Lord Edward's Mysterious Treasure

by Lillian Marek

  Indeed, that was perfectly true. There was nothing Tante Héloise could say that Marguerite did not already know. The problem was that she seemed to forget it when Lord Edward—Ned—was present.

  Penworth Castle

  “My goodness!” said Lord Penworth, staring at the letter. He had been the first one down to breakfast this time.

  His wife looked up in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  He looked up with a smile. “Not to worry. Nothing is wrong with Ned. I was just surprised. It seems that one of Tony’s cousins turns out to be the daughter of Matthias Benda.”

  “The violinist? Really?” Lady Penworth looked intrigued. “How very surprising that Tony should have artistic relations. I always thought of him as terribly practical and hard-headed. Such an unusual friend for Ned to have.”

  Lord Penworth turned back to the letter. “Well, it sounds as if she’s in rather a fix. After they managed to survive the war with Prussia and the siege and the Commune, her father was killed.”

  His wife frowned. “It seems to me that I read something about that. It was one of those pointless tragedies—he was killed by accident or some such.”

  “Yes, and what with all the disturbance, it seems the daughter is having financial difficulties. Ned wants to know how he can find out what happened to her father’s money. There’s sure to be some, I think.”

  Lady Penworth smiled indulgently. “Is the girl Ned’s damsel in distress?”

  “No, this is the other girl, the stern one. He says that she’s a musician, too, like her father.”

  “Really?” Lady Penworth looked a bit uncertain.

  “Things are pretty well settled in Paris now. Alphonse de Rothschild has had his hands full raising the money to pay the indemnities, but he can probably spare a clerk to look into this for me. It’s a minor matter, but Ned wouldn’t know how to go about it himself.”

  Lady Penworth was not listening. She was thinking. “Did he say anything else about this Benda girl? What’s she like?”

  Her husband looked up from the letter. “What’s she like? He doesn’t say much of anything. Here. You can read it for yourself.”

  She did, and frowned over it. Obviously this Miss Benda wasn’t the pretty damsel in distress her son had mentioned in earlier letters, but she might well qualify for the position. Her father was dead, presumably making her an orphan, and she was having financial difficulties.

  But there was nothing about how lovely and charming and delightful she was. Or the reverse. Ned had nothing at all to say about the girl personally. Nothing at all.

  This was not Ned’s usual pattern. As a rule, they could expect several weeks of paeans to golden curls and a rosebud mouth. Silence was something new.

  She did not like this.

  When her children started behaving in unaccustomed ways, Lady Penworth knew it was time to pay attention. Careful attention. And her sons were far more of a problem than her daughters. The girls were all, at bottom, hard-headed realists. The boys were romantics, especially Ned.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  For the next week they searched the deserted rooms in a desultory way. They would sweep up enough dust to be able to move around a room without choking, and then open chests and cabinets, searching drawers, feeling cushions, even turning chairs upside down on occasion.

  Their efforts were not entirely fruitless. They found a chest full of gowns from an earlier century. It was not a chest that had been left behind when the family fled. These gowns belonged to a still earlier generation, a generation that had gloried in its finery and made no pretense of simplicity.

  Delphine was ecstatic.

  She insisted that the chest be carried to her room, and she pressed one of the maids into service. They set to work on the gowns, cleaning and mending them and altering them to fit.

  Marguerite worried that Delphine might slip further into her fantasy world but Tante Héloise pooh-poohed the notion. “Just be grateful that she is distracted,” the older woman advised. “So long as she is absorbed with gowns, she cannot be causing other difficulties.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Marguerite said, but she was not quite at ease with the notion.

  To complicate her life still further, she kept encountering Ned in deserted hallways or in empty rooms. It was not deliberate. She was certain it was truly accidental. But every time they were alone together, she ended up in his arms.

  This had to stop. It was far too dangerous. But it happened again.

  She was trembling, barely able to stand. If she had not been leaning against him, clutching his coat to keep herself from falling, she would have been a little puddle on the ground.

