Feather Castles (35 page)

“Too brief of a setback,” Claude criticized. “Gerard tells me that our intrepid Englishman took her up onto his saddle today. At that rate she will be walking within the week. And
that
—I cannot have!”

“Vy not? You are good as ved!”

“Perhaps. I could have compelled Rachel to marry me long before this. But always, my dear Ulrich, there is the crude way and the shrewd way. If at all possible I prefer to do the thing in style and without the irritation of a reluctant bride. Unfortunately, I am meanwhile at the mercy of any whim the chit may take into her lovely head. She is grateful to me—but not, I fear, deep in love. Were her sister to effect a miraculous recovery, I am not at all sure…”

“You haf seriously think she vould give up this—palace? Your vealth und power, und position?
Ach!
—not likely!”

“Not for some. But she is the kind of simpleton would prefer love and a cottage. Bourgeois nonsense.”

The doctor grunted. “If she is der simpleton, vy choose her?”

It was a question Rachel had pondered many times, though not in just that way, and she waited for Claude's reply.

“She is English,” he answered slowly, “and well born. She has no self-righteous Mama to warn me off, her brother is come home too late to interfere, and her father, fool that he was, not only blackened the family name, but conveniently ruined them, with very little help from me. When the debts are paid she will be socially acceptable once more. And I shall be the more palatable to the populace with a British wife. Besides—she is very beautiful and has a touch more spirit than I had suspected. She may amuse me for a while.”

“
Ja.
This I understand. Better to keep her in need of my expensive services, eh?”

“Much better. Go and minister to your patient, noble healer. And see that this time she remains ill for long enough that she will be unable to journey to England. It will provide me a fine excuse to have the wedding conducted here. I've no wish to cross swords with Justin Strand at this moment.”

“Nor can he do this. Der boy iss laid down upon his bed mit malaria, I hear, and in no condition to argue mit no vun!”

“Excellent! I must return to my guests.” There was the sound of chairs scraping back, then Claude said, “Oh—one other small matter. Have you, in your bag there, something to relieve my so valiant brother's mind of its worries for a while?”

“
Himmel!
You vish Guy to be ill also?”

“Say rather, I wish him at rest. Oh, never look so horrified, my good fool! Temporarily, only.”

“This I understand not! I vould think your brother you keep at your side just in the case of troubles.”

“Were I dealing with Parnell, you would be very right. Guy, Herr Doctor, is another matter. I am not at all sure just where his sympathies lie. Someday,” Claude's voice became an introspective murmur, “someday, I may find it necessary to—ah—remove him. Permanently.” He added briskly, “But for now, a potion, perhaps? Something sufficient to cause him to retreat to his bed until morning?”

Appalled, Rachel heard the fasteners on the doctor's bag snap, followed by a rattling of tins and bottles.

“Here,” Ulrich grunted. “Vun of these drop in his vine.
Vun only,
mind!
Mein
Claude, you would the Borgias put to shame!”

Sanguinet chuckled. “
Merci.
Now, off with you. And stay with the girl.”

They walked past the bed, the door opened and closed, and a moment later Rachel heard the click of the outer door. And she did not move—she
could
not move, she was so numbed by the savagery she had overheard. How could
any
man be so base as to condemn a lovely young girl to the life of a helpless invalid, purely to entrap her sister into marriage? Dr. Ulrich had been employed to win her gratitude by performing the operation but then had seen to it that Charity made no further progress. “Oh! How vile!” she whispered, her eyes smarting with tears of rage. The memory of the long months of anxiety; of these past few weeks of heartbreak; the thought of Justin, ill and worrying; the knowledge that there was nothing she could do to warn Guy, of whom she had become so fond, conspired to infuriate her further. But even as she lay here, seething, Dr. Ulrich was with Charity! She scrambled out from beneath the bed. Stepping quickly to the door, she was heartened by one realization: she had no need to indulge one further qualm of guilt for the sake of Claude Sanguinet!

*   *   *

Dr. Ulrich straightened from examining his patient and glanced up when Rachel hurried into the bedchamber. His broad face was flushed, and the watery blue eyes had a slightly glazed look. He was a tall man who had allowed middle age to impair his waistline severely, but he was not impervious to beauty, and the sight of Rachel in her ball gown brought a beaming grin and a hurried attempt to tidy his thinning grey hair. “Vy, how pretty it is you haf look,
mein fraulein,
” he said.

