Amanda Scott (15 page)

“No need for that,” Sir Antony shouted back. “’Tis little more than a heavy fog. We shan’t drown.”

“Don’t be foolish, sir,” she retorted sharply. “I don’t wish to be responsible for your death from inflammation of the lung.”

“If the postboys can tolerate it, we can.”

“The postboys, in case you have not taken note of the fact, carry sensible bright yellow oilskins in their saddle pouches and have long since donned them. Do stop being ridiculous, sir, and come in out of the rain.”

“I’m agreeable, sure enough,” shouted Carruthers, laughing.

A grimace crossed her face before she could stop it. She had little desire to share the close confines of the chaise with the thief. Nevertheless, she could not demand that he ride alone in the misty rain. Swallowing her annoyance, she shouted to the postboys to halt the chaise, and commanded that both men tie their horses to the rear and come inside at once.

“This is most kind of you,” said Carruthers, making himself as comfortable as possible on the forward seat, which, unlike its English counterpart, was little more than a hard, narrow bench. “We’d have been drenched within the hour.”

She nodded, saying nothing, but was amused rather than otherwise when he continued chatting as though she had replied to him quite civilly. He talked of the weather and of the probable gaiety of Paris in the spring. Then he went on to ask questions about London, confessing that he had been absent from that city for nearly a year. When Meriel informed him in polite but unencouraging tones that she had not seen London in rather longer than that, Sir Antony spoke up at last, saying that he could no doubt provide Mr. Carruthers with town gossip that was, if not the latest, at least more recent than a year old.

He sounded amused, Meriel thought, which was strange, since he was clearly uncomfortable, perched as he was upon a seat which was far too narrow for a man of his size. He had leaned into his corner, and as he talked, he continued to shift from time to time as though he searched unsuccessfully for comfort.

Meriel recognized a number of names as the two gentlemen chatted. What surprised her was not so much that she knew the same people as Sir Antony but that Carruthers also seemed to know them. Then, as she pondered the matter, she decided that, to be successful, a thief must certainly know who possessed those objects most worthy of his attention.

Nevertheless, long before they reached the last turnpike, on the bustling outskirts of Paris, she had been drawn adroitly into the conversation and found herself laughing and talking with both gentlemen as though she had known them forever. She had become accustomed to chatting with Sir Antony in such a fashion, but it was astonishing to her that she could feel comfortable talking with a man like Carruthers. With even more amazement, however, did she hear herself suggesting, as they turned out of the narrow, cobbled Rue St. Honoré, between tall iron gates, into the courtyard of the magnificent Maison de Prévenu, that both Sir Antony and Mr. Carruthers must certainly step inside long enough to warm themselves before the fire and to meet her sister.

Even before they had descended from the chaise, the tall red doors of Maison de Prévenu had been flung wide and liveried servants hastened down the broad limestone steps to hold umbrellas over their heads and to help the postboys unload the trunks and portmanteaux strapped to the front and rear of the chaise. As they entered the vast two-story front hall to be greeted by a bowing dark-coated butler and several minions in jackets of pale blue over cream-colored breeches, Meriel heard a sudden rush of clicking heels on the marble floor, and almost before she had time to turn toward the sound, found herself enveloped in lavender-scented sea-green chiffon as her sister Nest flung her arms about her.

“Oh, Meri, I can scarcely credit that you are come at last,” she cried, standing back again to look at her. Poised thus, she could be seen to resemble her younger sister only with regard to her fair complexion and light hair. Her face was rounder, as was her figure, for she was no longer as slim as Meriel remembered. Indeed, beneath the flowing yards of translucent green chiffon with which she had draped herself, it could be seen that she had grown rather buxom.

“My goodness, Nest!” Meriel exclaimed, looking her over in return. “You have changed beyond recognition, but ’tis most becoming.”

Nest laughed merrily. “So dearest André tells me. He likes his women soft, he says, and he cannot deny that I have grown very soft indeed.” She turned toward the two gentlemen, her eyes dancing. “But you have not introduced your handsome escorts, my dearest. Indeed, you did not even warn me that you would have an escort. I remember distinctly that you said you would be traveling with only dearest Gladys Peat—and how wonderful it is to see you again, Gladys,” she added, diverted. “You must follow Michel, the blond one there, upstairs, and he will show you where I have put the Lady Meriel. Now then,” she went on without pause, “who are these delightful gentlemen?”

