The Tudor Signet (26 page)

“My last chance,” he announced with a sort of feverish despair mingled with insouciant optimism. “Tonight will make or break me!”

“What is it?” she demanded. “What’s happening tonight?”

“I’ll be going out after dinner.”

“Where to? What for? Ralph, you must tell me!”

“Don’t fuss, Mariette. There’s nothing you can do to help this time and if there was I’d be damned if I’d let you after the mull you made of the highwayman business.”

“I got your ring back.”

“True, and I’ll wear it tonight.” Stuffing the paper into his pocket, he rummaged in her work-box, retrieved the signet, and put it on. “I’ll need all the luck I can get. I shan’t pledge it, don’t fret. It’s too late for that.”

“But Ralph, what--”

“I wish I hadn’t told you anything,” he said sulkily, and strode out.

Mariette glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly dinner-time and far too late to send for Lord Malcolm. She would have to follow Ralph herself.

No side-saddle tonight. She still had the highwayman costume, neatly packed up by Jenny when she left Corycombe, all except the shot-riddled breeches. Those she had replaced with a more recently outgrown pair of Ralph’s. They were too long in the leg and too wide in the waist, as she had discovered on her only moorland gallop since then, but they would serve.

The pistol had been lost on the moor, but its pair was in the gunroom. This time she loaded it. If someone threatened Ralph she would not have to rely upon bluff.

Dinner was a strained meal, though Uncle George appeared to notice nothing amiss. Afterwards, Ralph gave her such an affectionate kiss on the cheek she thought she would cry.

“Don’t fret,” he said again. “I shall come about.”

He went off towards the stables and she raced upstairs to change her clothes. No abigail to ask questions, thank heaven, and by now Jim Groom was in the kitchen eating his supper. Ralph would not risk riding over the moor in the dark, nor even going too fast along the potholed lane. There was only one way out of the Bell Brook valley so she should be able to catch up easily.

He would try to send her home but she’d refuse to go. With so much at stake he could not afford to turn back to escort her.

She turned from the looking-glass after tucking up her hair under the chapeau-bras. Ragamuffin! He sat there grinning, tail swishing on the floor, obviously certain of a good run.

He had almost ruined everything last time. “Stay!” she said firmly. Ignoring his hurt look, she hurried to the door and slipped through. As it clicked shut, she heard the scrabble of claws, followed by a salvo of barks. She prayed no one would hear and let him out until she was well away.

Down to the stables. Ralph had left a lantern burning. By its light, as Sparrow whickered a welcome, she saw a crumpled paper on the floor. She picked it up and smoothed it.

“If you wish to recoup your fortunes, you may wager on tick--one more time only--at a house near Crabtree.” Crabtree! Mariette knew the village, on the way to Plymouth. She perused the detailed directions to the house. “Be there by half past eight o’clock tonight,” the letter concluded.

Folding it, she pushed it deep into her topcoat pocket and went to fetch Sparrow’s saddle. Now she knew where Ralph was going, she need not try to catch up with him but she did not want to fall too far behind.

Ralph was quite addlepated enough to believe he had a chance of winning, she thought as she buckled the girth strap and eased the bit into the gelding’s mouth. Madame Duhamel’s motive in drawing him still further into debt was impossible to guess. Why had she granted him credit in the first place? Her letter indicated she knew his only hope of redeeming his vowels was to win.

Surely she did not take pleasure in driving young men to suicide?

Mariette shivered. Leading Sparrow from his stall, she mounted and set off into the starlit night.

Chapter 16

By starlight reflected from the black waters of the Plym, Mariette tied Sparrow’s bridle to a sapling just off the riverbank path. Rubbing his nose, she fed him a lump of sugar, then convulsively hugged him. She felt very much alone as she set off towards the dark bulk of the house.

What had once been a lawn sloping down to the river was now a hummocky meadow. Mariette steered clear of the exposed area, creeping through overgrown shrubbery which snatched at her clothes and rustled mysteriously though the night was still. A branch knocked off her hat. She caught it, muttering an expletive that would have shocked Lilian to the core.

A briar caught in her hair. By the time she had disentangled it, half the pins had fallen out and her hair was tumbling down her back. With another oath, she jammed the hat on her head and hurried on.

