Feather Castles (29 page)

In their preoccupation with each other, neither had heard the hoofbeats, and both glanced, startled, to the approaching horseman.

Knowing she had all but ruined everything, Rachel gave a gasp of thankfulness.

Tristram, his scowl thunderous, released her, muttering, “Curse and confound the dainty creature!”

All unaware of his mixed reception, and fortunately still some distance off, Antoine Benét waved gaily and urged his mount to a trot.

Rachel, her gaze returning to Tristram's face, said, “Do not waste your time here. Go back to England, before Claude discovers you! There is nothing for you in Dinan.”

“The devil there is not! I
shall
go back to England. You have only to say the word, and you and your sister will go with me! But—first, I'll have a look at that second floor!”

“But—I
told
you!” she said desperately. “You cannot even get to the stairs!”

“Right,” he acknowledged, his voice very low. “So I mean to climb in from the outside.” And, in a louder tone, “Good morning, Monsieur Benét.”

“What a gallop!” the artist exclaimed jubilantly, rearranging a disturbed lock of his hair as his horse ambled to join them. “How glad I am that I was able to come up with you! Is this not fun?”

His gaze flickering from the artist's curly-brimmed beaver with its jaunty red feather, to the striped yellow waistcoat and the welter of fobs and seals, Tristram smiled. “I cannot imagine anything more amusing,” he admitted.

*   *   *

Gerard was waiting in the stableyard when they returned, and he watched them dismount with a sly twinkle in his black eyes, then followed at a respectful distance. Walking to the house, Rachel attended Benét's vapid chatter with only half an ear. Her mind was still numbed by Tristram's perilous scheme. She began to feel like a caged bird, vainly beating her wings against impregnable bars, for no matter how she strove, the situation seemed to steadily worsen.

A lackey swung open the side door. Tristram's hand was upon Rachel's elbow, guiding her up the steps, that small courtesy so typical of him as to bring a blur of foolish tears to her eyes. She knew she was overwrought and walked a little faster in an effort to conceal her emotions. When Gerard called Benét aside, she did not pause, and Tristram escorted her into the house in silence. The wide expanse of the main hall opened before them.

A slender gentleman rose from a velvet sofa, both hands extended. “Welcome home, my love,” said Claude Sanguinet.

A moment or two later, Rachel's head stopped spinning, and she was able to focus upon Claude's gentle smile as Tristram bowed before him. She had introduced them somehow, her voice distant in her own ears. Her paralyzing sense of shock had apparently gone undetected, however. Tristram's bow held just the right amount of deference; Claude's was positively humble, following which he put out his hand, exclaiming in French, “Our gallant soldier! Gerard told me of your arrival. I cannot thank you enough for your intrepid defence of my betrothed and her friend. And you were already desperately wounded, I am told?”

Tristram had swiftly taken in every detail of this elegant individual. His age was indeterminate, though no effort had been spared to create an impression of youth. His figure was trim; artfully brushed locks fell across his brow; his voice was soft, his smile wide and welcoming. Yet Tristram had never met a man to whom he'd taken so instant an aversion, and he knew beyond doubting that this mild individual was very far from being what he seemed.

“You do me too much honour, monsieur,” he murmured. “I merely chanced to be so fortunate as to render some small and very brief assistance.”

“But for which assistance, my reckless—if well intentioned—lady must have been borne off before help could come. How grateful I am to be granted a chance to host you. Pray do not say that you mean to rush away. You
must
allow me the opportunity to in some small measure repay you.”

“There is no need,” said Tristram.

“I expect the Captain has other demands upon his time, Claude,” Rachel put in. “We should not detain him.”

Sanguinet smiled, and patted her hand. “Ah, but we should, my dear. Come, Captain Tristram—or must I have my men chain you, and keep you here as my captive guest?”

It was said so kindly, but Rachel felt sick, and for an instant the room dimmed before her eyes.

Tristram laughed easily. “Monsieur is all generosity. But I fear my wardrobe must disgrace so palatial an abode. You have already been more than kind, and my friend and I—”

“The friend. Ah, yes. We must not forget the so estimable friend. Mr. Devenish, is it not? And he has, I am told, a most unusual companion.”