  Since her cheek was pressed against his chest, she had no difficulty in feeling the rapid beat of his heart, a match for her own. His ragged breaths came just a half beat after her own as they gasped in counterpoint.

  His voice was as ragged as his breathing. “That, you see, is why we must marry. And soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ned stood up and rubbed the back of his neck to relieve the stiffness and grunted in frustration. He had gotten nowhere with the archives, at least as far as any treasure was concerned. The Morvan family was there, alive in every word they had written in letters and diaries, their loyalty to the crown and church, their loyalty to the village that shared their name. Indeed, there were times when it was difficult to know if Morvan referred to the family or the village.

  All of that was fascinating, and a month ago he would have been thrilled at the chance to turn it into a book. And he would do that, he vowed. Just not yet. Today all he felt was frustration. His obligation to Tony meant that the treasure had to be found before he could turn his attention to the things that mattered to him. To Marguerite.

  The past week had brought him no closer to convincing her to marry him. His need for her seemed to increase every minute. Why did she refuse?

  It was not indifference to him that held her back—of that much he was certain. Whenever they managed to steal a private moment, she melted in his arms and returned his kisses with a hunger that matched his own. But she was still afraid. There was something gnawing away at her, and he needed to know what it was.

  Meanwhile, there was still no sign of any treasure. He was beginning to doubt that there was any such thing. Could the old man have imagined the whole thing? But his descriptions of the scene had been so vivid—the old priest, the angry revolutionaries, the violent confrontation. Would a boy have imagined all that? Well, perhaps, but it didn’t sound like a child’s fantasies.

  He walked over to the ceramic stove and held his hands out to the warmth. Even though the stove kept the fire enclosed, he didn’t dare let it get too hot. Not with all the fragile old paper here in the tower room. But numb fingers were also a danger, so he made frequent trips to the stove.

  The sound of wheels on gravel distracted him, and he went to the window. A slightly shabby coach, pulled by four horses, had pulled up at the door. Probably hired, he guessed. But who would be coming here? Was there another cousin come to join the hunt?

  After a brief wait, during which no servant appeared to greet the arrival, the groom who had been sitting beside the coachman got down and opened the carriage door. A gentleman descended. He was far from shabby. A gleaming silk hat, pristine yellow gloves, a silver-knobbed walking stick—the visitor’s trappings exuded wealth, and the tilt of his head proclaimed arrogance.

  Ned was curious. Extremely curious. It was time to descend from his tower.

  The footman coming down the hall—Louis—was looking slightly perturbed. This was surprising because Ned had never seen any of the servants in the chateau display any emotion whatever.

  “Do we have a visitor?”

  Louis stopped—willingly, one would have thought. “He said Mlle. Benda was expecting him, but she did not mention anything about visitors. And she does not like to be disturbed while she is at the piano.”

  “Did the visitor give his name?”


  Louis held out the tray on which the visitor’s card lay. Ned picked it up. “The comte de Louvois?” The bastard who had persecuted Marguerite—terrified her, though she would not admit it.

  Louis nodded and hesitated. “I have put him in the yellow sitting room.”

  The comte had obviously not made a good impression on the young footman. All the rooms on the ground floor were chilly, the yellow sitting room more so than most. In addition, the door to the larger room next to it did not close well, so there was a curtain to keep out the draft. Anyone standing behind the curtain could hear everything being said.

  “Very good, Louis,” Ned said with an understanding smile. “There is no need to worry. I will keep him company while we await mademoiselle.”

  Looking relieved, the footman went off to find Marguerite. Ned decided that he wanted to meet the comte. Actually, what he really wanted was to give the comte a thrashing. It seemed unlikely that he would be given the opportunity, but one never knew. There was always a chance that the comte would give him an excuse to do just that. He flexed his fingers, just in case.

  The door to the yellow sitting room was standing open, ensuring a draft strong enough to flutter the draperies. When Ned entered, the comte was examining a painting, one of Bouguereau’s idealized peasant girls.

