The Tudor Signet (24 page)

Speeding westward, he was furious. Not that he minded shouldering the blame, if it came to that. His father’s influence in the Government outweighed Lord Dulwich’s, and in any case he did not much care what the Government thought of him. He was furious because he could have spent all that time with Mariette, digging himself so deep into her heart that even Riddlesworth’s arrest would not oust him.

A lame post-horse, a road blocked by an overturned stage coach, one mishap after another slowed his journey. He was too late to go to Corycombe before the ball. Arriving at the Duke of Cornwall at the same time as the first guests, he was directed up to a chamber where he washed and changed into his evening clothes. By the time Padgett pronounced him fit to appear in public, the strains of the first dance echoed up the stairs.

He stared at himself in the looking-glass. His new waistcoat was embroidered with Tudor roses, crimson and white. Would she like it? Would she even notice with half a hundred admiring swains seeking to stand up with her? Surely she would not promise all her dances before he even arrived!

He hurried down.

Lilian and Des led the first set, compensating in perfect harmony for the missing arm, without a false motion. Opposite them were Emily and her uncle Radford, stout and good-natured. The couple facing the door where Malcolm stood were his niece, Radford’s daughter, and Des’s brother. A family group, then; he recognized his nephew Edward with his back to the door. But who was Edward’s partner? A dark, elegant stranger who moved with lively grace to the centre of the set to turn about with the other three ladies....

No stranger. Mariette. As she returned to Edward’s side, her eyes met Malcolm’s. Her face lit up, her eyes brightened, her lips parted--and the next moment she laid her hand on Edward’s arm and smiled up at him.

She was his partner. She could not break the pattern of the dance to greet Malcolm. But did she have to smile at Edward in that damnably coquettish way?

At last the dance ended. Amid the greetings of his family and his hearty congratulations to the betrothed couple, Malcolm lost his chance to speak to Mariette. When next he saw her, she was dancing up with a handsome young fellow in a shockingly ill-cut evening coat and a lopsided neckcloth. Apparently unaware of her partner’s sartorial shortcomings, she talked and laughed with every evidence of enjoyment, flirting with her fan when the figures of the dance allowed.

The rest of the ball was agony. When Mariette was not dancing, she was surrounded by a positive mob of admirers begging for a dance. Every now and then she would disappear for a quarter of an hour. Trying to persuade himself she had simply gone to tidy her hair, Malcolm nonetheless suffered miserable pangs of jealousy as he wondered whether she was being kissed in some dark corner.

As hostess Lilian, on the arm of her betrothed, mingled with her guests and did not dance again, but Malcolm did his duty by both his nieces and his female cousin. When at last he managed to stand up with Mariette, she smiled and chattered nonsense just as she had with all her other partners. Eyes shining, cheeks flushed, she laughingly admired his waistcoat.

“What a coincidence,” she cried. “You see I am wearing the Tudor rose pendant Ralph gave me.”

“No coincidence,” he vowed, and she laughed again.

She was beautiful and she was maddening and he wanted to drag her away to one of those dark corners and kiss her until she promised to marry him.

Never before had he regretted being a gentleman.

The moment the set ended he was reft from her by her mob. Disconsolate, he wandered about exchanging a few words here and there with friends, family, acquaintances.

He came across a little old man clad in green satin and tarnished lace in the style of the last century. To his astonishment recognized George Barwith. Mr. Barwith, his eyes bright behind gleaming new spectacles, obviously had no notion who Malcolm was, so he reintroduced himself. For a while they sat together, both contemplating Mariette’s slender form, graceful movements, and animated face, but with very different feelings. Her uncle was enraptured to see her enjoying herself with other young people. Malcolm, were he not a gentleman, would happily have taken a horsewhip to every doltish yokel who had the effrontery to touch her hand.

Restless, he moved on. It was his own fault. He had persuaded Lilian to teach Mariette how to go on in Society. He failed to foresee that the unspoiled, courageous, loyal girl he had fallen in love with might turn into a dashing diamond and a heartless flirt.

* * * *

Malcolm stayed at the Duke of Cornwall for what was left of the night after the ball. Disappointed in love, he resolved to devote his full attention to his work, so he had arranged to meet Des in the morning to discuss how to proceed.

