The Ruby Pendant
Authors: Mary Nichols
The Ruby
Pendant
by
Mary Nichols
Originally
published in 1997 by Mills & Boon
Copyright
1997 and 2013 by Mary Nichols
All rights
reserved.
The moral
right of the author has been asserted.
No part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the
prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.
All
characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.
Published
by Mary Nichols 2013
Cover
design by Elaine Nichols.
The image
of the Regency dress is reproduced by kind permission of Anne Styles
and the
pendant by kind permission of Sofia Jewelry
When Lieutenant Pierre Veillard, a French prisoner of war,
paints Juliette Martindale's portrait as a French aristocrat in sumptuous
clothes of satin and brocade, wearing an ostentatious ruby pendant, and not the
gentle, innocent daughter of Viscount Martindale clad in muslin, he sets off an
avalanche of mystery, lies and betrayal that threatens her very existence. Her
parents are so shocked, Juliette is packed off to London for a Season where she
meets Philip Devonshire, a young friend of her father's whom entrusts him to escort
her, and a cousin she has never met before who is the heir to the Martindale
estate and whom she is expected to marry. She does not like him and cannot
understand this haste to have married off, but her mother's reasons are
compelling. To avoid it she allows herself to be inveigled into helping some
French prisoners of war escape and finds herself in France and here she meets
Philippe Devereux, who captures her heart. But no one is who they say they are,
danger is everywhere, and she longs to return to England. But how? Who can she
trust?
Table of
Contents
1813
There were three people in the garden of Viscount
Martindale's country home on the southern outskirts of Peterborough, three
people who made unlikely associates. One, a young man, fair-haired and thin as
a reed, was dressed in what had once been the resplendent uniform of Napoleon's
Old Guard, covered in silver lace and gold braid. Now it was shabby and devoid
of any decoration; even the silver buttons had been removed and replaced with
leather ones.
His boots were
worn down at the heel and his hands, still long-fingered and expressive, were
brown and dirty and the nails cracked.
Lieutenant
Pierre Veillard, prisoner of war, had given his parole not to attempt to escape
and was being employed on his lordship's estate as a gardener. Not that he was
gardening at this moment. He was standing at an easel, paint brush in hand,
putting the finishing touches to the portrait he was making of the second of
the trio, his lordship's daughter, Juliette.
The young lady,
sitting beneath an apple tree in full blossom, was clothed in a simple gown of
spotted muslin over a matching silk petticoat, with a velvet ribbon round the
high waist and threaded through the puff sleeves. Her figure was slim, though
well-rounded enough to satisfy the fashion of the day.
Her hair was so
fair it was almost silver and framed an oval face with high cheekbones, a firm,
well-defined mouth and eyes as blue as the spring sky above their heads, which
was, the young man had decided, very extraordinary, considering Lord Martindale
was dark as night and his wife was certainly not fair.
He had wanted
to paint her the minute he had set eyes on her several weeks before; his
artist's eye stirred not only by her beauty but by something indefinable, a
faded memory of he knew not what, but it had taken a great deal of toadying to
her ladyship before permission had been given and then the execution of his
task had not been easy. Miss Martindale found it extremely difficult to sit still.
Juliette wanted
to talk, to find out about this handsome Frenchman. She knew his name and that
he was, at twenty years old, a year older than herself, and had been captured
at the Battle of Salamanca the previous July. She understood she was supposed to
look upon him as an enemy, but how could she do that when he was so charming to
her and to Mama? It was not his fault he had had to fight. It was all the fault
of that fat Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte, who had set the whole of Europe into
conflict.
If only this
dreadful war could be over and Napoleon defeated, the aristocracy of France
could return to their homes and everything would be as it was before and young
men like the lieutenant could take their rightful place in society again.
At nineteen and
carefully nurtured, Juliette was too innocent of the world to know the harsher
side of war, though she could hardly be unaware of the conflict when the
newspapers that arrived at Hartlea were full of it and it was so frequently the
topic of conversation between her parents.
The lieutenant
was an officer and a gentleman, so her parents believed. She smiled slowly.
Would an English gentleman have lured her away from her maid and into the
summer house to kiss her so fervently? If Papa or Mama ever found out about
that, he would be sent back to the camp at Norman Cross and not allowed out
again, parole or no parole.
It was the
first kiss she had had from any man apart from her papa and she knew she should
not have allowed it. She should have run away or shrieked for help, but she had
done nothing of the kind. Always ready for new experiences, new sensations, she
had allowed it to go on and nothing dreadful had happened as a result.
The heavens
hadn't fallen in; she had not been visited by some dreadful calamity and no one
had treated her any differently, though she felt sure her guilt was written on
her face.
