Lady in the Stray (7 page)

“Not a bit!” Vashti said hastily, determined to humor her uninvited guest. She wondered if he might be
both
inebriated and lunatic. “You may call me anything you wish. And I shall call you Santander, shall I? Was there something in particular you wished to speak to me about, Mr. Santander?”

“Just plain Santander will do nicely, although I think I would prefer to hear you call me Yves.” Lord Stirling’s blue eyes were alert for a reaction but, save for a deepening of confusion, saw none. “Yes, I
would
prefer it! I think I must insist.”

“Very well, Yves.” Vashti blushed at her temerity in thus addressing a gentleman she had scarcely met. Yet what choice had she? Did she not humor this queer gentleman, he was apt to turn violent. “What did you wish to speak to me about, Yves?”

Lord Stirling arose from the window seat, walked to the library table and inspected the volumes piled thereupon, to the extreme displeasure of the multicolored cat. Foxe’s
Book of Martyrs;
Lily’s
Euphues and His England;
Sir Walter Raleigh’s
The Discovery of the Large, Rich and Beautiful Empire of Gwana, with a Relation of the Great, Golden City of Manoa (which the spanyards call El Dorado) and the Province of Emeria, Arromaia, Amapaia, and other Countries with Rivers Adjoining,
the title of which was considerably longer than the book. He picked up and leafed through Painter’s
The Palace of Pleasure.
“A veritable treasure trove,” he said aloud in reference to the volume, a collection of wonderful fables and tales.

Treasure! Vashti was very disappointed to discover that this gentleman of fashion and rank—and undeniable good looks—was motivated by emotion so ignoble as avarice. She had liked him better when she had simply thought he’d shot the cat.

Cat? Vashti rose from her chair and swept the hissing Calliope up into her arms and out of harm’s way. “Well, you shan’t have any treasure!” she snapped. “This house and all that’s in it is mine!”

Lord Stirling was briefly disconcerted to find himself confronted by four extremely hostile eyes, two amber-colored and two feline. Then his own blue orbs took on a dangerous glitter. “Yours, is it? No matter what’s at stake? I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me to discover that your sympathies lie with France!”

Not surprisingly, because she had no knowledge of spies and missing memorandums, Vashti was nonplussed. “I suppose also that you still may be bought off,” Yves continued, misinterpreting her frown. “Name your price!”

“My—?” Had she just been insulted? Vashti assumed all the dignity of which she was capable, considering she had her arms full of angry cat. “I am sorry to disoblige you, sir, but I haven’t the most distant guess what you are talking about!”

Almost Lord Stirling believed her, so sincere was her tone—but his vast experience with the opposite sex had led him to conclude that a damsel’s seeming sincerity almost always masked some deviousness. “I am sorry to disappoint you,
Yves,”
he corrected. “We have already agreed that between us there need be no need for formality.”

So bewildered was Vashti that she was not certain
what
she had agreed to at this point. “I think, sir—Yves!—that you may be laboring under a certain confusion of ideas.”

“And I think that
you
are an unconscionable little liar, Vashti!” Lord Stirling’s temper, never his greatest asset, was again growing short. Uncertain himself whether he meant to caress or throttle Vashti, he wrestled the snarling cat out of her arms and dropped it to the floor. Hissing, Calliope streaked across the room and joined the Afghan on the hearth. A fine guard dog Mohammed was, thought Vashti as the madman grasped her arms. Here was a stranger fit to murder her, and Mohammed lolled panting to the hearth. Or perhaps the stranger was bent on ravishment instead, so gentle was his touch. More than a little breathless, Vashti waited to find out.

Happily—or not—her fate was not just then to be sealed. Though Mohammed and Calliope had proven poor chaperones, a third member of Charlot’s menagerie was made of more intrepid stuff. Greensleeves had observed the entire proceedings from within the shadows cast by Wyken de Worde’s
Boke of Kervynge.
Now, with a mighty croak, he leapt straight at Yves.

“What the—!” No little bit discomposed to find himself nose to nose with a frog, Lord Stirling released Vashti. “The deuce!”