His speech was slurred, and Rachel apprehended that he was more drunk than she had thought. Strengthened by her blazing anger, she gave him a bright smile and advanced, putting out her hand. “How do you do, doctor? And how fortunate you are come, since my sister has been rather out of sorts.”

She withdrew her hand from his moist clasp and, stepping closer to the bed, winked in response to Charity's searching look. “How do you go on, dearest? I hope you are not still being silly about taking whatever medicine Dr. Ulrich thinks best for you.” She gazed intently into her sister's puzzled eyes and tightened her grip warningly on Charity's wrist.

“Eh? eh?” the doctor said with a jovial grin. “You haf not fear your old friend, haf you,
mein
Charity?
Ach
—just a spoonful of my potion und you vill be better in less than … less…” He concentrated owlishly on the spoon he held waveringly over a tumbler of water. “Do not,” he said drawing back and blinking at his unsteady hand, “haf fears, little vun, that it vill leave the bad taste in your pretty mouth. It haf no … taste at all.”

Rachel, meanwhile, was striving to convey by means of grimaces that Charity must rebel. At first utterly bewildered, her sister now said rather feebly, “Oh, no—must I?” And seeing Rachel's delighted look, emitted a screeching, “Well, I won't! I won't!”

Astonished by such uncharacteristic behaviour, the doctor looked up, and Rachel chose that moment to stagger back as though Charity had struggled with her. She collided with Ulrich. The spoon fell, but he retained his hold on the bottle. Her profuse apologies were met with a knowing chuckle, the remark that the doctor had dealt with far more difficult patients, and that she was to have no fears, he knew exactly how to proceed.

Rachel had prayed to dislodge the bottle from his hand, and as Ulrich took up his wineglass she waited her chance to sabotage the medicine bottle. She was again thwarted, however, for he kept tight hold of it. Desperate, she signalled behind her back, and as Charity, dutiful, if mystified, let out another shriek and appeared about to have a spasm, Rachel said, “Doctor, how can I express my mortification? You have been so good. Why she should behave in such a way is beyond my understanding. Poor man, you look tired. Will you not sit and rest for a moment?” She lowered her voice to a half-whisper. “Allow me to try my hand with the medicine. I can soothe her, I feel sure. Agatha—would you please bring over that large chair for Dr. Ulrich?”

“No, no!” Ulrich set down the bottle and proceeded rather erratically to the chair Agatha was attempting to lift. “I am stronger than you, my dear.
I
vill do it.”

Rachel seized her chance and snatched up the medicine bottle. Her original intention to drop it had been succeeded by a more diabolical plan, and she instead poured a goodly amount into the doctor's wine. Taking up the spoon, she whirled to Charity, calling over her shoulder, “One teaspoonful, doctor? Come now—no nonsense, Charity.”

“No. Better it should be … two,” he puffed, struggling with the chair. “I do not care for my little vun so pale the face to have!”

“You wicked old villain!” thought Rachel, and cajoled, “Open wide, dearest.” Effectively blocking Ulrich's view, she said, “That's a good girl!” She turned, proclaiming, “All finished, doctor. Now I really must go downstairs. Perhaps you could stay here for just a little while? I shall have some more wine sent up.”

Predictably enough, he offered no objection to this plan. Rachel kissed Charity and then hastened into her own bedchamber, motioning to Agatha to follow. The instant the door closed, she threw her arms about the abigail. “I have it! I
have
it!” she exulted, holding up the key.

“Oh, praise God!” cried Agatha, clasping her hands joyously. “But—whatever have you done to that poor old man in there?”

“He is a wicked schemer! Charity is not near so ill as we have been led to believe. Ulrich has been
poisoning
her!” Agatha uttered a strangled scream at this. “Hush!” Rachel whispered. “I cannot stay to tell you the whole now, but should Doctor Ulrich become ill, even very ill, do
not
send for help! The wretch deserves to suffer! Now—have you spoken to Raoul? Does he know that Colonel Tristram means to make the attempt tonight?”

