Feather Castles (26 page)

Watching from the doorway, Euphemia Hawkhurst's eyes were very soft. She held up a hand to detain her tall husband as he moved quietly to join her. Taking that hand, he kissed it and, his eyes holding the smile the sight of his wife invariably awoke in them, murmured, “How does Leith go on, love?”

“He seems content,” she murmured, “but only because— Oh, Garret, the poor dear will not accept it! Is it wrong in us to pretend with him?”

Hawkhurst's gaze turned to the two who chattered so gaily together, and, frowning a little, he said, “Perhaps it gives him time to adjust to the pain of his loss. Perhaps—when it becomes obvious that he must face the fact that Tristram is…” And he hesitated, himself unable to speak that dread word.

Euphemia's face crumpled. She hid it against Hawkhurst's splendid dinner jacket, and he dropped a kiss upon the bright tresses that contained a titian no artifice could provide. “Do not, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We must try only to be glad we knew him. He'd not have wanted these tears, you know.”

“I … know,” she gulped. “But—is there
no
hope? No hope at all?”

Hawkhurst stifled a sigh. “It is almost six weeks since Waterloo, Mia. God knows, I'd give my right arm to think Tristram was alive. But—” He heard her muffled sob and said bracingly, “If anyone can help poor Leith face up to matters, it's our Dora. Come—let them talk alone a little longer. They've been friends for years. Who knows, that friendship may prove a boon to both of 'em.”

Euphemia looked up, wonderingly. Drying her tears, she slipped her hand into his, and they crept silently away.

*   *   *

Rachel sat beside the open
petit salon
window, staring blindly into the peaceful afternoon. For the third time she sighed, and took up her embroidery frame.

Watching her, waiting for the first stitch to be set, Agatha saw the pretty hands sink again, and, her heart heavy, put down the torn flounce she mended and asked, “Miss Rachel? Be you worrying over what that silly Raoul said? I nigh boxed his ears when he told me! The impertinence, to dare try and involve you in such a scheme as he and Mr. Diccon have—”

“No, no.” Rachel crossed to sit beside the indignant abigail. “It is much more than that. And, Agatha—my sister must know nothing of all this.”

“My lamb.” Agatha squeezed the hand she held and said fondly, “You do not belong here. Can we go home soon?”

Rachel bit her lip. “Truth to tell, I have very little in the way of funds. And—at all events, it cannot be thought of while Charity is far from well.”

Agatha said glumly, “She did seem to take a turn, dear soul. And so quick as it was!”

“Yes. And in no case for a long journey, even if that were possible. I worry about her, and yet—” she checked, turning sharply as she heard a small sound behind her. Angered, she came to her feet and said with regal hauteur, “I failed to hear your knock, Gerard!”

“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle. I knocked very softly, for fear of disturbing Mademoiselle Charity.”

“Must've been so soft as thistledown,” Agatha muttered, but when Gerard's cold gaze rested on her, she quailed into silence.

Rachel's head was very high. “Indeed? I assume you intrude for some urgent purpose?”

Amused, and unable to refrain from admiring her, Gerard betrayed neither emotion, saying, “A messenger has arrived, mademoiselle.”

“From monseigneur?”

“From…” he paused, knowing he was vexing her, and finished with his faint smile, “from Mr. Justin Strand.”

The embroidery fell from Rachel's hand. “My brother?” she gasped, hearing Agatha's excited exclamation.

“So I am advised.”

Her heart leaping, she asked, “Where is this messenger? Bring him here at once!”

“I would have done this,
naturellement,
but he is not, ah—suitably clad to set foot above stairs.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” She swept past him and walked swiftly along the corridor, her steps muffled by the thick carpets. Dear Justin was come home at last! And just when she so needed him! Hurrying down the winding stairs, she all but ran through the hall. Several footmen came rigidly to attention as she passed, her eyes searching anxiously. There was no sign of anyone other than servants in the entry hall, and she spun about angrily. Gerard watched her from beside the open door that led to the kitchens and the rear of the house. He bowed slightly, his face quite without expression.

