Feather Castles (30 page)

Gerard inclined his head with grave gratification.

“On the other hand,” Sanguinet went on, “my pleasure is reduced does loyalty stem from a less—shall we say, noble?—impulse.” He waved the small knife he held and smiled beneficently. “You follow me?”

With an unpleasant dryness of the mouth, Gerard said, “I am not sure that I do, monseigneur. I thought I was acting in your best interests, and—”

“And yours, also?” Sanguinet resumed the care of his nails and, after a very quiet moment, observed, “Forgive, if memory serves me ill, but—was there not one Colette? A bewitching creature who brought enchantment to my nights a few years back?” A swift glance was directed at the stiffly immobile man before the desk. “When she ceased to—enchant, I gave her to you. Did I not?”

“You are unfailingly generous, monseigneur.”

“Ah, well done! Still, do you know, I have forgot what became of the child. You did not wed her, I think?”

He knew. Damn him, he knew! Rage so consumed Gerard that he quivered with it, but his voice was even and colourless when he spoke. “She ran away, monseigneur.”

“So she did! How clumsy of me to resurrect so unsettling a memory. Indeed, it asounded me at the time that she could be so lacking in judgment as to choose a—what was the fellow?”

“A baker. Sir.”

“A baker. To choose such, over yourself!” Sanguinet clicked his tongue. “Inexplicable.”

A small pulse beginning to flicker beside his right eye, Gerard said, “His baking days are done, monseigneur.”

“Yes. Such a pity. But—it grieves me, Gerard, to say so gauche a thing, but—however soon she ceases to enchant me, I shall not give away—my wife.” And he leaned back, regarding his steward with a faint smile, the little knife waving gently back and forth.

“I—I do not take your meaning, monseigneur.”

“I suspect that is because there is—nothing to … take, my dear Gerard. Still, I must try to be less obscure in my remarks. Now, as to our soldier—is he lover—or spy? I was at first surprised you had allowed him to stay. But you have done well. He is a worthy opponent, I think. I wonder what is his family? Do you know this?”

“No, sir.”

“And, would-be Nabob, Justin Strand. Have you set about discovering his whereabouts?”

“I have, sir.”

“How delightful.” Claude smiled comfortably. “I think we may have a most pleasant week-end, Gerard. Most pleasant.”

His face schooled to cool impassivity, Gerard reflected that the week-end would be so much more pleasant did he rid the world of the aristocratic savage behind the desk. On the other hand, Sanguinet paid so well. And when his plans were brought to fruition the rewards would be enormous.

Claude glanced up. Gerard smiled, bowed, and left him.

Chapter 13

The great chandelier that hung above the dining table blazed with the light of its fifty candles; the crystal prisms sparkled like diamonds, and the mirrors lining both long walls reflected the luxurious room so that it seemed lit by a hundred rather than one chandelier. This being the small, or family, dining room, the table was a mere fifteen feet in length and, seated at its head, Claude smiled from Rachel at his right hand, to Tristram, at his left. “How gratifying this is,” he said in his gentle way. “If you but knew,
Monsieur le Capitaine,
how I have yearned to meet the gentleman who rendered my lady so great a service.” He bestowed an adoring smile on the quiet Rachel. “If only I might be of some equal service. For instance—to restore your lost memory. How vexing that must be. I heard that at the onset you scarce knew whether you were French or English, and indeed your French is better than that of many of my countrymen.” With a whimsical arch of the brows, he asked, “Are you—
quite
sure upon which side you fought, sir?”

“I can be sure of nothing, actually,” said Tristram, refusing the escargots the manservant offered. “I suspect I am English, however. I trust that that does not distress monseigneur?”

“How can you say this? No, no. I am,
au contraire,
most fond of your—Perfidious Albion.”

Claude rested a fond glance on his betrothed, but the glance that was slanted at him from further down the table was far from fond, seeing which Tristram tensed, and Antoine Benét, seated directly across from Devenish, simpered, “You should not use this term, my dear Claude. You have offended Monsieur Alain.”

“No—but I am shattered!” cried Claude. “Monsieur will forgive me, I trust. I intended no offence.”

