St. Raven (44 page)

Cressida turned away. “What do you expect me to
do
?”

“Marry him.”

She swung back. “Sacrifice myself to make him happy. No, I will not! Why should I?”

“Sacrifice!” He almost spat it. “You are scared of the different, so you dig a hole and bury yourself in it. All very well. You are safe there. But you are also in a hole! What sort of life is that? Life offers excitement, spice, and exquisite pleasures, but only for those willing to venture out of their safe little holes.”

Cressida found she could not express herself in French and switched to English. “It would kill me to have him unfaithful.”

“So you would rather not have him at all?”

“Yes.”

“Does that make sense?”

“Yes!”

He shrugged. “As well say zat for fear of poisoning, one must never eat. But if zat is your price, demand it. Demand zat he vow faithfulness.”

“It is in the marriage vows, Mr. Bourreau, but many of his sort seem to ignore it.”

“His sort? What do you know of
his sort”
? Do you link him with Crofton, Pugh, and such others?“

“You can know a person by the company he keeps.”

Good Lord, now she sounded like Mrs. Wemworthy.

“Zese days he keeps his own company. What does zat tell you? Nun’s Chase, it is now suitable for ze nuns, zough he plans to sell it. He lives like a nun—or rather, like a monk.”

“A week of chastity will hardly kill him. He came to my ball from an orgy, on a wager.”

He stared at her, and broke into French so rapid she had to struggle to understand.

“My God, he did not tell you? Idiot!” And some other word she did not know.

He calmed. “Miss Mandeville, that orgy was arranged precisely to clear your name. Miranda portrayed the houri before all those men who had seen you in that part. Since you were on full view in London at the same time, all suspicion would be blown away.”

Cressida felt as if the pounding waves were shaking the earth beneath her feet. “And the wager?”

“A last-moment touch, perhaps foolish. But a wager, it is remembered, when a dance might not be. Tiverton took it up as a race, which strengthened the effect. Of course you should never have known any of this.”

“There are gossips in every circle…” Agonizing to open herself again to hope, but Cressida couldn’t help it. “What of Violet Vane? I heard he had become a frequenter of her house.”

He spat more words that she didn’t understand. “My apologies, please! But I am enraged by our stupidity. Of course such things are known!”

“So you see—”

“No, no!
You
must see. I pray you will believe me. My cousin, he was only there to put an end to all that. At Stokeley Manor, he grew suspicious about the age of some of the nymphs. There was a connection to La Violette, and so he pursued. Alas, the trade is not stamped out, but that road is blocked.”

It could all be lies, but something about it, and about Bourreau’s manner, argued that it might be truth. Besides, it had been hard—almost impossible—to think that of Tris.

“I can tell you also,” he said, “though it is only my belief, that he has not been in any woman’s bed since I met him in Hatfield.”

She turned again to look at the sea, aware of being at the most crucial moment of her life. Monsieur Bourreau was right about the hole, but call it burrow. A comfort place, a safe place. It offered only minor pleasures, but it protected against tormenting pains.

Demand fidelity? As she’d said, it was in the wedding vows, but perhaps that ritual deafened people to their full meaning. If she asked Tris to promise fidelity and he agreed, she suddenly knew, with clarity, that he would honor that vow.

“How far is it from here to Mount St. Raven?” she whispered, afraid to put it into clear words.

“Three hours or so. You will come?”

She turned to him. “You will take me?”

“But, of course. There is no time for delay. Lyne will try to stop him, but you know my cousin cannot be entirely stopped. Once he asks Miss Swinamer, it will be too late. That, too, will be a vow he will not break.”

She felt frantically as if it were happening
now
. “When does it start?”

“At nine.”

“It is four. We must go!”

“I have a vehicle waiting.”

She began hurrying toward the inn. “I must tell my mother.”

“She will let you go?”

“I’ll go anyway, but I must tell her.”

She sped, tempted to run, but knowing she’d end up breathless halfway. Sensible to the end, Cressida! Pray that you don’t have to pay the price for it. She was breathing hard by the time she reached the inn and paused there at the door.

“What if he no longer wants me?”

