Anne Barbour (14 page)

The viscount seemed surprised and somewhat discomfited.

“Me? Why—well, of course, I shall be glad to be of any assistance, but I really don’t see that I have any information of value—or Churte either, for that matter.”

“But, my dear fellow,” queried Simon, “were you not the first to arrive on the scene?”

“Indeed he was!” interposed Lissa. “Ooh! I wish
I
had observed the monster. We heard Diana’s piteous call for help, but by the time we arrived, all that could be seen was Mr. Churte pelting toward the woods. I shudder to think what might have happened if Lord Stedford had not arrived when he did.”

“Most fortuitous,” agreed Jared. “That is just my point. You must have seen the ruffian, Stedford. What did he look like?”

The assemblage waited with interest for the viscount’s reply. He frowned in concentration.

“Ah, well then. I really didn’t get a good look at him. He was, as Churte said, dressed in homespuns, and—he wore a large hat, with, um—a sort of floppy brim, don’t you know. It completely hid his face. But he was a big, burly fellow. Now that I think of it, he was surprisingly quick on his feet for one so large.”

He looked at the faces around him.

“I’m sorry, that is all I can tell you. I fear the magistrate will have a trip for naught, because I don’t believe Churte has any additional information.”

He drained his cup abruptly and stood.

“And now, if you will excuse me, I must leave this delightful gathering. I had not intended to be gone from my home for such an extended time, and there are matters which require my attention.”

He kissed the hands of the ladies with a practiced flourish, and nodded a courteous farewell to the gentlemen. Aunt Amabelle and Lissa rose to see him out, and the three passed from the room.

Jared turned to Diana. “And now, Miss Bavister, I really must insist that you retire to your room for a rest. It cannot be good—what is it?’’

Diana had uttered a small cry of dismay. She rose hastily, to the imminent peril of the compress wound round her head.

“The cloak! Lord Stedford must have forgotten—it’s still in his carriage!”

Her sudden movement caused a return of the dizziness she had suffered earlier, and Jared moved to her. Simon, with a gesture to his brother, hurried out of the room and returned a few minutes later with the cloak. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Diana, who stood in the steadying circle of Jared’s arm.

“Yes,” she responded, with an involuntary shudder. “He threw it over my head. But I still don’t know why. I must find out the reason behind—” She caught her breath and broke off.

“You are quite right. Miss Bavister,” Jared said smoothly, receiving the cloak from Simon. “Perhaps this unsavory piece of clothing will provide some answers when we present it to the magistrate tomorrow.’’

He glanced keenly at Diana’s pale countenance. “In the meantime, I am sure that what you most desire at the moment is some rest. Ah, here is Lissa returned from bidding a fond farewell to the splendid viscount. She will escort you to your bedchamber.”

With a bow, Jared left the room with Simon, the soiled cloak draped over his arm.

Diana was left to Lissa’s solicitude. What she really desired most in the world right now was a conversation alone with his infuriating lordship. As she followed Lissa up the wide staircase, questions about the identity of the persons who seemed to wish her such ill tumbled in her brain with renewed insistence. When she had arrived at the Green Man, she did not know a soul in England. Who was the “Captain Sharp” who had abducted her, and the other, whom she had come to call the “dark man”? And why were they so interested in Marcus? Surely, he could not have made such a virulent enemy in the short time he had been in this country. Could he?

It was in a decidedly unsettled state of mind that Diana passed the rest of the afternoon. Aunt Amabelle had left some reading material for her perusal, but an improving tract by Hannah More, the noted ornament of the Clapham Sect, entitled
Practical Piety,
failed to hold her attention. When, some hours later, Kate tapped at her door to assist her in dressing for dinner, she welcomed the little maid like a long-lost relative.

Arrayed in a gown of deep red, of the same shade as the little carnelian pendant that lay on her breast, Diana joined the family members assembled in the drawing room. To her disappointment, Jared was not among them.

“He’ll be down later,” explained Simon in response to her carefully casual question. “He is with Grandfather, and will have a tray sent up. I’ll take my turn later.”