Scarlet, as all eyes turned to him, Devenish stammered, “Not at all. I did not—I mean, I—”

“Ah, then it is our naughty Antoine.” Claude's pained anxiety relaxed into a smile. “He is put out, do you know, because I have placed
Monsieur le Capitaine
in the place of honour. Now, never look so horrified, my dear Antoine. I am not displeased with you. Perhaps we may persuade Monsieur Devenish to pose for a portrait. That would placate you—no?”

Benét's dismay eased, and with an eager gleam brightening his weak eyes, he agreed, “It would delight me, cousin. But you mistake, do you suppose me in any way distressed by my position at table.” He beamed across at Devenish. “Monsieur Alain—so French a name, is it not delicious?—
will
you sit for me? It is the dearest wish of my heart. To transfer such perfection of feature to canvas—ah, an artist's dream!” He cast his eyes ceiling-ward and placed one white hand upon his thin chest to express his rapture.

“Good … God!” muttered Devenish, squirming, and with his own eyes miserably fixed upon his plate.

“Regard me this, I implore you,
mes amis,
” urged Benét, now fluttering his hand aloft to summon all attention. “Note the line of the nose—your head lift up, I entreat, Monsieur Alain. The chin—so firm and yet so shapely. The tender mouth, the—”

“Enough! Enough!” laughed Claude. “Our poor Devenish will quite murder you, Antoine. Oh! Your pardon, Captain Tristram! Again, I commit the
faux pas!
”

By not so much as the flicker of an eyelash did Tristram betray himself, but Devenish directed a startled look at him, seeing which, Claude's lazy smile widened.

“Faux pas?”
Tristram repeated blankly. “But—how so, monsieur?”

“You must call me ‘Claude.' And you must also please disregard my—bow drawn at random as it were. A clumsy attempt to prod your reluctant memory, my dear sir. And all, apparently, to no avail. That such as yourself should be so afflicted is quite insupportable. I cannot and will not allow it to continue! No—do not seek to dissuade me! My physician, Dr. Ulrich, arrives tomorrow, and I mean to insist that he examine you. He may have some—er, technique to jog your power of recall.”

Rachel smothered a gasp. Devenish was openly frowning at his host. Tristram thought, ‘Why, you devious little weasel!' and said aloud, “There are no words to express my feelings, monseigneur.”

An appreciative gleam lit Claude's eyes, and he raised one hand in a slight gesture reminiscent of a fencer acknowledging a hit.

“Nor to express my impatience,” struck in Antoine's affected falsetto. “I am beside myself, fairly beside myself! Claude—I demand your aid! Intercede with this so splendid but atrociously shy Devenish! Upon canvas I must put—”

“But I am crushed,” Rachel intervened, alarmed by the savage irritation in Devenish's taut features. “You have not yet finished
my
portrait, Antoine!”

In the act of raising his wineglass, Claude checked for an instant. He set the glass down and, before Antoine could respond, asked, “And do you like what you have seen of your portrait, my dear?”

“She has not seen it!” Benét struck in, his eyes frightened. “I did not let her go up there, Claude! You know I—”

“But—why ever not?” Claude's tone was bland as ever, but watching him, Tristram saw a brief but quelling glare. “Really, Antoine, you speak as though— Guy!” He sprang to his feet, smiling warmly to the man who had wandered into the room only to halt, staring in astonishment at Tristram. “Welcome, my dear brother!”

“What—in God's name…?” gasped Guy Sanguinet.

“Ah, yes. You are acquainted with
Monsieur le Capitaine,
so I am informed,” Claude nodded.

“Yes. But—”

“I came with a message for Miss Strand,” Tristram offered, coming to his feet.

“From her brother,” Claude nodded. “Do, pray be seated, Guy—I cannot have my poor guests inconvenienced. Ah, that is better. You doubtless saw Justin Strand, since you are newly arrived from England, eh?”

Those dread words seemed to Rachel to hang suspended upon the fragrant air. It appeared to her that even the flames of the candles ceased their flickering as she waited, like one frozen, for the inevitable denouement.

“Oui,”
said Guy, frowningly. “But I'd no notion he had seen you, soldier.”

Rachel had to sink her nails into her palms to conceal her overwhelming relief. Devenish's jaw dropped ludicrously. Claude smiled his suave smile and was silent.