Laughing, Meriel shook her head. “You do not change after all, Nest, but remain as wonderfully shatterbrained as ever. First you demand their names and then you chatter like a magpie so that no one else can put a word in edgeways. The large, rather lazy-looking gentleman is Sir Antony Davies, and I promise you, his demeanor owes nothing to exhaustion. ’Tis the way he always looks. He appointed himself our courier somewhere along the way and, in fact, has traveled with us since Barmouth. The other is Mr. Roger Carruthers. He is a—”

“An ardent admirer of your magnificent self, madam,” interjected Mr. Carruthers, stepping forward with exquisite grace to kiss Nest’s hand. As Meriel watched indignantly, he raised his head, retaining the still-slim little hand in his, and gazed into Nest’s sparkling blue eyes. “You are as beautiful as I have heard, madam, and I confess I had believed such a thing must be impossible.”

“Dear me, what a charming man,” said Nest with a chuckle, withdrawing her hand from his at last with patent reluctance. “I daresay you have heard any number of things about me, sir, but I promise they are not all so true as that.”

Even Sir Antony chuckled at these audacious words, and Nest turned to him at once, her smile wide upon her lips, displaying fine white teeth. The two front ones overlapped a tiny bit, but this flaw only added to the charm of her smile. “How do you do, Sir Antony?” she said demurely. “’Tis a prodigious pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope you and Mr. Carruthers will visit us often during your stay in Paris. Have you acquaintances here?”

“A few, madam. I shall be staying with Lord Whitworth, I believe.”

“The British ambassador? Oh, that will be amusing for you. Such a charming gentleman, if only he were not so dreadfully plagued by the necessity of adhering to English policy, poor man. He could have a deal more fun, I daresay, if he were not continually shoved into the awkward position of having to defend England’s actions. I prefer to think of myself as French these days, I can tell you.”

“But you are not English, anyway,” Meriel pointed out, amused by her sister’s uncharacteristic descent into political discussion.

“Well, I might as well be, for all the understanding these people have of the difference between the Welsh and the English. Of course there are some who realize the Welsh have been rebels since the beginning of the relationship between our two countries and who therefore think of us as kindred spirits—like the Americans, you know—but for the most part they think of me as English, do what I might to persuade them otherwise, and that, I promise you, can be embarrassing. But we should not be standing here in the hall. My
belle-mère
will scold me for running out to you like an underbred hoyden, but I could not wait. I no sooner heard the carriage wheels on the cobbles outside than I was up and in a dash to greet you. But now you must come upstairs to the salon and refresh yourselves.”

But the gentlemen declined, Sir Antony declaring that since he had ordered his man to go straight on to the embassy, he must likewise stir himself to join him there, and Carruthers mentioning the need to find a place to rack up. When it looked to her as though her impulsive sister would invite him to spend the night at Maison de Prévenu, Meriel interrupted without a qualm for her poor manners, bidding both gentlemen adieu and assuring them that she and Madame de Prévenu would be happy to receive them if they should chance to be at home when either Sir Antony or Mr. Carruthers might call.

When the two men had gone, Nest looked at her sharply. “That was rude, Meri dear. Mr. Carruthers could certainly have stayed here with us, as you must know. There are any number of guest rooms, and if you are thinking it would not be the thing, that is only because you have not recalled to mind the fact that Madame Depuissant, my mother-in-law, is also in residence right now, as is André’s brother, Pierre. So you see, it would be quite
convenable
for Mr. Carruthers to remain with us.”

As she talked, she led the way up the broad carpeted stairs to a gallery and into a high-ceilinged salon decorated in bright shades of green and gold. Following behind her, Meriel paused on the threshold of this magnificent chamber to say tersely, “Nest, that man is no gentleman. He is a thief.”

“What?” Nest turned in a swirl of green chiffon to face her. “Nonsense, Meri. What can you possibly mean?”

“I mean precisely what I say, as I always have done. He is a thief. He tried to steal Sir Antony’s diamond pin and a number of other trinkets, which was how we chanced to become acquainted.” She described the meeting briefly, then added, “I am mortified at the thought that I actually invited him into your house. I cannot think how I came to do such a thing.”

