Another Small Kingdom (33 page)

Chapter Seventy-three

E
verything was as Count Brutti had promised. Macleod, after being cleansed, dressed and generally refurbished next saw Marie when she entered the splendid room in Fouché's house where he had been taken to await her.

She was wearing an evening gown of dazzling beauty looking like someone who had not, nor ever could have known, a care in the world. She was fresh, bright, cheerful and more lovely than ever. As for Macleod, from head to foot he was simply a fashion plate. Had the late Monsieur de Valois been able to cast an eye over him and see him now, he would have unhesitatingly approved and passed him fit for the best company in the land. Marie crossed the room straight to where Macleod, self-conscious and deeply uncomfortable, stood captivated by the vision that was Marie.

‘But, Jean, is it you? You are magnificent. Have they given you a title? They must at least have made you a Duke, for you to look so very grand.'

‘Please, Marie, don't mock me. I objected, I argued, but as you see here I am once more playing the primped-up dandy and feeling more like a tailor's dummy than anything human.'

Marie reached up and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. Then spun round.

‘And me, Jean, do I also look primped-up, like a tailor's dummy?'

Her dark hair was gathered up on to her head and held in place at the back with a jewelled comb. Her dress shimmered under the light of the two candelabra and round her neck was a jewelled necklace the pendant of which pointed down to where the cleavage of her bosom showed above the low cut of the dress.

Macleod was unable to speak for a moment, his eyes guided by the pendant and his mind in a turmoil. He had forgotten what Marie looked like when she dressed as he had first known her.

A door opened and Fouché entered.

‘My dear Madame de Valois,' he came and took her hand and kissed it, ‘you look like a queen.'

‘I hope not, Monsieur, that title is an unfortunate one in France.'

‘A Duchess then, and remember, I speak as a Duke.' Fouché turned to Macleod. ‘I hope you bear me no ill will, M'sieur. A man in my position cannot always regard his own wishes. For myself, I have found you both to be charming and under other circumstances …'

Macleod cut him short.

‘The circumstances were as they were.'

Fouché gave him a nasty smile and a small bow.

‘I am so glad that you understand.'

‘I was told there would be a friend here.'

‘There will be. He will arrive very shortly.'

‘Who is this friend?'

‘It is a Monsieur Bentley. He comes from Boston and claims to know both of you very well.'

‘Bentley!'

‘You do not know him?'

‘I know him.'

‘Do I detect in your tone that he is perhaps not regarded by you as such a friend?'

‘Friend! If he dares to show his face to me again I'll break his damned neck.'

Marie put a hand on his arm.

‘Jean, please, remember where we are.'

‘I don't give a curse for where we are or who we're with. I'm fed up with being no better than a ball on a billiard table poked round by anyone with a confounded stick. I say if that blackguard so much as shows his face …'

And as he spoke the door opened and Bentley entered. He walked straight across to Marie.

‘Madame de Valois, looking, if I may say so, more beautiful than ever. My compliments, Madame.'

And as he took her hand and bent to kiss it Macleod stepped forward and his fist crashed into the side of Bentley's head. Bentley uttered a cry, staggered sideways, fell over a chair and tumbled to the floor.

Marie gave a small scream and Fouché uttered an oath.

Macleod ignored them all and glared at Bentley.

‘Get up damn you, I'm going to thrash you.'

Bentley sat up rubbing the side of his head.

‘In that case, Macleod, thank you for the offer, but if you don't mind I think I'll sit this one out. My brawling days are too far behind me to enjoy a rough and tumble just at the moment.'

‘Get up I say or I'll thrash you where you …'

Marie screamed again but louder this time and Macleod felt the point of a knife pressed into his neck just below his ear. He tried to turn his head but the knife only pressed harder.

All eyes were on Macleod, but it was Bentley who spoke.

‘Careful, Fouché, remember our agreement. If your man kills him then you know what will happen.'

All of Fouché's charm of manner had returned.

‘Have no fear, M'sieur Bentley, I rarely kill my dinner guests and certainly never before they have dined.' He turned to Macleod. ‘If M'sieur Macleod tries to cause any more trouble, Count Brutti will merely disable him, no more.'

Count Brutti held the knife where it was but reduced the pressure.

Bentley slowly got up.

‘You still carry a punch, Macleod.' He straightened his coat. ‘And your temper hasn't improved with age. But I dare say you feel yourself to have been provoked. Well, perhaps you were. And that being the case we'll consider the matter closed. Now, Fouché, I thought I had been invited to dine not roll around on the floor among your furniture.'

‘What about M'sieur Macleod? He seems to be a somewhat unwilling companion.'