As she neared the house, a gentleman’s residence somewhat smaller than Bell-Tor Manor, she noticed a faint light behind curtains at one corner. French doors flanked by two windows; perhaps with her ear against the glass she’d be able to hear what was going on inside.

Between her and the lit room were a stretch of rough grass and a terrace—no cover except for two large stone urns at the top of the steps. Yet why on earth should anyone be watching? Her precautions were really rather silly. Nonetheless, dashing across the grass and up the steps, she cowered by one of the urns for what seemed an age before she had the nerve to go on.

From here she could see the French doors were set in a bay projecting some four feet from the side of the house. On tiptoe she approached. Not a sound escaped from the room beyond. She tried the door-handle.

To her surprise the door was not locked. The curtains hung across the bay, separating it from the room and leaving plenty of space for an eavesdropper.

Fate was on her side, and however momentary that fickle favour, she could not refuse the invitation. She discarded her hat, shrugged out of the bulky topcoat, sat down on the flagstones and removed her riding boots. Heart in mouth, she slipped in.

Still no sound of voices! Holding her breath, she crept between two dust-sheeted chairs, parted the curtains an eighth of an inch, and peeped through. More furniture shrouded in holland covers; an open door in the opposite wall, in the left-hand corner from her vantage point; to her right....

Ralph sat at a card-table, looking sulky, his legs stretched out beneath it. Just as she caught sight of him he pulled his watch from its fob and grumbled loudly, “Where the devil are they?”

Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the half hour. In the open doorway a man appeared. Lamplight glinted on the pistol in his hand.

Mariette bit her lip to stop her gasp. She wanted to know what was going on before she intervened. A moment later she bit her lip still harder as the man moved into the room and the light reached his face.

Lord Malcolm! And Captain Aldrich followed him in. Mariette’s head spun.

Ralph jumped up, overturning his chair.

“Don’t move!” said Lord Malcolm sharply. “The game is up, Riddlesworth. We know you have been spying for France. We’ve intercepted your letters, sealed with your sphinx signet.”

“B-but...” Ralph stammered, glancing down at his hand in utter disbelief.

“Hardly a common emblem, is it? There’s no way out.” His voice was full of contempt. “You ought to hang. However, for your cousin’s sake we shall let you flee abroad, where your treachery cannot harm your country.”

“What the deuce?” cried Captain Aldrich. “We can’t let the traitor go!”

“But I didn’t...I’m not...I haven’t...” Ralph squawked.

For her sake! Mariette was about to step forth and sort out their baconbrained male idiocies when a new voice, deadly calm, interrupted.

“Drop your weapons or I shoot.”

Lord Wareham? Mariette would know that hateful voice anywhere. Icy fear filled her veins as Malcolm’s and the captain’s pistols thudded to the floor. They turned towards her and she saw their startled, dismayed faces. Ralph was aghast and totally bewildered.

The baron advanced into the room from her extreme left—he must have entered through a door outside her angle of view. He stopped half turned away from her, a pistol in each hand, their unwavering barrels aimed at the men.

Mariette felt for her gun.

“Regrettably,” said Lord Wareham, “I mean to shoot anyway. Oh, not you, Riddlesworth,” he added, a sneer in his tone, as Ralph took an involuntary step backwards. “You’re nothing but a pawn. I shan’t waste a shot on you.”

She had left the pistol in the pocket of her topcoat. On silent, stockinged feet she scuttled out to the terrace to retrieve it.

Behind her, Malcolm announced grimly, “You cannot escape. The house is surrounded.”

A moment’s silence, while she found the pocket and disentangled the weapon.

“If that’s true,” Lord Wareham said, and he sounded just a trifle shaken, “it makes no difference. I shall hang whether you die or not, and sending the gallant captain to meet his reward will be a positive pleasure. Business first, however. Do you know, Eden, I never guessed you were a spycatcher? Nothing personal, I assure you, but should I get away I daresay there might be some reward for putting you out of the picture.”

As he raised his right hand, Mariette charged through the curtains. “Stop!” she shouted. “Stop or I’ll fire.”

The baron swung round. Two shots cracked out. A burning agony seared through Mariette’s arm and her pistol fell from strengthless hands.

