The Counterfeit Mistress (26 page)

When all was secured, he gathered them all in the shadows. “You two will stand here as they did. If anyone in the house looks out, let him see two men at their posts. Mr. Travis, you and the others will come with me. Angus, I want you to take Miss Lyon back to that hill. Remember my orders. You wait one hour, then you go.”

Marielle froze. When Angus went over to her, she slapped his guiding hand away. Angus turned to him, none too pleased to be the object of her displeasure.

Kendale went to her. “I do not have time for this now. You will go with Angus. I am grateful for your help thus far, but you are not going inside where we do not know what we will face. There will be no arguments now. No persuasion. Do you understand?”

She hesitated, then nodded, her face hard with anger and worry.

“After one hour, Angus, you leave. Carry her if she resists. Do not wait if we have not returned.”

“I expect to see you before that, sir.”

“And I you. However . . .”

Angus nodded.

He turned to Marielle again. “You know I am right to do it this way. In your heart you do. Let us not part in anger.”

Her expression broke. “No. Not in anger. I want to come so I know you are safe, not wait on that hill wondering.”

“I will be safe.”

She looked past him to where his men waited. “Can I kiss you?”

“I do not believe anyone will be surprised, after this morning.”

She rose on her toes to give him the kiss. “May God go with you. Know that my love does too.”

He resisted the urge to kiss her long and deeply then. He walked over to the others while Angus led her back toward the circular drive.

He realized he had forgotten something, and strode after them. “Marielle, what is his name? It would not do to bring you the wrong man.”

“John. His name is John.”

“Jean Lyon. Very good.”

“No.
John
. And not John Lyon. His name is John Neville.” She waved and followed Angus into the shadows that flanked the lane.

John Neville?

Damnation. Her father was English.

T
hey paused inside the reception hall and listened. Muffled sounds from above drifted down the grand staircase. Sharper ones came from below.

Kendale gestured for the others to follow him. Pistol at the ready, he walked down the passageway to the stairs that would take them below. The chateau might appear a manor house, but its foundations had been constructed for defense. The stone stairway wound tightly between thick stone walls. They filed down its spiraling curve. He went first, and the curve of the stairs left him blind to what lay ahead.

A loud shout from in front of him made him freeze. A laugh responded to the shout, and two male voices began talking. Other sounds, of doors closing and boots walking and metal scraping indicated they had found the servants quarters, just as Marielle had remembered. If her map was correct, the kitchen was at the far end of this lower level, and the donjon lay one floor below.

Slowly, with soft footfalls, they continued down the stairs. No lamps illuminated the way now, although a dim glow eked up from below. Dampness on the walls indicated they were underground now.

At the bottom of the stairs, Travis stepped down beside him. The other men pressed close. Kendale looked around the stair wall. Two men sat on stools flanking a crude table in the long, dark passage stretching to the right. One lamp hung on the wall near them. They spoke in low voices to each other.

“Too much to hope they would be asleep,” Travis muttered.

“We are left to pray that they are cowards,” Kendale whispered. He raised both of his pistols and took the last step so he could see the guards clearly. Aiming one pistol at each man, he claimed their attention by telling them in French not to move.

The man farthest away was having none of it. He overturned the table and dropped below its shield. While his comrade scrambled to join him, he fired his own weapon. Mr. Travis answered in kind. Lead balls started flying.

They took turns on the bottom step, moving back up while reloading. The two guards took turns too, from behind their table.

“Sir! From above.” The sharp warning came right when Kendale fired. He switched positions with the man who uttered it, and proceeded to reload. This time he stayed in place and waited for the boots coming slowly down the stairs.

A head peered around the curve of the wall. Kendale made sure the eyes saw his gun.
“Allez,”
he said. He fingered a gold coin out of his pocket and threw it around the curve. It clattered against the stone, out of sight.
“Plus d'apres.”
He was not sure he said it correctly, but he assumed the message would be understood. When the boots started trudging up, not down, he knew it had been.