Rachel fairly flew past him and down the narrow corridor, a startled kitchenmaid leaping back before her impetuous advance. When she came to the door leading into the small office where the housekeeper interviewed local merchants, Gerard was beside her and, reaching for the handle, murmured, “Allow me, mademoiselle. This is a rough-looking customer.”

He entered the room first, blocking the doorway as he said a stern, “Make your respects, fellow. Here is Mademoiselle Strand.” And he stepped aside, his cunning eyes riveted to the girl's face.

“Are you—” Rachel began, and stopped, her breath snatched away, shock causing her heart to leap into her throat and every vestige of colour to drain from her face. A hand to her throat, she stared at the tall young man who bowed before her; the strong, fine face, the wide-set dark eyes she had never thought to see again.

Tristram had heard the gasp that cut off her eager words and was himself stunned. Rachel was white as death, with dark smudges beneath her glorious eyes, and her face thinner than he remembered; yet her beauty seemed enhanced. For a frozen instant he could only know how lovely she was, the pale jonquil gown accentuating the fair curls and dainty figure. Even though he had prepared himself for this moment, it took a mighty effort of will to present an appearance of cool impassivity. It was very clear that Rachel had not been told his identity. How stricken she looked. He slanted an irked glance at the Frenchman and surprised a gloating triumph on the sallow features. As always, danger sharpened his faculties. He pulled himself together and said politely, “My apologies, ma'am. I should have realized my sudden appearance would shock you. I did not die, after all, you see.”

Rachel had betrayed herself, she knew, but an escape route had been offered and she snatched at it. “I am—very glad,” she stammered breathlessly. “I will own I was … most startled. I had thought—that is, the surgeon was of the opinion … I am glad to see he was mistaken.”

Tristram laughed easily. “Oh, yes, I confounded him. And went to Strand Hall to thank you for your kindnesses.”

“It was the least I could do.” Her knees were jelly, but she turned to Gerard and said, “Captain Tristram did me a great service after Waterloo, when the carriage I occupied was attacked by looters.”

“We are greatly indebted to
Monsieur le Capitaine,
” murmured Gerard, his eyes enigmatic.

“No need, I assure you, sir,” smiled Tristram. “Any man would have done the same.”

“And it appears you have now done me another service,” said Rachel. “Monsieur Gerard says you bring word from my brother? He is back in England?”

“Yes, ma'am. And when he learned I was bound for France, begged that I tell you of his arrival and ask that you return to Sussex as soon as is convenient.”

“He doubtless sent a letter to that effect,” purred Gerard.

Tristram thought, “Blast! Why did I not think of that?” “Regrettably,” he said, “Mr. Strand was abed with a heavy cold. Nothing to worry you, ma'am, but he did not feel inclined to write.”

“Oh, no,” Rachel laughed nervously. “Justin abominates being obliged to set pen to paper. How eager I am to see him, and my sister will be overjoyed. I shall return to England at once, Gerard. Please order a carriage for us.”

“But of course, mademoiselle,” Gerard turned to the door and Rachel's wild heartbeat began to calm. See how simple it had been? How absurd that she had imagined he would object!

His hand on the doorknob, Gerard paused and glanced back. “Monseigneur is expected momentarily. He will, of a certainty, wish to thank the gentleman who was of such great service, and doubtless would desire personally to escort you.”

“But we cannot be sure when he will return, and I can be back in—”

“Mademoiselle has perhaps forgotten the ball?” he reminded smoothly. “I betray a secret, I fear, but monseigneur is even now in Paris selecting the betrothal ring. He will be quite shattered to find mademoiselle gone away, for he has planned the ball with such care—everything mademoiselle might wish. Many of the guests must travel a great distance and are already en route.”

“Even so, does Miss Strand desire to return home and would permit, I would be happy to serve as courier,” Tristram asserted, a touch of steel in his voice.

Gerard smiled. “You are too kind, but it is not to be thought of, monsieur. Mademoiselle Strand is my employer's affianced bride. If mademoiselle persists in leaving while monseigneur is absent,
I
must ensure her safe conduct.”

