Feather Castles (27 page)

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“Welcome to Versailles!” Devenish sauntered through the connecting door between the rooms and, amused by Tristram's astonished expression, laughed, “Did you ever see the like? Mine is just as luxurious. Does Prinny rest his ogles on this, he'll tear down his Pavilion and build himself a chateau.”

The bedchamber was, at the very least, sumptuous. Gold silken hangings descending in billowing loops from the centre of the ceiling, were caught back along the tops of the walls so as to create an opulent, tent-like effect. The draperies were of a paler gold velvet, contained by rust-coloured braided silk ropes. The furnishings were all of cherrywood, embellished with an inlaid trim of intricately wrought mahogany. On the floor were spread thick Aubusson carpets, and the bed was sufficiently outsized that even so tall a man as Tristram would be enabled to stretch out in comfort. Fine paintings, keyed to the prevailing colours of rust and gold were spaced at discreet, if rather unimaginative, intervals upon the walls, while a magnificent gilded mirror was hung above the mantel.

Hands on hips, Tristram gazed about him, and with a quirk of the lips observed, “No barracks room, is it?”

“I thought my uncle's house was ornate,” Devenish grinned. “But—this? Egad!” He strolled to sprawl on a chaise longue and choose from a bowl of fruit on the low table beside it. “Bestowed by the groom of the chambers,” he imparted, waving a bunch of grapes. “We, my poor soldier, have apparently been taken for visiting potentates.”

Tristram glanced down at his rumpled and dusty garments. “Visiting paupers, more like.”

“Worry not. Our man assured me he would provide us with suitable raiment within the hour.” Dropping a grape into his mouth, Devenish watched Tristram's tour of inspection and remarked, “If this is the treatment accorded to us, I wonder how the important guests are served.”

“The gentleman to whom you took so immediate a dislike at the lodge gate is playing some little May game of his own, I think.” Tristram wandered back to sit on the table, and went on. “Else he suspects our real motive in coming here.”

“Gerard? Slippery customer, that. Which reminds me—why was I spirited away? I should like to have seen your—er, Miss Strand.”

For a moment, Tristram stared blankly at the bowl of fruit. Then he said thoughtfully, “I believe you were removed so that Gerard could be quite sure her reaction was to my presence alone. It was very obvious she'd not been told my name.”

“Lord! What a shock for the poor girl! How did she react?”

His face enigmatic, Tristram answered, “Violently. She made a splendid recover, but—I'd the feeling a trap had been sprung exactly as Gerard hoped.”

“That fellow needs his greasy head punched! Did you hear him ask me ‘What is that
thing?
' Haughty as you please!”

“I did. I also heard you tell him it was not a
thing,
but a duck—as any fool could plainly see.”

“Yes, and he piped up with, ‘I mislike your tone!' Blasted impudence!”

“You did not help matters by telling him you didn't like one dashed thing about
him!
”

“Help matters? Why the devil should I truckle to such as he?”

“Because we are not boxing the Watch, Dev—to bait these men will not do. I must ask that you do not further antagonize Gerard.”

“Oh, must you, indeed?” Devenish sprang up and flared hotly, “One might suppose me a blundering doddipoll! I came with you, sir—”

“
Why,
I cannot understand. You said you were going back to England with your rum touch of a cousin.”

“Well, how the deuce could I do that when he went churning into the waves like a confounded merman?” His anger forgotten, Devenish's contagious grin lit his eyes. “Besides, this has all the earmarks of a juicy adventure. Be damned if I'll miss it!”

Very conscious of the weight of responsibility for the safety of four other lives, Tristram stood. “We were fortunate to gain access to this palace. To get out with our health will be little short of miraculous. You're a hell of a good man, and I would ask nothing better than to have you side me in a scrap, but for a while at least, this is going to be a subtle game of cat and mouse. Can you not control that fiery temper, you must leave before you endanger us all. No!” He flung up one hand in a gesture so commanding that the again fuming Devenish was surprised into swallowing his enraged response. “Hear me out! The more I see of this situation, the more can I appreciate the concerns of Diccon and the nun. For England, I mean to find out all I can. For myself, I swear to God I'll not leave before those girls are safely clear. I'll have your word, Devenish, that you will do as I say, and muzzle your hasty tongue.”