The captain was shown up to his chamber at an abominably early hour. “Can’t manage without your eight hours sleep?” he jeered as Malcolm scowled at him from the shelter of his bed. “You landlubbers wouldn’t last a week on a ship at sea in rough weather.”

“I’ve no intention of trying.” He slitted his eyes against the grey light which flooded in when his friend threw back the curtains. “Go away. Come back later.”

“I’ve told ‘em to bring breakfast up in ten minutes.” Des positively sparkled with exuberant energy. “If I get to my desk early enough I’ll be able to ride over to Corycombe this afternoon. Here’s your dressing-gown. Wasn’t that a splendid ball? Lilian was splendid. I can’t believe my luck.”

Malcolm grunted and dragged himself out of bed. “Let’s get down to business, if we must,” he said sourly, pulling on his dressing-gown.

The inn servants brought in a folding table, followed by a laden tray. Over eggs, bacon, beefsteaks, and ale, Malcolm described his frustrating consultations at the Admiralty.

Des pounced on the salient point. “So in fact we may do as we want? Splendid, simply splendid! I’ve rather been doing that anyway while you were gone,” he added, without noticeable guilt.

“The devil you have! Any luck?”

“Gad yes! Wait till you hear this. Gault has a mistress, a Frenchwoman--”

“French!”

“An emigrée, been in England fifteen years, in Plymouth ten, but a lot of those people who fled the Revolution prefer a Boney Emperor to a Fat King Louis. She--”

“True, though by no means all.”

“Do stop interrupting, there’s a good chap, or we’ll be here all day. Madame Duhamel is a modish dressmaker. Lilian took Emily and Miss Bertrand to her to get their gowns for the ball and--”

“Very modish,” Malcolm interrupted again, recalling Mariette’s elegance.

“Very modish,” Des echoed. “Emmie told me she has new fashion plates from Paris, and possibly French materials as well. I’m going to like having a daughter.”

“I daresay. Smuggled?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

“And she’s the admiral’s mistress, hm? But where does the sphinx seal come in?”

“Madame has more than one string to her bow. Besides the dressmaking she owns a private club, a gaming hell, frequented by none other than Sir Ralph Riddlesworth.”

Malcolm groaned. Against the evidence of the seal, he had hoped that Mariette’s cousin was not involved, but the connection was undeniable. “Gault, boasting of his importance perhaps, whispers his secrets in Madame’s pretty ear--one assumes she is attractive, though no longer young. She passes on the news to Riddlesworth, in exchange for smuggled goods. And he deals with the smugglers, presumably through an intermediary with a Devonshire accent.”

“A servant or a tenant, maybe, who quite likely has no notion he’s mixed up in anything more sinister than smuggling. It hangs together.”

“Enough to hang the pair of them together, I expect, but I’d like to find more evidence if we can. We’d best search Madame’s premises.”

“The shop or the hell?” Des took out his silver turnip watch and consulted it.

“Both. Shop first since she may have bullies guarding her club.”

“Let’s lay our plans later. I must be off.”

“All right. I’ll go on to Corycombe when I’m dressed and I’ll see you there this afternoon.” He hesitated, embarrassed. “I don’t know if I’ve made it clear, old fellow, how deuced glad I am you’re marrying Lilian.”

“So am I.” Des grinned, shook his hand heartily, and went off whistling a merry hornpipe.

He left Malcolm desperately trying to convince himself he did not care if Mariette’s cousin was a traitor, since her changed character had made him cease to love her.

Chapter 15

Roused at an ungodly hour by the captain, Malcolm arrived at Corycombe well before noon. Taking his coat and hat, Charles announced that only Miss Emily was down as yet, and she was to be found in the breakfast room. Malcolm joined her.

“I am so glad you have come back, Uncle Malcolm,” she said, pushing aside a half-eaten, strawberry-jammed muffin. “You will not go straight back to London, will you?”

“No, I’ll stay at least a week, I expect.” He thought she looked strained. Though she liked Des, the loss of her mother’s full attention must be difficult to bear. “How did you enjoy your first ball?” he asked to cheer her up.

Her blue eyes widened apprehensively. “You won’t tell Mama?”

Oh Lord, never say one of those doltish yokels had gone beyond the line with Emmie while he was moping over Mariette! “I can’t promise,” he said. “Did someone attempt familiarities?”

“Familiarities?”

“Try to kiss you.”

