by M C Beaton
A hand seemed to clutch Jean’s heart and she looked at him wide-eyed. “What do you mean, my lord?”
“Why, only that they cannot stay here, polluting this house with their evil games.”
Jean attempted a light note. “I should be, in that case, without work.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “Ye-es,” he agreed. “Then what, Miss Morrison? Would your aunt have you back again?”
Jean thought of all the drudgery of her life should Mrs. Delmar-Richardson decide to take her back, and a lump rose in her throat. “I should think that is highly unlikely.”
“Well, I shall just need to find something for you,” he said vaguely.
“Thank you,” Jean said in a low voice. The library door opened and Eliza Conham sailed in followed by the viscount’s three friends. She stopped short at the sight of Jean.
“Servant problems?” she asked lightly.
Jean curtsied to the viscount and left the room quickly. As she crossed the hall, she could hear the light chatter of Eliza’s voice and the viscount’s answering laugh. If the twins were sent away somewhere, what would become of her? She would need to look for another position. She gazed around the great hall, now tastefully furnished with statuary, elegant chairs, paintings, and bowls of flowers. She had come to love this odd monstrosity of a house. From outside came the cheerful talk of the gardeners and laborers who were transforming the gardens. It would have been wonderful to stay long enough to see all the improvements finished.
For the first time Jean experienced a spasm of real hatred for her charges. Why could they not have been normal little misses instead of two wanton criminals?
She went down to the stillroom and asked the maid who was working there if she might look around. The maid bobbed a curtsy and left. Jean studied a large recipe book, turning the pages until she came to Emetic Tartar. “Causes a burning pain in the region of the stomach, vomiting, and great purging. It has not often been known to destroy life.”
She did not want them devasted, only too ill to go out. She searched the shelves until she found a small blue glass jar containing the tartar crystals. But what to put the emetic in? Something, she thought, that they were forbidden to eat. Then she remembered that in the hampers of delicacies that had arrived from London for the supper at the ball had been boxes of chocolates. Amanda and Clarissa had been told firmly to leave them alone. But what if they were to come across some?
Jean went out of the stillroom and asked a maid to fetch her some chocolates if there were any left. The maid brought back a large box that was half-full.
Jean dismissed her and then carefully inserted a tiny amount of the crystals, which she first powdered, into each chocolate. With a warm knife she carefully repaired the sweets so that there was no sign they had been tampered with. Then she fetched a tazza from the kitchen and arranged the chocolates on it. She did not want to be seen carrying the tazza herself, so she handed the glass dish to a footman and told him to take it up to the drawing room. She experienced a momentary pang. What if the viscount’s guests helped themselves to the chocolates? On the other hand, they usually congregated in the library or in the Green Saloon, the drawing room because of the dancing lessons being regarded as an extension to the schoolroom.
She waited for a half hour and then went up to the drawing room, hearing the sound of laughter as she approached. She opened the door. Mr. Perdu was there with the twins. He jumped up when he saw her, crying, “Why, here is our beautiful Miss Morrison!”
Jean’s eyes went straight to the tazza. All the chocolates were still there. She was not worried about Perdu eating any of them, for he had already claimed a distaste for sweetmeats, but she could not understand why the girls had not touched them. On the other hand, if she forbade them to touch them …
“Chocolates!” she exclaimed. “What are those things doing here? You are not to touch them!”
“We haven’t touched ’em,” Amanda said. “We’re keeping ourselves slim and beautiful,” and she threw Mr. Perdu a flirtatious look while Clarissa simpered. Jean’s heart sank. Of course the girls were enamored of the smuggler. Still, it was worth a try. She picked up the tazza. “I shall take temptation out of your way, however.” Then she pretended to hear something and put the glass dish back down. “I think I hear Mrs. Moody calling. I shall return shortly. Don’t touch even one chocolate!”
“You know something,” Amanda said, greedily eyeing the chocolates, “that one fancies herself as mistress o’ the house. We’re the ladies here, not her. Demme, I’m going to have one.”
