The Ruby Pendant (12 page)

James did not return to the house before the evening of
the ball and Juliette began to wonder if he really meant to make an offer after
all. The waiting was tearing her composure to shreds and making her mother more
than usually brusque with her.

`You have no
one to blame but yourself if he has changed his mind,' she said, while busy
directing cooks, florists, maids and footmen.

The ballroom
had been added to the ground floor at the back of the house by his lordship's
father, fifty years before. It was not large by the standards of the day, but
it could accommodate fifty couples in comfort and several more at a squeeze and
Lady Martindale was determined it would be a squeeze because that would be a
measure of the ball's success.

'He will bring
another bride to Hartlea and then where will we be?' She spoke as if her
husband were already dead and that upset Juliette even more. 'Banished to
Scotland, that will be our fate.'

Although the
daughter of an earl, Elizabeth had been brought up in the utmost hardship. Her
father had not believed in mollycoddling his multifarious brood and had made
them take cold baths every day and study in an icy schoolroom in a castle on
the rocky shore of the East Highlands. Hardy himself, he was determined that
none of his children would grow up soft.

Elizabeth had
been fortunate to catch the eye of Edward Martindale when he was invited to a
hunting party on the estate. Married and brought south to the comfort and
warmth of Hartlea, she would have been content, but for the fact that she had
been unable to produce an heir. If Juliette married James, then she would be
allowed to stay; James had promised her that in return for her support. He
needed Juliette's dowry as much as Elizabeth needed Hartlea.

`Mama, Papa has
assured me he is not ill and James cannot inherit until...'

`Have you ever
known him to admit he was not in plump currant?'

`No, but...'

`Juliette, one
must be practical about these things and not be selfish. James will be at the
ball and I want you to make a push to engage him. We cannot have him backing
out now. We will make the announcement after supper, when everyone has
unmasked.'

The Countess of
Wentworth had persuaded her to make it a bal masque, saying fancy dress was all
the mode. After much debate, Juliette had decided to go as Diana, Goddess of
the Hunt. Her white crepe gown was draped from her shoulders in soft folds,
which hinted at the lithe figure beneath, but revealed nothing. It was
decorated with garlands of greenery.

She wore Greek
sandals, a circlet of greenery in her silver-blonde hair and carried a small
crossbow. A tiny pouch across one shoulder contained half a dozen little
arrows.

She dressed on
the evening of the ball with little enthusiasm. What might have been a
glittering occasion, to remember with pleasure, was something to be dreaded.
James would be there and she would have to agree to link her life with his
because there was nothing else she could do.

That Philip
Devonshire would be absent, she was equally sure. He had not been seen in
polite circles since the evening before the aborted duel, though she understood
from Lucinda, who got it from Arthur Boreton, that he had returned to town.
Even though he had been invited to the ball three weeks before, he would not
have the effrontery to attend because he must know that everyone would cut him
dead. It was common knowledge that he had reneged on a challenge to his honour.
Did that mean he had no honour? And no courage either? It would be easier to
put him from her mind if she really believed that, but she did not and she
could not stop thinking about him. And wondering. Oh, if only it had been he
who had turned up and James who had stayed away; it would have been more
credible. And if she had not been so foolish as to dash off into the night, she
would at least have been allowed the luxury of making her own decision about
whom she should marry. There was something about James's arrogance, his
flickering eyes, that unnerved her, as if his manner were all a front to hide
his own insecurity. But he must know he was secure in his inheritance, even if
he had no money of his own to maintain it now. Her dowry would see to that.

As for Philip
Devonshire, she could not see herself marrying him either, even if he were to
ask. It was not his lack of background or family, or the fact that no one
really knew how much he was worth, that would deter her. It was his ability to
keep himself close, to hide within himself. He was completely self-contained
and needed to lean on no one. He apparently did not even care about being branded
a coward. But most of all, it was his admission that he had found the woman
with whom he wished to share his life and she knew it was not Juliette
Martindale. He would have spoken if it were and he had remained silent.

It was that
which hurt. It hurt because no amount of telling herself that he was totally
unsuitable could alter the fact that when she was in his company, her heart
beat faster, her limbs trembled and she wished more than anything to remain
with him, to learn more about him, to be held in his arms as he had held her in
the park, to have those deep eyes looking into hers, soft with love. She
brought herself up short. How romantical! And how silly she was being. It was
unlikely she would ever see him again.

She sighed and,
taking a last glance in the mirror, which revealed eyes a little too bright and
cheeks a little too pale, put up her mask and left her room to descend
gracefully to the ground floor to stand beside her parents and welcome her
guests as they arrived. Her mama was dressed as Cleopatra, but her father had
eschewed costume and was elegant in traditional breeches and silk stockings
with a high-collared coat in rich burgundy.

The guests came
in twos and threes: cavaliers, Roundheads, Greek gods, Roman soldiers, wood
nymphs, Henry the Eighth, Queen Elizabeth, complete with enormous ruff and
bright red wig, milkmaids, highwaymen, highlanders, courtiers of fifty years
before, their coiffures so tall they had been unable to sit upright in their
carriages. They lined up to be received and have their cloaks and mantles taken
from them, before passing into the brilliantly-lit ballroom, where the laughter
and gossip vied with the music and dancing for attention.

James was among
the last to arrive. Dressed as one of many cavaliers, his fluttering eyes made
him easily recognisable. He bowed before her parents, smiling and confident,
and then took Juliette's hand and carried it to his lips. 'Miss Martindale,
your obedient.'

She tried to
smile, but it stuck somewhere between a grimace and a frown. 'Mr Martindale,
welcome.'