Lord Wareham rushed towards her, past her, shoving her aside. Losing her balance she crumpled to the floor. A shrill whistle rang in her ears. Through the spots dancing before her eyes she saw Captain Aldrich dash after the baron, Ralph at his heels. Then Malcolm’s horrified face filled her universe.

The ringing in her ears faded but his voice came from a vast distance and she could not quite make out the words.

She had to explain. “Ralph...lost the sphinx to...to Lord...Wareham, a year...ago,” she whispered. She could not see him now, but his hands clutched hers. Though her arm was on fire, she was clammily cold. One more effort: “Sparrow...”

* * * *

“Is Miss Bertrand really fit to receive us?” Des asked as he rode at Malcolm’s side over the crest of Wicken’s Down.

They had returned late last night from escorting Wareham and Madame Duhamel to London. Nothing was going to stop Malcolm from seeing Mariette today.

Fortunately he was able to say, “She was downstairs yesterday when Lilian and Emily called on her. Emmie said she looks pale and interesting as she did when she first came to Corycombe, but her message says she is more like to die of curiosity than anything else.”

Des laughed. Malcolm failed to summon up more than a faint smile.

Her only concern before she swooned had been to exculpate her cousin, he thought gloomily for the hundredth time. She was as loyal and courageous as ever. Loyal to Sir Ralph Riddlesworth. Courageous in his defence.

They had grown up together, but they were not related by blood. She had mothered him, but they were of an age. Did she care for him because he needed her, or did she love him as a woman loves a man? She was not blind to his faults, his weakness for gambling, his refusal to take responsibility for his own mistakes. The more reason she might find to devote her life to protecting him from himself.

Malcolm swallowed a sigh and turned his attention to guiding Incognita down the steep slope between the fragrant, gaudy masses of yellow gorse.

As they approached the manor, a landau accompanied by two horsemen drove off down the valley and disappeared among the greening trees. In the stable yard, Riddlesworth was talking to Jim Groom. He swung round at the sound of hooves.

“I say, my lord, are you come to enlighten us?” he asked eagerly.

At least the lad did not hold a grudge, as he had every right to, Malcolm admitted reluctantly. “Yes,” he said, “if Miss Bertrand is well enough?”

“She’s in fine twig, considering. Bolger and Phillips just brought their sisters to call but I wouldn’t let them stay long.”

“They don’t know what happened?”

“Only that she was hurt in an accident. That was bound to get about since we took her to the inn at Crabtree.” He greeted the captain, holding his horse as he dismounted, then ushered the visitors into the house.

Malcolm suddenly had to know how things stood between the cousins before he saw Mariette. “I’d like a word with you, Riddlesworth,” he said. “Des, do you mind going ahead? Tell her we’re on our way.”

Des glanced at him, in turn surprised, comprehending, quizzical. He nodded and went on.

“You don’t still think I did it?” Riddlesworth demanded in alarm.

“No.” If there was a delicate way to phrase what was a deuced impertinent question, it did not come to mind. “I simply wish to ask whether you have an understanding with your cousin.”

“Understanding?” He looked puzzled, then aghast. “You mean am I going to marry her? Good gad no! That is, devil take it, I’m deuced fond of Mariette but a fellow don’t want a wife who’s always ordering a fellow about.” His expression changed to one of enlightenment. “Daresay she don’t order you about,” he observed sapiently.

His face hot, Malcolm strode ahead towards the drawing room. Hope raised its head. Sir Ralph’s feelings were no guide to Mariette’s, but after all, in the end she had not risked her life to save her cousin’s. It was Malcolm whom Wareham had been about to shoot when she burst into the room, terrifyingly foolhardy, superbly brave, utterly adorable.

Fending off Ragamuffin’s exuberant welcome allowed him to regain his composure. He nearly lost it again when he looked up to find Mariette smiling at him. Pale and interesting indeed! Though she reclined on a sofa, her arm in a sling, she was blooming, wild roses in her cheeks, dark eyes brilliant. Her loveliness took his breath away.

And she smiled at him! Of course, she did not yet understand that his slow-wittedness had nearly got her killed.

“How is your arm?” he asked, shuddering inside at the memory of his terror as he tried to find where she had been wounded.

“It aches like the very d...like anything,” she said frankly. “Captain Aldrich says you are going to tell us everything.”