“I just wounded one,” Travis said while he pulled out his powder. “The other can't do this alone without cover while he reloads. He will give up soon.”

In fact he gave up immediately. The blasts stopped and the donjon became a silent cave. Kendale stepped out of the stairwell and around the stone wall. One of the guards stood behind the overturned table, with his weapon balanced atop its edge. The other sat next to him, holding his shoulder with bloody fingers.

“Have someone tend the wounded one, but tie up the other,” Kendale told Travis. He reached out for the keys that hung on the wall near the lamp. He looked the standing guard in the eyes and gestured to the doors. “English?”

The guard pointed to the door nearest the stairs, then reached over and pointed to the correct key.

Kendale set the key in the lock and swung the door wide. Inside a thin, white-haired man looked up in surprise from where he sat on a cot.

“John Neville?”

“That be me. Are you English? I could have sworn I heard my mother tongue coming through this door.”

“You did hear English.”

“What in hell are you doing here? Is the war over?”

“We are here for you, Mr. Neville. I am Viscount Kendale and these are my colleagues. We were sent by your daughter.”

“My daughter?” He stood and walked to the door and looked out at Travis and the others. He shook his head, then smiled. “Well, I'll be damned.”

J
ohn Neville trudged beside Kendale along the path in the forest. Other than a request for reassurance that his daughter fared well, he had not spoken a word since they left the donjon.

A thin man of middle height and years, his hair and beard had grown while in that donjon. Kendale worried that his sight had failed too, which was common, but the man walked like he could see where he was going. A bath was in order, soon, but on the whole Mr. Neville's appearance probably would not shock Marielle too much.

He trusted they would find her with Mr. Stanton on the yacht. With the very first shot fired he had thanked God that he had not allowed Marielle to enter that house.

The adventure had taken longer than anticipated, due to the unexpected tenacity of the guards. They had left both of them locked in Mr. Neville's cell. With luck the gold would buy the servants' indifference until daybreak, but they could not count on that. Every man understood that they needed to return to the inlet as quickly as possible.

“You must think I am an ungrateful man, not saying much like I am,” Neville said.

“I expect you are too surprised to have much to say,” Kendale replied.

“Isn't that. I'm trying to accommodate the ironies of the situation.”

“Take your time. I do not require conversation.”

“Don't you now? Good of you, sir. Viscount Kendale, I believe you said you were.” He sighed. “In all my living days, I never thought to be rescued by the likes of you.”

The last words were not spoken with admiration.

“The likes of me were all that was available. Would you have preferred not to be rescued at all?”

“No, no. I'm not saying that. Just it is an irony. But then my life has been full of them. I mean, I've spent my life devoted to getting rid of your kind, haven't I?”

“Have you?” That was something else Marielle had neglected to mention.

“Hell, yes. Why do you think I'm here? Came over to lend my skills to the great cause of equality. Of course I did not expect they would go and kill you all. Just get rid of the titles and such. Spread the wealth around more. That sort of thing.”

“Great causes often get out of control. I suppose finding yourself a prisoner of one of the revolutionaries was one of the ironies?”

“One of them, but far from the first. I mean, how would you feel if you were me, plying your skills in the cause of eliminating the aristocracy, and your own wife goes and becomes the mistress of the local leading aristocrat? That was a hard irony, let me tell you. It helped that the man was likeable, but that was sort of ironic too.”

“You sound philosophical about it, however.”

“Had no choice, did I? He was good to my daughter too. Let her come to that château and stay with her mother. Of course, that influenced her and not to the good. She would come back home and be talking funny and walking funny—like a damned aristocrat, I realized. Hell, I'm in my workshop making prints calling for their downfall and my daughter was turning into one in front of my eyes.” He sighed again.

“She has grown up to be a beautiful young woman, as you will soon see. She does still talk and walk a little funny, however.”

Neville turned his head. “Did she whore for you? Is that why you did this? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. I am still accommodating that you are a viscount. I owe you my freedom and maybe my life, and I don't even think viscounts should exist. It's a hell of a thing to digest.”

