Amanda Scott (14 page)

“And Mr. Carruthers simply obeyed when you told him to halt?” Sir Antony sounded politely disbelieving.

“Well, at first I think he meant to make a run for it,” she admitted, “but once I had drawn his attention to the fact that I was armed, he grew more compliant.”

“I see.” He looked at her again, long enough and sternly enough to set her knees to quivering. Then he said gently, “You have not the least notion of what danger you might have been in, have you?”

“Fiddlesticks, I was in no danger,” Meriel said, recovering her courage at this slight on her capabilities. “I am quite expert with a pistol, sir, so I had no fear that he might harm me. He might have got away. I don’t deny that, for I had no wish to kill him, but that is the worst that would have happened.”

Sir Antony said nothing. He merely stood silently gazing down at her for another long moment. Finally he nodded in an abstracted way and wished her good night. “Do be sure to lock your door,” he added as he turned away.

Feeling more ruffled by this odd treatment than if he had read her a sharp scold, Meriel stepped abruptly into her bedchamber and threw the bolt with a loud snap, noting as she did so that Gladys Peat did not so much as alter the rhythm of her snoring.

As she prepared once again for bed, she thought back over the events of the previous half-hour and decided the whole incident was a peculiar one. The thief had the manners of a gentleman, for one thing, and a very impudent gentleman at that, making him unlike any thief she had ever imagined. And Sir Antony, instead of showing irate indignation over the felonious invasion of his bedchamber, had taken the matter lightly for the most part. Indeed, if he had been disturbed, it had been by her involvement and nothing more. He had been as startled as Peter Trent to learn that she possessed a pistol, and she was quite certain he had little faith in her ability to use it properly. No doubt that accounted for his strange attitude. His stubborn belief that the thief might have harmed her had simply kept him from reacting as she had expected him to react to the theft itself.

As to why his displeasure had unsettled her so, she had not the slightest notion. Perhaps it was no more than that she had been unaccustomed of late to being criticized by others. On the other hand, she could not recall that her father’s angriest tirade had ever had the power to set her knees to quivering, and Sir Antony had done the thing with no more than a look. Then, too, it was odd that one sort of look from the man could make her feel as though he had caressed her, while another made her feel as though he had stripped away all her defenses.

She spent another twenty minutes dwelling upon these thoughts and others like them before she finally fell asleep, and as a result, when Gladys Peat attempted to awaken her the following morning, the task proved to be a difficult one.

“Come now, my lady, ’tis nigh on to ten o’clock. They serve breakfast only until eleven in this establishment, and I for one be hungry. Get up now, do!”

Meriel curled into a tighter knot beneath her eiderdown quilt and groaned, “Go away.”

“That I’ll not, miss. Just you rouse yourself or it’s the cold water I’ll be getting, and that’s a fact.”

Her mistress chuckled and peeped out from beneath the thick quilt, her eyes still bleary with sleep but twinkling nonetheless. “I believe you would, Gladys, though the last time you did so, I was fourteen and the temperature was near zero in my bedchamber because Papa was indulging in one of his fits of economy and refused to allow a fire to be kindled there. I declared it was too cold to get up, and you said you’d just see about that and threw a wet towel right under my bedcovers. I am persuaded they heard my screeches all the way to Dolgellau. ’Tis a wonder I didn’t catch my death.”

“Not you, m’lady. Never sick a day in your life.”

“No, that’s true enough,” Meriel agreed, stretching languorously. “Stoke that fire up a bit, will you? Just thinking of that cold towel has given me gooseflesh.”

Gladys moved to obey her but looked sternly back over her shoulder even as she stooped at the hearth. “Don’t you be dallyin’, now, Miss Meriel. Sir Antony says the chaise will be ready afore noon, and I have no wish to be a-wastin’ time here that might be spent with Lady Nest.”

“Madame de Prévenu,” Meriel corrected with an impish gleam in her eye. “Do you know that until only three years ago some people still called her Citizeness de Prévenu? The title lingered from the Revolution you know, but Nest wrote that it was the oddest thing to hear. Napoleon Bonaparte, of course, prefers titles to the lack of them, as people have learned over the years.”

“First Consul for life, they call him now,” Gladys said with a sniff, ignoring her mistress’s correction of Nest’s title as she generally did. “Settin’ himself up to be king, like as not, and him without a drop of royal blood in him. ’Tis a crime, and no mistake, m’lady.”