She picked the largest one and chewed it appreciatively. Perdu laughed. “I always like a lady who’s a cozy armful.” That was enough for Clarissa, who took one as well.
Jean found Mrs. Moody and engaged her in conversation, asking her how long the guests were going to stay while all the time waiting tensely to hear if anything was happening in the drawing room. And then Perdu came running up.
“My ladies are ill,” he cried.
Jean hurried to the drawing room, followed by Mrs. Moody. She was glad when she saw that they had eaten half the chocolates that she had put only a tiny drop in each, for, as it was, the twins looked deathly ill. Maids were called along with Betty, the lady’s maid, to take them to their room and the physician was sent for. He diagnosed food poisoning and purged the twins further and then dosed them with laudanum until, by evening, they were both fast asleep.
The viscount was entertaining his guests at dinner, and so she could not tell him of her success. She herself was forced to dine with Perdu. She was suddenly very glad he did not like chocolates. If he had fallen ill as well, who would wave the lights on the beach to guide the smugglers in? And then how would they be easily caught?
“You are very pensive tonight,” Perdu remarked.
“I am tired,” Jean said. “I did not get very much sleep last night. I did not see you at the ball.”
“As I am only the dancing master,” he said with mock humility, “I considered it better to stay abovestairs.
“How is your head now?” he asked. “I gather a branch fell on you.”
His eyes were teasing, and all at once Jean was sure that one of his men had struck her down. She replied calmly that she felt well and ate steadily, managing to maintain a flow of light conversation to hide her loathing and distaste for the man.
At last dinner was over. She retired to her room, rang the bell, and told the footman who answered its summons to ask the viscount if she could speak to him.
The footman returned to say he awaited her in the drawing room. Jean was glad she had taken the rest of those chocolates and thrown them away before anyone else could eat them.
He rose to meet her as she entered. He was finely dressed in an impeccable evening coat and breeches. He looked as if he did not have a care in the world.
“When did Perdu say he was leaving, my lord?” Jean asked.
“Tomorrow morning, of course. He had the impertinence to ask for double the fee promised him, so I told him I would pay him in the morning, by which time he should be well and truly locked up.”
“And what do we do?”
“You do nothing this evening, Miss Morrison, except go to bed. There will be a whole army down at that summerhouse.”
“Do your guests know anything of this?’
“Of course not. I have told them not to be disturbed by any sounds of shooting in the night, that the wilderness of garden at the back is overrun with rabbits and that the servants are clearing them.”
“In the middle of the night? Will they believe that?”
He smiled. “They have all drunk so much, they will believe anything. I also made up my mind to shorten their stay by saying that the builders were moving in tomorrow. My poor friends from London are the only ones who are upset. They keep saying they are tired of making the long journey, only to be sent away again. They had planned to stay for two months.”
“And so what is to become of the Misses Courtne
y?”
“I shall deal with that problem when I have dealt with the present one. Go to bed, Miss Morrison.”
Jean curtsied and left. She looked in on the twins. They were sleeping heavily. She closed their door softly and went to her own room. She was too strung up to go to bed. She settled herself in a chair and tried to read, but she listened all the while for sounds of shooting.
At last she could not bear the suspense any longer. She went out to the landing, moved aside the cabinet, and opened the door to the secret stairway. She walked down it, holding a candle which she extinguished as soon as she reached the garden.
The night was very black and still. She stayed where she was at the entrance to the secret stairway, knowing that the gardens must be crawling with men waiting for the smugglers.
Then she heard the harsh cry of a sea gull far away and the answering cry from somewhere on the beach in the direction of the summerhouse. Silence again. The moon moved out from behind a cloud, silvering the leaves of a bush near her, lighting up the twisting path where she had been struck down. Then she heard faintly the smooth rise and dip of oars. Perdu would be on the beach, waving a lantern to guide the men in.