Staring up at him, Devenish was shocked into the awareness that although this tall, aristocratic stranger had not once raised his voice, he felt as though he'd been sternly rebuked. And, oddly, he could but like the man the more for it. “By God, Tris,” he breathed. “What a curst trial I am! You've my word, old fellow, of course. On one condition.”

Tristram's hand, coming up swiftly to meet his own, paused. One eyebrow lifted, and the ready smile faded into the coolly unfamiliar hauteur.

“Which is,” Devenish went on with a rather shy grin, “that you don't call me ‘Devenish' in just that way again.”

Tristram chuckled. “Only if you overstep the mark with Gerard!” They gripped hands firmly. “By the way,” added Tristram, resuming his seat on the table and picking up an apple. “Where is your feathered friend?”

“Under the bed in my room. She don't like this place. No more do I. It's plain I shall be obliged to keep her safe. Would you credit it, whilst I was awaiting you, I saw one of the guards—for I do not doubt but that's what they are—kill a dove!”

“Did you? A good shot?”

“Jolly good. Especially,” his eyes hardened, “since his weapon was a crossbow!”

“Now was it, by God!” breathed Tristram.

Devenish went on at some length, expounding on the guard's skill with the medieval weapon, and on his concern for his pet, but Tristram's attention wandered.

How incredibly lovely was Rachel, and how bravely she had met the challenge of his arrival. She had even sought to protect him by giving him the chance to leave in spite of Gerard's manoeuvrings. He felt a twinge of guilt: what a blasted fool to have believed Shotten's poison. He should have known better. Rachel's purity and goodness were written in her sweet face. She must not have been aware of Sanguinet's reputation—that was the only answer. And if that were so—

“Devil take you, Tris!” said Devenish, justifiably irked. “You've not heard one blasted word I said, and what you find so beguiling about that apple you must sit there and smile at it is beyond me!”

His face very red, Tristram took a bite of the beguiling apple.

Chapter 12

The fussy little gentleman at chambers, at first appalled by Tristram's size, was so fortunate as to unearth some garments left at the chateau by a noble and large guest whose plans to return had not as yet materialized. The fit, while not perfect, was swiftly improved by the talented fingers of Madame Fleur's dresser, with results sufficiently pleasing as to cause little M. Auber not only to rejoice at Captain Tristram's splendid physique, but at his own cleverness in solving the difficulty. Devenish presented less of a problem, and suitable apparel was soon offered for his approval.

As a result, the two young men joined Madame Fleur, the Misses Strand, and Monsieur Benét in the crystal lounge before dinner, with no need to blush for their appearance. The sight of Tristram in evening clothes brought a gleam of admiration to Madame, a wistful smile to the younger Miss Strand, and a sharp yearning to the heart of her sister. Many of Rachel's fears proved ill-founded, however, for while never showing her less than courtesy, Tristram's attentions were bestowed elsewhere. Madame Fleur, at first highly disapproving, was not so elderly as to be impervious to the charm of a dashing young man and was soon chattering merrily with him. Both he and his friend were, she thought, dangerously handsome, but Claude could in no way hold her responsible because that fool Gerard had pitchforked these two young men into close proximity with the Strand girls. In point of fact, much of the blame must lie at Claude's own door: Any man who brought his lovely fiancée to visit his home, only to abandon her and trot off, lord knows where, was no less than a noddicock, and so she would tell him. Perhaps. Meanwhile, she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Although apparently hanging on Madame Beauchard's every word, Tristram's senses were alert to every movement of the other occupants of this luxurious room. Charity, he had at once noted, looked pale and wan; Rachel, exquisite in a low-cut robe of primrose crepe over a white silk slip, her curls softly clustered about her ears, and with Claude's pearls glowing against her smooth throat, was very animated, her flushed cheeks and bright eyes heightening her beauty so that he could scarce endure to look at her. Her devoted admirer, Monsieur Benét, at once classified in Tristram's mind as a weak-chinned fribble, was exclaiming ecstatically over Devenish's good looks. Under different circumstances, Benét's fulsome praises might have been amusing, but Tristram was too aware of his friend's tight lips and the stormy glint in the blue eyes. Dev was restraining his temper, but—volcano that he was—did that clunch Benét not cease his ravings, it might soon become expedient to intervene.