“A duck, sir. But if that annoys you…”

“Annoys me?” Claude slipped his free hand through Tristram's arm and, walking between them to the stairs, said warmly, “How could anything you do annoy me? I am eternally in your debt. As to clothes, your groom at chambers has already called in the tailor. He awaits you now, and by tomorrow your ball dress shall be ready.”

“Tomorrow? Is that possible? I am scarce an easy fit, you know.”

“True.” Sanguinet's quizzing glass was upraised and swept his guest from boots to crown. “My, but you're a big fellow. Even so—I assure you, the problem is small compared to others we have—ah, dealt with. My people, you see, are hand-picked, and are highly—efficient. Now, you will, I beg, accept my apologies, but my steward has assembled a host of matters requiring my attention. I shall look forward to bettering my acquaintance with you at luncheon.”

Tristram bowed, and Claude watched him speculatively as he started up the stairs. Turning to Rachel, he said, “My love, my love, you grow more beautiful each time I behold you. Yet—do I detect a certain—disquiet?”

“I am very glad you have returned,” she answered in a low tone. “Gerard insisted Captain Tristram stay. I have tried to be polite, but—”

“But? My dear girl! The gentleman saved your life, no?”

“He was brave, I own. But we repaid him. Guy allowed him to be carried over to England on
La Hautemant;
he was funded and given clothes. Surely, that was sufficient?”

He laughed softly and, twining one of her curls about his finger, mused, “My funny little English girl. How quaint you are. Is there a price on one's life? Your so precious life, especially? His face is sadly marred, I admit. Does that give you a disgust of him? He must have been a well-enough looking fellow at one time, and certainly of gentle birth, for both speech and manners are impeccable. What so displeases you?”

Rachel sighed. “I cannot really say. Except—once, when he was delirious, he spoke of—murder!” She raised frightened eyes to his face. “I cannot but be uneasy in his presence. Claude, I wish you will send him away!”

“A murderer?” He glanced after the now vanished Tristram. “Why, how very interesting. I must certainly learn more of the fellow.”

*   *   *

Rachel walked along the corridor with eyes blind to the sumptuous decor and a heart heavy with a sense of impending disaster. Tristram
must not
attempt that desperate assault on the second floor! He would surely be seen, and then— She shivered, trying not to believe what her instinct told her would happen, but she had a sudden mental picture of Gerard's acid smile and cold eyes; of the brutish faces of some of the guards. Dear God—it did not bear thinking of! And surely such things did not happen to ordinary people. But Claude was not an ordinary person. There were ghastly stories concerning British officers captured during the war. A spy would warrant even more savage treatment; especially any man daring to spy on a Sanguinet!

A lackey had flung open the door to her bedchamber, and here she stood, motionless in the corridor, like a total henwit! She murmured her thanks and hurried inside.

Her intention to sit by herself and try to think of a way out was abandoned at once, for from the
petit salon
came the sounds of weeping. Tossing hat, riding whip, and gloves onto the bed, she flew to open the connecting door. Agatha was the lady in distress, kneeling huddled beside Charity's chair while the girl bent forward, trying to comfort her.

“Good heavens!” cried Rachel, hurrying to them. “Whatever is wrong? Is it Raoul?”

“N-no, miss,” wailed Agatha, apron to streaming eyes. “It's—it's—”

“It is me,” said Charity, sternly. “Rachel—were I able to stand, I would shake you! Hard!”

“What … on earth?”

“She made me tell,” Agatha gulped damply. “M-Miss Charity tricked me, and—”

“And extracted the truth as to what has gone on all these weeks! Though it needed very little to confirm what I already suspected. Rachel—” Sudden tears swam into Charity's shadowed eyes. “Oh—Rachel! How
could
you? How could you think I could—could
bear
to know you had s-sacrificed yourself for—for me?”

“Dearest!” Rachel's own eyes filled. She leaned to embrace her sister, and they wept together, all three, until the ridiculous aspects of this scene striking her, Rachel sniffed, “What a … set of watering pots … we are!”

