by Sheila Walsh
Well, here was the reply; Devereux opened a small drawer beside the bed, tossed the letter inside and locked it again. He sighed and stood up wondering what the devil he was to tell Madalena of the other matter which filled his thoughts.
A sound ‒ a kind of creaking ‒ froze him in the act of removing his coat. It came from somewhere near the fireplace. With infinite care he slid a pistol from his pocket, cocked it and said in a clear, hard voice, ‘Come out, if you please ‒ and without any tricks or you are dead.’
There was a moment of silence and then a smothered Gallic curse from the depths of the leather armchair was followed by a familiar aggrieved muttering. ‘I would be very glad to come out, I promise you, but you have been so long in coming that I have gone to sleep with the fire ‒ and now I have a crick in the neck and besides I am entirely stiff!’
Devereux laid down the pistol and strode across the room. He seized the chair and swung it round. Amber eyes, heavy with sleep, blinked up at him from the folds of a deep blue cloak. As Madalena struggled to extricate herself, he seemed to swoop down on her, freeing her and bringing her, in one movement, to her feet. She grimaced and tried a few hobbling steps, coming back at last to where he stood ‒ a rather grim figure with folded arms.
‘Well, Madalena. I am awaiting your explanation.’
‘You are angry?’
‘Yes ‒ I rather think I am.’
She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘It is because you think it not convenable for me to be here? But I used the library window and nobody has seen me. I meant to come to you in the morning, but then I could not wait!’
A note of urgency, almost despair had crept into her voice so that he put a hand beneath her chin to turn her face to the light. ‘Something is wrong, little one?’
The words trembled very slightly. ‘It is Papa. He is in prison.’
Devereux gave her an odd look, but she was too distraught to notice. ‘How do you know this?’
It all came out then ‒ the words tumbling over themselves as she lapsed from time to time into her mother tongue … Armand’s involvement with the smuggling, which he had finally confessed, Daniel’s ultimatum …
Devereux listened ‒ and with each moment his suspicions about Daniel Merchent hardened into certainty. All the investigations he had set in motion with regard to the smuggling had seemed to lead back to Merchent, but he had so far failed to uncover the size and scope of the operation. To have known so quickly of de Brussec’s angst, to be in a position to secure his release, if indeed he could do so, indicated a connection with some powerful organization inside France ‒ the Secret Police, perhaps ‒ for whom Monsieur de Brussec’s imprisonment could be more of a headache than anything else.
It would certainly seem so, if the information Devereux had had from Madame Bertha was to be believed. She had been agog with news when he had visited the patisserie on Christmas Eve. The streets of Paris were already seething with rumours of an uprising, she had assured him passionately, La Force should not long hold that good, kindly man … the rue Roi de Sicile would run with blood … There was much more in similar vein, but nothing of any coherence.
It had been left to Prince Talleyrand to provide a more succinct account of events.
‘… it was inevitable, my friend. Word had it that de Brussec was already incensed by the Army’s appalling losses revealed in Bulletin 29. It needed only the Emperor’s precipitate return to Paris on the following day, with the accompanying rumours that he was bent on raising yet another Army, and the fuse was lit!
‘He chose his platform well ‒ a Christmas Banquet attended by everyone of importance in Paris ‒ to deliver as scathing, as demolishing an indictment of Napoleon Bonaparte as one could wish to hear. It was masterly!’
For a moment the cold, fish-like eyes in the pallid face almost smiled ‒ and then the Prince shrugged.
‘The outcome was never in doubt; our “little man” was apoplectic with rage; the guard arrested Monsieur de Brussec within hours and he was thrown into La Force.’
Devereux had wondered what would happen.
Again the elegant shrug. ‘Who can tell, Duc? In his right mind, the Emperor would not dare to execute so popular a man of the people, but in his present mood …’
The words were left hanging in the air until Devereux, feeling a sudden chill, had urged, ‘Could you not use your influence, Highness?’
The Prince had stared back at him in silent hauteur, his white, bejewelled hand tightening on the malacca cane.