“They say he is charming, however,” Meriel pointed out. “I wonder if we shall meet him. Nest says even people of consequence pay gigantic bribes in order to be invited to one of his receptions.”

“Bribes to him? Well, if that don’t—”

“No, no, of course not,” Meriel replied, laughing. “To his aides, of course, to be put upon the lists for the receptions, to receive invitations. He doesn’t make out the lists, you know, any more than their majesties do for their drawing rooms and levees.”

“Well, I hope you’ll be doin’ no such godless thing, Miss Meriel.” Gladys got to her feet, brushing her hands together to remove any ashes that might have clung to them. “Are you gettin’ up now, miss?”

“Yes, yes, don’t do anything absurd, for heaven’s sake. I am sure I am quite as anxious to be gone from this place as you are yourself. If you will see that our breakfast is ordered in the coffee room, I shall endeavor to wash my face and hands and get into my dress.”

“Sir Antony has seen to all that, m’lady, as you might have trusted him to do. We breakfast in that same parlor we supped in last evening. And you’ll be needin’ me to do up them buttons at the back of your gown, unless you be wishful of wearin’ something other than your traveling dress.”

Meriel sighed. “I am very tired of that dress,” she admitted. “I daresay I shall never wear dark green again. However, it is far more practical in all this dust than anything else would be.”

“Indeed, m’lady, and I have brushed it out so it don’t show a speck of dust from yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have, Gladys.” Impulsively Meriel got up and gave the woman a hug. “I don’t know what I should do without you, you know. You have always taken such good care of me.”

“There, now, Miss Meriel, have done. Why, people would stare to see you hug your maid.” But Gladys’ stern features relaxed noticeably, and Meriel took no notice of the reproof.

“Is there no hot water?” she asked instead, feeling the tepid water in the basin.

“Aye, there was,” said her handmaiden with a glint in her eyes. “Until it took me all of thirty minutes to waken your ladyship. And it took the best part of an hour to get these heathen Frenchies to provide it, so I’m thinkin’ you’d best make do with what you’ve got.”

“Yes, Gladys,” said her mistress meekly, hiding a smile as she added with a long sigh, “I suppose I shall manage well enough.”

“And we’ll have none of your dramatics either, miss.”

“No, Gladys.”

She dressed quickly and within the half-hour found herself in the private parlor, seated across from Mrs. Peat, indulging in a large, delicious breakfast. Sir Antony, having eaten earlier, sat in a large overstuffed chair near the only window, reading a newspaper.

“Is that an English paper, sir?”

He glanced up at her. “No, ’tis French.”

“I daresay you read French well, then.”

“Tolerably.”

“What does it say?”

“A number of things. Are you enjoying your breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you.” She saw that he had turned his attention back to the newspaper, and remembering her father’s harsh attitude toward anyone who dared to interrupt his reading, she hesitated to speak again, particularly in view of the way they had parted the night before. After some moments with no sound in the room other than the clinking of silver against china and the rustle of the paper as he turned a page, however, she could stand it no longer. “Is there news of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

“Merely that he is presently in Boulogne,” he said briefly. Then, after a pause, he looked up with a smile. “’Tis abominably rude of me to continue reading, I daresay.”

“Oh, no, I do not mind in the least,” she said mendaciously, relieved to see him smile, “only I wondered if there was any news that might affect us, you know.”

“Not a great deal, except Addington seems to have issued another ultimatum to the French with regard to releasing those countries we discussed the other day from what he calls the French bondage. ’Tis foolish of him, I fear. He will accomplish little more than to annoy Bonaparte.”

“And if he becomes annoyed?”

Sir Antony shrugged. “The man is unpredictable.”

“But surely he has some sort of policy he follows, which makes it possible to judge what he must do.”

He looked at her in amusement. “You seem to know a deal about such things.”

“No, only my papa and Joss often argued about what they called ‘English policy,’ so I assumed that France had something similar.”

He chuckled. “Not Bonaparte. In point of fact, I daresay that is one of his biggest problems, that he has no policy to speak of. He merely wishes to rule all Europe. That Peace of Amiens is not much at all, you know. He gave England no trade agreement—not that he had to do so, of course, since he was actually the victor of that round, but it would have made peace more of a possibility.”

“We have peace,” she reminded him.