The chef, in honor of Simon’s homecoming, had prepared his favorite dishes, with the result that the board fairly groaned under a staggering array of brimming platters and bowls. Diana dutifully sampled the haunch of venison, the collop of beef, and an ox cheek with dumplings, along with a vegetable pudding, a preserve of olives, and a plum pudding. She was obliged, however, to turn away the pork cutlets with Robert sauce, the tenderones of veal, the cheesecakes and a perfect avalanche of creams, jellies, syllabubs, and trifles. Simon, after the deprivations of camp life, addressed himself with enthusiasm to each dish as it was offered to him, declaring that his stomach must think he had died and gone to heaven. All the while, the young captain regaled the ladies with anecdotes of his service in Spain. These tales, which Diana was sure were strongly expurgated, were of ludicrous incidents in which he featured himself as rather a figure of fun.

“Now, Simon,” Aunt Amabelle gently chided, “we know you better. You cannot tell me that you spent hours crouched under some farmer’s front porch while the battle raged around you.”

“’Pon my honor, Aunt!” Simon laughed. “Three of us had cleverly managed to cut ourselves off from our lines, and here came the entire Frog cavalry galloping cross-country. Had to wait ‘em out!”

“Where was this. Captain?” inquired Diana, her fingers clenching in her lap at the contemptuous dismissal of the “Frog cavalry.”

“At Salamanca.” Simon’s young face grew hard. “That was a bad time. Too many good lads gave their lives there. And many more so badly hurt, in body and soul, that they will never be the same.”

“As did the French,” interposed Diana in a quiet voice. “Thirteen thousand French soldiers died there.”

At this, Simon glanced at her sharply. “Have you Bonapartist sympathies, ma’am? If so, I fear you are in thin company.’’

“I have sympathy for anyone who dies in battle, no matter on which side they fight. As for Bonaparte—”

She broke on”, aware that Simon was watching her with a sardonic glint in his eye. At once, she realized that Jared must have told him of the circumstances of their meeting. She flushed, continuing with an effort.

“As for Bonaparte, I believe the French bestowed their loyalty upon him mistakenly. When Napoleon first came to power, I thought he was the savior of that bleeding nation. But he became greedy, and drew the country into disaster.”

These words were greeted by a variety of reactions, ranging from incomprehension on the part of young Lissa, startled agreement from Aunt Amabelle and Mrs. Sample, and a flash of respect from Simon.

He laughed softly. “That certainly is the long view. I wish all the
citoyens français
had felt the same way. A great deal of bloodshed could have been avoided.”

The conversation turned then to matters of less import, and Diana sat silently, absorbing the easy chatter of these English, her countrymen of whom she knew so little. She was French by nationality, but she was English by birth and blood, and though she had lived all her life in Paris, she felt comfortable here, as though she had come home. This could not be, of course. Her home was a cozy set of rooms in Justine du Vrai’s
pensionnat.
She sighed. What a tragedy it was that the two countries, both so close to her heart, had been torn by such violent hatred for one another. Perhaps, when “the Corsican Monster” was again defeated as surely he must be—she and Marcus would have the opportunity to learn more about the land of their ancestors.

She returned to her surroundings with a start to realize that the last covers were being removed, and the other ladies were rising to leave Simon in solitary state with the brandy decanter.

“I think not,” he said with a laugh, as he stood to join them. “I am not that fond of my own company. I had better go and spell Jared now, and perhaps later the two of us can settle down for a comfortable snifter or two.”

Jared, entering the room at that moment, seconded the idea. He waved Simon off along the corridor and shepherded the ladies into the music room, where he promptly invited Diana to favor the group with a piano selection. This time she seated herself without hesitation at the great instrument. She chose a short series of Haydn Variations, at the end of which she found herself the recipient of a gratifying round of applause.

“Ah, so you do play. Miss Bavister,” rumbled Mrs. Sample. “It is as I thought. You were simply being missish last evening.”

Lissa seemed almost dazed.

“I—I never heard anything like that,” she murmured. “I had no idea that music could be so, so . . .” She broke off, unable to complete her thought.

Miss Bledsoe struck while the iron was hot.

“You see, Lady Felicity, what can be accomplished through application and diligence in one’s practicing?”