Devereux had pressed home his point with gentle insistence. ‘You will allow that I have done you a not inconsiderable number of favours in these past months worthy, perhaps, of a small return? Monsieur de Brussec’s disappearance, for instance?’
The malacca cane beat an irritable tattoo upon the floor; Talleyrand’s voice was frigid. ‘Perhaps you also have some suggestions as to how I might accomplish this miracle without incurring the Emperor’s wrath?’
Devereux’s mouth had twitched, but he had replied gravely, ‘I would not presume so far, Highness. However, Savary, your Minister of Police and the Prefect, Pasquier ‒ both are counted among your friends, are they not? Neither, I think, would relish the prospect of riots and I am assured on good authority that there would be bloody riots! They could perhaps be persuaded to suggest some solution to our dilemma?’
Madelena had by now finished her story and was watching Devereux in some anxiety. How sévère was his expression! Tears threatened to choke her throat … he could not … he must not fail her!
‘Dev?’
It was as though he had not heard her. Misinterpreting his silence, she called his name again, tugging insistently at his sleeve.
‘Dev? I beseech you! If you do not help me, I do not know what I am to do! Armand talks wildly of going to France, where of a certainty he will be killed! And Papa …’ She could not go on.
Devereux was deeply moved by her distress; indeed, he was tempted to disclose to her the plans he had made, but so much could yet go wrong and her anguish would then be the greater.
And so he prevaricated. ‘What makes you think I can be of help?’
‘But assuredly you can! I know that you cross the Channel many times! I used to think it was just smuggling, and then …’ Madalena stopped, her face flaming. Too late she realized that in her agitation she had almost betrayed her word to Gaston Marceau.
She would have turned away, but was held prisoner. When Devereux spoke, his voice had a curious inflection.
‘Yes, Madalena? And then?’
Oh, Dieu! She must think quickly! Guilt made her stammer. ‘I … I found out that you h… had been in Paris … when you saw Papa … and brought back the little statue …’
His fingers dug uncomfortably into her shoulders. ‘But that is not what you were going to say, is it, child?’
She faced him squarely then, her eyes wide and luminous in the candlelight, her thick lashes spiked with unshed tears. ‘Eh bien, then I will tell you! I had not meant that you should ever know, it is about the war prisoners …’ She saw his expression and rushed on in a blind panic. ‘On the day that your m… mama died … I m … met Captain Marceau in the Library … he had left your little secret room because of the heat … I already knew him, you see, and …’
‘Oh, the damned young fool!’ breathed Devereux.
‘Yes, but you must not blame him, for I promised that I would say nothing, only me, I am not a fool.’ The tears were falling now; there was a pain in her throat, but it was not so fierce as the pain in her heart. ‘I have heard of such escape routes, and suddenly it all made itself very clear to me … your m … mysterious excursions … the way you were able to see Papa …’
She could not go on. Dev’s face wore the look she had seen only twice before ‒ and as then, because it made him appear as a stranger, it frightened her. The skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones and beneath the satyr brows, his eyes burned.
‘So that is what you think me
‒ some kind of traitor! Have you confided your opinions elsewhere, pray?’
‘Ah, no! I did not … I would never … oh, how can you even conceive of such a thing?’ Indignation swamped her fear, and at once the tension eased.
‘My apologies, infant,’ the Duke murmured dryly. ‘I should never have doubted you.’
‘No ‒ you should not!’ she retorted and wondered why his eyes glinted with sudden humour. ‘I do not know what I am to think when you explain nothing …’
‘Not now, Madalena.’ He was severe again, his tone brooking no argument. ‘Someday you will know all. One thing I will tell you however, to set your mind at rest. I do not run an escape route ‒ Gaston Marceau was someone special. You must take my word on it. Now, it remains only for me to restore you to your aunt’s house before you are missed.’
He smoothed away the traces of tears and fastened the thick blue cloak tight against the cold. He met a glance that had grown troubled.
