Feather Castles (31 page)

A glorious lackey swung open the doors of a small salon—a place of crystal and gold and red velvet. They passed inside; the doors were softly closed, and they were alone.

“You cannot know how I missed you,
chérie,
” Claude breathed, kissing her hand. “Without you, my world is
ennui.
” His lips travelled to her wrist, and she could not repress a shudder. Claude's brown eyes seemed to take on a reddish hue. “So you feel it, too,” he said huskily. “How glad I am to find you not without passion, my little one. I had feared you were a cold Englishwoman, but—” He swung her to him, his arms proving much stronger than she would have dreamed. Fighting a sense of revulsion, she forced herself to compliance. Once again, his mouth was insatiable, and she was reminded of a greedy animal rather than a lover. She closed her mind to anything but the need to lull his suspicion and somehow bore with him until he released her.

She felt sickened and degraded and swayed a little, and from under his brows his eyes darted at her with so strange a look that she was terrified into gasping, “My! But you—quite take my breath away. How very strong you are.”

She had struck the right note. Visibly pleased, he relaxed and, straightening his hair, even as she was doing, said, “I can see that I have won more of a woman than I'd dared to hope. Ah, but we shall have a happy time of it, you and I. Now—” He reached to an inner pocket. “Close your eyes and put out your hand, my love.”

She obeyed. A ring was slipped onto her finger, and Claude murmured, “
Voilà!
—see what I have found for you.”

Rachel looked down and saw a huge emerald, much too large for her small hand, glittering in the candlelight. “Oh…!” she faltered, “It is—superb! It—it must be worth a great deal.”

“It once adorned the hand of an Empress.” His eyes became remote and a queer little smile lit his eyes. Then, as though recollecting himself, he went on, “Come now, we must not keep our guests waiting, and besides, I know how you women love to show off such trinkets.”

He bowed her from the room. Passing him, Rachel stepped into the hallway of a palace. The warm air was softly perfumed; she wore a gown that was a cloud of pale blue satin and gauze; upon her feet were jewelled slippers, and on her finger the emerald of an Empress. Countless women would have envied her. But all she prayed for was a safe escape for her love—and later, another escape, one that seemed as remote as it would be difficult.

*   *   *

“Of all the cockaleery, swivel-nosed courtcards!” raged Devenish, striding about the bedchamber and flinging out his arms in the excess of his fury. “Did you see the little worm, Tris? He wants to put me on canvas!
I'll
put him on canvas! Flat on his back! And I'll paint
him!
From head to foot! Blue—with red stripes—so that sensible folk will have time to get clear of his path! The beastly little fella's queer in his attic, I tell you!”

“Can you refer to our estimable artist?” asked Tristram, innocently.

“Estimable? He's a fribble is what he is. Hell and devil confound him! I yearn—I positively pant—”

“You do indeed, Dev.” Tristram kicked off his pumps and, stretching out on the luxurious feather bed, folded his hands behind his head and mused, “Best slow down, old fellow, before you melt something.”

Quiet as it was, that utterance sobered the agitated young man. He frowned at Tristram, crossed to the bed and, hands on hips, said bitterly, “I have suffered greatly at your hands, Colonel. But, by Jupiter! do you mean to subject me to posing for that toad-eating little twiddlepoop, you can—”

“I have no such intention. I doubt we'd have time, even if…” Tristram paused thoughtfully.

“Aye. Claude suspects, that's very plain. Oily snake! He is all that men say of him. When he looks at me with that gentle smile, I feel my backbone shiver. I vow I'd sooner be in a pit with a wild boar than rouse his ire!”

“Sorry, Dev. I don't have any wild boars about me. But I'm damned sure we shall rouse friend Claude's ire. One way or t'other.”

“You mean to attempt the climb!” Devenish perched on the side of the bed. “When?”

“The night of the ball. I think we have until then. Raoul will find me a rope, and we'll smuggle it up here.”

“Why? If you mean to come in from the tree, I would suppose—”

“It occurred to me, Dev, that we might be able to fashion a loop and swing it up so as to catch the gargoyle over the window above mine. I'm on the end of the south wing, and Claude's sanctum sanctorum is just above, had you realized? You've seen the gargoyles, of course—there's one over each window. Most convenient.”