She could hear men’s voices now, the scrape of a boat’s keel on the sand, an occasional grunt as barrels and kegs were lifted ashore.
Then silence again, a silence so complete that she began to wonder if no one had turned up to arrest the smugglers.
The moon slid behind a cloud again, and all was calm and peaceful.
A great voice shouting “In the King’s name!” made her jump. Then the bushes seemed to be alive with men. Jean backed slowly into the passage behind her and fumbled to light the candle. At last she succeeded and was just about to mount the stairs when she heard the sound of running footsteps. She stayed, frozen, at the foot of the stairs.
Perdu darted into the passage, his face glittering with sweat. He was holding a gun. He saw her and his eyes narrowed. “Not a word,” he snarled. “Not a murmur. Up the stairs with you.”
Jean numbly led the way, cursing herself for her folly. The gun was rammed into her back. When she reached the landing, he told her to go to her room. She thought he was going to lock her in and then make his escape, but he pushed his way in after her and then locked the door. Jean set the candle down on a table, noticing with an odd pride that her hand was steady.
“Now,” he said, “you interfering bitch. I see it all. You poisoned my little helpers with those damned chocolates. You brought this on me. Do you know what I do to informers? I roasted a man alive over a spit like an animal a year ago.” He gave an ugly laugh. All charm was stripped from him. He looked evil and brutal.
“You aren’t French,” Jean said. “I don’t even think you have ever been a dancing master.”
“Oh, I was that, my fine lady, in Dublin some years ago. There’s little that the Irish bastard of some English lord can do for a living.”
“Are you going to kill me?” Jean asked.
“Not now. You will write a note that you will put onto the outside of your door, saying you are sick and you desire to be left alone. I will hide out here while they scour the countryside for me.”
“And if I refuse to write such a note? A shot would be heard, you know.”
“I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you, you trollop. Strangling’s good enough for you. Now, write! And no tricks.”
Jean took out her traveling writing case, wishing it contained a knife or gun or something she could use against him. She wrote: “I desire not to be disturbed. I have the vapors, J. Morrison.”
She passed it to him. He read it and then ordered her to fasten it on the outside of her door, keeping her covered all the while with the gun as he unlocked the door. Jean wedged the note into the fingerplate.
“What now?” she asked.
“Well, now I think we pass the night pleasantly. You can start by taking your clothes off.”
The viscount was cursing the escape of Perdu, the ringleader. They had captured everyone else. He walked into the castle hall, restless and uneasy. He felt he had better check the girls’ room, because the more he thought about it, the more he realized Perdu would try to go to ground instead of fleeing across the countryside.
The twins were fast asleep. He checked under their bed and in the wardrobe just to make sure. He found the duplicate key to their door and pocketed it. Then he walked to Jean’s room, hoping to find the door open so that he could tell her of the night’s adventures. He saw the note and read it. Poor Miss Morrison! He gave a wry smile and turned away. He was halfway down the stairs when it suddenly struck him that Jean Morrison was not the sort of lady to suffer from the vapors. Or even if she did, she would be too proud to say so. And what lady, feeling ill, locked her door?
He ran down to the servants’ quarters, grabbed the spare key to Jean’s bedroom, went to the library desk, took a pistol from the bottom drawer, and primed it, cursing at the time it took. He ran up the stairs.
Inside her bedroom Jean was backed against the wall, facing her tormentor, who was laughing at her. “You appear to think it a fate worse than death,” he jeered. “Come here!”
Jean, her nerves strained to the breaking point, heard a soft footfall in the passage outside. She turned away from him and looked down at the toilet table. Her eyes fell on a bottle of scent she had bought in St. Giles. She gently removed the stopper. Turning back and holding the bottle behind her back, she smiled at Perdu. “Perhaps we could come to an arrangement,” she said.