Drying her eyes, Agatha stood, and they all began to talk at once, Agatha, striving to justify her ‘betrayal'; Charity, confessing she had bullied the poor girl into it; and Rachel, assuring them she forgave them.

Clasping her sister's hand tightly, Charity said, “Come—sit here beside me. Now—promise me, darling: No more secrets, else you will make me feel my days are numbered!”

“I promise. And, oh, how wonderful to be able to unburden myself! Now,” Rachel smiled mistily, “as proof of my reformation, I will tell you all that I know.” She recounted a somewhat edited version of events, omitting only the depth of her fear of Claude. Her revelation of Tristram's plans brought a gasp from Charity, and a small scream from Agatha. “You see,” she nodded gravely, “how hopeless it would be. It is not possible that the Colonel could gain entrance from the outside without being observed. And—and if the guards saw him—”

“My poor dear!” Charity squeezed the hand she held. “You must be utterly distraught.” She extended her other hand to Agatha and, looking up from one to the other, said softly, “We are three sensible women. Between us, surely, we can think of a scheme to help Colonel Tristram!”

Rachel said ruefully, “You were not taken aback, were you, Charity? Have you suspected Claude all along?”

“No! Oh, no! Nor imagine me an ungrateful wretch, I beg you! But—but I'll own I have found it hard to quite like him. And, oh, forgive me, dearest, but—I always knew that whatever he did for me was not really out of affection. He found me, if anything, rather … contemptible.”

Rachel winced. “I wish you had told me.”

“How could I, when he had been so good? And I could never be sure but that you truly nourished a deep fondness for him. He was such a support to you when Papa died. And—oh, is it not dreadful to feel so wretchedly guilty?”

“It is indeed the horns of a dilemma,” Rachel admitted, with a sigh.

Agatha, whose expression had become increasingly irate, now put in vehemently, “Horns is right! And on monsewer's head, was you to ask me! I'm sorry, Miss Rachel, but you hasn't seen him like us servants do! Nor the poor folks what work on his farms and estates. His brother's not as bad as he is, and they call
him
Monsewer Diabolique—did you know it? Parnell, I mean. Not Monsewer Guy. I got nothing 'gainst him.”

“Why, Agatha!” Rachel exclaimed. “I'd no idea you entertained so strong a dislike of monseigneur!”

“Dislike's a thin word, ma'am, when it comes to that one! By what my Raoul tells me, there's been many a good man killed what was in Monsewer Claude's path. Not straight out, you understand. But accidents-like. Carriages what goes and drives theirselves off of hillsides. Men just chancing to drop into pools and drown. Diplomatists driv to doing away with their poor sorry selves 'cause they was made to do what they knowed better'n to do! And—hands? Lor', Miss Rachel! There's no serving maid in this chateau but what has blushed for liberties taken! I could carry on for a hour, I could!”

“Pray do not,” said Rachel, pale and stricken. “Heaven forgive me! What have I brought you both into?”

“Nothing we cannot get out of,” Charity asserted bravely. “Do not forget the ball on Saturday. There must be many guests who would not refuse a plea that we be removed from this house!”

Rachel thought that there would likely be not a one among the guests who did not have cause to fear the powerful Sanguinets, but she said only, “And on that same evening, everyone will be downstairs, in or near the ballroom, do you not think?”

“Never doubt it, ma'am,” nodded Agatha. “There'll be good food a'plenty on all tables, and none of the servants far from getting their share.”

Scanning her sister's thoughtful features intently, Charity asked, “What is it, love? Have you thought of some plan?”

Rachel drew a deep breath and leant forward conspiratorially. “Yes. A very desperate one, yet not I think, so desperate as the Colonel's scheme. But—I shall need your help…”

*   *   *

Claude Sanguinet was silent for a long time after Gerard had finished his report. Watching him as he leaned back in the chair behind the desk of this beautifully appointed study, Gerard wondered how it could be that so much power, so much driving ambition, could be contained in so insignificant a specimen. Were it the soldier, now, the nature of the beast might not seem so implausible. Still, Bonaparte was not a big man—nor, it was said, had been Caesar.

“Do you know,” murmured Sanguinet, glancing up from the nail he pared delicately, “I am always touched to discover loyalty in my staff.”