Devenish had not noticed such adornments but stared at his friend incredulously. “You'd risk your neck on so chancy a thing? What if the rope don't hold?” He stalked to the window and leaned out to peer anxiously at the gargoyle, jutting high above him. “'T'would be devilish difficult to snag, and—” He drew back and called softly, “I regret to advise that there are mice feet all over your jolly scheme. Blow out the candles and come and see.”

Tristram hastened to comply, then strode to the window. Heeding Devenish's warning that he take care, he pulled the curtain back slightly. Below, two guards sprawled on the lawn. He could see the occasional red glows of cigars burning, and the moon's fitful light revealed a gleam of metal beside them.

“Blast!” he muttered.

“Happenstance, d'you think?”

“I doubt it.”

“So do I. Jove! Look there! Crossbows!”

“Yes. They're relatively silent. Claude is taking no chance of our slipping away.” His brow furrowed, Tristram turned back into the room. “I am perfectly sure he has sent men scurrying to Sussex to talk with Strand.”

“But—why? I thought Guy backed your tale quite well.”

“He did. But it is possible that Strand was not in England when I claim to have seen him.”

“The deuce! Then—Guy would have known. And he certainly would have told Claude!”

“Perhaps not.” Tristram wandered to the mantel and relit two candelabra. A muted “quack” greeted him, and he bent to stroke Mrs. O'Crumbs, who had settled herself in the grate. “He's a different stamp to his brothers, would you not say?”

“I'd not! Much of a muchness. There's bad blood there. Was you to ask me, Guy has already told Claude we are spies, and
that
is why we've the guards outside. We're virtual prisoners, my tulip.”

“Oh, yes.” Tristram stood, nodding. “We have been from the moment we arrived. But I disagree with you about Guy. So far, I believe Claude is not sure whether we are here purely because of my—my hopeless passion for Rachel. Or whether we pose some more sinister threat.”

Noting the rueful grin, Devenish was silent. He was very sure that Tristram still cherished a hopeless passion for the beautiful Rachel Strand. What a perfectly ghastly coil for him! When Rachel had returned to the drawing room on Claude's arm this evening, with that valise-sized emerald flashing on her hand, he'd scarce dared look at Tristram. Had he himself been the man so tormented, had Yolande flaunted herself before him wearing so priceless a gift from a man she'd sold herself to, by George, but he'd have challenged the swine there and then! But old Tris was taking it like the sportsman he was. Not a whine, not a whimper. In point of fact, he looked downright— He gave a start, Tristram's faintly amused grin returning him to reality. “Oh—yes. Er, sinister threat, you said? Well, God save us all, does he suspect that, he'll snuff us both!”

“I agree. If his suspicions deepen, he'll call an end to it and discover as much as he can from us before we're disposed of.”

It was a grim prospect. Devenish resumed his seat on the bed and lapsed into a brown study. Watching him, Tristram wished with all his heart that he had persuaded the man to return to England. He walked over to the bed and said remorsefully, “I've pulled you into a fine bog, have I not? My apologies.”

The fair head swung upward. The blue eyes were fairly blazing with excitement. “To the contrary!” Devenish exclaimed. “I cannot thank you enough! I never got to the Peninsula, or even served with the Army of Occupation after Toulouse. But for you, I'd never in all my life have had the chance at such a hey-go-mad adventure! Tris!” He jumped up and began to pump Tristram's hand up and down. “You're a right one! True blue and bang up to the knocker—dashed if you ain't!”

Laughing into that beaming young face, Tristram said, “Cawker! I might have known I'd not get a logical reaction from you!”

*   *   *

“Most illogical,” observed Claude Sanguinet. He had shed his evening wear in favour of a black satin dressing gown and, comfortably reposing upon a chaise longue in the
petit salon
next to his bedchamber, held up a glass of liqueur and watched the candlelight gleam through the green wine. “One does not ‘forget' to mention such matters as the near abduction of a man's fiancée, and the spiriting away of her benefactor. I shall ask you again, dear my brother, why I was not informed.”

