The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) (26 page)

Rand scrutinized the face of their guest as he stood by his bed--or rather the portion of his face that was visible. The side was bandaged and what wasn’t bandaged was swollen and bruised. Longish dark hair rested against the white feather pillow. A pale blue blanket had been pulled to the top of his shoulders. Other than the rise and fall of his chest he lay perfectly still and Rand was beginning to doubt Mrs. Kraft’s assurances that he was awake. Then one eye slowly opened and darted anxiously as he spotted the marquis.
    “Don’t be alarmed,” Rand reassured him. “You are among friends. My name is Thomas Danfield. You’ve been injured and are staying with us while you mend. Dr. Tibbs assures me that you will mend, though I would imagine that at the moment your head hurts like the very devil.” He paused. “Can you remember anything?”
    Silence. “Non,” he replied roughly.
    The man’s face was too battered to show expression, but Rand believed what he said. “I was able to dig up a little information. The coach you hired came from Gloucester and they have you on record as Marcel André. Does that help?’
    The man’s eye narrowed. He appeared to be thinking. “Non.”
    “Maybe it will come to you.” Rand’s jaw tightened. “I’m afraid the driver was murdered. I would like to find the bastard who did this.”
    He watched Rand without responding.
    Rand sighed. It was apparent André had nothing to give him today. “Is there anything I can do for you before I fetch Mrs. Kraft?”
    “No. Merci.”
    “If you recall anything at all, please send for me. For now, I’ll send Mrs. Kraft back in to see to you.” He smiled wryly as he thought of the short, squat, plain-speaking nurse who barked out her demands with more force than most generals. “She’s a rather formidable woman isn’t she?”
    André closed his eyes and mumbled, “Oui. A dragon.”
    The marquis chuckled. “She will see that you recover, for you won’t dare do otherwise. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Rest well, Monsieur André.”

After two weeks of Mrs. Kraft’s attention, Dr. Tibbs declared André well enough to rejoin the world. But as Rand regarded André over his glass of port, he was cursing the doctor’s decision. The Frenchman didn’t seem particularly happy with the decision, as well. He was morose, sullen and near impossible to converse with. Normally, Rand could smooth over uncomfortable social situations was small talk and humor, but it seemed that André was determined to brood.
    Still weak, he was seated in a carved rosewood chair in the drawing room as they waited for Cecelia to join them before dinner. He had politely refused Rand’s offer of brandy or port and asked if he might have coffee instead. When he accepted the cup from the footman who served them, his hand shook and Rand chided himself for not being more sympathetic. The bizarre circumstances likely accounted for his mood.
    André's face still showed a few cuts and bruises and the paleness of his skin made the dark watchful eyes seem even darker. Even so, he was a fair looking man. Surprisingly, he had managed to escape any broken bones to his face. He had a long, but well-shaped nose, high chiseled cheekbones and a wide, thin lipped mouth. His hair had been combed to cover the shaved patch on his head and pulled back into an old fashioned queue tied with a black ribbon. He was a few inches shorter than Rand and at least a stone lighter, but Mrs. Brice’s daughter had been able to alter some of his clothing to fit André. He wore the black and gray ensemble well.
    Rand decided to once again attempt conversation. “Is your head troubling you tonight?”
    André shrugged. “Somewhat. Not to a great extent.” He paused. “I apologize if I am poor company. I thank you for your hospitality. And the clothing. I will repay you as soon as I am able.” His voice was wooden and the words came across as if he was repeating a carefully rehearsed phrase.
    “There’s no need to concern yourself with repayment.”
    “I insist.”
    “As you wish.”
    André set his cup and saucer on the table next to him and Rand noticed he had scarcely touched it. Determined to be a good host he asked, “Would something else suit you better? I could have something else brought in.”
    “No, thank you.” André’s expression was still brooding. “You say you’ve discovered no new leads. How can that be? Someone must know something. Tell me what you have done.”
    Rand swallowed his irritation along with the last of his port. “Normally, the first move would be to track down the stolen goods, but to do so we must know what those stolen goods are. You were the only passenger and have no memory of your belongings. The driver carried nothing valuable enough to be pawned and unless the horses that were stolen turn up, we have nothing to trace. It’s been two weeks. I confess, I’m not encouraged.”
