Lace for Milady (21 page)

“Christ on a crutch, man!” Louie shouted, and rushed forward to pull the Frenchman away by violent force and push him quite unceremoniously against the wall.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, with horror glowing in his eyes. In that moment, I loved him. I felt like throwing myself against his massive chest and weeping, but years of self-control overcame my urge and I only drooped. He put out an arm to steady me; I didn’t flinch, but grabbed it. This time his arm didn’t fail me. It held firmly. “He didn’t—didn’t
molest
you, did he?” he asked fearfully.

The Frenchman entered into a string of what I took to be protestations of innocence. I didn’t understand him; he used words found in no French Grammar, but it seemed Louie was familiar with the more idiomatic phrases. He listened with interest then said, “God in heaven, she’s the
Dook’s
chicken.
L’amie de Monsieur le Duc.”
He turned to me. “Tell him, miss.”

While Louie could understand the patois and I could not, it was I who could speak French a little better, but still I felt some reluctance to say I was the Duke’s chicken, and doubted that it would carry much weight in any case. Louie was good enough for me.

He turned back to the Frenchman. “He’ll
kill
you!” he warned.
“Tuer—mort!”
Then he made a cutting gesture across his own throat that was quite unmistakable. “I’d better get the Dook,” he said to me, but uncertainly.

“He is not at home. He’s in London,” I said. “Let me go back home—up the stairs.” I indicated the bolted door.

He stood frowning. “That’s how you got here?” he asked.

“Yes, I heard noises from the fireplace and came to investigate.” I was rapidly recovering my powers of thought and speech with Louie’s presence.

“I don’t know that I can do that,” he said. “I’d better get the Dook.”

“He’s not home I tell you.”

“He’s home.”

I was sufficiently alert now to wonder how Louie should know this, but it would be a matter of some interest to the smugglers, perhaps, and I didn’t quibble with the idea of getting him if he was home. “Very well. Get him. I’ll wait at home.”

Louie frowned again, or still, in uncertainty. I was beginning to realize that while he reacted quickly in a physical way, he was no deep problem-solver. “I can’t let you go,” he said simply.

“You can’t leave me here with that animal!” I pointed to the Frenchman, who suddenly looked rather harmless, slouching in a corner.

“Yes, but I can’t let you go, and the Dook might not come back here for hours.”

“He will be coming
here—back here?”
I asked, while a thousand new conjectures arose. He had been here already, knew the place existed. He had somehow discovered where the smugglers were hiding the brandy. This was the direction of my first thoughts, but before long I was wandering off in a new direction. He had known all along! This was why he had wanted to get me out of Seaview; this was why he had been with Louie in the meadow; this was why he had objected to my excavation.
He was one of them.

“Certainly he will have to come to tell us where..." He stopped, still frowning. “Damme, Miss Denver, what are we to do?” Louis asked, like a puzzled schoolboy. “I think I ought to fetch him.”

“Send him,” I said, indicating the Frenchman with a jerk of my head to the corner. There was no doubt in my mind which smuggler I would prefer to spend the interval with.

“He don’t know the way, and besides the Dook would have my head if I sent that Frenchie to Belview for everyone to see. And he don’t speak a word of English, either.”

“Isn’t there anyone else you could send?”

“No, the stuff is stored in the passageway, and they’ve all gone off home, the fellows.”

The stuff—brandy. Confirmation they were smugglers, and the Duke of Clavering one of their number. With his insufferable airs and his claiming to think it a crime, he was not only a half-cousin to Lazy Louie but he was also his partner. The partner in command, I hadn’t a doubt. And he refused to speak to his cousin when he met him on the street! Strange it did not occur to me that this was hardly a safe person to bring to my aid, but as he represented my means of getting home, I wanted him to come. I was really very eager to see how he behaved himself amongst his “Gentlemen” friends.

“We can’t stay here,” I pointed out. "They’ll miss me at home. Call out a search party, and you’ll have the whole countryside down here, seeing your smuggled brandy.”

“No, dash it, we can’t do that. I’ll have to fetch him.”

"Take me with you.”