Quickly Vashti removed Greensleeves from her accoster’s shoulder, lest the madman think to retaliate, and gently saluted the frog’s green brow before gently setting it down amid the library books. This simple act further discomfited his lordship. The Vashti Beaufils he had known would have been more likely to tie her garter in public than to kiss a frog; and he doubted anyone could change so much as all that. But if not Vashti Beaufils, who was this female with so much the look of her? He frowned. “You have been telling a great many clankers, miss!”

First this rude gentleman assaulted her, and now he offered her further insult. A lady of less meek temperament might have hurled several priceless volumes at his insolent head. “I’m not in the habit of telling untruths!” Vashti replied stiffly.

“No?” Lord Stirling looked amused. “I hope you don’t mean to try to convince me that you
were
dusting the shelves. First of all, that is a housemaid’s duty. Secondly, one does not clean a library by scattering the books every which way.”

Horribly embarrassed, Vashti bit her lower lip. “I wish you would leave!”

“That much, I have no doubt is truthful!” Carelessly, Yves flicked a finger against her hot cheek. “I will do so immediately we have concluded our business. You’ve said you have a price. You need only name it and I will depart.”

Frowning, Vashti sought to make sense of these comments. Could this madman seek to purchase Marmaduke’s treasure? If so, he must know what the treasure consisted of. Vashti must humor him. “I cannot name a price yet. I haven’t decided what it will be!”

“So!” By this intimation that Mademoiselle Beaufils meant to auction off the memorandum, Yves was driven into a mighty rage. Once more he seized her shoulders, and this time shook her so roughly that she cried out. Her terrified expression, her struggle to escape him, affected Yves even more strongly. He bent and kissed her trembling lips, cursing himself for this consummate folly even as he committed it.

Folly it may have been, but it was extraordinarily sweet. When at length he released her, Vashti backed away from him, her fingers pressed to her bruised lips, her expression stunned. “How ably you play the innocent, Mademoiselle Beaufils!” Yves said, roughly, because he had been no less affected than she. “Almost, you convince even me. But I’m not a pigeon for your plucking, and I mean to have that memorandum, by fair means or foul. Think on that,
Vashti!” Angrily he strode out of the room and slammed the door.

“Memorandum?” whispered Vashti. The man
was
mad. She should be thankful she had escaped with her life, instead of secretly longing for him to kiss her again. Or maybe it was she who had taken leave of her senses! Dazed, Vashti sank down upon a chair.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Vashti was not the only one who would be confused by mention of missing memorandums this night, although Minette as yet had no inkling of this unhappy fact. With no hint of impending catastrophe to dampen her sunny mood, Minette gazed about the gaming rooms, a series of small parlors which had been set up expressly for the convenience of gentlemen wishing to drink hard and plunge deep. Not only gentlemen flocked to Mountjoy House this night. Several women were present, in addition to the cool young female Minette had hired to preside over the faro bank.

Wealthy gamblers plunged heavily at hazard and macao and, in a less noisy room, at whist. The evening promised to be a profitable one, despite the heavy expenses involved in bringing it about, expenses that Minette had defrayed without application to solicitor or family plate. Instead she had discreetly sold off a few of the more portable of the house’s furnishings, items that she doubted would ever be missed. For this sleight of hand, Minette’s conscience suffered not a twinge. Servants were more important than bibelots, she thought. Who could run a gaming hell without dealers and croupiers, a waiter to serve the wines, an ex-pugilist to soothe any gentleman grown peevish as result of his ill luck?

None of the gentlemen flocked around Minette were peevish, at any rate, which had more to do with that damsel herself than with the spin of the E.O. stand. Minette had done an excellent job this evening of complying with current fashion, the general aim of which was to seem as near-naked as possible, as result of which Paris this winter had been stricken with an epidemic of influenza known commonly as the “muslin disease.” The skirt of her classical gown boasted a flounce, the bodice a low neckline and high waist, and there was precious little in between. Her dark hair was frizzed lightly on front and sides, the remainder twisted round the back of her head in a double chignon and fastened with a comb. Minette looked positively delicious, and deserved every speck of the attention she received.

Gratifying as that attention was, Minette didn’t allow it to go to her head. Even as she watched the gyrations of the little E.O ball, Minette was aware of what went on around her. There were no Greeks at Mountjoy House, or Captain Sharps, or fuzzed cards. Even Marmaduke himself, despite his myriad sins, had never been accused of fleecing unfledged ensigns of the Guards or French émigrés.