“That’s more like it,” he said with a grin. He moved toward her. She heard the key turn in the lock, whipped out the scent bottle, blessing the fact that it had a wide top, and dashed the contents in his face. She darted to one side as he fired blindly. There was an answering report from the doorway, and Perdu fell to his knees, clutching the spreading red stain on his chest as the viscount entered the room.
Jean flew into the viscount’s arms, crying, “He was going to rape me. I did not know what to do. Is he dead?”
He gently extricated himself from her clinging arms and knelt down beside Perdu. “Not yet,” he said laconically, “but any moment now. I may as well rouse the servants and get them to remove him. I have kept them out of this affair, fearing word of our ambush might get out.”
“Do you mind if I leave this room?” Jean asked faintly.
“Of course not. You have been very brave.” He bent once more over Perdu. “Yes, quite dead now. Once we have moved this body, you can go to bed.”
“Here!” Jean squeaked. “In a room in which killing has taken place!”
“Take your night rail and go to my room.” He saw the expression on her face and said quickly, “I shall find another bed somewhere. Did … er … Perdu molest you in any way?”
Jean shuddered. “No, you came just in time.”
“Then off with you. A good night’s sleep is what you need.”
Jean collected her night things, wondering at his calm, why he did not try to comfort her, for she had been through enough to devastate the strongest female. Then with a pang she realized she was a servant now, and servants were not expected to have feelings any more than the beasts of the field.
She went into his room rather timidly, undressed, and climbed into his large bed. She lay wide awake for a few moments, still shivering with fright, and then she suddenly fell asleep.
Amanda awoke suddenly, sat up, and looked around groggily. Memory came flooding back, and she shook Clarissa awake. “What’s the time?” Amanda hissed.
Clarissa struggled out of bed and drew back the curtains. Gray light flooded the room. “Dawn!” Amanda exclaimed. “Too late. Odd’s fish, I still feel like death. I’m damned if I’ll ever touch a chocolate again.”
“Me too,” Clarissa wailed, clutching her stomach.
Amanda grabbed her arm. “Listen! There’s the deuce of a commotion coming from downstairs.”
She pulled on her wrapper. “Let’s creep out and see.” She tried
the door. “Not locked. Didn’t bother to lock us in.”
Side by side they went to the landing, then down the stairs, and leaned over the banisters so they could see into the hall. The main door was standing open. The viscount was there, talking to a colonel. As they watched, two soldiers appeared, carrying a body which they dragged outside. A red ray from the rising sun shone full on the dead man’s face.
“Perdu!” Amanda gasped. “Oh, God in heaven.”
Clarissa began to weep and wail. Alerted by the noise, the viscount looked up and saw them, and his face hardened. “Go to your room immediately,” he shouted.
Amanda and Clarissa, sobbing and crying, stumbled back up to their room. By the time the viscount called on them, their weeping had stopped and they were sitting in sullen silence.
“Well?” the viscount demanded. “And what have you pair to say for yourselves?”
“How did he die?” Amanda asked.
“Ah, I note you ask how did he die, where an innocent person would have asked why. I know you were both in league with Perdu. I gather his name is really Brian Magbee, but we will continue to call him Perdu. He is a murderer and torturer as well as a smuggler. Had it not been for the bravery of Miss Morrison, he might have escaped. Now, then, out with it. Why did you help him?”
Clarissa sniffled dismally. “He forced us to do it,” Amanda said. “He said he would kill us, else.”
“I saw you together, and you were very merry. I would judge you both doted on the scoundrel. I will try another tack. How long have you been engaged in helping the smugglers? No lies now.”
“A year,” Amanda said sulkily.
“And how did they pay you? Chocolates?”
“Things like that,” Amanda said, having no intention of telling him about the gold they had been paid.
“Before you go back to sleep, you will both accompany me to the schoolroom,” the viscount said, “and you will write statements to say that you have been involved in smuggling and you will sign them. I will keep them. I will then decide on your futures. I can do as I wish with you, for one bit of trouble from you and I shall send your statements to the lawyers.”