‘Dev? You have not said … about Papa? Can you … will you help?’
His hands stilled at her throat. She felt them tighten momentarily. ‘I can make you no promises, Madalena, except that I will do all that is within my power. But, for God’s sake, keep that brother of yours from doing anything stupid!’
Chapter Eleven
New Year’s Eve at the Vernon’s found a steady stream of carriages arriving to discharge a curious assortment of passengers. Mrs Vernon had been prevailed upon by the young people to hold a masked fancy dress ball. Her reservations as to the effect of so much excitement upon her darling Phoebe in her present delicate condition were soon set aside by Dr Laidlaw. He thought the ball a capital idea, and announced his intention of entering fully into the spirit of the occasion.
The big room at the rear of the house was thrown open for a thorough cleaning and polishing. It was soon being festooned with streamers and paper lanterns, a noisy, often hilarious operation which seemed to involve the entire household, with the exception of the Brigadier who, coming upon them unexpectedly, viewed the upheaval with undisguised horror and came to an immediate decision that he would leave within the hour, to spend a few nights with General Fothergill at Lower Meckleton.
Madalena flung herself into the preparations with a feverish gaiety which was causing Kit a certain amount of disquiet, the more so since Armand had become morose to the point of rudeness. It was not in character for brother and sister to be so seriously at odds.
He was not to know how close the two had come to a serious clash of wills. Armand, usually so ready to let Madalena have the ordering of things, had proved uncommonly stubborn where his father’s safe deliverance was concerned. An enterprise of such danger and importance, he had insisted, could be carried through only by a man, and furthermore, a man who knew France intimately. To entrust it to Lytten, who was to him an unknown quantity, seemed crazy. Madalena, unable to offer any acceptable explanation of Dev’s qualifications, had stamped an angry foot and asserted that he would of a surety ruin everything if he interfered, for Dev was very much a man ‒ and a man of great influence!
As might be supposed, Armand, already sensitive about his lack of years and experience, had deeply resented this apparent slur upon his shortcomings and had taken refuge in a fit of the sulks.
However, Madalena could never sustain a quarrel for long, and by the morning of the ball she had coaxed Armand back into a better humour, and had induced him to approach the festivities with at least some appearance of enjoyment.
‘For we must not arouse suspicion, chéri! To tell the family would set all in a turmoil and necessitate tedious explanations about Daniel and everything … imagine how shocked Tante would be!’
It needed a determined effort on her own part to subdue her own sick knot of apprehension whenever she considered the gravity of Papa’s situation, yet Madalena would have been less than human if she had not been a little excited of the prospect of the evening ahead.
She dressed for the ball with a fine air of bravado and stood back from the tall mirror at last, well pleased with her exertions.
‘Vraiment!’ she chuckled, addressing her reflection. ‘You are a splendid fellow, I think. Oh, but how you will shock the good Tante Vernon!’
She was wearing the black velvet breeches which to her dismay were beginning to grow uncommonly tight, and a fine white, silk shirt purloined from Armand’s wardrobe. To complete her outfit she had raided an old trunk in one of the attics, where she had discovered a black jerkin and a floppy-brimmed hat with an extravagantly curling feather.
The jerkin was now handsomely laced up the front with crimson cord ‒ and when Phoebe, as a sweetly charming Columbine, came softly into the room, she was scandalized to behold her graceless cousin disporting herself before the mirror, hands on hips, endeavouring to master a manly swagger.
‘Maddie!’ she gasped faintly. ‘You are never g-going downstairs like that … in breeches?’
Madalena took up her mask and struck a teasing pose. ‘Do you not think me a very pretty boy?’
‘You are very fine, I daresay, but ‒ Oh Lordy! Mama will have a spasm! And what some of our more straight-laced guests will make of you!’
‘Ah bah! You exaggerate, my Phoebe ‒ no? Then if I am not enough respectable, you will say that it is only your little French cousin who is given to eccentricity!’