Bourreau was unsympathetic. “That is a doubt you have brought on yourself.” But he offered the picture and this time she took it, tears starting. It was Tris, not the duke, relaxed, ordinary except for his looks. And he was unhappy, alone, without hope.

“You have great skill.”

“But, of course.”

“Is it true?”

“Exactly. I gave him a picture of you. He did not reject it.”

“Thank you for that, for hope. I won’t be a moment.”

She hurried up to their rooms, and found her mother knitting. She looked up, then stood. “Cressida? What is it, dear?”

“I’ve made a terrible mistake, Mama. I need to go to Mount St. Raven.”

To her astonishment, her mother bloomed with delight. “Oh, my dear, I’m so glad you’ve realized! Your father said we must let you have your way. You are so sensible and clearheaded, and he does worry a bit about the duke’s wildness. But you should follow your heart, even into danger. And we will follow, as soon as we can. We can’t have it looking as if you’ve been running around wildly again.”

Cressida shook her head, dashed over to give her mother a fierce hug, then ran out of the room and down, to find Bourreau with a curricle.

“This looks like Tris’s,” she said as she climbed in.

“It is. Pray that I do not overturn.”

They were off, and she clutched the rail. “Are you not a good whip?”

“Not particularly,” he shouted cheerfully, urging the horses to speed.

Cressida clutched harder but didn’t ask him to slow.

He didn’t have Tris’s skill, and the roads became rougher. Sometimes he had to let the horses walk.

It was close to nine, and the sun had set by the time they approached the large pale house on a hill, where windows blazed, but not with an illusion of hell’s flames.

To Cressida it was heaven, as long as she arrived in time.

Carriages were pouring toward it. The event had begun.

Jean-Marie—they had arrived at first name terms on the journey—turned away.

“Where are we going?” she cried.

“We cannot take you in the front way, but I know a road to the stables. From there you can enter the house. If Tris has joined his guests, you will need a costume.”

They turned into a narrow lane, and Cressida prayed. She prayed that Tris still be in his room, that he had not proposed to Miss Swinamer before the event.

As soon as they arrived in the busy stables, she jumped out of the curricle. Jean-Marie joined her and they hurried into the house.

He led her to narrow servants’ stairs, and up to a wide, carpeted corridor. They entered a grand bedchamber hung with red velvet that was embroidered in gold with some heraldic device.

Tris’s room. Cressida knew it by its grandeur, but also by sandalwood and every other sense.

And Tris wasn’t here.

They explored the whole of the grand suite, but Tris wasn’t here!

Jean-Marie swore again. “Stay here!” he said, and disappeared.

Cressida paced the bedchamber wringing her hands, almost running out into the house a dozen times. But she would look like a madwoman. Servants would probably throw her out.

Then Jean-Marie was back with a nun. A nun, complete with winged wimple. A nun who pulled off her complicated headdress, then began to strip.

“Go away,” Miranda Coop commanded her lover. “Go and make sure Tris doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Cressida didn’t need to be told. She began to tear off her gown, grateful she didn’t need help. And that this time she didn’t need to take off drawers, shift, or corset.

“That’s a quite decorous nun’s habit,” she said.

“I’m reformed,” said Miranda with a grin. “Here.”

She tossed the long black gown, and Cressida struggled into it, aware with some amazement that being in the company of a former whore, both of them in underwear, was not shocking her.

As she knotted a rope round her waist she noted that Miranda’s drawers were pink silk, and her corset was embroidered with pink roses and laced with scarlet ribbons. Her flesh-colored stockings had vines embroidered up them to flower near the black garters. She suspected Tris might like underwear like that.

She draped the white yoke around her neck, and Miranda tied it, then the half-mask over her face. Then Miranda pushed her into a chair and settled the headdress on, tucking away curls and fixing it with hairpins.

“There,” she said. “Go!”

Cressida shot to her feet but paused. “What’s he wearing?”

“Jean-Marie’s Crow outfit. But there’s half a dozen here.”

“Heavens! What’s Miss Swinamer wearing?”

Miranda grinned. “She’s a shepherdess. All pink ruffles. Go! Turn left, follow the corridor, the ballroom is at the other end of the house, but he might be anywhere.”