Bentley gave Macleod a grin.

‘Not at all. He always greets people in that manner, it's how he gets so much custom. You know that after you've met him for the first time things can only get better.' He walked over to Marie and took her hand once more. ‘Permit me, Madame, a moment ago I was interrupted.' He kissed her hand. ‘Now, Fouché, get rid of your friend with the stiletto and lead us to our meal and if the food and wine are half as agreeable as the company', he smiled at Marie then looked at Macleod, ‘or as diverting as the entertainment I shall be well pleased.'

Fouché waved away Count Brutti who lowered his knife and withdrew.

‘Come, please, the table is ready.'

‘Macleod, I claim the privilege of an old comrade in arms to offer my arm to Madame de Valois.'

Marie took the proffered arm.

‘Merci, M'sieur.'

And they walked together towards a door that had opened showing a dining table laid and ready for guests with liveried servants waiting. Fouché stood beside Macleod.

‘Come, M'sieur Macleod. I hope you like the menu my chef has chosen for us. He has no knowledge of American food in general, and none at all of Boston, but he has done his best, and in Paris his best is considered equal to any chef, even that of our glorious First Consul himself.'

And Macleod, utterly at a loss to understand what was going on, allowed himself to be led in.

Chapter Seventy-four

M
acleod took no pleasure in the meal. The food and wine were, he supposed, excellent, but he ate only because he was hungry. The polite conversation that went back and forth across the table was closed to him by both temperament and choice.

Marie, however, was vivacity itself. She was a veteran of many such evenings where, as an unwilling hostess or unwilling guest, she had played the part required of her, just as she played it now.

Bentley was also playing a part, the gay and diverting guest, not at all the man who, in Boston, had tried to kill Marie and had succeeded in killing Amélie.

Fouché assumed the role of the polished and urbane host and there remained no trace of the man who, in this very house on the previous day, had ordered them both killed if they offered any resistance.

Macleod alone at the table acted no part, but either no one noticed his dogged silence or they all chose to ignore it. So it was that the evening ran its course until the performance was over and the curtain finally came down.

They returned to the room in which they had first assembled where Bentley took it upon himself to make their farewells.

‘My compliments to your chef, Fouché, an excellent dinner.'

‘Merci, and made all the more excellent by the company.'

‘Well then, even the pleasantest of evenings comes to an end and we must now take our leave.'

‘Of course, M'sieur Bentley. Your carriage is at the door.' Fouché took Marie's hand and kissed it. ‘Madame, such beauty, wit and brains have not graced this house for a very long time.'

Marie smiled a formal acknowledgement of the compliment.

The door opened and a maid entered with Marie's cape together with two footmen who carried the cloaks of Bentley and Macleod.

Fouché waited until they were ready.

‘So, M'sieur Bentley, it is as you wished, you are safely reunited with your friends.'

‘It is as we agreed, Fouché.'

‘In that case I bid you all adieu.'

He gave a small bow, Bentley returned it and Marie gave the slightest of curtsies. Bentley then turned and led them from the room to the front door, outside which his carriage waited.

The carriage rumbled through the dark streets but the carriage lights shone in through the windows enough for the passengers to see one another. Marie looked at Bentley.

‘Tell me, M'sieur Bentley, are we now safe?'

‘Safer than you were, but not yet, I regret, as safe as I would wish. Nor will you be, either of you, so long as you are in Paris or even in France.'

‘Paris! I wish I'd never seen the place. A curse on it. And a curse on Fouché and on you, Bentley, in fact on all damned foreigners and all false intriguers.'

And, having delivered his judgement on Paris, his late host, his carriage companion, and foreigners in general, Macleod lapsed once more into sullen silence.

‘I'm afraid, Madame, that Macleod is in a poor mood and not, I suspect, open to any conversation I might wish to have with you both. We have much to talk about, and much to arrange, but it had better wait until the morning when our growling bear has rested. Let us hope he wakes up in a more receptive frame of mind.'

Marie sat back and they all continued the journey in silence, each busy with their own thoughts.

The carriage rolled on through the dark streets and stopped at a large house in a fashionable part of the city behind the Place Vendôme. A maid answered the door and Bentley led them to some comfortable and well-appointed rooms where Macleod and Marie found their luggage waiting for them, their clothes unpacked, and everything laundered and carefully laid out.

Bentley looked around the room to satisfy himself that all was as it should be.

‘I trust you will both be comfortable. If there is anything you want please ask the maid. Now I must leave you but I will return tomorrow morning and try to explain everything.'

‘Thank you, M'sieur Bentley.'

Bentley turned to Macleod who stood stolidly silent.

‘Well then, goodnight.'