Adroitly manipulating the conversation, he garnered from the garrulous Madame Beauchard much information that might be of use to him. After the fashion of poor relations, the lady was somewhat less grateful for her cousin's largesse than she was resentful of the need to be so obligated. At first, her remarks were cautious and so honeyed as to conjure up the picture of a loved benefactor whose disposition was as saintly as his generosity was unfailing. Madame, however, was quite partial to “a tiny drop of wine,” and Tristram only too willing to ensure her glass was never empty. Under this treatment, she mellowed considerably. The more she mellowed, the more her tongue wagged, and the more her tongue wagged the less saintly became her nephew until Claude's halo dimmed to the point of extinction.

Rachel, meanwhile, talked easily with Devenish, responded dutifully to Charity's occasional remarks, and managed to avoid being drawn into a discussion with Monsieur Benét anent the differences between the features of the new arrivals. Despite these distractions, she missed none of the soft laughter, the increasingly confiding exchanges, the unceasing flow of chatter between Tristram and Fleur. Her nerves were taut as stretched wire, her terrified heart leaping erratically for fear Benét would comprehend what she guessed Tristram was about. She had seldom been more relieved than when Devenish, seeking to escape Benét, murmured that he must make the better acquaintance of Madame, and Tristram politely changed places with him. Charity, who had been relatively quiet until now, at once engaged Antoine in conversation, under cover of which, Tristram murmured, “Dare I remark that you are looking very lovely tonight, Miss Rachel?”

“Thank you.” She leaned forward and as he bent to refill her glass, breathed softly, “I must talk to you. I shall ride early in the morning. The groom, Raoul, will tell you—”

But then Antoine turned to them, his brow furrowed and jealousy written in every line of him.

“I quite agree.” Tristram replaced the decanter on its silver tray and went on smoothly, “Never have I seen so lovely an estate.”

Benét did not think they had been discussing the estate. “But then,” he pouted, “Miss Rachel says you have little recall,
Monsieur le Capitaine.
So how could you know what you have seen?”

“You are very right, monsieur,” Tristram agreed gravely. “What I admire here may very well be—so much dross compared to other country homes. Is that what you imply?”

“No!” the artist yelped. “I had no such thought! I assure you, mademoiselle, that I intended no criticism of my cousin's—”

“Criticism of Claude?” Madame Fleur intervened, much shocked. “Whatever are you about, Antoine?”

Paling, Benét all but ran to her side. “Nothing! No, no—it is all a misunderstanding, only. Oh—
how
I am misunderstood of late!”

“Dinner,” announced the butler, regally, “is served, Madame.”

For Rachel, at least, the meal was both a joy and a nightmare. To be so close to Tristram, to see him smile, hear his deep voice and easy laugh, and even to watch the movements of his hands, was delight, but to maintain her share of the conversation and comment on simple, commonplace matters when she was so torn with worry taxed her nerves to the breaking point. Never had she been more thankful for Madame Fleur's untiring tongue; never had she waited with such pleasure through Antoine Benét's banalities.

Charity, astounded when she had been told of Tristram's arrival, had immediately clasped her hands and exclaimed, “Oh! How romantic! He has come to claim his love!” Despite her sister's refutations, nothing would move her. Tristram had, she was sure, come to Dinan to find Rachel. He had come in despite Claude's wealth and power, risking the certainty of being challenged to a duel for his daring. He was the bravest of men, and her admiration for him had soared to such dangerous levels it had been necessary for Rachel to become quite stern with her. Tristram had chanced to be journeying to France, she said dampingly, and had merely done Justin the favour of bearing his message. If Charity were to, by the slightest hint, suggest there was another reason for his presence here, it might indeed stir a witch's brew. Glowingly undampened, Charity vowed she would be flayed alive sooner than utter a syllable that might create a hazard for the Captain. And with that, Rachel had to be content.