“Yes, miss. He says he can have horses saddled and ready, in case we need them, though how he can do it is more than I can guess. Oh, Miss Rachel—I do be that afeared! Suppose the Colonel is caught? Whatever will become of us?”

That grim thought turned Rachel's knees to jelly. “Pray he is not,” she urged. “Now, here is the key, but the Colonel does not know I went after it. When the receiving line is finished, and during a dance, you must take it downstairs and ask to speak to Mr. Devenish. If anyone argues, tell them you've a message from Miss Charity, or something. You should be able to slip the key to him, do you think, Agatha?”

Agatha paled, but said staunchly, “I'll manage, Miss Rachel!”

*   *   *

Tristram succeeded in claiming Garvey's attention when Claude left the dining room for a few moments. Garvey replied negatively to an enquiry as to whether they had met before and turned rather deliberately to the gentleman at his right hand, terminating the conversation. Tristram was not surprised. It had early become apparent that most of the guests were in Claude's pocket, and if Claude had warned Garvey of his suspicions, the man was unlikely to be helpful. The chances of anyone being willing to help the girls get off the estate were slight indeed. But get away they would! He and Dev and Raoul would manage, somehow. The aspect of it all that most worried him was Rachel's going to that blasted bedchamber. The thought that Claude or Gerard might discover her made him sweat, and more than ever he inclined to the determination to forbid the attempt and proceed with his initial plan.

Antoine Benét put an end to such introspection by regaling him with a plaintive account of the frustrations of an artist. “Always,
mon Capitaine,
I am at the beck and call of one or other of my cousins, or my ridiculous aunt, and my talent it must shrivel for the lack of use! Now—I look at your friend Monsieur Devenish, and—I yearn! I clamour! I—”

Whatever else he did was not to be divulged, for at that moment Claude returned to suggest they rejoin the ladies.

As they made their way along the hall, Devenish fell into place beside Tristram. “Any inspirations, old pippin?” he murmured hopefully.

“None. Have you?”

“No.” Devenish sighed. “What we need is a wooden horse!”

Chapter 15

It seemed to Rachel that the line of guests was never-ending. Where they had managed to find accommodations, she could not imagine, for despite the size of the chateau, a relatively small proportion of those invited were staying there. For what seemed an eternity she stood beside Claude, acknowledging the congratulations of those elegant ladies and gentlemen who shook hands with Claude, herself, and a wilting Madame Beauchard. A waltz was in full swing when they at last were able to enter the ballroom. The great chandeliers blazed with light, throwing the exquisitely plastered blue and white ceiling into sharp relief. The room was enormous, but beautifully proportioned, the walls of a pale blue-green were embellished with giant gold relief figures of Grecian deities, alternating with large floral arrangements, great sparkling gilt-framed mirrors, and tall windows. In the midst of this luxurious setting were the dancers, the bright gowns of the ladies swirling, the gentlemen poised and immaculate as they guided their fair partners unerringly to the strains of the lilting music.

Under any other circumstances, Rachel would have found the sight enchanting, but now her eyes sought only one dark head and soon located Tristram dancing with a very pretty girl who looked Scandinavian with her flaxen hair and light complexion. Rachel experienced a pang, not of jealousy but of fear because danger was becoming ever more imminent for him, and because he was so tall. That feature, which undoubtedly won him the envy of most of the gentlemen and the added admiration of the ladies also made him so disastrously easy to detect.

Although she was the centre of attention tonight, the minutes seemed to drag past on leaden feet. At a little past the hour of midnight she was waltzing with Monsieur Monteil. For all his wealth and polish, the Swiss was cold and what Justin would have termed a dead bore. At least, he did not engage her attention, a circumstance for which Rachel was grateful when she saw Agatha appear at the doors and summon a footman. Devenish was not dancing; he stood chatting with the French couple who had earlier seemed so stiff and ill-at-ease. The footman made his way to them, and soon Devenish followed him to the abigail. The dance ended, Monteil restored Rachel to Claude, and in a moment or two, Devenish came over. He told her politely that her abigail had been unable to speak with her, so had charged him to convey the message that her sister was sleeping comfortably and Dr. Ulrich would stay with her until the ball was over.