    Lips compressed, André nodded but said nothing.
    
Good God, save me from this dark, sullen personality. Where in the devil is Cecelia?
He needed a diversion. The man was damned depressing to be around. He checked the time on the mantle clock. Dinner was to be at six and it was two minutes after. He was about to ring for Winston when he appeared at the door.
    “My lord, Lady Clarendon sends her apologies and has requested that you hold dinner back another fifteen minutes. It seems there was a slight mishap with Master David.”
    Rand groaned. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but I suppose I will. What mishap did David fall into?”
    “He took it up on himself to climb a rather large oak tree in the garden but was somewhat less enthusiastic about climbing back down.”
    The marquis grinned as he set his glass on the mantle. “You wouldn’t be about to tell me that my errant wife climbed up after him?”
    The butler allowed himself a small smile. “No, my lord. Young Billy did.”
    “Hell.” Rand quickly lost his sense of humor as visions of broken bones and cracked skulls came to mind. “What happened?”
    “No one was hurt,” Wilson assured him. “But Billy’s trousers caught on a branch and he was unable to untangle them. David was too frightened to climb down far enough to help, so they were both quite stuck. Fortunately, my lady and Harris came along. My lady sent for a pair of scissors, Harris climbed the tree, freed the lad and both boys made it down safely.
    “And all is well?”
    “Oh yes, my lord. Quite well.”
    Rand turned a wry grin on André hoping the man might actually crack a smile. “You may find our household somewhat unconventional, but I don’t believe you will ever find it boring.” He heard the light clicking of footsteps down the hall and said, “Ah, I think I hear Cecelia coming. She isn’t so late after all.”
    Cecelia burst into the drawing room. She had donned a persimmon silk gown trimmed with green and gold embroidery and her hair was swept into a tumble of curls and held back from her forehead by a broad matching ribbon. Her face was flushed and her green eyes were brilliant with laughter.
    “Oh Rand, I’m terribly sorry I’m late but it was the funniest thing. David climbed a tree and was afraid to come back down so Billy went after him and then Billy’s trousers were caught and they both sat in the tree until Harris and I came along to rescue them,” she said in a rush. “I was insistent that we ride to the pond as originally planned even though we had been delayed and then, of course, I was late dressing for dinner. Harris was quite irritable about the whole thing. He grumbled the entire time. You really must have a word with him.” She stopped and took a breath.
    Rand closed the distance between them and took her arm. “Cecelia, I’m afraid our guest may find our domestic trials a bit tedious.”
    “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” she apologized as André rose from his chair and turned to face her. “I didn’t see you. You must be wondering what a madcap household you’ve fallen into.”
    Rand nodded at André. “Monsieur André, I would like to present my wife, Lady Clarendon.”

André could barely take his eyes from her. He had not truly believed she was real. His angel. The woman who had appeared as a vision in the darkness. The woman he had dreamed about. She was tall and slender and held herself like royalty, but her face was pure mischief. She curtsied then smiled at him and he felt as if the room were filled with sunshine.
    “Welcome to our home, Monsieur André.” Her voice was soft and breathless; exactly as he remembered.
    She held out her hand and his heart thumped against his chest as he took her hand, bowed over it and brought it to his lips. “I am enchanted to meet you, my lady and I found your story not at all tedious, but very entertaining. You seem too young to have children old enough to climb trees.”
    “They are my wards,” Rand explained. “Lady Clarendon and I are only recently married.”
    “Ah.” He gave a slight nod but kept his gaze on Cecelia. “If I might ask, is it possible we have met? I don’t dare hope that my memory is returning, but I know I have seen you before.”
    “Oh,” she said in surprise. “I wouldn’t have expected you to remember. I was in the carriage that brought you here. You opened your eyes and looked at me but you were in a dreadful state at the time.”
    “I thought you were an angel.”
    Her face lit with pleasure. “What a lovely thing to say, monsieur, though I’m afraid there are those who would disagree with that assessment. Would you care to escort me to dinner?”
    He offered her his arm. “I would be delighted.”