“Oh no, nothing like that.”

He breathed again. “Then what is troubling you, Emmie?”

“I shall tell you, but pray do not tell Mama. It’s just that I did not enjoy the ball, and she would be horridly disappointed when she went to so much trouble to make it perfect. It was fun dancing with Cousin Edward and with you, because I know you both quite well, and I didn’t mind dancing with Uncle Radford, because he is so jolly and kind. But....”

“But?”

“There were so many people!” she burst out. “I couldn’t think of anything to say to anyone and it was perfectly horrid so in the end I went and hid in the ladies’ withdrawing room. I only came out to speak to Mama now and then so she would believe I was enjoying myself. But the worst thing is, when I am old enough she will want me to go to London and have a Season and go to balls all the time, and I cannot bear it!” Tears streaming down her face, she sniffed piteously.

Malcolm took her hand. “My dear child, the whole point is that you are not old enough. You have had very little experience of meeting strangers. I shouldn’t be surprised if you get a good deal more practice in future, for Des is a sociable fellow and won’t let your mama shut herself away here. In two or three years time, you will be much more grown-up. You’ll be able to converse with anyone at all, even Prinny.”

“The Prince of Wales?” She stared at him, teardrops trembling on her lashes. “Do you really think so? That is what Mariette said, too.”

Something twisted painfully inside him. “She did?”

“Yes, last night. She kept coming to see me in the ladies’ room, to talk to me so I would not be lonely. Without her, it would have been much, much horrider.”

He had misjudged her. Though she was a flirt, she was not heartless. Though she was no longer unspoiled, she was still loyal, at least to his bashful little niece.

“I’ll ride over to Bell-Tor Manor this afternoon,” he decided.

* * * *

Mariette looked around the drawing room with qualified satisfaction. The woodwork gleamed; the Turkey carpet was rusty red instead of dingy brown; the curtains were faded blue instead of grimy grey, and only close scrutiny would reveal that the hems were frayed too badly to be turned. Bowls of early daffodils distracted attention from the worn seat-covers, some of them ready to split.

Three of the seat-covers were concealed beneath gentlemen she had danced with last night, and a fourth dancing partner shared the hearthrug with Ragamuffin. He held out chilled hands to the flames for it was a damp, raw day outside, which made it the more flattering that they had all called on her.

She’d willingly exchange the lot of them for Lord Malcolm.

Still, it was kind of them to come, so she did her best to entertain them. She laughed at their insipid jokes, did her best to blush at their laboured compliments, listened breathless and admiring to tedious tales of daring deeds on the hunting field--some of them all too familiar, for one of her visitors was young Mr. Bolger.

Her thoughts wandered. If only one or two ladies would call, both to leaven the conversation and to show she was accepted by local society, not merely admired by callow youths.

Did Lord Malcolm admire her? Her attempt to flirt with him at the ball had proved less than successful, she hoped because he was tired from his journey. At least he had seen that she was much sought after, that she had not languished away during his absence.

She was quite capable of enjoying herself without him. Look at all these gentlemen so anxious to amuse her.

“I wouldn’t have minded cracking my head,” the Honourable Jack Phillips wound up his story, “if I’d had you, Miss Bertrand, to soothe my fevered brow and hold my hand.”

“I am sure your mama is a much better nurse than I, sir.”

“But not half so pretty.”

Mariette smiled at him. He really was doing his best. It wasn’t his fault he had no imagination and no gift with words.

“A pretty girl don’t want to waste her time nursing a clunch like you.” Freddy Browne turned from the fire. “She’d rather be dancing....I say, Eden!”

Startled, they all looked towards the door. Lord Malcolm stood there, a faint, sardonic smile on his lips.

“Good afternoon, Miss Bertrand, gentlemen. I trust I don’t intrude.”

Ragamuffin jumped up and ran to greet him.

“Of course not, Lord Malcolm,” said Mariette gaily. “There is always room for one more.” She meant to be welcoming, but even as she spoke she knew she sounded as if she were boasting of the number of her beaux.

Lord Malcolm bowed silently and took a seat.

“If you ask me,” cried Mr. Phillips, “there’s a dashed sight too much competition already. No offence, my lord, but what’s a fellow to do when he gives his heart to the prettiest girl in the county and half a dozen other fellows want a share of hers?”