“In your nightgown?” he asked, scandalized. I had forgotten this detail, not that it would have stopped me from going. “I won’t be gone a minute. You tell the Frenchie you’re the Dook’s girl, and he won’t lay a hand on you."

“Don’t you dare go and leave me!” I shouted, and it was necessary to shout, for he was already gone, back into the black hole and down the passage. I looked at the Frenchman, and he looked at me measuringly.

“Ne touchez pas. Le Duc est mon ami. Très bon ami,”
I told him, trying to add heavy emphasis, in case the words were not quite accurate or comprehensible to him. I hadn’t tried to speak French for years.

He sat down, lit a foul-smelling cigar, and sulked. I arose boldly and retrieved the candelabrum from the floor, relit the other tapers and began walking around the room to see what it was. It had a dirt floor and three stone walls. The third wall had once been muralled on plaster, I thought. Faint traces of outline were visible in the poor light. A painted series of arches, and the outline of a flowing gown in one of the arches. An unlikely decoration for a fort, which, of course, this was not. There were two straw mattresses on the floor, a table made of packing crates, and some food on the table. I looked over my shoulder at the Frenchman as I made my little tour, not at all sure he would remain harmless. And I was right. He stamped out his cigar half-smoked, and came toward me. My heart thumped with fright. I had no clock, had no idea how long Louie had been gone. Ten or fifteen minutes, I guessed—but how long would it take him to get to Belview and come back with the Duke?

My guard-prisoner was impressed enough with my claims on the Duke that he only lifted the light from my fingers and held it to the wall himself. He then took it to the barrels in the corner and set it on the floor, took up a tin cup and pulled the cork from the bunghole of one of them. A stream of dark liquid poured out, sending its aroma across the room, and he drank it down as though it were water. He smacked his lips, wiped them with his sleeve, and regarded me with a bad smile.

The room had reeked of brandy when I first entered. There were half a dozen cups on the floor. They had all been drinking down here before, including the Duke of Clavering. The Frenchman might be half-drunk already, for all I knew. I turned away and walked to the farthest corner from him. I soon heard him having another helping of the smuggled brandy. It was stored in the passageway, but these two kegs must have been brought in for their own use, and good use they were making of them, too.

I was terrified he would get drunk and attack me.
“Ne buvez pas,”
I commanded in a stern voice. He looked at me, smiled boldly, and took another drink. I issued no more commands, for I didn’t wish to anger him. I just stood, glancing at him from time to time, and every time I looked he was examining me steadily. He didn’t even move his eyes to drink. How long it was taking them! Why didn’t they come?

At last it happened. He set down his cup and advanced toward me. There was no hesitation this time. He put both his arms around my waist and pulled me into his arms. Not without some resistance on my part, as you may imagine. I pushed at his chest, kicked his shins with my soft, harmless slippers. He was not taller than I was. Our eyes and lips were exactly level, yet he had, even in his drunken condition, three times my strength.

"Le Duc vous tuera! Il est mon ami,”
I reminded him with panting gasps. He fixed one hand behind my head and pulled it rudely toward his brandy-soaked lips.

My French deserted me. “Don’t! Don’t touch me! I’m the Duke’s friend. He’ll..."

“Kill you!” Clavering said, in quite a polite tone, and suddenly my attacker was being lifted six inches off the floor and flung aside as though he were an empty coat.

In my struggle with the Frenchman I had not heard their approach, Clavering’s and Louie’s, but how glad I was to see them. Smugglers, bastard, criminals— whatever they were, they were welcome. I threw myself gratefully and shamelessly into Clavering’s arms and heaved a sob of relief. He held me closely for a moment and said nothing, but I could hear his heart pound from his recent dash from Belview. His coat was wet and cool—it was still raining, then—and felt rough against my cheek. His hands moved up and down on my back comfortingly.

“You shouldn’t have left her alone with that maniac,” he said to Louie over my shoulder, then bent his head down to mine. “It’s all right, Prissie. He wouldn’t really have harmed you, you know. Come now, don’t cry. I’ll take you home.”