“Ah, yes, so we do.” He nodded. “I have not yet heard the First Consul admit being satisfied with what he’s got, however.”

They chatted in this vein for some minutes, and Meriel was impressed that Sir Antony did not mock her interest as her father and Jocelyn—and, indeed, most other gentlemen of her acquaintance—had done. Ladies simply were not expected to be interested in anything they chanced to read in a newspaper other than royal and social news. But when she had the chance, Meriel liked to read the political news, even the dispatches. However, those newspapers that did find their way to Plas Tallyn were generally weeks old, so she rarely was able to discuss current news. It was with some disappointment, therefore, that she received the information, relayed by a footman, that her chaise had been repaired and was standing in the innyard awaiting her pleasure.

It was but a matter of twenty minutes before they were ready to depart, and to Meriel’s surprise, another gentleman stood with Sir Antony in the yard when she emerged from the inn. His back was toward her, but he was slender, of medium height, and there was something familiar about him. Not until he turned toward her and grinned did she recognize him, however.

“Merciful heavens!” she exclaimed under her breath.

“What is it, m’lady?” Gladys inquired behind her.

“That man with Sir Antony is a thief. I …” She hesitated, not wishing to admit to Gladys that she had stepped out the previous evening, but then, realizing there was no other way, she went on, “I caught him stealing from Sir Antony last night.”

Mr. Carruthers’ grin had widened, and she was sure he knew just what she was telling Gladys, but her maid’s astonishment could not be ignored. “Just what do you mean, miss, you stopped him? You was safe and snug in your bed, you was.”

“Well, I stepped out for a breath of air, and when I returned, I surprised him creeping out of Sir Antony’s room.”

“Miss Meriel!”

“I know, ’twas very bad of me, but indeed I came to no harm, and I had my pistol by me, so I had no compunction about stopping him. Fortunately, Sir Antony was just below in the taproom, and came upstairs before I had to think what to do with my capture. But how dare that man accost us in the yard in this fashion!”

Striding forward to demand an explanation of such impertinence, Meriel realized that Sir Antony had moved nearer to Mr. Carruthers. Furthermore, he was smiling, if not so broadly as his companion, then certainly quite cheerfully. She came to a halt before them, her eyes glittering with indignation.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded of Carruthers.

“Why, I have decided to ride on to Paris, and since that is also your destination, ma’am, Sir Antony has most kindly invited me to join your party.”

“This is not Sir Antony’s party, and he has no business to be inviting anyone to join it,” she said angrily. “Moreover, I have no wish to be seen in company with a common thief.”

“Oh, not common, surely,” Mr. Carruthers protested. “I steal only from the best people, as you must have realized, my lady. Indeed, I am most profoundly sorry if I gave you a fright. I would never have stepped into the corridor at that moment if you had but made the smallest noise to announce your presence.”

“No doubt that is true enough,” she agreed dryly.

Sir Antony chuckled, then clapped Carruthers on the back. “My lady, this fellow has promised to mend his ways and I believe he means to do so. I cannot think there is real harm in him, and he would not be safe traveling alone, for a solitary traveler must always be at the mercy of any rogue he might meet.”

“I daresay Mr. Carruthers can look after himself.”

“But,” said Sir Antony gently, “I should prefer to look after Mr. Carruthers. Who knows where next he will turn up if we do not keep him safely under our eye.”

There was certainly something to be said for that, Meriel thought, although she could not believe Carruthers would be so foolish as to twice mark Sir Antony or the rest of them for his activities. If she were left to decide for herself, she would still call out the nearest constable. So it was with some disgust that she climbed into the chaise, turning a cold shoulder to both Sir Antony and his new protégé.

T
HE DISTANCE FROM THE
village of Mantes-de-Jolie to Paris was less than thirty miles, but the road remained rutted and difficult to negotiate in places, so even though they changed teams wherever they could do so, their progress was slower than Meriel would have liked. To add to their difficulties, it came on to drizzle before they had reached Saint Germain. What had been a bright blue sky at noon changed within two hours to dismal gray. It was a spring rain and not a particularly chilly one, but neither Meriel nor Gladys Peat could long remain comfortable while they watched the two riders hunched in their saddles with only their turned-up collars for protection from the elements. After less than fifteen minutes of this, Meriel let down the window and shouted for them to come into the chaise.