Minette was particularly aware of Lord Stirling, who was one of the new faces to appear upon the reopening of the gaming rooms. A handsome face it was, if most often contorted into a grimace evocative of thunderstorm.

Minette could only conjecture as to what had brought Stirling to Mountjoy House. His purpose seemed more certain. From the determination and skill with which he played, she concluded he meant to break the faro bank.

As Minette pondered how to avert this disaster, she glimpsed a figure and countenance much more familiar than she liked. She gestured to a servant to take over the E.O. stand and, amid a disappointed male chorus, fled.

Flight availed her little, save that he accosted her in the hallway instead of in a crowded room. Minette winced as his hand fell upon her arm.
“La vache! Is
it necessary that you startle me half out of my wits, Edouard?”

He was a slender, pale man, effete in appearance, with hooded eyes and hair as dark as her own. “So I startled you,
petite?
A thousand pardons. I had the oddest notion that you sought to avoid me—foolish, was it not? Of course I was in error. You could not have cause to avoid the sole remaining member of your family, no?”

She wrinkled her mischievous little nose. “I don’t know what you are talking about. You’re hurting my arm, Edouard.”

Though he did not release her, the force of his grip eased. “You are in looks,
ma cocotte.
I confess it pleases me beyond measure to find you are still here. I was concerned as to what would become of you following the so-untimely demise of your benefactor.” His lips drew back into a humorless smile. “How tragic, had you been cast out. But as usual you contrive to feather your nest. What a very enterprising family ours is, to be sure.”

“Mais oui,”
Minette responded drily. “As evidenced by yourself. It was your enterprise from which Marmaduke rescued me, if you have forgot. Now that he is dead, you make free of his house.”

Still Edouard wore that strangely chilling smile. “Did you expect that your benefactor would arise from his grave to deny me his door? Ungrateful Minette! You wound me with your suspicions. I came only to assure myself that you are well.”

Minette didn’t argue, although she knew beyond question that no concern for her welfare had brought Edouard to Mountjoy House. Edouard’s concern was wholly for himself, his only use for others his own potential gain.

Through narrowed eyes, Minette viewed her kinsman, who was resplendent in coat and waistcoat and breeches of, respectively, black and white and sage green. His coat was smartly cut, with high collar and scarcely any skirts; his very high shirt collar was in the French style, rising above his neckcloth almost as high as his nose. On Edouard, the exaggerated fashion didn’t look ridiculous. What did he want of her this time? Minette would be wise to find out.

“Voyons!
If I am ungracious, I apologize,” she sighed. “I’ve been very busy, what with arranging for the reopening of the gaming rooms, but you won’t wish to hear of that. As for my surprise, I’m not accustomed to seeing you here— Marmaduke
did
forbid you the house.”

Edouard’s thumb idly stroked her wrist. “I am devastated to discover you would do likewise.”

“I would?” Minette strove to look innocent, no small feat for a young lady who had drawn every eye to her this evening simply by the depth of her
décolletage.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to me if you come here or not. It is for me to decide who has the
entrée
.”

“No? You’re not disinterested, I think.” With a strange expression, Edouard looked back into the room they had recently left. “Whatever else may be said of you, you are excellently well acquainted with the practical details of running a gaming hell,
petite.
It was you who was responsible for the smooth operation of the place when Mountjoy was alive—a pity you could not prevent him gaming away the proceeds elsewhere! You see how closely I have kept watch over you, even from a distance. We are bound together by bonds even your benefactor could not break.”

Reprehensible as had been the late Marmaduke, he had been a paragon of virtue in comparison to the man who now clutched her arm. Whatever the cost, Minette vowed that she would not again be caught up in Edouard’s evil schemes.

To tell him so outright would be to invite him to coercion, a pastime he liked overwell. Minette summoned forth a smile. “What would you, Edouard? We are family, after all. Me, I think you make too much of Marmaduke’s dislike. He thought you were no good influence on me, and that is why he refused you admission to the house.” Prudently she refrained from voicing Marmaduke’s additional suspicion that her kinsman was less than forthright in his dealings with the cards and dice.