Cressida shot into the corridor and ran left, but then a door opened and she slammed to a halt. A couple in medieval clothes emerged chattering, inclined their heads to her, and went on their way.

Damnation, now she had to progress at the same stately pace as they or look peculiar. What was the price of looking peculiar? At this point, she didn’t care. She pushed past and ran, despite exclamations of affront.

Two turns in the corridor, one of which took her across a landing above the main entrance. She stopped to hang over and search the crowd. This was a masquerade, so the host wouldn’t be receiving his guests. Even so, a fat woman in a long velvet robe and a diadem was doing just that.

She saw three big hats with sweeping plumes, but none were Tris. Two shepherdesses, but she didn’t think either was Miss Swinamer.

Please let Jean-Marie have found Tris in time to stop him from committing himself. Or let Mr. Lyne have him in control.

She went on, walking now, since people were all around, wishing she were taller and could see over the growing crowd. Wishing she didn’t have the stupid horns that kept bumping into things.

She came to the ballroom. Music played, but not yet for dancing. Four chandeliers cast light along with lamps on the walls. Cressida paused to breathe, to calm, to collect her wits.

A Puritan, complete to steeple hat, stopped by her side. “Jean-Marie’s with him, but he’s looking for Miss Swinamer.”

“Mr. Lyne.” Extreme urgency popped, letting in doubts. “Perhaps she’s what he wants.”

“Since driving away from your coach, he hasn’t allowed his wants to show. If you’re looking for guarantees,” he added with puritanical sternness, “there are none. You may have hurt him too much.”

She bit her lip. “He might have explained.”

“You might have trusted him.”

He’d asked her to trust him, but she wasn’t a person for blind trust. “Only help me find him. Where should I start?”

“I left him as he entered this room. I don’t know where the Swinamers are.”

Cressida couldn’t see farther than the people nearby. She looked up and saw small, curtained balconies in each corner. “I could go up there and search.”

He followed her gaze. “I’ll go, and I’ll direct you.” He smiled. “At least those starched horns make you easy to spot.”

She spent the waiting time maneuvering through the guests, fending off the occasional flirtation. As was the custom, people were acting in part, which made it easy for her to reject advances.

Then she saw Mr. Lyne’s head, minus hat, poke around the corner of the curtain. He scanned the room, then pointed urgently to her left.

Relief washed over her like… like perfumed oil. She pushed left as fast as she could, but her headdress made navigation difficult, especially in an encounter with a medieval lady in a steeple cap.

She emerged from that, shoved her headdress straight again and glanced at the balcony. The Puritan was frantically pointing down below him. Cressida switched directions and headed that way, keeping more of an eye on her guide.

She bumped into someone.

A shepherdess.

And this time it was Phoebe Swinamer, with only the tiniest of masks to conceal her beauty.

“Be careful, do!” Miss Swinamer snapped, twitching her ruffled elbow-cuffs back into line. She turned back to a woman who wore only a domino cloak over her gown, and an equally small mask. Phoebe’s mother.

“I quite expected St. Raven to speak before this event, Mama. It is such a crush.”

“His first major entertainment here, dear. Of course everyone attends.”

“Mostly country bumpkins.” The beauty made no attempt to speak quietly.

“Now, now, dear, mind your manners. These people will soon be your dependents, and it will be a grand audience for the announcement.”

“I do hope St. Raven will not wish to spend too much time in Cornwall. It is so far from anywhere. Traveling here took days.”

Cressida had been so fixed on this conversation that she’d forgotten to watch her guide. She looked up to see him making a frantic gesture that she couldn’t interpret.

But then she realized he meant that Tris was coming her way and would encounter the Swinamers first!

With a muttered excuse, she pushed past them. Pheobe spat another complaint, but Cressida watched her guide. A Le Corbeau blocked her way and she grabbed him.

He looked down, startled. He was a stranger.

“Tripped!” she gasped, and escaped, headdress slipping over one eye.

Then she came face-to-face with Tris, in black, masked, but without the beard and mustache. It made her smile. Clearly his heart hadn’t been in any of this.

“Miranda? Jean-Marie was here a moment ago.” He glanced around.