The Ruby Pendant (16 page)

Here, instead
of going down the main staircase, she descended the back stairs, used by the
servants, and out past the butler's pantry to a small door beside the kitchen.
There was no one about. She darted across the cobbled yard into the kitchen
garden and from there, by a roundabout route that kept her out of sight of the
house, to the flower garden and the rose arbour.

`Lieutenant,'
she whispered breathlessly, as she approached the summerhouse.

''Ere, ma
chèrie.' He was standing leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb, smiling.
''Ave you brought it?'

`Yes.' She
thrust the painting at him. 'But we cannot see it properly in the dark.'

`I shall take
it back with me and look at it later. My comrades, they can per'aps throw light
upon the mystery, n'est-ce pas?'

'Y... yes,' she
said doubtfully. She hadn't considered that he might want to take it away. But
then Mama had said she never wanted to see it again, so she would hardly go
looking for it. 'But you will bring it back?'

`I do not see
why I should. I 'ave not been paid for it.'

`Oh, you
cheated me into bringing it!' she cried, trying to snatch it back. 'I did not
think you were so mercenary...'

'No, no, ma
petite, I was only 'aving what you say, a tease.' He took the picture from her
and leant it against the wall before taking both her hands in his. 'Do not be
upset. I will bring it back. I should not like to think of my beautiful
Juliette being punished for removing it. I shall make a leetle copy, one for my
pocket. 'Ow is that?'

`Oh, that is a
good idea. How long will it take?'

`Two days,
three per'aps.' He paused, smiling down at her. 'Then you will 'ave to meet me
again, and of all things that will be the most pleasant.'

`You must not
flirt with me.'

`Why not? There
is no 'arm in it. And I like you very much. If you were française...' He sighed
dramatically.

`But I am not
and I am betrothed.'

He was not in
the least put out. 'Then I must offer my felicitations, no? I envy 'im.'

`I must go.' It
sounded weak, when she ought to have been strong, but the moonlight and the
strange quality of the air, coupled with the clandestine nature of the meeting,
seemed to have acted like a drug. She could not think decisively.

`Go, ma
petite,' he said, releasing her hands. 'I will see you here two nights from,
now.'

Two nights later he told her the copy was not yet ready
and he needed more time. She suspected he was using it as an excuse to continue
to see her. She knew she ought not to agree to meet him again, but she had to
retrieve the portrait before it was missed and there was no other way.

`Tomorrow,' he
murmured. 'And per'aps I shall 'ave the answer to the mystery too.'

`You will? What
is it? What have you found out?'

He laid a
finger on her lips and laughed. 'Do not be impatient, ma petite. Tomorrow, eh?'
And then he was gone, melting away into the shadows, leaving her with a feeling
of frustration that made the next twenty-four hours a trial of patience in
which she tried to behave as if nothing at all was happening and made Anne
absolutely sure she was sickening again.

He was late for the rendezvous and Juliette was kept
waiting nearly half an hour before she heard his stealthy step on the gravel of
the path and he came into view, carrying the painting wrapped in a piece of
cloth. He put it down to take her into his arms.

`Ah, ma petite
comtesse.' He held her at arm's length to study her face. 'Yes, yes, I do see
it.'

`See what?' she
demanded, pulling herself away from him. 'And you are late. I was on the point
of leaving.'

`Ah, then you
would not have learned what you above all wish to know.'

`And what is
that?'

`Who you are.'

`Who I am? Do
not be silly, Lieutenant. You know I am Juliette Martindale, daughter of
Viscount and Viscountess Martindale of Hartlea.'

`No, ma petite,
you are not.'

`Oh, I have no
time for your silly jests,' she said, exasperated by his superior air.

`So, you do not
wish to know why your lady mother is afraid that I 'ave uncovered the truth and
am about to tell it to the world.' He laughed; it was a brittle sound that made
her shiver. He pulled the cloth from the picture and jabbed a finger at the
necklace. 'Do you know where I saw that before?'

`You said that
you could not remember.'

`Ah, but now I
'ave. Those jewels belonged to the dowager Comtesse de Caronne
           
in the days before the Terror,
naturellement. There was once a famous portrait of her as a young girl, which I
saw hanging in the Louvre when I was very young and learning to be an artist.
My mind must 'ave stored the details, but more than that, it stored the
likeness of the lady, so exactement like you. The same light eyes and silver
hair, the same small mouth and eyebrows arching, so.' He smoothed a finger
along one of her brows, making a shiver pass through her. 'The same way of
'olding your 'ead.'

`So?' She was
intrigued, in spite of herself.

`I 'ave a
friend in the camp,' he went on. 'And 'e told me a story about the Caronne
family which is tres interessant. They were all guillotined, except one, a baby
girl. She escaped. 'Ow no one knows. She would be, let me see, nineteen years
now. It is a strange story, n'est-ce pas?'

`What are you
trying to say?' She was bewildered. It sounded as if... She shook her head.
'No, it cannot be true.'

`It is true,
chèrie. What we cannot be sure of is whether you are the only surviving
Caronne. If you are, you would be an heiress. The estate is very large.'

`No, it is not
possible,' she cried. 'There has to be another explanation. I have lived here
all my life with Mama and Papa. I am English and I've never heard of the Comte
de Caronne.'

''Ave you no
early memories?' he asked, watching the changing expressions on her face,
incredulity, dismay, even a glimmer of doubt. 'Little things, favourite toys,
names of people and places, things that 'ave been said...'

`Yes, but they
are all of Hartlea. I have known no other home. We have a town house, of
course, and I've stayed there and we've been to Scotland, which is Mama's home.
There is nothing unusual about me, Lieutenant, nothing out of the ordinary at
all.'