But Macleod ignored the offered hand and said nothing.

Once Bentley had gone Marie came to Macleod and kissed him gently.

‘Jean, what will happen to us? Are we safe now?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Bentley cannot really be our friend, can he?'

‘I don't know.'

‘But nothing more can happen tonight?'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘Jean, we have played the part of husband and wife so many times. Whatever happens tomorrow, tonight we will not play any more.' Macleod looked at her and, realising what it was she meant, took her in his arms and they kissed again. ‘Go now and when I am ready I will come to you.'

Macleod needed no further encouragement. He went at once into the bedroom, pulled off all his modish clothes and threw them into a corner of the room, got into bed and lay, still and excited, all thoughts driven from his mind, except that Marie would come to him at last and they would share the love that had grown so great between them.

It was not really so very long before Marie quietly and shyly entered the bedroom and in the darkness crept naked into the bed.

‘Jean, I am here, I am ready.'

But her soft voice received no reply. Macleod had lain waiting, tired but at last content. He had closed his eyes and given himself up to thoughts of Marie naked and in his arms. As his mind and body, so sorely taxed for so long, felt at last the comfort of ease, his happy thoughts turned rapidly, but imperceptibly, to happy dreams of Marie lying beside him ready to show her love, and Macleod slept.

Chapter Seventy-five

M
arie was up and dressed before Macleod woke and, when he did wake and dress, to hide their embarrassment, both behaved as if nothing at all had happened, which, of course, it hadn't.

Bentley returned at half-past eight and both Marie and Macleod were glad that he had called so early. The morning had not been easy for either of them. When he entered Macleod ignored his greeting but Marie was less reserved.

‘Please, M'sieur Bentley, will you sit down? May I ring for some coffee?'

But Bentley dismissed the offers.

‘Nothing, thank you, there is not time. Madame, and you are included, Macleod, black looks or no, your situation here remains, as I said last night, perilous. You understand that?'

‘How very mysterious you are, M'sieur Bentley. Are you trying to frighten us?'

‘A little fear for your present situation might not go amiss.'

Macleod at last came to life.

‘If you have something to say, Bentley, be so good as to say it. We want none of your intriguer's games.'

‘Very well. This afternoon you both go to Le Havre where you take ship tomorrow for Boston. You're going home Macleod, I hope you're pleased.'

Macleod failed to keep the surprise from his voice.

‘If that's true then I am glad, heartily glad.'

Marie, however, was more cautious.

‘And I would also be glad, M'sieur Bentley, if I could be sure that what you say is true. Yesterday you said you would return and explain. Today you return and say we are to go to Boston. But you do not explain.'

‘If I had the words to convince you, I would explain. But, as you both know words are a much debased currency in the world in which you have found yourselves. Deeds alone, I think, can convince.'

‘Dammit, man, if that's so then less words and more deeds.'

Bentley turned angrily.

‘Macleod, you are and always were a pig-headed fool and God alone knows why you're still alive. If it were you alone I had to deal with I'd happily leave you to the tender mercies of our friend Fouché. However, as there is Madame de Valois to consider I will do my best to save your lives and get you safely back to America.'

Macleod was also angry and his fists were clenched. Marie looked at the two men and feared a repeat of the violence of the previous evening.

‘We want no favours from you, Bentley, damn you and your explanations and your ships to Boston. Get out of here before I finish now what I should have finished last night.'

For a moment they stared at each other. Then Bentley sat down heavily on a chair.

‘I give up. You're too much for me, Macleod.' He pulled a white handkerchief from inside his coat and held it up. ‘I surrender.' He turned to Marie. ‘But I surrender to you, Madame, not to this madman. I throw myself on your mercy.'

Marie also sat down.

‘I accept your surrender, sir.' Macleod looked from one to the other. ‘Sit down, Jean. M'sieur Bentley is going to explain.'

‘Yes, Macleod, sit down. We're both too old for fisticuffs even if I had the time.' Macleod reluctantly sat down. ‘Macleod, upon my honour, I never thought that you would become involved in the way you have. You were meant to play the smallest of parts. Somehow, God knows how, for I certainly don't, you were drawn into this thing and Madame de Valois was drawn in alongside you.'

‘And this thing, M'sieur Bentley, what exactly is this thing?'

‘Dammit, Marie, we don't need to be told.' Macleod faced Bentley with a look of triumph. ‘We know all about it, Bentley, it's a vile plot. Fouché intends to put Cardinal Henry Stuart on the throne of America and is in league with men in America of sufficient influence to bring about such an abomination. The Cardinal himself handed me a list of the traitors.'

Macleod sat back satisfied with his bombshell.