Kendale left him to swallow what he could during the rest of the walk back. When they emerged from the woods that edged the inlet, he could see that figures waited on the deck.

“We are here, Mr. Neville. Marielle is waiting for you as soon as you get on board.”

Neville peered at the yacht. “Who?”

“Marielle. Your daughter.”

Neville chuckled as he climbed into the boat. “Is that what she is calling herself these days? Well, if it got a viscount to come get me out of that bastard Lamberte's clutches, I would be a fool to complain.”

M
arielle watched the little band emerge from the trees, her emotions swinging between elation and dread. Travis and the other men came out first, gesturing and calling to the ship to announce their success. Kendale showed last. He escorted a white-haired man with long hair and a beard.

Papa had never worn a beard. Surely he had been taller too. This man looked like a stranger.

They all waded to the rowboat and got in, then aimed toward the ship with their oars. Mr. Stanton began giving orders to prepare to sail.

One by one those men climbed up the rope ladder. She looked over the railing, staring at the white hair, seeking some recognizable detail so she would know it was Papa for certain.

It was his turn to climb. He refused help and took it slowly, with Kendale coming right behind him. Finally he stood on the deck, looking around at the ship and sails and all the men who had made the journey. He appeared confused, and even afraid.

His gaze came to rest on her. Squinting hard at her face, he approached her. “I'm told by this viscount this was all your doing.”

She nodded, too moved to say more. Not a stranger now. Not at all. Those were Papa's eyes and that was Papa's voice. She looked down at the hands that she had seen so often holding a burin. Strong hands. Careful ones too.

He kept peering at her, as if she were a stranger too.

“Don't you recognize me at all?” she asked. “Have I changed so much?”

He shook his head slowly. His eyes filmed with tears. “I would recognize you anywhere, my girl. I am just astonished at how much you look like your mother now.” He spread his arms. She flew into his embrace and they wept with joy together.

“M
arianne,” she said. “My given name was Marianne.”

They sat on the deck with their backs against the wall of the cabin, bundled in a blanket. Mr. Neville slept inside. The reunion had been a little awkward, but very heartwarming. Every man on the yacht now enjoyed the satisfaction of having successfully executed a good deed.

“I could not keep the name once I ran from the château that night. I needed Lamberte to believe I had perished. It would not do for him to hear that Marianne Neville, who had witnessed his murders, thrived in London.”

That made sense. Everything she had done made sense. Her history also explained away many inconsistencies, such as her thin accent when speaking English, and her comfort with the language.
Je suis désolée
.
I am sorry that I failed you
. One apology to her French mother, and one to her English father.

“Marianne Neville.” He tried out the sound of it. Not as lyrical as Marielle Lyon, but he supposed he could get used to it.

“I have not been Marianne Neville for six years. I have not thought of myself that way for almost as long. I am not sure I can become accustomed to the name again. I suppose I will have to try, however.”

“You can use any name you like.”

“The Frenchwomen probably will not want to work in my studio if I am Marianne Neville. It helped that they believed I was one of them. Not only French, but an aristocrat too.”

“It probably did. Your father would say that our kind have a natural prejudice against those who are not our kind.”

She did not say anything, but he guessed what she was thinking. Her father would say that because it was true.

“You will have to show him your prints, Marianne. He will be proud that you learned well from him, and used your skill as he would have.”

She huddled closer under his arm, and pressed her eyes to his shoulder. “Yes, of course. He
will
be proud, I suppose. Only— Please do not address me like that. Not tonight. Not yet. Let me be Marielle Lyon with you for a while longer. Until we reach England, perhaps, but at least tonight.”

He drew her closer yet, so that they formed one shape within the blanket. Her limbs and breath warmed him beneath the stars while the sea smacked in rhythms against the ship's hull. He lifted her chin so that he could kiss her. “It is only a name. I want you no matter what you are called.”

She nodded and nestled in, but he knew, he just knew, she did not believe him.