She desperately
wanted to believe that, but her heart was thumping and her limbs were shaking
and all she could think of was her mother's strange reaction when she had seen
the portrait. Something had caused that.

He could see
that the story had taken a hold on her imagination and took her face in his
hands so that he could look into her eyes. 'You 'ave been cruelly deceived, ma
petite. The people who call themselves your mama and papa are not your parents.
They rescued you or stole you, I am not sure which, but they are using you.'

`I do not
understand.' It was all too much to take in and she felt confused and
light-headed, as if she had drunk too much wine. 'I love them both. They are my
dear mama and papa. Why would they use me?'

`To keep
'Artlea. Lady Martindale 'as no children of her own and by marrying you to the
heir...'

`How do you
know that?' she cried. That part was only too painfully true.

`It is known.'

She was silent.
There were a thousand questions on her tongue, but none she could voice. If he
had told her the story before her mother had seen the portrait, she would have
angrily refuted it, but she could not help remembering her parents' strange
reaction to the painting and her conviction at the time that there was
something havey-cavey going on.

She recalled
the conversation she had overheard between her mother and father and her
mother's reference to 'the truth', as if there were something to hide.
Supposing the lieutenant were right? Was she living at her beloved Hartlea
under false pretences?

If his lordship
had saved a little French aristo from the guillotine, why had he passed her off
as his own? Should she feel love and gratitude or anger and resentment?
Strange, she felt nothing at all. She was numb.

'Try and find
some proof,' he went on, gently. 'There must be papers, even jewels. It is
better to know than to go on living a lie.'

`I am not
living a lie!' she cried, stepping back and facing him, her chest heaving. 'And
you are abominable to confuse me so. Why did you have to tell me?'

`You wanted to
know and the truth is often unpalatable.'

`I do not
believe it is the truth. I shall ask Mama. She will tell me.'

`You will tell
'er ladyship that you 'ave been meeting me secretly in the garden?'

`No.'

`Then 'ow will
you explain where you learned the story?'

`I'll think of
something.'

`You would do
better, ma chère comtesse, to look for proof. If you are Juliette Caronne, you
are a French aristocrat, even more lofty than Viscount Martindale. Think about
that. Think about un grand chateau and a thousand 'ectares of vineyards in
Hautvigne and jewels like that.' And again he stabbed at the canvas.

'They are your
in'eritance. And I have heard there are other treasures hidden about the
chateau and they all belong to you, being the only direct descendant of the
Comte.'

`Oh, you are
despicable!' she said and turned on her heel to escape him, though escape her
whirring thoughts she could not.

`I shall come
again tomorrow night,' he called after her. 'You may 'ave need of me.'

The remainder of the night was a waking nightmare.
Pierre's words went round and round in her brain, until she thought she would
lose her sanity. How could she go on living at Hartlea, when, if Pierre were
correct, she had no right to be there, that not only the estate but all the
money set aside for her dowry rightfully belonged to James? And James was being
deceived too. How could they do it to him? How could they have hidden from her
every detail of her birth, never even hinted, never let slip with the tiniest
word, that all was not as it seemed? Of course, they could not. It was all a
lie, a figment of Pierre's imagination. But why did she not take after her
parents? Why was her hair so fair and her mother's so dark, why was her
complexion pale when Lady Martindale was olive-skinned? Why had that portrait
upset her parents so much if they had nothing to hide? Apart from her parents,
did anyone else know the truth? James's late father, for instance. It would be
enough to cause a quarrel between brothers.

She had hardly begun to doze when Anne woke her. `Come,
time to rise, my little one. It is a lovely day. Are you going to ride again?'

`No, I do not
think so,' she said lethargically. 'Where is Mama?'

`She took the
carriage into Peterborough. Some shopping, I believe.'

`And Papa?'

`He is in the
library. I believe he is expecting a visitor, so do not go disturbing him.'

`I won't. I
think I shall look round the attics. There might be something up there, a desk
perhaps, that James would like to have in his room when he comes.'

But it was not James she was thinking of as she searched
the attics later that day; she was following Pierre's advice and looking for
proof of her identity. She didn't want to be a little French aristo, a little
orphan, an emigrèe brought home to England because his lordship felt sorry for
her. Was that how it had been? No! No! She wanted to be Juliette, her papa's
beloved daughter. And how could that be proved? Not by rooting around in the
dust of the attics, turning out old drawers, pulling old clothes, bonnets and
boots out of cupboards, shaking out the pages of musty-smelling books. She made
her way downstairs, wondering where to look next.

`Look for the
jewellery,' Pierre had said. And where would that be kept?

She turned
along the first-floor corridor and made for her mother's boudoir. Pausing
outside to make sure there were no servants nearby, she passed inside and shut
the door behind her. She crossed the room and opened the drawer of the chest
where her mother kept her jewels but the padded box which lay inside it was
locked. Where was the key? Last time she had seen it, it had been on her
mother's chatelaine.

Her misery and
frustration made her less than careful; she began pulling out drawers, rifling
through their contents, crying in desperation. She found a duplicate key, at
last, tucked away at the back of the escritoire. She sat on the bed with the
box on her lap and the key in her hand and did nothing. It was a wicked thing
she was doing, a deceitful, wicked, disloyal thing and she could not bring
herself to insert the key in the lock. But she did not intend to take anything,
so it wasn't stealing, was it? And besides, it was all a hum and there would be
nothing there. Better to get it over and be done with the uncertainty. Slowly
she inserted the key and turned it.