Feather Castles (34 page)

Guy looked at him steadily. “I would not advise you to repeat it, Captain. Further, I would suggest you leave here—at your very
earliest
opportunity! Ah, Madame Aunt—how pretty you are. May we escort you?”

The white and gold drawing room, itself a thing of beauty, was the more lovely now by reason of the colourful gowns of the ladies; the pastel shades worn by the unmarried girls enriched here and there by the brighter hues of the matrons' gowns, and the purples and blacks of the dowagers. The arrival of the three young bachelors created quite a stir, many coy glances coming their way, while fans fluttered and whispered comments were exchanged. Tristram saw nothing of this, however, his eyes flashing to Claude, elegant as usual, escorting a vision in a very simple, Grecian style ball dress of cream silk, the bodice crossed with bands of blue French beads beneath which the skirt fell in a long flowing line of voluminous yet clinging fabric. The great emerald glittered against Rachel's ungloved hand, but no brighter than her eyes tonight. Entranced, he thought that no other lady could possibly be more beautiful.

“Jupiter!” muttered Devenish. “What the deuce is
he
doing here?”

Wrenching his eyes from his love, Tristram was in time to see a slender man across the room, in the act of turning away. “Who is he?”

“Garvey. See there? The curly-haired dark Dandy, wearing the red jacket.”

“So that's the famous James Garvey. Friend of Prinny's, isn't he?”

“Yes. And a deuced rum customer, so I've heard. He was staring at you damn near goggle-eyed, Tris. I'll warrant he knows you!”

“Jove! Then I shall have to have a word with him.”

This ambition was destined to be thwarted, temporarily at least, when the dinner gong was sounded and Claude, with Rachel on his arm, led his guests to the dining room.

The dinner was both light and delightful. The conversation was bright and witty, the room a picture of elegance. Concentrating politely upon the remarks of the ladies to his left and right, Tristram was conscious always of Rachel's beauty, and of the benign affability that cloaked Claude Sanguinet. Farther down the table, Devenish was doing his best to ignore Antoine Benét, seated directly opposite, and so ill mannered as to try to engage him in conversation across the table. Charity was not present and, since he knew she was in the habit of coming down for dinner, Tristram wondered rather anxiously if her ride had overtired her.

Seated beside Claude, Rachel had to fight her eyes away from Tristram, but all through her dutiful attention to her betrothed, her thoughts were with her love. The knowledge of what might lie ahead brought a cold dampness to her palms and a trembling she was able to control only by reminding herself that he loved her, that whatever was to be faced, they would face together.

When the time came to leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, her heart began to beat erratically. Soon now—very soon, she must play her part in their scheme. If only she had been able to warn Tristram of her change in plans, but this way was better—she was sure. In the drawing room her acceptance by the other ladies was the same as she had been accorded at luncheon. To her face they were polite, gushing, and slightly condescending. Were she to catch them unawares, however, they were whispering behind their fans, or giggling together, their sidelong glances obviously directed at her. Such behaviour, which once would have hurt her, she found laughable. Their barbs could not so much as touch her, for she was quite secure now. She belonged to a true gentleman, and none of these posturing, frightened people who came to pay homage to the man who owned them could arouse any other than a feeling of pity.

A formidable, purple-clad dowager was favouring her with a description of “Dear Claude's” hotel in Paris when Agatha edged into the room and beckoned shyly. Excusing herself, Rachel went to the obviously agitated abigail.

“Have I come at the right time, ma'am?” Agatha whispered, clasping her hands tragically. “Oh, do I seem proper cast down with despair?”

“You do,” murmured Rachel. “But not
too
cast down, dear Agatha. My sister is ill—not expiring!” She nodded, patted Agatha's hand, and sent her off. Returning to Madame Fleur, she explained softly that Charity was become unwell. She must go upstairs for a little while, but would doubtless be down again before the gentlemen joined them.

“No, my love.” Madame started up determinedly from her chair. “I will go. You are the guest of honour, and Claude would expect that I help.”

“You are so kind,” Rachel smiled gratefully. “And I doubt it is contagious after all.”