“No,” said Rachel calmly. Gerard was quite right, for she had not only forgotten the ball, but all sense of propriety and manners. There was no escape for her. The ball was, as he had said, almost upon them, and to run off and leave Claude to face his guests alone would be unforgivable. She held out her hand. “Thank you, Captain. Adieu.”

His strong clasp sent a near unbearable pang through her heart. He bowed and released her hand at once.

“Mais non!”
Gerard protested. “I have to insist that monsieur remain, as our honoured guest. Do you refuse,
Monsieur le Capitaine,
my situation will be lost to me. I know it.”

Afraid, Rachel inserted, “Captain Tristram undoubtedly has other commitments, Gerard. We will not add inconvenience to the debt that already exists.”

“To the contrary, Miss Strand, it would be my very great pleasure to stay,” said Tristram. “However, I cannot think my so small service warrants such a reward.”

“But—monseigneur will think so,” Gerard contradicted, his crafty eyes very bright. “On that head, I have no doubts whatsoever.”

*   *   *

Rachel managed to slip into her bedchamber without disturbing Agatha, who was sitting in the
petit salon,
reading to Charity. She closed the connecting door softly, went at once to the washstand, dampened a cloth and held it to her brow. She must not faint, though to succumb to the reaction that was making her head swim would be a welcome relief. Tears began to mingle with the cold water. She had to choke back a flood of sobs, and for the first time in her life, longed for the restorative of strong spirits. She crossed to the windows and opened them wide. For a moment, she stood there, breathing the cool air, then sank her face into her hands. In heaven's name—what must she do for the best? She could not be
sure
why Tristram had come. There had been a frost in his eyes when he looked at her, but he was here, and that his strength and gallantry were at her command, whether or not he now despised her, she did not doubt for an instant.

She began to pace the room, walking quietly for all her desperate agitation. She was no longer so alone with her problems; someone beloved and reliable and strong was come, someone in whom to confide all her woes, to offer a broad shoulder to weep on. But in her ears rang a distant echo of the words that Sister Maria Evangeline had uttered with such grim intensity: “… make you see Claude Sanguinet for the monster he really is … one of the most powerful men in all Europe …
the
most dangerous! Human life is of no importance to him. He has been responsible for—” For what? She halted, a whimper catching in her throat. Murder? Careless cruelty? Oh,
why
had she not listened to the nun's warning? It had seemed so inconceivable at the time; it had been so hard for her to accept. But even were Sister Maria Evangeline and Diccon, and that funny, strutting, warm-hearted little Raoul, wrong, she knew she must still be afraid of a man who surrounded himself with such people as Gerard and those icy-eyed guards. She wrung her hands and paced on.

If Claude were even half as dangerous as the good Sister suspected, what chance would there be for Tristram? If she told him the truth, he would fight to the death to win her away. And that is what it might well come to, for how could one man hope to carry herself, her maid, and her invalid sister from these closely watched grounds? She huddled on the side of the bed, a small, stricken shape, elbows on her knees and forehead resting on her clenched fists, rocking back and forth in a frenzy of despair. Perhaps she could go to Claude, tell him she wished to return to see Justin, and would come back. But there was no time! The ball was three days hence. She was sure that if she attempted to break her engagement, Claude would not allow her to do so—not while she was here in France. And with Charity to transport, how could she possibly— She gave a sudden gasp of terror. Was
that
why Claude had insisted upon Charity accompanying them? Had he suspected she might attempt to sever their engagement? Did he mean to use Charity as a tool, knowing she was too ill to travel? “Oh … God!” she moaned and, remembering Gerard's sly intrusion into their parlour earlier, she sobbed again, a hand pressed to her mouth to stifle the sound. How long had he been standing there before she heard him? How much had he heard?

“What must I do?” she whispered, distraught. “Oh, what must I
do?
”

There was no answer, save what she herself could devise. On the one hand, marriage to a man she had come to fear and dislike—but luxury and health for Charity. On the other, a desperate, probably doomed attempt at escape, ending perhaps in the ultimate penalty for the man she loved more than her own life …

Her hands lowered, and she sat very still, gazing haggard-eyed at the rich carpet. There
was
no choice. No choice at all.