`Oh, you have
found me out! And I had hoped to flirt a little with you before we unmasked. No
matter, we can pretend we do not know each other.' He gave a silly laugh which
betrayed the fact that he had already been imbibing freely. Juliette was
disgusted. Did he have to make himself drunk before he could bring himself to
propose to her? He turned to her mother. 'My lady, can you not release your
delightful daughter from her station and allow her to accompany me into the ballroom?'

'I do not think
there are any more guests to come,' Lady Martindale said. 'Juliette, you may go
into the ballroom with James.'

There was
nothing for it but to take his arm and do as she was bid. No one else was
coming; no gallant hero would arrive to carry her off to some fantasy land
where there was no hypocrisy, no equivocation, where truth and beauty reigned
with love. Oh, how fanciful she was becoming! There was no such place, no such
man. But the image of Philip Devonshire came to her mind unbidden and made her
want to cry.

They joined an
incomplete set and James bowed before her, smiling with satisfaction.

`You seem
exceedingly pleased with life,' she remarked, rising from her curtsy and taking
his hand to promenade between two rows of dancers.

`Do I? Perhaps
it is because life has come up trumps at last and everything is going well, a
pleasant evening to look forward to, and that to be followed by many more
evenings, days, months, years, all to be spent in happy contentment with my
delightful bride at Hartlea. What more can a man want?'

`May I remind
you that Hartlea is not yet yours,' she said, sharply. 'Papa is in the best of
health.'

`True, but I am
a patient man.'

`And your
bride?' she queried, wondering if it were possible he meant someone else.

`You, my dear
Miss Martindale. You know that, surely?'

Her heart sank.
'I do not remember agreeing.'

They turned and
circled round each other. `Oh, that is only because I have not asked you yet.'

`Why haven't
you? You spoke to my father two days ago, after...' She could not bring herself
to mention that escapade.

`So I did. But
I had a little business to see to first.'

She was
suddenly reminded of his encounter with the stranger in Richmond Park. Was that
where his business lay? 'And has it been successfully concluded?'

`It is well on
the way to being so, I am glad to say.'

The dance came
to an end and she was immediately surrounded by young men, all eager to mark
her card. James had perforce to relinquish her to others, but not before he had
scribbled his name against the supper dance. 'I shall be back to claim you, my
lovely Diana,' he whispered. 'And then perhaps we can find a little time alone.
One must do these things formally, after all.'

She danced and
smiled and flirted harmlessly, but all the time the gilded clock on the mantel
ticked inexorably towards supper time. And then he was bowing before her. She
looked round wildly for a way of escape, but could see none. Her mother, who
was sitting between Lady Carstairs and the Countess of Wentworth, saw them and
nodded imperceptibly.

Her father was
nowhere to be seen. He might have helped her, but he chose not to. She could
not understand why. In every other respect he was a strong-willed man, but
faced with the determination of his wife, he always gave in. She executed a
deep curtsy and laid her fingers upon his arm. The time had come.

Philip Devonshire put the last touches to his costume and
smiled at himself in the cheval mirror which stood at an angle to the window of
the bedchamber in his lodgings in Haymarket. He was dressed in the
all-enveloping white robes of a cardinal, complete with red cap and cape. And
the mask he wore covered all but his eyes and mouth. No one would recognise
him.

It was not that
he was particularly afraid of recognition; he had nothing of which he need feel
ashamed, but he did not want to upset his lordship's household by appearing at
the ball as if nothing had happened. He could imagine the covert looks, the
whispers passing from one to the other of the guests, the more open stares and
then the condemnation, the insults. Of all people, he admired and respected
Viscount Martindale the most, but he wished he had not brought this disgrace
upon him.

`I want you to
go to Peterborough,' the Viscount had said, early on the morning of the day
before the duel was to take place, a duel he had neither sought nor wanted, but
James Martindale had goaded him so that there had been no alternative but to
accept the challenge. 'It is most urgent. I have been informed that there is a
man in the camp at Norman Cross who is arranging for prisoners to escape and
passing on state secrets for them to take back to France with them. My
information is that he will be at the camp tonight. I doubt he will stay once
he has spoken to his contact there, but will return to his English master. It
is that gentleman the War Department wishes to identify.'

`My lord, I
have a very pressing engagement for tomorrow.'

`Since when
have private matters taken precedence over the good of your country and mine?'
his lordship had demanded. 'You know the conditions under which you are
required to operate.'

`Indeed I do,
my lord, but this a question of honour.'

`Do not tell me
you have engaged to fight a duel?'

`Yes, my lord.
It was...'

`I do not wish
to hear the details. It would mean condoning it and, in my position, I cannot
do that.' He paused. 'I thought you had more sense, Philip. If you were to be
killed or even injured, the country will have lost one of its best agents.'

`I could not
ignore the challenge, my lord,' he said, deciding not to reveal the identity of
the challenger. 'It would have been construed as cowardice. I had the choice of
weapons and chose the rapier. It would have done less damage than a bullet.'

`I know you for
a fine swordsman, Philip, but none the less your duty must come first, even at
the expense of your reputation. You must know that.'

Of course he
knew that; he had been foolish even to mention it. He had gone to Peterborough,
hoping to complete his mission and be back in time.

He had left his
horse safely housed at an inn just short of Norman Cross, joined a ragged file
of new prisoners disembarking at the quay and marched with them to the prison
barracks. The man he was seeking had not arrived and though he had waited and
talked to as many of the prisoners as he could, he had discovered nothing of
him. When it became obvious he was on a wild goose chase, he had made himself
known to the commandant and been smuggled out by the guards. Retrieving his
horse, he had galloped all the way back to town, changing his mount whenever it
showed signs of tiring.