Madame paled and sat back again. “Con … tagious…?”

“Just a rash, I don't doubt. Now, ma'am, have no fears, I shall say nothing. You know how people tend to panic if they hear of anyone throwing out a spot or two—as though scarlet fever was inevitable. Charity has been a little sick, poor darling, but—”

“Oh, my!” gasped Madame. “If I could but get out of this ridiculous chair! But I suppose she would be more comfortable with you beside her, poor child. Dr. Ulrich should have been here long since, wretched man! I shall send him upstairs directly he arrives.”

A moment later, hurrying up the grand sweep of the staircase, Rachel was watched by only two lackeys hovering beside the front doors and knew she had timed this well; the servants were enjoying their own feast below stairs.

She ran into the bedchamber and embraced Charity, who lay in bed propped with pillows, reading Cowper. Her sister's hands were very cold and, peering into that thin, pale face, Rachel said, “Do not worry so, love. Everyone is safely occupied. Madame means to send Dr. Ulrich to you when he reaches here. You must tell him—”

“Yes, yes. Never fear, I know how to be the invalid. Go now—I shall not breathe easy until you are come back safely!”

Rachel left at once. The hall was empty. From downstairs drifted a few faint strains of music as the orchestra rehearsed a tune for the ball that would commence in a little over an hour. She hurried along and around the corner into the south wing. There were rooms on each side for a way, and far at the end, the large door across the hall that led to the master suite. Her mouth was dry suddenly, and her breathing fast and shallow. The door seemed to fly towards her. Suppose it was locked? And good heavens! Why had she not thought of that possibility? She sped on and at last stood before that fateful door, her knees trembling with the fear that someone behind her was watching. She threw a terrified glance over her shoulder, but the hall stretched away, luxurious, serene, and unoccupied. Her scratches and then a bold knock brought no response and with a fluttering gasp of relief she turned the handle of the door. It opened soundlessly. She went inside, and seeing no one, closed the door and leaned back against it, breath seeming to elude her.

She stood in a sumptuous parlour. The walls were hung with a glossy black paper upon which red lions, rampant, alternated with red
fleurs de lis,
and here and there a golden crown. The furniture was just as impressive: a huge desk with red leather chair, teakwood bookcases and chests, several red armchairs, and thick black carpets. Two lamps were lighted, their wicks turned low, the red glass shades creating rich pools of brightness in the dramatic room. Rachel ran to the fireplace. Raoul had said the hidden compartment was opened by turning a rosette in the mantel carving, but
this
mantel was not carven, being instead a sweep of white marble ingrained here and there with red. The fireplace to which Raoul had referred must be in the bedchamber. Gathering her courage, Rachel moved towards a door at the left and leaned her ear against it. What if she opened it to find herself face to face with Claude's valet? She scratched softly and waited, scarcely daring to breathe, her ears straining, but she could detect no sound and she opened the door cautiously. Another majestic room, still in the prevailing black and red, stretched before her. The main piece of furniture was a great bed with rich curtains of crimson velvet tied back to reveal a crimson velvet eiderdown with long black tassels at the corners. Her awed glance travelled from a large brass lion, rampant, hanging on the wall at the head of the bed, to the winged chairs on each side of the fireplace wherein the fire was laid, but not yet lit. The mantel was old and elaborately carven, and again, above it was a splendid wood carving of a rampant lion, a crowned lion, the gems in the crown looking very real, as they probably were. That carving alone, thought Rachel, must be worth a king's ransom! The fireplace was enormous, and the mantel therefore very wide, the entire length of it rich with flowers and leaves and twining branches. There were at least a dozen rosettes, but she decided to start with those at each end. She twisted, pulled, and pushed the one on the left, to no avail, and hurried to the right end. At her second twist her foot slipped off the extended hearth and as she instinctively clung to the rosette it swung back and to her unspeakable relief revealed a small aperture in which were two little boxes and a key. She snatched up the key, but curiosity overcame her and she picked up one of the boxes. It was a miniature chest, leather bound and edged with gilt. She opened it and discovered another key. This one was very large and looked extremely old, the stem being wrought into the shape of a thistle. Certainly, it was not the key she sought, and to stand here poking about like a mutton-head, as Justin would say, was reckless in the extreme. She replaced the box, closed the secret door, and turned round.