  Louvois himself was as fashionable as he had appeared when Ned spotted him arriving. Fashionable, but not, Ned was pleased to see, particularly attractive. His beard was neatly trimmed and still brown, as was the hair on his head. At least, what was left of it was still brown—his hairline had receded to the rear of his head. He wore a formal black frock coat and a matching waistcoat with a heavy watch chain draped across his paunch.

  Since his entry had not attracted the comte’s attention, Ned cleared his throat and spoke. “A remarkably clean and attractive peasant girl, is she not?”

  “One would hardly wish to have a filthy peasant in one’s home.” Louvois shrugged. “Personally, I prefer Bouguereau’s classical subjects.”

  Ned smiled, unsurprised. “Yes, I would have expected you to prefer nude females.”

  At that, Louvois turned to Ned with a frown, as if uncertain how offended he should be. “And you are…?”

  “Lord Edward Tremaine, at your service.” A slight inclination of his head served as a bow. “And you are Louvois. I must say, you are something of a surprise. Not quite what I had expected.”

  Still uncertain, but increasingly distrustful, Louvois said, “I do not know you. Why should you have had any expectations regarding me?”

  “One hears things,” Ned said, waving his hand vaguely. “I can see that you are hardly love’s young dream, but I’m sure you know that. There are mirrors, after all.” Ned ignored Louvois’ hissed intake of breath and continued, “Still, you seem prosperous enough. I would have thought you would be able to lure a woman to your bed—given adequate recompense, of course—without having to threaten her. Threats are hardly becoming behavior in a gentleman.”

  Louvois looked ready to explode. “How dare you speak to me in such a way, you presumptuous puppy!”

  “Would you care to challenge me to a duel?” asked Ned hopefully.

  Just as Louvois took a step toward him, glove in hand, Marguerite burst in. “Ned, what are you doing?”

  “Just chatting with your visitor here, my dear.” He smiled innocently. “I say, did you ever seriously consider an alliance with this fellow?”

  “No, of course not.” She dismissed the notion with a grimace before turning to the comte. “Monsieur le comte, what brings you here?”

  His color still high, the comte turned to her. “Marguerite, my poor girl, have you been forced to associate with shabby riff-raff like this?”

  “Riff-raff!” Ned put his hands to his head in mock horror. “Dear me, my parents would be mortified to hear me spoken of in such terms.”

  “Ned, stop it.” Marguerite closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Ned, please excuse us. I must speak to Louvois.”

  Suddenly serious, Ned paused, then nodded. “Very well. But if you need me…”

  She looked at him with a challenge in her eyes. “Yes, I know. But I can manage.”

  He didn’t want to go. Yes, she could doubtless manage, but she should not have to. He wanted to manage for her. He wanted to protect her. Hell, what he wanted was to smash the pompous bugger’s face. But it seemed he wasn’t going to be allowed to do that. Pity. “As you wish.” He bowed slightly and left the room.

  The last time Marguerite had seen the comte, she had been terrified. He had uttered his threats and she had felt trapped. Doors had been slamming shut all around her and she did not know if she would be able to find a way out. Even when they left Paris and came here to the chateau, she had brought that fear with her. This had been a hiding place, but not a solution.

  Now things were changed. Oscar’s letter assured her that she could support them all. They were not in danger of penury. The burden of that terror, that enormous terror, had been lifted.

  There had been a more important change. Ned had kissed her, and she had kissed him back. More than once. The embrace in the village had been followed by stolen kisses whenever they had a moment of privacy—surprisingly rare despite the size of the chateau. Nothing could come of it, no matter what he chose to say. But now that she knew what it could be like to be with a man, she could never, never allow a swine like Louvois to touch her.

  So it was that she could face Louvois calmly and with her head high. “Again I ask, M. de Louvois, what brings you here?”