Guy, still clad in his evening clothes, rested one shoulder against the mantel and answered coolly, “I considered the fellow had rendered us a service. Rachel suspected he was a criminal and sought in France, so I suggested we take him over to England. I'll own that in the stress of the moment I did not stop to consider that you might disapprove of a felon travelling aboard
La Hautemant.
” He took a mouthful of wine and added dryly, “Such a radical departure from your usual—exclusive company of aristocratic cutthroats!”

Claude smiled at him over his glass. “Was this why you omitted all mention of the matter from your letter? You grow devious—dear Guy. Tell me now of Justin Strand. He really is in England?”

“Why, yes. Did not the soldier bring a message from—”

“I don't know. He says he did. Did he?”

“If you doubt it, why tolerate him?”

“Why, because he amuses me, of course. And Rachel regards him—ah—fondly, would you say?”

“No. I'd not thought that.”

“Dear brother.” Claude chuckled. “You are so predictable. How did you find things at the Towers?”

Deep within Guy's hazel eyes a wary light was born, but he said merely, “I was able to placate the local people. You should instruct your guards, Claude, to be less brutal with simple poachers. What you do in Dinan you cannot do in Chatham.”

“Nonsense. Has one sufficient money one can do anything—anywhere. What of my Parnell and the lovely Annabelle?” His eyes danced. “Aha! I have but to mention her name and you are inflamed,
n'est ce pas?
”

Guy flushed. “I might be less inflamed did Parnell treat her as his
ward!
”

“Instead of as a lover? Well, he is bewitched by the chit, and his blood hot, you cannot deny it.”

“Oh, can I not!” Standing clear of the mantel Guy faced his brother squarely. “He has the blood of a snake and pursues Annabelle not from genuine affection, but lust. He has certainly not outrun the constable, and—”

“Outrun the—constable? But, what a very British expression. You become ever more Anglicized. I wonder why?” Guy's lips tightened but he said nothing and Claude mused, “Insofar as Annabelle is concerned, I have ofttimes wondered if the problem is not that—Parnell merely does what you yourself lack the initiative to do.” He swung his legs from the chaise and stood, stretching lazily. “I shall retire.” He went towards his bedchamber.

Eyes bright with anger, Guy strode to catch his arm and wrench him to a halt. “Annabelle does not care for me in—in that way. If she did, then—by heaven!—
no
man would stop me.”

With a bored smile, Claude straightened his sleeve. “I would stop you, Guy. It is my intent that this irksome girl shall wed one of us. I myself am not so inclined. Parnell is, and can subdue her—unfortunate disposition. Thus, he shall become her bridegroom. Now, before you utter the impassioned speech that fairly chokes you, consider, I pray, how upset your dear
Grandmère
would be were I to drop a few—a very few words in her aged ear.”

The high colour faded from Guy's face, leaving him very pale. For a space he stood utterly still and silent. Then he asked a clipped, “Is that all?” and set his glass upon the mantel, preparing to depart.

“I trust it is all. But—I will be explicit. I do not care to see a triangle develop in the matter of Annabelle. The situation is contained. You will therefore refrain from further interference with my little—machinations.”

Guy said through his teeth, “Do not refine on that overmuch. Should your ‘machinations' become as contemptible as they have in the case of poor Rachel, I may have no—” He stopped as a hand of iron clamped onto his wrist.

“I really must protest,” Claude smiled. “‘Contemptible'—I find I cannot receive with equanimity.”

“No? Yet you can entrap Rachel with equanimity. You and your pet surgeon.” He tore free and with a curl of the lip, finished, “That is too rank for me!”

“But, of course. You were ever too squeamish to fight for what you desire.”

“To the exclusion of all honour and decency? Yes, I thank God!”

Claude stiffened, but his voice as mild as ever, said, “Do you? How very curious. I, on the other hand, must be realistic. And now that this hulking Englishman has come upon the scene…”

“
Mon Dieu!
You truly are beneath contempt! You cannot win the girl by fair means, so you sink so low as to—”

Claude's hand moved very fast, and the sound of the blow was like a pistol-shot in the quiet room. Guy staggered back a step, then stood with head down, breathing hard, one hand pressed to his face.