But then, she
asked herself, what was so very wicked about a kiss? Lips on lips that had
given her a frisson of excitement at the time, but which was difficult to
recall now. That, surely, was not love? There was no one she dare ask, not even
Anne Golightly, her maid, and the third member of the trio.
Anne was acting
as chaperon, a task she found tedious in the extreme and though she had brought
some mending to keep her occupied, she frequently dozed off. Her head was
nodding now, her hands idle in her lap.
No one had
spoken for several minutes. The early bees buzzed among the apple blossom, a
rook cawed in an elm and the stable cat stalked along the top of the garden
wall, its attention riveted on something in the long grass.
`Is it nearly
finished?' Juliette spoke at last. 'I do so hate sitting still.'
`That I know,
mam'selle.' Lieutenant Veillard smiled as he cleaned his brush on a piece of
rag and stood back to look at his handiwork. 'There, it is done.'
`Anne, wake up,
do!' Juliette turned to her maid. 'Go and tell Mama it is done. She must be the
first to see it.'
The maid,
startled into wakefulness, picked up her sewing and hurried towards the house,
a large square mansion, which had stood there since before Cromwell's time,
impervious to war and riot, flood and fire.
Juliette jumped
up and ran to look at the painting. She stood transfixed, her mouth a small
round 'o' of surprise. Here was no gentle English girl clad in muslin - here
was a French aristocrat in all her costly splendour.
The face and
figure were Juliette's, but the silvery hair was piled up à la Madame
Pompadour; the clothes were sumptuous satin and brocade, padded and hooped, the
bodice cut low to show off a necklace so elaborate and crowded with gems it
must have weighed the wearer down. There were diamonds, emeralds and rubies
along its whole length, with a silver filigree pendant at the bottom in the
shape of a heart with a huge ruby in its centre.
Her hands, in
her lap, clutched a fan and there were rings on all her fingers. The pastoral
English setting had become very French, with bougainvillea and plumbago and
vines climbing against a mellow brick wall. In the distance was a French
chateau.
`Why did you do
it like that? Oh, I do not know what Mama will say.'
Her mother, who
had arrived at that moment, said nothing. She simply stared for several
minutes, then, with a hand that shook visibly, snatched the painting from the
easel and, taking Juliette's arm, marched her back to the house without
speaking.
`Mama, I know
it is not what you expected, and I confess it surprised me too,' she said,
almost running to keep up. 'But do you not think it is well done?'
`Well done?' It
was said through gritted teeth, though she had released her grip on her
daughter as soon as they were safely indoors. 'Just who does that young man
think he is?'
Juliette was
perplexed. 'Why, you know who he is, Mama. Papa does, at any rate, or he would
not have allowed him to come and work here.'
`Has he been in
the house?'
'I do not know.
Why do you ask?'
`He hasn't been
upstairs, wandered into any of the rooms? My boudoir, for instance?'
`Goodness,
Mama, I should not think so. If he has been in at all, it is only into the kitchen
when Cook has offered him food and drink. Why would he go anywhere else? You
surely do not think he is a thief?'
`I sincerely
hope not.'
`Oh, I am sure
he is not. What do you imagine he has stolen?'
Her mother did
not answer, but hurried up to her boudoir with Juliette at her heels. Juliette
remained in the doorway as Lady Martindale stood the picture on a chair, then
crossed the room to her escritoire and, extracting a key from the bunch on the
chatelaine at her waist, unlocked one of the drawers and took out her jewel
case.
Intrigued,
Juliette watched as she checked its contents and then replaced it. 'Mama,
surely you do not think he would steal your jewels?'
'No, of course
not.' Although she sounded relieved, there was still a note of doubt in her mother's
voice.
`Then what has
your jewel box to do with the portrait? You have nothing like that, have you?'
She pointed to the picture, realising the necklace it portrayed was so large
that it would not have fitted into the box in any case, and so costly that it
would not have been left in a drawer, even a locked one.
`No, I have
not,' she said somewhat sharply. 'It would be far too ostentatious for my
taste, but all the same I think we have been sadly deceived by that young man.'
`Why?' Juliette
was perplexed. Her mother's behaviour was so uncharacteristic of her. She was
usually very cool and dignified, almost too repressed sometimes. 'Is it because
he has painted me as a French aristo? I suppose that is how his imagination
conjured me up. Perhaps I should be flattered.'
`Flattered! It
is disgraceful. Humiliating. You will not speak to the lieutenant again. We
were fools to trust him, to trust any Frenchman. And as for you...' She stopped
suddenly. 'Go to your room and stay there. Until that man has been sent
packing, you will stay indoors. Now go.'