Feather Castles (10 page)

“
Such
a villain!” the proprietor had agreed amusedly and leaned closer to murmur in her ear, “Would I had so cunning a villain to guide
me,
mademoiselle!”

With her hand on the parlour doorknob, Rachel paused. How could Tristram know whether or not he had a maiden aunt? Both that lady and her Bath admirers had been a fabrication she'd been too discomposed to detect! “The rogue!” she exclaimed, and, mentally resolving to call Tristram to account for his heinous conduct, walked into the room.

Sister Maria Evangeline stood to welcome her. “How merry you look, child. Had you a nice shopping expedition? I doubt you may ride this afternoon, for it looks as if it might come on to rain.”

“I mean to go to the circulating library, at all events,” said Rachel, the smile in her eyes fading to dismay as she saw that Agatha was dressed and hurrying to assist her. Relinquishing her hat and gloves to the abigail, she said with an oddly hollow feeling beneath her ribs, “Why, Agatha. How splendid to see you up and about again.”

“Is it not?” The nun restored her bulk to the armchair. “By tomorrow she will be able to relieve Captain Tristram of his duties and go about with you.”

“How nice,” said Rachel, with a singular lack of enthusiasm. “Now, you must not overdo, Agatha.”

“Small fear of that, Miss Rachel. Oh, before I forget, here's a letter come from Monseigneur.”

Rachel stood utterly motionless. Staring blankly at the folded paper that was held out to her, she did not see the swift and meaningful exchange of glances between the two women; she saw only Tristram's crooked grin … Recovering herself, she took the letter and broke the seal.

Claude had written in French:

My Dearest Rachel—

I am devastated to be so delayed in joining you. However, a matter of business compels me to journey first to Scotland. How may I atone for having kept you in Dover these many days? Will you allow me to suggest that you at once return to Strand Hall? I may thus be at ease in concluding my affairs, nor imagine you crushingly bored, cooped up in that dreary inn.

I mean to bring my Aunt Fleur to Sussex, to act as chaperon, and then you and I shall proceed to my Chateau. It will be a treat for you to see your new home for the first time, my dear, and one I can scarce wait to observe. Meanwhile, I have instructed Guy to convey you to London at the first opportunity, for I entertain a great deal, and you will wish to purchase some new ball gowns. You must allow me to have the reckoning for these; after all, we are formally betrothed, and it is my right, is it not?

I shall be with you as soon as is humanly possible. Until then,

Adieu, sweet creature,

Yr. devoted

Sanguinet.

“Is something wrong, child?”

“What?” Startled, she found that she was frowning, and summoned a smile. “Oh, no. It is only that Claude sends word he cannot come for a little while, and desires that I return to Strand Hall.”

“Does this upset you?”

“Not at all. But—we have no coachman until Guy returns.”

“No need to fret,” said the nun placidly. “I do not doubt that Captain Tristram is capable of hiring a post-chaise and would likely be willing to escort us back to the Hall.”

Rachel looked at her steadily. “I rather suspect we have imposed sufficiently upon the Captain, Sister.”

Her eyes innocently wide, Agatha asked, “You never mean to stay here, Miss Rachel? Against Monseigneur's wishes? Eh, but he'll cut up stiff, I'll be bound!”

Neither tone nor words found favour with Rachel. She dealt her abigail a sharp scold and, further irked by the twinkle in Sister Maria Evangeline's eyes, stormed into her bedchamber in complete vexation.