Home, though it was only yards away, had such a 
reassuring sound to it! “Yes, take me home,” I said, and pulled away from his arms. There was a little delay while Louie lit their own candles from mine, then Clavering took up the candelabrum and followed me to the door, slid the bolt, and we walked up the narrow stairs into the parson’s bench—such a foolish mode of entry to a room—climbed over its side and stood in the dimly lit saloon.

“Close the lid,” I said, for I didn’t want even that reminder of where I had been, and what I had been through.

“Sit down. I’ll get you some wine,” he said. I sank on to a sofa and sat benumbed, not yet recovered enough to be angry or outraged or a thing but grateful that I was home safe.

He handed me a glass and sat down beside me. Apparently under the misapprehension that I still required comfort, he put an arm around my shoulders. “He didn’t do any worse than try to kiss you?” he asked.

“No, but he would have,” I replied, removing his arm.

“Louie’s a fool. Well-meaning, but to leave you alone... Drink your wine. It will calm you.”

“I don’t want to be calm. I want an explanation.”

“All in good time,” he answered calmly. “Isn’t it strange to be here alone in the middle of the night? Very intimate, don’t you think?”

“Clavering..."

“Don’t you think you should call your friend Burne,” he suggested, turning to smile lazily at me.

“You’re not my friend.”

“Except when you are in trouble. I heard you use me to threaten André.”

“If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have been in trouble! How
dare
you use my house for smuggling?”

“Not your house, Prissie.
My
land that is temporarily leased to you. Unfortunately it abuts against the wall of your house, but really, you know, I offered a dozen times to buy it from you and save you this unpleasant episode. I had the sinking feeling that sooner or later you’d get into the parson’s bench. The door at the bottom of the stairs was always kept bolted, by the way. I guess André must have heard you trying to break it down, and decided to let you in?”

“How could you expect me
not
to discover it, when you were laughing and carousing down there to wake the dead?”

“I thought you’d be safely asleep in your bed by that time. I tried to keep the noise down to a roar, but after a successful trip the boys always have a round. What were you doing up and all alone at such an hour?”

“It’s
my
house! I don’t have to explain to you why, I am up."

“You don’t have to explain why you decided to go investigating all alone in your chemise, either, but it does seem unlike the practical Miss Denver. Quite like the impractical one who tries to ride a nag she can’t handle, though, now I come to think of it.”

“Don’t try to shift the blame for this night’s work on to
me.
You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

“I have, and I shall do it tomorrow. You’re too upset now. In your excitement the impropriety of our situation has slipped your mind. I have no objection in the least to your entertaining me in such charming
deshabille,
but Slack might misunderstand.”

“I am not entertaining you.”

“You noticed that, too, did you? I am happy to see we agree on what constitutes entertainment. I think that as we have allowed all the other proprieties to go by the boards, we might as well go all the way and dabble in a little entertainment. Why should André be the only one to enjoy the night’s work? And you
did
tell him you are my friend, you know. I believe I even heard the word
tuera
being mentioned. Now I don’t go
killing
every fellow who makes advances to a lady unless she is
my
lady.”

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on me!” I said in a low voice, for we had been speaking low to avoid detection by any light sleeper.

“I never can resist a dare,” he answered promptly, and laid not one hand but two on my shoulders, pulling me roughly into his arms. He soon placed his lips as well on mine and was kissing me soundly. Had I not already suffered so many unusual adventures that night, I might have been more outraged, but somehow it seemed a suitable climax to the evening. Even it seemed to soothe my jangled nerves. I did not bother to fight him off and give him the idea it mattered; it would have pleased him too well. I let him embrace me and enjoyed it, but did not actively participate. It was my first kiss. Edward Hemmings (my first beau, if my reader has forgotten) talked a good deal about love but was not a great man for action. I underwent the thing as though it were an experiment, trying to analyse the sensation of being held and mauled a little by a man.

After a while he lifted his head. “You can do better than that, Priss,” he said teasingly. “Another first, I trust?”

“Yes, unless you include your French smuggler friend.”

“That explains it. Practice makes perfect. Don’t be afraid.”

“I don’t need any lessons.”