Nest chuckled. “
Quelles sottises
! You needn’t apologize for that. Indeed, ’tis most exciting, for I have never met a thief before. Do you hear,
belle-mère?
” she inquired, turning now with a flourish toward the plump black-garbed lady who was seated with her knitting upon a gilt chair near the cheerfully crackling fire. “We have entertained a thief in our front hall.”

Meriel had not noticed the woman before, and realizing that she must be the dowager Comtesse de Prévenu, hurriedly dropped a curtsy. “How do you do,
madame?
I beg your pardon for chattering so. I did not realize anyone else was here.”

The plump lady nodded, lowered the tangle of cheerful pink knitting to her spacious lap, and smiled graciously, then gestured to a matching chair on the opposite side of the green Aubusson hearth rug. “Seat yourself,
mademoiselle
,” she said in English. “There is no fault. I am well accustomed to my daughter-in-law’s impulsiveness. Was yours a pleasant journey?”

“A trifle tedious, perhaps, but the company was pleasant.” As Meriel took her seat, she noted gratefully that her sister had rung for refreshment, and she gave but half her mind to her exchange of amenities with the dowager as she listened for sounds that would herald the arrival of the tea tray. It came at last, however, and once she had taken the edge off her hunger with tea and delicious little iced cakes, she was able to pay closer heed to the older woman.

At first her impression was that Madame Elise, as that lady preferred to be addressed, was a cushiony white-haired gentlewoman whose greatest interest would be her knitting or perhaps her grandchildren. But then, when Meriel asked Nest what on earth she had meant by referring to the ambassador’s duty to defend England’s actions as a burden, she noted a shrewd gleam in Madame Elise’s gray eyes.

Before she could think more about that look her attention was claimed by her sister, who said pettishly, “Well, of course one must expect the ambassador to say that England is doing right, but really, Meri, it is too bad, when everyone knows that England is the one pushing France to the brink of war.”

“Oh, Nest, surely you know ’tis that Bonaparte creature who is at fault. He wants only to conquer the whole of Europe, that is all.”

“He wishes to be called Napoleon, not Bonaparte, and he is not a creature,” retorted Nest indignantly. “You have never seen him, after all, so you cannot know how handsome he is and how charming he can be. Otherwise, I protest, I should never forgive you for saying such things as that.”

“Nest, for pity’s sake, that man is naught but an upstart soldier playing the part of a king—Napoleon the First, I imagine he thinks himself. As for his being handsome, why, we have heard even in the north of Wales that the man is as plump as a puffin. And so charming is he, miss, that he has imprisoned your own husband!”

Nest hunched one plump shoulder. “Everyone says he will release André very soon, and as for his being naught but a soldier, I am sure his birth was perfectly respectable. He was not born into the first circles, perhaps, but only because his papa was Italian, and I am persuaded that no one regards his background at this present, in any event.”

“Well, nevertheless, if the current situation is an uneasy one, it is not England’s fault. Why, Napoleon has taken over Switzerland, Holland, and Belgium, and any number of other countries without yet being satisfied. He but hungers for more and more.”

“His greatest wish,” Nest retorted passionately, “is to
unify
Europe. Why, only a month past, he lost his temper completely because Lord Whitworth simply refused to cooperate in his attempt to bring peace to the Continent. In front of everyone who is anyone, Napoleon shouted that England is determined to make war on France, that they will drive him to do as they wish, but he also declared that although they will be the first to draw the sword, he will be the last to sheathe it. Oh, Meri, it was a magnificent speech. All who heard it talked of nothing else for weeks. At the end Napoleon bellowed, ‘Woe to those who show no respect for treaties!’ and stalked from the room. By the time he reached the street, however, those who saw him reported that he was perfectly composed, so great is his command over even his most violent emotions.”

“Oh, Nest, how could you be so taken in?” Meriel demanded. “Mr. Carruthers and Sir Antony spoke of that same confrontation only this afternoon, and Sir Antony at least is very well-informed. You may believe it if he says that Napoleon’s composure afterward only served to prove that the whole business was contrived from first to last in hopes that such a violent threat of war would force England to back down on her refusal to turn the island of Malta over to the French. In fact, as you must know, the opposite has occurred, and Britain has now made conditions that must be patently unacceptable to him, that France must evacuate Holland and Switzerland and consent to a ten-year occupation of Malta by English forces.
That
is scarcely what he can have hoped for.”