She was still repenting that foolish show of anger when she made her way along the busy street towards Wright's Circulating Library. It had been necessary that she hug Agatha before luncheon, so as to restore her to spirits, and why she should have become so very cross when the poor soul was just recovered from such a nasty cold was quite beyond her power to understand. Sister Maria Evangeline had eaten with them and throughout had maintained an air so saintly smug that Rachel had yearned to scratch her. She was too honest, however, to continue to blame her sense of irritation on either Agatha or the nun. The real irritant had been Claude's letter. She had been a trifle put out when she'd been ordered to wait for him in Dover. To be now desired to return to Sussex and await his convenience; to be instructed to buy some new ball gowns—as though the few she had were not perfectly presentable!—and above all, to be informed that he would have the arrogance to bring a lady she'd never laid eyes on to act as chaperon was little short of infuriating. Further, the letter implied that when she accompanied Claude to Dinan, Charity was to be left in Sussex! It was very clear that she and M. Claude Sanguinet had some caps to pull! She could just imagine Captain Tristram ordering her about so summarily. The anger faded from her eyes and was replaced by a rueful smile. Tristram would manoeuvre her just as surely. Only he would accomplish it with such fiendish tact she'd not realize she had been manoeuvred until it was too late. She stepped aside to avoid three ladies with arms entwined and an obvious disinclination to yield the right of way. Rachel's frown, however, was directed at herself. What nonsense was she now indulging in? Claude was the dearest man imaginable. Thanks to him her beloved sister had been restored to a state of health she'd not dared to hope for. He had been the soul of generosity, and was, as Justin would have said, so very well to pass that he could offer her a life of luxury that most ladies only dreamed of. More to the point, his brilliant—and extremely dear—surgeon had expressed the hope that someday he might restore to Charity the ability to walk! Nothing must interfere with such a prospect! Nothing! Not even— She shut off that dangerous line of conjecture, but a moment later was sighing wistfully. Dear, dear Tristram. So courteous, so gallant. Such an unknown quantity. Were his worst fears realized, the summit of his ambition must be freedom from the spectre of the gallows! Even were he proven innocent, he might yet discover that he was wed after all—having a hopeful family, and with no better prospects than those of a half-pay officer. On the other hand, suppose he was highly born? She stifled another sigh. Worse and worse, for his family could only despise Rachel Strand, the daughter of that scandalous fellow who'd cheated at cards. Rachel Strand, promised to a man almost twice her own age who, however devoted, had for years been known as a notorious rake.

She blotted out such foolish and pointless speculation, and her small chin lifted resolutely. She must say her farewells to Tristram and tell him about Claude. Why she'd not done so, she could not think. Yes, she could, conscience argued. She had been so happy and had clung to that happiness, not wanting it to end. Even now, she approached the library with reluctance.

A uniformed page swung the door open for her, revealing a large room, the sides and rear devoted to rows of tall bookcases. In the centre were counters on which were spread such delights as prettily boxed marzipan and toffee, ribbons for milady's hair, mittens, sunshades defying the omnipresent umbrellas, some ells of fringe and beads, several dozen pattern cards, and several pretty workboxes. The library was well patronized, and convivial groups were seated at a number of small tables, while neat maids moved deftly among them, bearing trays laden with teapots and crockery and plates of scones and pastries.

Rachel was so intent upon locating a familiar tall figure that she did not notice the stiffening of an angular lady standing before a bookcase, nor the way in which she hurriedly rejoined a companion and at once engaged her in agitated converse.

Wandering along the narrow aisles at the rear, Rachel came upon Tristram at last, frowning down at the volume in his hand. She checked and stood watching for a moment, anticipating the now-familiar light that would come into his eyes, as though just the sight of her brightened his world. He looked up and saw her, but his expression was not one of delight. Instead, he looked pale and distraught. Alarmed, she hastened to his side.

“What is it? Whatever has upset you?”

“B-berkshire…” he whispered painfully, one hand going to his temple.

“It is a county to the west of London. A very beautiful county. Have you been there, do you think?”

The book tumbled from his hand. Rachel caught it in the nick of time and slipped it hurriedly into the nearest opening. He was swaying, his face livid. Really alarmed now, she took his arm and, glancing up, saw a bonnet shoot swiftly from sight at the end of the row.

“Come,” she murmured. “Lean on me, and we will go outside.”

He reeled, reached out blindly to steady himself, but instead clutched spasmodically at his head, a muffled groan escaping him. His disoriented movements had sent several volumes toppling. Rachel looked desperately for aid, but no one was in sight now and she hesitated to call for help and create a scene.

“Disgusting!” came the hiss of a woman's voice from beyond the bookcase. “He is inebriated, my dear Emma! At this hour! I have sent for Mr. Wright!”

“Very properly. Did you see the lady with him?”

