not your father mine the estate and use the proceeds for himself?"
"Bah!" said Stephanie, thoroughly incensed. "You know nothing of events in France! It is true, Mont Royale is rich in ore and the de la Riviéres have been mining the property for generations. It is one of the few commercial activities an aristocrat can be involved in, because mining is part of the land, not separate from it. But our workers have been infected by the fever of revolution, and many refuse to go down into the mines. That does not really matter, because there are no markets for the ore that is brought to the surface. All France cares about now is food, for there is not even enough grain to provide bread for the people."
"I had no idea the situation was so desperate," Tony murmured respectfully.
The passionate glitter in Stephanie's eyes died away. Mournfully, she said, "I was able to smuggle the jewels out of France successfully. Yet tonight, in a place that was supposed to be peaceful, I lost a string of pearls that would have easily paid for my Papa's escape from France. What security is there in jewels? Gold, at least, would be of use."
"Gold in substantial sums is also extremely heavy and too bulky to hide on one's person," Madeleine remarked with dampening practicality.
There was a slowing in the movement of the coach. Tony peered out the window and saw that they had reached a crossroads and were turning around. He delved into the pocket secured to the frame of the carriage and pulled out the pistol kept there. Carefully he checked to make sure the ball was still securely lodged in the barrel, then he lowered the weapon to his lap, holding it firmly. "If the damn fellow stops us again, I'll blow a hole through his heart."