She gave a small scream. The key fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers, as she shrank back against the fireplace, half fainting from shock.

One of the wing chairs was not empty! A man sat there, half hidden by the dimness, silent and unmoving. Panting and sick, Rachel swayed before him, waiting for him to get up and strike her, or curse her.

“Please,” she implored weakly. “I—have no—no excuse to—”

And she stopped, hope beginning to reawaken. He was so still … She crept forward a pace, peering. It was Dr. Ulrich! A half-empty glass sagged in one limp hand, and his breathing was soft and rhythmical. He was fast asleep!

She felt limp with relief, and threw up one hand to stifle the joyous sob that rose to her lips. Then, retrieving the key, she started for the door.

Her fingers had grasped the handle when the line of light beneath the door brightened and she heard the outer door close. With a choke of horror, she spun round. Where could she hide? If she crouched on this side of the bed, the newcomer would see her directly he opened the door. If she hid on the far side, the doctor would see her when he awoke! Frantic, she raced to the bed, knelt, and rolled underneath. She had no sooner ceased to move than she saw a man's legs go past.

Claude's voice sneered, “So here you are! Drinking yourself into a stupor, as usual? It will not help your conscience—if you have one.”

Blinking away tears of fright, Rachel thought frantically, suppose he had come for the key? Suppose he found her? She could not say she had come to talk with him—and waited under the bed!

Ulrich yawned and, stretching, answered, “Save your vitriol for your poor brother,
mein
Claude.”

“What the devil d'you mean by that? I am very generous to Guy.”

“Generous mit your fist, eh? I see him ven in I come.”

“And so you naturally assume I struck him!” Claude sounded wounded.

“
Ach!
My apologies! It vas Miss Charity—no doubt?”

“If you must have it, Herr High Principled Physician—my so admirable brother had the temerity to object to your—ah, treatment of that very lady. It became necessary that I remind him he is in no position to object to anything I do.”

Ulrich clicked his tongue. “For shame! Iss not enough you must all of his life blackmail the boy? You now strike him? You should haf take off your ring,
mein
Claude—at the least.”

“Yes. I'll own that. Still, it is of no great moment. Ulrich, I have an unexpected guest I am in hopes you may identify. He calls himself Captain Tristram, but is I suspect a British officer of a higher rank than Captain. You may have seen him about Whitehall. He is a tall fellow, and—”

“Und that alone is enough to make you hate him,
ja,
Claude?” Ulrich chuckled. “Vell, I haf seen him. I look into your dining room and see that pious hypocrite Monteil at work!
Mein Gott!
He haf look his long nose down at
me
and ven I think of the lives vot
he
has— Ach, enough! I up here came, und your chef, he send me food. Your Captain I know not, but—he is a fine big fellow, I think.”

“If one is an admirer of such great clods,” Claude acknowledged scornfully. “He will look less fine when I've done with him! I must learn why he is here. It is not for the girl, of that I am certain.”

“Vot is this?” Ulrich shifted in obvious alarm. “You think he vos from Vitehall sent? If vord of your plan reaches that dummkopf of a Regent…!”

“Any words our ‘fine big fellow' speaks, dear friend, will be for my ears alone. After which his last words will be silenced by the Pagoda Pool!”

Rachel closed her eyes, wondering how she could ever have been so blind as to imagine this murderous individual a kindly gentleman.

“Now, why,” purred Claude, “do you look so squeamish? Of what account are the deaths of two adventurers when set against my cause?”

“Bonaparte had a cause,” the doctor said sombrely, “and dead were t'ousand upon t'ousand.”

“Console yourself. Your only task is to attend our dainty Charity. You thoroughly bungled last time, Ulrich. You must do better. I do not tolerate bunglers.”

“Vas ist das ‘bungle'?” the doctor demanded huffily. “The girl suffer a setback, haf she not?”

Rachel caught her breath, her horrified eyes opening very wide.