  He snorted dismissively. “There is no need to play games. Your audience has departed. Were you amusing yourself by leading that puppy on? That was beneath you, Marguerite.”

  “You may address me as Mlle. Benda.”

  He actually seemed surprised. “What is this nonsense? But if you will, it makes no difference. Are your things packed?”

  It was her turn to be surprised. “Packed?”

  “It does not matter. We can send for them later if there is anything you truly want.” He eyed her dress scornfully. “It is obvious you shall need a new wardrobe. I do not like to see you looking like a crow.”

  She stared at him. Whatever was he talking about? Did he think she was leaving here?

  “Were you afraid I would not forgive you? Foolish girl.” He pulled out his watch and looked at it. “It is too late for us to get back to Paris this evening. We will have to spend the night in Brest. Fortunately, there is a decent hotel there.”

  She finally found her tongue. “Are you mad? What makes you think I would go anywhere with you?”

  He snapped about to stare at her. Without taking his eyes from her, he carefully closed his watch and replaced it in its pocket. “Do not attempt to play games with me. I have forgiven you much, but that I will not tolerate.”

  His icy glare drove her back a step, but she recovered quickly. “I am not playing games, but I have no intention of accompanying you to Brest or anywhere else.”

  Moving more quickly than she had expected, he seized her arm so tightly that she gasped from the pain. “You think you can write to me, asking me to take you away, and then change your mind? Have you forgotten who I am?”

  She tried to pull loose, but he twisted her arm behind her. “You are mad. I never wrote to you.”

  He barked out a laugh. “No, you had your cousin write for you. Do you think that matters? The pimp often arranges matters for the whore.”

  Her eyes opened wide with fury, and something snapped in her. Pulling her free arm back as best she could, she swung it to strike his smug face with a satisfying crack. It was powerful enough to stagger him. Unfortunately, it was not enough to loosen his grip on her arm, and his free hand turned into a fist that smashed into her cheek just below the eye.

  She must have cried out—she was not sure. The scream might have been just in her head. But the fist that was coming at her again suddenly flew up in the air, and Louvois staggered back, letti
ng go of her arm.

  The release was so unexpected that she stumbled and fell to the floor, disoriented. What…? Still furious, she pulled herself up to her knees, ready to fly at Louvois, and fell back in surprise.

  Louvois was up against the wall and Ned drove a fist into his midsection. He doubled over with a grunt, but before he could finish the sound Ned had twisted his hand in the comte’s neck cloth.

  Ignoring the older man’s gasping protests, Ned tightened his hold and growled, “You bastard. You blackguard. You unmitigated swine. If you ever come within a mile of Marguerite again, I swear I will kill you.”

  Her fury began to ebb, though it was not replaced by anything resembling forgiveness. It would doubtless be more ladylike of her to swoon, but Marguerite found herself positively exultant at the sight of Ned pummeling the comte. She was more bloodthirsty than she had realized. However, Louvois was turning a rather deep shade of red, and it would be awkward if Ned actually killed him.

  She stepped over to Ned and put her hand on his arm. “That’s enough, Ned.”

  He immediately let go of Louvois, allowing him to slide down to the floor. The comte made various croaking and gasping noises which Ned ignored. His attention was fixed on Marguerite. He lifted a hand to hover over her red and aching cheek. A feral growl escaped his throat and he started to swing back to Louvois.

  She caught his hand. “No. It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right.” He ground out the words. “It’s not all right. We must get you to the doctor.”

  She started to say that there was no need, but her cheek hurt, and she felt suddenly weak, barely able to stand. She started to sway, and the next thing she knew, Ned had lifted her up and carried her through the door.

  “Louis,” he called out to the footman hovering in the hall, “throw that piece of offal out of here. His carriage must be around somewhere.”

  Up the stairs they went, with her cradled in his arms. She was trembling. Even with her arms around his neck and her face buried in the soft wool of his coat, she could not seem to stop shaking. “You do not need to carry me,” she said, but her voice, even muffled by his coat, was trembling as well.