However, under pressure she agreed to raid Armand’s wardrobe yet again; he had, she knew, a short black cloak lined splendidly with crimson, which would cover the offending breeches. ‘Though I do not at all see the necessity,’ she muttered on a sigh of regret.
In Armand’s room, a pirate costume lay upon the bed. Madalena felt a twinge of unease. Stupide, she admonished herself, he is assuredly at the Laidlaw’s and will wait to accompany them. Sally Laidlaw had been helping with the preparations earlier in the day and Armand had escorted her home. It was not unusual for him to remain with the good doctor for many hours.
When the Laidlaws arrived however, there was no Armand. It appeared he had left them almost at once upon seeing Sally home.
Panic clawed afresh at Madalena; not caring what anyone thought, she seized Sally’s arm and dragged her into the book room, where the tables were ready set out for cards. She stood tense, her back pressed against the door.
‘Do you know where is Armand?’ she implored the astonished girl. ‘If he has said anything at all, you must tell me!’
Sally Laidlaw was taken aback, as much by the news that Armand was missing as by the urgency of his sister’s interrogation, but in her usual serene fashion she assumed that he must have some good reason.
It was monstrous uncivil of him, she agreed with mock severity, and indeed, if anyone had cause for annoyance, it was herself. She had taken a vast amount of trouble over the blue shepherdess dress which so exactly matched her eyes ‒ and he was not even here to admire the result. She tossed her bright gold curls and grinned. ‘But since he chooses to be late, I shall console myself with Kit. He makes a very fine Roman, does he not?’
Madalena managed a wan smile ‒ and felt sick!
Sally noticed her pallor against the stark black of her extraordinary costume and rallied her gently. ‘Come, my dear ‒ don’t distress yourself. Young men will ever be off on some ploy; Armand will come soon …’ She stopped as a thought occurred to her. ‘It is just possible …’
Madalena’s head came up with pathetic eagerness.
‘… Lytten passed us on the way home this afternoon, driving those greys of his at a wicked pace. Armand did mention that he wished to see him on a matter of some urgency. Perhaps he went to the Manor when he left me. Yes, you may depend upon it. They will have broached a bottle or two and the wretch will have lost all track of the time. The Duke does not come to the ball, I think?’
‘N-no,’ Madalena replied absently, sharing none of Sally’s buoyant optimism. ‘I think he expected not to be home.’
Sally tucked a friendly arm under hers. ‘Well, there you are then
. Your brother is almost certainly with him and is past praying for. Let us waste no more time on him when we might be enjoying ourselves.’
Madalena went through all the motions of laughing and dancing, thankful for the concealment afforded by her mask.
Why should Armand wish to see Dev, unless it were to demand to know what were his plans? Perhaps even to insist that he be included in any rescue attempt.
It needed little imagination to envisage how such behaviour might provoke Dev; she had never doubted his utter ruthlessness ‒ his intolerance of meddlers ‒ what might that mean for Armand?
She had a sudden, frighteningly vivid recollection of a May night, and that strange little man stretched out on the headland, his dead eyes staring up at the stars ‒ and of Devereux standing over him, knife in hand. The man had never been found ‒ it was as though he had never been. She supposed that Jason must have taken the body out to sea …
Nom de Dieu! No … no, he would not! Not with Armand!
She jumped violently as Kit’s voice spoke in her ear. ‘You are very pensive of a sudden, my fine gallant ‒ after all your gaiety!’ He was peering intently down at her through the slit in his mask. ‘Is it the disapproval of neighbours or are you worrying about that young rip of a brother?’
For a moment Madalena was tempted to blurt out her fears, but how could she do so without revealing too much? She was beginning to doubt her capacity for intrigue; to lie to Kit would be a shabby thing, not worthy of him, and besides, he had, at times, an uncanny perception.
She said over-brightly, ‘Armand is very silly I think to be missing all this.’
‘And not like him, would you say?’ Kit queried gently. ‘But then he has not been himself these past few days. You must have noticed it for yourself had you not been so preoccupied.’