Inwardly astonished, Tristram said, “Just before I sailed. He is most anxious that his sisters go home at once.” Despite his calm assurance, his brain was racing. Justin Strand had apparently been so accommodating as to return to England. Guy's narrow scrutiny, however, might well presage an accusation. It was all too likely that the man knew he'd not so much as laid eyes on Strand, in which case it might become necessary to fight his way out. His gaze flickered about the table. Benét would present no problem, and Claude was not the athletic type, though he probably had a derringer concealed somewhere about his person. Guy, while an innocent by comparison to his brother, presented the greater physical threat, and those two large footmen at the doors had the same hardness of eye that marked the guards. It would be a close-run thing, he acknowledged grimly, even with Dev siding him.

“Strand is naturally eager to see his sisters,” Guy agreed. Tristram met his eyes in a level stare, and he went on, “Though you do not appear to be rushing them away, sir.”

Wondering what this young Frenchman was about, Tristram shugged. “Your brother was so kind as to press me to stay, though I have assured him there is no least obligation.”

“Oh, he has,” Claude confirmed. “Repeatedly. One might almost fancy him eager to leave us. But,” he leaned to seize Tristram's shoulder and shake it jovially, “you must allow me,
mon Capitaine,
to be the best judge of how much I—ah, owe you.” His smile flashed, then he transferred his attention to his brother. “Speaking of which, Guy, I have but now discovered that you were so thoughtful as to convey Captain Tristram to England aboard my yacht. I could wish you had written me of it, so that I might have sought him out sooner.” Guy looked at him steadily, but said nothing, and Claude went on, “Miss Charity, are you well enough to sing for us? Did you know, Monsieur Devenish, that my brother is quite an accomplished musician?”

Devenish, feeling limp, admitted he was unaware of this fact since he had not as yet been privileged to meet Monsieur Guy. This omission having been corrected, the dinner proceeded without apparent incident. Of the eight people gathered about that beautifully set table however, only two were unaware of the deadly undercurrent to the pleasant conversation, and thus able to do justice to the excellent repast monseigneur's chef had created.

*   *   *

Throughout the interval during which the ladies waited in the oval drawing room for the arrival of the gentlemen, Madame Fleur chattered animatedly. Rachel, her nerves strung tight, helped Charity leaf through a collection of music that a wooden-faced footman had provided. When at last the gentlemen joined them, Rachel's searching gaze could discern no sign of tension. Claude rested one hand lightly upon his brother's shoulder, and they all were laughing at some remark Benét had made.

Two lackeys carried in a spinet, and the next hour passed quite charmingly. Guy proved to be a fine musician, even as Claude had claimed, and Charity's clear little voice, easily drowned by a less skilled accompanist, was flatteringly complemented by his music.

Never, in all Rachel's knowledge of him, had Claude been more attentive than he was that evening. His eyes constantly sought her out; his every concern was for her comfort, her enjoyment; he was very obviously the devoted and adoring lover. Yet, striving to respond suitably to this flattering behaviour, managing to appear shyly appreciative of it, Rachel's attention often wandered. Despite her firm resolve to banish all useless dreams, her bedevilled mind seemed of its own volition to constantly draw comparisons between the two men: Claude's full, well-shaped lips and the smile that endlessly hovered there, but never quite succeeded in warming the bland, blank eyes. Tristram, his wide mouth grave, but laughter twinkling in his eyes as he bent to answer a sally from the usually shy Charity. Claude, expounding with obvious and rather tiresome pride upon his chateau and the lands about it; Tristram, quietly ensuring that Madame Fleur was comfortably settled and a screen placed to shield her from a draught on this rather chill evening. And when Madame, who'd not known of Devenish's pet, heard Mrs. O'Crumbs mentioned and with knit brows strove to place “the lady” and was sure she not only knew her, but had made her come-out in the same year, it was to Tristram that Rachel's hilarious glance flashed, and his the laughing eyes that met her own and made her heart turn over.

When the refreshments were brought in at ten o'clock, Claude took Rachel by the hand and, with a conspiratorial wink and a murmur of apology to his guests, led her from the room. She avoided Tristram's cool gaze, her heart thundering with dread. If Claude meant to embrace her again, as he had in Sussex, how would she endure it? But endure she must—to all intents and purposes she was his affianced bride—he had every right to expect a kiss … or two.