Bentley looked at Marie.

‘Is that what you think, Madame?'

‘I think there is a plot but I do not think that Cardinal Henry ever had any intention of allowing himself to be used as Jean has suggested.'

‘No, Madame?'

‘No, and I think Monsieur Fouché is too clever to put his trust in such a plan.'

‘May I ask why you think that?'

‘Cardinal Henry did not appear to me as a man with such great ambition for himself.'

‘He already claims one throne.'

‘True, but he does not do that for himself, he honours the memory of his brother, no more. He is a good man, his people love him. They spoke of him with affection and told us with great bitterness how he had lost all his money when the Revolution came to France. They said that what little he had left he gave to the Pope to free him from imprisonment by Napoleon. Does that sound like the kind of man who would plot to gain a kingdom for himself?'

Bentley looked back at Macleod. The triumph Macleod had felt had left him.

‘I don't understand. Are you saying, Marie … well, what is it you are saying?'

But Bentley spoke before Marie could answer.

‘Madame is saying nothing. She is thinking out loud and they are idle thoughts, of no consequence. It would be better to put such thoughts from you, Madame. For your own safety I strongly suggest it.'

‘If you say so, M'sieur, then it is already done.'

‘Well then, I said I would explain and now I will, in so far as I am able. I am here on Government business.' He held up his hand to silence Macleod whom he could see was going to challenge his claim, ‘I merely tell you that to explain why I am here. Whether you believe me or not is immaterial. On arrival I find that you and Madame de Valois have fallen foul of Monsieur Fouché and are in Paris, detained in unfortunate circumstances. I arranged for your release. My arrangement will hold good for no more than thirty-six hours at the very most. If you are still in France after that, you will both most assuredly die.' Bentley stood up. ‘A carriage will call for you at one o'clock. If you choose to take it you will travel to Le Havre where an American merchantman will take you both to America. If you choose not to take it then …' and Bentley shrugged his shoulders.

Marie stood.

‘M'sieur Bentley, if you did indeed arrange for our release then Jean and I thank you from our hearts. I would very much wish to believe that you did arrange it. If that was so I might begin to believe you were our friend. But there is one thing that stands in the way of my belief. Was it you who tried to kill me in Jean's house in Boston? Was it you who killed Amélie?'

‘Great heavens, Marie, what makes you think …'

‘Jean, who else wanted me dead? Think, Jean. The British agents wanted my information not my death. Who else was there?'

They both turned and looked at Bentley who tried to give them a conciliating smile.

‘Believe me, dear lady, I did not intend to kill anyone, but I had to act. Darcy would have suspected me of a double game if I had done nothing and I couldn't risk that, so I went to the house and found your room. I meant to put my shot somewhere in the wall, that was all, but that damned old housekeeper rushed in and pushed past me, and I had to get a shot off as best I could. I simply fired at random, unfortunately I hit the woman. I wouldn't have had it happen for the world, I assure you, although it did wonders in convincing Darcy that I had fully intended to kill you. I'm afraid Amélie was an unfortunate incident, accidental damage shall we call it?'

‘No, M'sieur, we will not call it accidental damage. We will call it the death of a loyal and loving friend.'

‘Madame, I assure you …'

‘Please, M'sieur, no more. It is done and cannot be undone so I must accept it.'

But from the tone of her voice Bentley rather thought she didn't and he felt he couldn't really blame her.

‘Madame, I salute your good sense, so for your own safety please use it to try and persuade this blockhead here to take the carriage. If he refuses then I do truly urge you to go without him. You should have had no part in all of this. And now I really must leave. There are calls on my time I can no longer postpone. I am sorry, Madame, that your visit to Paris has been so brief and unsatisfactory.' He turned to Macleod. ‘Good day, Macleod. If time and circumstances permit I will be at Le Havre to be sure you get away safely. Both of you I hope.'

He held out his hand. Macleod looked at it then stood up and took it.

‘You never did work against the Government, then?'

‘No, never, but there were people who needed to think that I did. And now I really must go. The carriage, sharp at one, mind.'

Bentley left and Macleod stood for a moment after he had gone.

‘I still don't understand. Whose side is the Cardinal on and why …'

Marie put a hand on his arm.

‘Stop, Jean. Think of it as if you were a child again asking a question about your faith.'

Macleod thought of it as a child.

‘That it's a mystery?'

‘Yes, it is something you are not meant to understand. It is enough that, if not God, then someone understands and, because someone understands, we are alive and tomorrow we will leave France and set sail for America.'

Macleod thought about it and came to the conclusion that what Marie had said made more sense than anything else he had heard that morning.

‘If you say so.'

And she kissed him.