The Ruby Pendant (23 page)

`I do believe
she is an imposter,' he said. 'If I were you, Henri, I should send her packing.
I'll take her off your hands, if you like.'

`I shouldn't do
that, if I were you,' James drawled, as she pulled herself free and stepped out
if his reach. 'She is protected by the Emperor himself.'

The captain
turned to look at him. 'How so?'

`Through me. I
am his Majesty's agent. It is his wish that Juliette Caronne be recognised as
the true owner of the château and its lands.'

`His agent, eh?
Then you must be privy to a great many state secrets.'

`Naturally, I
am.'

`Prove it.'

`I have
papers...'

`So, monsieur,
have I.'

Juliette
listened to this exchange with growing alarm. Henri and Jean had accepted
James's story because they were greedy for the jewels, but the captain was a
little more astute. If he succeeded in sowing the seeds of doubt in her
relatives' minds, she and James would be in serious trouble.

`It is not for
you, a mere soldier, to question a Caronne,' she said, putting on her
countess's imperious voice. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it produced nothing
but merriment. 'And you,' she added, forcing herself to look him in the eye,
'are probably a deserter, so we will hear no more of papers and proof, or you
might find the boot on the other foot.'

She was taken
aback when he flung back his head and laughed so much the tears ran down his
face and into his beard. 'Oh, you are a countess, no doubt of that. But where
did you learn to behave like one?'

`With an
English viscount,' James said. 'It is no secret. He stole her from her true
parents.'

Losing patience
with all of them, Juliette took herself off to the kitchen to see to the
evening meal. Taking the pot of stewed hare from the fire, she stood it on a trivet
and expended her seething anger in stirring it. James was useless as a
protector and her relatives made no secret of the fact that they were only
interested in finding the rest of the pendant and did not care what became of
her once they had it in their hands. Anne-Marie, who might have befriended her,
was so influenced by her husband and father, she would do nothing to annoy
them. And the stranger was no help.

For one
fleeting moment when she first saw him, she had thought that here was her
saviour, that a kindly Providence had sent someone to rescue her. But that was
only because of his superficial likeness to Philip Devonshire and her own
wishful thinking. She would do better to concentrate on the differences between
the two men; the Captain's rough appearance, his crudity, the way he had pulled
her on to his knee and the fact that he was French.

She put the pot
back over the flames and set about laying the kitchen table. They did not eat
in the dining room for the simple reason that it had no table and chairs, and
besides, the food stayed hotter if served in the kitchen. Then she went down to
the cellar and fetched up another two bottles of wine.

She was just
putting the finishing touches to the meal when Anne-Marie sauntered through to
see if it was ready. The woman was dirty and lazy and did nothing beyond the
absolute minimum of work. 'Taking your time, aren't you?' she sneered. 'We
could die of hunger waiting for you to produce a meal.'

`Then you
should do it yourself,' Juliette snapped, as the men trooped in behind the
woman and seated themselves at the table. 'You did before I arrived.'

`I see no point
in keeping a dog and barking myself,' Anne-Marie said, laughing. 'And it's the
only way you are ever going to earn your keep.'

`Yes,' the
captain agreed in a lazy voice. 'The days of the aristo have long since passed.
That was the trouble with the old comte; he was dyed-in-the wool nobility,
expected everyone to bow and scrape and lick his boots. He never turned his
hand to anything useful. Parasites, all aristos. We are well rid of them. I
don't understand why you are harbouring one under your roof, my friend. ...'

`It is not his
roof, it is mine,' Juliette snapped.

He seemed not
at all perturbed. 'Then it is you I must thank for this hospitality.'

`It is a matter
of indifference to me whether I am thanked or not,' she said. 'No one else
takes the trouble.'

`Not even
Monsieur...' He paused, his mouth twitching in a smile. 'Monsieur Stewart? I
understand you are betrothed.'

Unwilling to
admit that she was, she looked up and found herself gazing into the captain's
eyes, deep, dark eyes which seemed to be asking her more than the simple
question his tongue had framed. She covered her confusion by fetching the stew
and tureens of vegetables and putting them on the table. Henri began helping
himself immediately, followed by Jean and Anne-Marie, while James sat back
twirling the stem of his wine glass in his hand. The newcomer sat and watched
them, a smile of wry amusement on his face.

So, James had not recognised him, Philippe thought, but he
was not so sure of Juliette. Once or twice she had looked at him with a strange
expression on her face, as if wondering to herself where she had seen him
before. But that last speech of hers and the forthright way she had met his
eyes had convinced him she had no suspicion of the truth. He was thankful for
the lessons in disguise he had learned from Lord Martindale who had made more
than one clandestine visit to France, not only during the Terror when he had
saved many an aristocratic head, but since the outbreak of war. But older now
and one of England's foremost ministers, he had forsworn active service in
favour of directing operations from the Horse Guards in London. From his
lordship Philippe had learned not only how to use paint, false hair and
padding, but how to change his character in the way he wore his clothes and the
timbre of his voice. He had learned how to be the character he was portraying
and he was a master at it.

Except where
Juliette was concerned. It was almost impossible to be harsh with her and he
hated himself for attempting it, but he did not want to reveal himself until
the time was right, until he could safely spirit her away. And that took
careful planning.

And there was
James Martindale. Had he anticipated the wedding he was so confident would take
place? The idea filled him with an anger he found hard to control. The man was
a drunkard, a gambler and a parasite and, what was worse, a traitor. It was
Juliette herself who had planted the first seed of suspicion in his mind when
she told him of James's meeting with the man in Richmond Park, but even so, it
had been a shock to have his suspicions confirmed when he finally caught up
with Pierre Veillard in Calais and extracted the truth from him.