“
Lady!
Hah! It is just such as she who cause the Quality to be spoken ill of! Are we to collect her fine protector has cast her into the gutter?”

Rachel seemed turned to stone. Not daring to look at Tristram, she stood mute and stricken.

The waspish voice responded, “If one is to judge by her Papa, it—” The confidence died to a murmur and was followed by muffled laughter.

A small, elegant, but irate-appearing gentleman hurried into view, quizzing glass upraised the better to survey Tristram, who was leaning against a shelf with shoulders hunched and eyes closed. “God bless my soul!” the newcomer exclaimed fussily. “What is the gentleman about, ma'am? I am Jonas Wright, and I tell you frankly that I tolerate no crude behaviour in my library. Never a breath of scandal in all the years I have been in business. I must insist—”

Recovering herself, Rachel said tartly, “Stop your silliness, do! The—er, Captain is newly come from Waterloo and far from well.”

Mr. Wright eyed Tristram uneasily. For such a big fellow to be carried into the street would cause a fine commotion, and if he collapsed, as he appeared likely to do, he might very well carry the whole case down with him! The young lady was a pretty thing, her anxious blue eyes fine enough to melt the heart of any man. Quality, beyond doubting; her walking dress had Paris writ all over it, and that shawl must have cost sixty guineas if it had cost a groat. His mind made up, he said with a thin smile, “I shall take this arm, ma'am. Can you guide him at all on that side? Poor fellow—at Waterloo, you say? Lucky to be alive, from what I hear. I've a small courtyard in the back. Perhaps the fresh air will revive the Captain.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said gratefully. “I am sure it will. Tristram, can you walk? This way. Slowly…”

*   *   *

“You are very determined,” observed Tristram, his voice steadier now as he lay back in the garden chair, “to dignify me with the rank of Captain. Have you also selected my Regiment, ma'am?”

Rachel's calm smile masked inner turmoil. That terrifying greyness was fading from his face. He had almost fainted, but could he have heard those spiteful cats? And, if so, how much had he heard? “Oh, the Life Guards, of course,” she replied lightly.

“A Gentleman's Son, am I?” he said with a grin, then winced, his teeth catching at his lower lip.

She bent forward to wipe his brow gently with the wet cloth the proprietor had brought her. “Your memory is returning with a vengeance. Goodness, but you pay a price for it!”

“Exorbitant,” he agreed ruefully, “for all the good it does me. I am truly sorry, Rachel. I must have made a fine spectacle of myself. You could scarcely be blamed did you refuse ever again to venture forth with me.”

She thought, with an inward sigh of relief, “So he did not hear!” This was the perfect opportunity to say her farewells—but how could she further upset him while he was so shaken? Deciding there must be a better time, she said, “It was something about Berkshire that had disturbed you, I think?”

“Yes. And clouds, if you can credit it. And a dark young lady who was, I am sure, my sister. Though I can remember nothing about her save that she was flirting with someone and I was taking her to task for it.”

“I expect you bully the poor girl endlessly,” Rachel teased, trying to chase the worry from his eyes. “I doubt she's allowed a single friend not of your choosing, or—” She interrupted herself abruptly. “
Clouds,
did you say? I wonder why—unless the weather was extreme bad, perhaps.”

He frowned and said a helpless, “I cannot remember. Oh, well—the important thing is that I found you here.”

She had told him this morning that she meant to come to the library, and, a dimple peeping, she uttered demurely, “How you could ever have done so, sir, is most remarkable.”

“Is it not? A rare gift. I've thought, in fact, that if I cannot trace my past, I might set up as an Illusionist, and tread the boards.”

“Tristram the Great!” laughed Rachel. “I shall be your first subject. Tell me, oh mighty mystic, of what am I thinking?”

He put one hand over his eyes. “Let me see … Ah! I have it! You are thinking of a lady of Quality whose fine protector has cast her forth! Back into the gutter!”

The quiet courtyard seemed to swing, the treetrunks waving like curtains in a draught. Rachel felt sick and said threadily, “So—you heard what they said.”

Tristram chuckled, took up the glass of brandy Mr. Wright had kindly supplied, and finished the small amount remaining. “Not very much of it, thank heaven! What dreadful tongues some women have.”