Rand watched the exchange between his wife and André through dinner. Happily he no longer bore the brunt of their dialogue and the uncomfortable lulls in conversation they had experienced earlier were gone. Cecelia had preformed some kind of miracle and their dark and brooding guest had vanished. André was by no means gregarious but hung on to every word of her little anecdotes and spent as much time gazing at her as he did eating. He was enchanted and Rand couldn’t blame him.
    She was glowing with happiness and good health and it was contagious. She had stepped into the role of hostess without batting an eyelash and he knew that her ability to put others at ease would serve them well. Even so, by the time they were halfway through the roast pheasant Rand had an almost irresistible urge to put his fist in the man’s face and carry his wife off to bed and remind her who her husband was.
    “Rand.” Her lilting voice broke through. She was smiling at him. “Have you told Monsieur André we’ve inherited a curse?”
    He grinned back at her. “No, my dear. Absurd superstitions have yet to make their way into our conversation.”
    She gave him an exaggerated scowl and turned to their guest. “My husband doesn’t believe in such things, but I think they’re great fun. I was very excited when I learned of it.”
    Rand lifted a blond brow. “A curse that threatens my life and you find it great fun? How unsporting of you. Should I take care to watch my back?”
    “You’re quite safe. At least from me,” she added. “I can’t vouch for anyone else.” She dipped her spoon into a dish of lemon sherbet. “And you know perfectly well that if I truly believed it I wouldn’t think it was any fun at all.”
    He smiled indulgently. “That’s gratifying. I’ll sleep well tonight knowing you intend me no harm, but you’re confounding our guest. You must let him in on this local bit of nonsense.”
    André nodded at her. “You have my interest. Tell me of this curse.”
    Cecelia set her spoon down and leaned forward. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Well, it seems that the sixth marquis of Clarendon attempted to dismantle the original Abbey in order to sell the stone. It had fallen into ruin and he was more interested in the money he could make from it, rather than preserving it. The men he hired to dismantle it began having accidents and several were killed. He continued to hire more men and more were injured or killed. After a while, it was difficult to get anyone to work for him.” She leaned a bit closer and lowered her voice. “But it wasn’t until the sixth marquis fell to his death while climbing about the ruins that the construction completely stopped. Since then, most of the heirs and all of the marquis, with the exception of my husband, have come to an early demise and
never
from natural causes.”
    André’s eyes widened briefly. “They were murdered?”
    “Not precisely.” She bit on her bottom lip as she thought. “Well, Teddy was. He was attacked by footpads in London. And it’s rumored that the sixth Marquis of Clarendon was actually pushed rather than fell, but I don’t know if there were other murders. I should ask Miss Mae as she’s the one who told me all about the curse.”
    “Miss Mae?” André inquired.
    “Miss Mae is an elderly lady who’s lived here for some time.” Cecelia stopped and frowned. “I actually don’t know how long she’s lived here. I must ask her that as well. She stays in her apartments for the most part, but occasionally she gives her companion the slip and wanders the house." Her face lit up as she laughed. "The day we arrived we found her in our sitting room. She refused to believe we were the Marquis and Marchioness of Clarendon and said she wanted to see Teddy who was the seventh marquis of Clarendon. However, Teddy has been dead for years. She didn’t seem to believe that, either.
    "Everyone thinks she’s dotty, but I believe she’s a wonderful actress who finds it amusing to keep everyone off balance. I enjoy her company immensely. Would you like to meet her? I’ve promised Rosie we would have tea with Miss Mae one day this week. It would be lovely to have you escort us, as my husband refuses. I believe he’s a coward for not joining us.”
    Rand splashed more burgundy into their guest’s goblet and then filled his own. “I prefer to call it self-preservation rather than cowardice. Feel free to decline if you wish, monsieur. It’s apt to be a harrowing experience. And I must add that if you choose to join the ladies I am not responsible for the outcome.”
    André’s lips curved into a smile. “I will accept your offer, madam. It should prove interesting.”
    She flashed a look of triumph at her husband. “Wonderful. Will day after tomorrow suit?”
    “I look forward to it.”
    “We’ll have a splendid time. Now where we? Oh yes. The curse. Do you believe in such things, monsieur?”