The lieutenant
was hardly more than a boy and he felt almost sorry for him. He had lost the
girl and the fortune he was so certain she had inherited and now, instead of
spending the rest of the war in the comparative comfort of a prison camp, he
was left to rejoin a defeated army or become a deserter, always on the run. But
Pierre was not the threat, James was, and what to do about him, he did not
know.

If he had been
anyone but Viscount Martindale's heir and betrothed to Juliette, it would have
been easy. The man would die. He could try to take him back to England to stand
trial for treason, but that would hurt Lord Martindale and damage his
lordship's credibility and, in, any case, would not be easy to accomplish
because James would not return voluntarily. He could make some sort of bargain
with him, but what? Could he trust the man to keep any promises he made? How
much did Juliette know? Had she condoned it on the grounds that she was a
French citizen now and had severed all ties with England? Until he knew the
answers to at least some of these questions, his real identity had to remain a
secret, even from Juliette, and this was helped in some measure, by his
recently acquired scar. But, oh, how he longed to tell her, to hold her in his
arms and reassure her that she was not without friends, that if she wished to
return to England, then he would do his utmost to grant that wish.

`English!' he
sneered, helping himself from the tureens. 'What do they know of the haut
monde?'

He was very
hungry, having begrudged the time needed to look for sustenance on the way. His
whole aim had been to reach Hautvigne as quickly as possible. Good food was
scarce and very expensive, which was why there was only jugged hare on the menu
at the chateau, but it was well-cooked and made tasty with onions, herbs and
vegetables and he did justice to it, wiping his plate with a crust of bread to
take up every drop of gravy.

The
conversation turned to the conduct of the war, the battles won and lost, how
life had changed since Napoleon had introduced conscription and taken the best
of France's manhood for cannon fodder. Henri spoke nostalgically of the old
days when the vineyards were thriving, of the wonderful furniture and textiles,
the pictures and ornaments which had once graced the chateau. `I inherited a
museum,' he said. 'You cannot eat pictures and ornaments, so...' He spread his
hands in an expressive gesture. 'Now all that's left is a pile of stone and
rotting vines.'

`Unless we find
the rest of the jewels,' Jean added.

`You inherited
nothing,' James said. 'What was here, you stole.'

`Oh, not
again!' Juliette exclaimed. 'Can't you stop quarrelling for two minutes
together? I am sure the captain is not interested in your squabbles.'

`Oh, but I am,'
he said. 'The idea of hidden treasure fills me with curiosity. I think I shall
take you up on your invitation, Henri, mon vieux, and stay and help the search.
The Army can do without my assistance for a few days.'

It was a very
strange household she was living in, Juliette decided as she made ready for bed
that night. Three French civilians, living in poverty but dreaming of riches,
an Englishman who was claiming, with some measure of success, to being an agent
of the Emperor, and a French cavalry officer who seemed to have lost his taste
for fighting. And there she was in the middle, a lost, lonely young woman who
did not know where she belonged, a love child pretending to be a countess.
There was no one she could love and no one who loved her, no single human being
who cared what became of her. If she was going to get out of this mess, she was
going to have to do it by herself. They did not know about her bastardy; she
had told no one, not even James, and if they accepted she was a Caronne, then
she ought to be behaving like the countess she said she was, giving orders for
the cleaning and restoration of the chateau, taking on workers to clear the
vineyards, learning how to tend the vines and make wine. In the absence of a
cache of jewels, it was likely to be her only income. If her destiny was here,
then she should make the most of it. But oh, how difficult it was to accept
that!

It was a warm
night, warmer than it would have been in Hartlea in autumn, and she went to
throw open the window and lean out to breathe the night air. There was an
overgrown jasmine climbing up the crumbling stonework to her window and she
could smell its heavy scent just below her. The garden with its untidy shrubs
and overgrown roses was bathed in moonlight.

Over to the
right she could see the deep pewter gleam of the river and beyond that the
outline of the distant hills. Somewhere, down in the town, a dog barked and
immediately below her she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel.

She leaned a
little further out and looked down. Captain Philippe Devereux was strolling
under her window, smoking a small cigar. Its aroma drifted up to her and
reminded her of her father. He had had his cigars specially made in London and
they smelled just like that. He had been smoking one the day before she left,
the day Mr Devereux had come to supper, the day she had learned who she was.
Or, rather, who she was not. Were such cigars obtainable in France? And if they
were not, how had a French cavalry officer come by one?

She must have
made a slight noise for he looked up and saw her at the window. 'Bonsoir,
mam'selle,' he called up to her. 'It is a beautiful night, n'est-ce pas?'

`Yes. You are
enjoying a cigar, I see. It has a very distinctive aroma.'

He cursed
himself under his breath. Of all the fools! Edward Martindale had given him a
box of them before he left, and he should have had more sense than to smoke one
here. It was well-known that scent was more evocative than any of the other
senses and would remind her of home. He looked up and smiled. `You do not like
it? I will put it out.' He dropped it and ground it out under his heel. 'There,
I shall not offend again.'

`It did not
offend me,' she said. 'But, forgive me, I have noticed so many shortages since
I have been in France, I did not think good cigars were easy to come by.'

She did not
know why she continued to talk to him; she ought to shut the window and retire
to bed, but he intrigued her. One minute be seemed to enjoy shocking her and
the next his voice had softened until she felt she could almost trust him. Or
was it simply that the smell of the cigar and her nostalgia for Hartlea had
imbued him with the same sterling qualities as her father? And that was
nonsense.

`Oh, it is not
especially good,' he said, realising he had almost forgotten the character he
was supposed to be playing. 'I took it off a dead soldier, an English colonel.'