Lissa shot her a scornful glance.

“Fustian! I could run my fingers off in scales and chords and never come close to that perfection!”

Diana laughed. “Nonsense, Lissa. You play with a great deal of feeling. With a little technical polish, you would play beautifully. Here, for example, is a piece you could learn very easily.’’

Raising her hands again, she slipped into a simple yet elegantly haunting melody. When she had finished, she swung toward Lissa.

“That is called ‘Für Elise,’ and it was written by Mr. van Beethoven several years ago. Lovely, isn’t it? And,” she continued at Lissa’s enthusiastic nod, “I think you could perform it very creditably within a week or two. With Miss Bledsoe’s help, of course,” she added, careful not to wound that lady’s fragile self-esteem.

Rising from the piano, she made her way to a settee placed by the fire. As she did so, she noticed that Aunt Amabelle was gazing at her in an oddly fixed manner. As their eyes met, the older woman laughed in some confusion.

“Forgive me, my dear, I did not mean to stare. It’s just that . . . Well, you see,” she began in her usual distracted manner, “I was speaking to Papa just before dinner. He talked of how pleased he is that—that you have come to us, and he mentioned your lovely hair--such an unusual color—and he said he wished he could remember of whom it reminds him. Then, just now as you were playing, and the candle light caught it in such a glow . . . Well, I must say, I was struck by it as well—and—yes, I am sure I have known someone with just such an unusual shade of hair, rather like old gold.”

She turned to Mrs. Sample, who murmured something unintelligible in corroboration.

“It reminds me rather of wild honey,’’ remarked Lissa after some thought.

“It was always my impression,” murmured Jared, who had come to sit next to Diana on the settee, “that hornets do not produce honey.”

Diana choked on a gurgle of laughter, and her eyes flew to the earl’s in a quelling glance.

The conversation continued amiably until the appearance of the tea table at eleven, after which Aunt Amabelle declared herself ready for her bed, being quite worn down with the events of the day.

“I’m much too excited to sleep a wink,” exclaimed Lissa, suppressing a yawn as she spoke. “This has been the most momentous day of my life,” she added largely, as she followed her aunt and the other ladies from the room.

Chapter 13

Jared glanced at Lissa in amusement, and turned to Diana.

“From one of such longevity and experience that is, of course, a portentous statement,” he said smilingly.

Diana chuckled.

“She is such a darling. One never knows what she will come up with next.”

“But what a handful! It comes of her being raised in such a haphazard fashion, I suppose. Aunt Amabelle is a good woman and an excellent householder, but there’s no getting away from the fact that she is not a disciplinarian.”

Jared paused for a moment, gazing quizzically at Diana. “I have noticed that you and she have established an extraordinary rapport in the short time you have been here. I have never seen her so amenable.”

Diana smiled mischievously. “Ah, but you forget, my lord, that is my profession. I have spent many years patting and soothing and providing guidance to volatile young ladies.”

She raised her eyes to his, but could find no answering smile. Instead he perused her face gravely, causing her heart to thump in an uncomfortable rhythm.

Gazing into her wide eyes, at the moment soft as moonlight on velvet, Jared again felt an involuntary stirring within him. He found himself battling with his emotions, as he had been since he’d met this slender witch, this impossible combination of silk and steel. He had known her for less than two days, yet when she had been brought home this afternoon, white-faced and shaken, his response had been one of concern bordering on the frantic. His next reaction had been one of rage at whoever had done this to her.

Jared caught himself. Handsomely over the bricks, my lad, he chided. She no doubt had plenty of experience in taking care of herself, and there was no reason to involve himself in her intrigues. Still, he felt compelled to learn more about her, to discover the woman behind those silver eyes.

Jared pulled up two small, comfortable armchairs before the fire, and he motioned Diana to one of them.

“Many years, indeed. You are not long out of the schoolroom yourself, unless I am very much mistaken.”

“Well, you are! I am four and twenty, and have been with Madame du Vrai since I was nineteen.”

“And before that?” he asked, seating himself opposite her. “Have you always lived in Paris?”

“Yes, as has my brother, Marcus. He is two and twenty.”