    He looked thoughtful. “I believe in fate, but whether or not a curse actually becomes one’s fate, I’m not certain. My thoughts and beliefs are still somewhat tangled.” He shrugged. “Perhaps, good or bad, we must accept what comes our way.” His eyes shifted to his host. “What do you believe, my lord?”
    Rand absently rolled the stem of his goblet between his thumb and forefinger. “I am a fortunate man and life has afforded me more choices than some. To some degree, I suppose that could be considered fate. Even so, I would like to believe that I control my own future rather than some phenomena called destiny or some blasted curse put into existence decades before my birth. Believing in fate or a curse chips away at the notion of taking responsibility for one’s actions. My mistakes are my own as well as my successes.”
    André’s eyes darkened and for a brief moment the air crackled with tension. “You are a man not only of intelligence and assurance, but also well-born. I cannot help but wonder how far that intelligence and self-assurance would take you, were you born into the impoverished, lower classes,” he said softly.
    An unspoken challenge hung between them and Cecelia quickly diffused the tension with her soft lilting voice. “Miss Mae believes that my husband is much too clever to fall victim to a curse, though she phrased it in much less delicate terms.”
    Rand held his hands out gracefully. “Ah well, if Miss Mae believes that I won’t fall victim to the Clarendon curse, then I will accept her wisdom and consider the matter closed for the evening.”
    “For the entire evening?” Cecelia sighed with disappointment.
    “Yes,” he said firmly. “This discussion has grown too deep. I would rather not philosophize so soon after pheasant and braised beef. It spoils the digestion as well as the mood.”
    “Very well, but I still find the matter interesting.” She took one last bite of her sherbet then allowed the footman to remove her dish. “Monsieur André, we’re having a small house party in a week and a half’s time and I’ve been contemplating what we might do for entertainment. I thought a ride to the ruins for a picnic lunch might be fun. It isn’t too great a distance and quite safe as long as no one attempts to climb about the rubble. People love superstition and the aforementioned curse that I’m not supposed to talk about could be debated over cold chicken and wine. We would take several carriages, but it’s a lovely ride on horseback. My husband keeps excellent stables. You should take a look. But I’m assuming you enjoy riding. Do you?” She stopped abruptly and her face flushed. “Oh, I beg your pardon. That was careless of me. I didn’t think.”
    He leaned slightly toward her. “No. No. Do not apologize. It was a natural question. I do not mind at all,” he assured her. “And I believe that I do enjoy riding though I could not tell you why I believe so." After blotting his lips with a napkin, he said, "Now that dinner has passed I should bring this matter into the open. My situation is peculiar and you’ve been most gracious. I do not wish to further impose on you, but there seems no clear-cut path to follow.” He faltered. His eyes fell to his lap. “I am adrift. It is most difficult.”
    Cecelia’s eyes widened as she exclaimed, “Oh, but you must stay with us as long as you wish to do so. Your company is welcome and there is no shortage of space.” She looked to Rand for conformation.
    What else could he say? The Frenchman had no identity, no money. Where else would he go? “Of course,” he said.
    “You shouldn’t concern yourself with anything other than regaining your health. It will all work out,” Cecelia assured him. Her smile was radiant. “You’ll see.”
    Rand gazed at her. She was offering hope where hope was desperately needed, but he felt a pang of envy that her smile had not been meant for him. It was an idiotic response on his part and he felt compelled to offer additional reassurance. “I must warn you that, like Mrs. Kraft, my wife has a will of iron. If she says everything will work out, then it doesn't dare do otherwise.”
    André inclined his head. “Your encouragement means much. Thank you.”
    “Well, now that we’ve come to an understanding,” Cecelia said cheerfully. “I suppose I should leave you gentleman to your port.”
    André laid his napkin on the table. Circles of fatigue shadowed his eyes. “Dinner was magnificent, but if you will forgive me, it’s time I retired. This has been an exhausting day.”
    Relieved that he would not need to spend more time in the gentleman’s presence without his wife’s company, Rand nodded his head in agreement. “I had thought to spend a few hours in my office, but I’ve changed my mind. I daresay we won’t be far behind you.”
    André rose from his chair and offered a slight bow. “Then I bid you good night.”