Mademoiselle At Arms (5 page)

Gerald was staring at her, an arrested expression on his face.
‘Now I see why you’re marrying this woman, Hilary. You can give up thinking and
leave all the brain work to her.’

‘She’s as clothheaded as you,’ Roding retorted, but he
slipped an arm about the lady’s waist and gave her a quick squeeze.

‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too
involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. ‘It is all too probable that
she would wish to change into lay clothing to escape recognition.’

‘Yes, a pretty theory, Lucy,’ Gerald said evenly, ‘but for
one thing. She told us that it was a disguise.’

‘She told you!’

‘And,’ pursued Gerald, ignoring his friend’s scornful
interjection, ‘that it was not always convenient to be dressed as a young girl.’

‘And you believe her?’ asked Lucilla, raising her brows.

‘I believe that. Though there is something to be said for
your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place.’ He frowned again. ‘Which
presupposes that she needs to hide at all. And if she is not a nun, nor a
refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is.’

‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated. ‘Obsessed,
that’s what you are.’

Gerald grinned. ‘Yes, but I’m probably chasing moonbeams. The
likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again.’

It must have been fate, Gerald decided, near an hour later,
staring intently at the closed French windows on the raised alcove that led out
to the terrace. Or else he was indeed obsessed. But there was a face pressed to
the glass. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about
it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun?

Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not
from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had
partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it.

Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace.
Yes, there was someone there. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept
forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. But the figure
was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to
what might be occurring outside.

It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub
the sleeve against the glass. Lord, but it was a nun! Just as he had suspected.
He smothered a laugh. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be
she. How many nuns were there in England who might have occasion to spy on Lady
Bicknacre’s ballroom? The presence of the French refugees took on greater
significance.

Gerald began to ease forward, deciding just how he would
accost her. Then he paused. She was shifting, moving back. Turning now, and
running down the terrace.

The noise of a bolt came to Alderley’s ears. Someone was
coming out of the house. Either she had been seen, or they were seeking the air.
Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot.

The thought passed through his mind even as he started to
cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. He leapt down into the
haha surrounding the terrace, and saw that the nun was there also and backing
towards him, anxiously checking now and then above the level of the terrace. Voices
floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit.

Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. There was
no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. Whatever he did, she
was bound to scream. He would have to make sure of her silence.

As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from
behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand
seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat.

But he reckoned without his host. His only warning was a
gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. Then the dagger’s
point came in a whirling arc towards his face.

By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s
mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist. He forced her arm back, away,
stretching it out to keep the weapon at bay.

‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. ‘Let it
fall!’

‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had
guessed aright. ‘
Moi, je vais
vous tuer
!’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth. ‘You’re
not going to kill me this time. Let—it—fall.’

The command was accompanied by an increase of pressure on the
wrist he held. She gasped with pain, but she did not release her grip.

‘
Laisse-moi,
’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold,
so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned.

‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in
frustration. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more. Listen, it is I. The
imbecile
.
Remember?’

‘
Parbleu
,’ came from his still struggling victim. ‘You
will release me at once,
imbecile
.’

‘Not until you release that dagger. Now drop it.’

A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the
soft flesh of her wrist. Her fingers opened and the weapon fell from her
nerveless grasp.

‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go.

In an instant, she turned on him. The struggle had dislodged the
white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke
free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists,
coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack.

‘
Espèce de bête
,’ she snarled. ‘
Idiot
!’

‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered,
seizing her wrists to hold her off. But his own ferocity was less now that she
was disarmed.

‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. ‘Is it soft, the way
you seize me from behind?
Parbleu
, my heart it is flown from my chest! Boom,
boom, it goes, even now.
Imbecile
.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone.
‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known. And I guessed
you would attack if I startled you.’

‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted,
but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice.

He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists. She grasped at
the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised
her.

‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the
darkness. ‘It is in truth you?’

‘Of course it is I.’

‘Where then is your uniform?’

‘I don’t wear it to balls.’

‘
Eh bien
, it is your fault entirely in this case. Easily
I could have killed you. Just as I might have killed another, if he had come
out.’

‘Ah, so you did come here to find someone,’ Gerald responded
eagerly. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’

The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at
him in the darkness. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly
suspected.

‘I do not understand you.’

‘I think you understand me very well.’

He could just see the glare.

‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’

‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly. His gaze dropped to
the black garment that covered her. ‘For instance, why have you reverted to
your nun’s habit for this particular adventure?’

‘That is easy. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than
for the
jeune demoiselle
.’

Gerald eyed her. His vision was becoming accustomed to the
faint light now and her features were clearer. She was trying to adjust the
wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. The white veil had
fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her.

‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a
religieuse
?’
he asked as she fitted the veil over her head.

‘From the convent, where else?’

‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a
convent.’

‘
Ah, non
?’ Her voice was neutral. ‘And why not?’

‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred
jeune
demoiselles
do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. You
did not learn that in a convent.’

A giggle answered him. ‘Not from the nuns, no. But there are
ways to learn more than a nun would teach.’

Fresh suspicion kindled in his breast. ‘Oh, are there? You
are not quite alone in these adventures of yours, I take it.’ He thought a wary
look came into her face, but it was difficult to be sure. ‘Come, I am concerned
merely for your safety, you know. I am not prying for my own amusement.’

‘Then leave me to guard myself, and do not ask me questions
any more,’ she snapped, and crouched down suddenly, searching about for her
dagger.

‘No, you don’t.’

Gerald dropped down to join her just as her hand came up,
clutching the handle. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her
fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy.
As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek.

‘
Bête
!’

Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver
another blow. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back,
her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again.

‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you
ever came to England.’

‘And me,’ came the guttural response, ‘I will certainly murder
you the very next time I am compelled to see your face.’

Sheer exasperation made Gerald release her as he broke into
reluctant laughter. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his
hands. ‘Come, cry a truce.’

There was a pause. Then the lady smiled and her radiance,
even in the darkness, warmed Gerald unexpectedly.

‘I said you were
sympathique
,’ she told him.

‘As a matter of fact, I’m not at all
sympathique
. I’m
a soldier, you see.’ He bowed. ‘Major Gerald Alderley, mademoiselle, quite at
your service.’

‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g”
and not quite managing the “l”. ‘That is a very English name.’

‘I am a very English man,’ Gerald said.

‘And you mean this? Truly?’

‘Entirely.’

‘
Idiot
. I do not ask if you are entirely English, but
if you say truly when you say you are at my service.’

‘Oh, that,’ Gerald said cautiously. ‘Well, that depends.’ He
sat on the low wall of the haha and invited her to do the same. ‘You see, it’s
difficult to do a service for someone when you don’t know who they are, or what
they’re up to. Tell me. Who were you looking for tonight? One of the
émigrés
?
There were several in there.’

‘Assuredly there are many escaping from France at this time.’

Was there a careful note in her voice? Gerald gave no sign,
keeping his own tone light.

‘Like you?’

‘But I am not French. I have told you. I am—’

‘Like me, entirely English. Yes, I think we have thoroughly
thrashed that one out.’

‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Who, the
émigrés
?’

‘Do I speak of the English,
imbecile
? Certainly the
émigrés
.’

Gerald tutted. ‘Don’t lose your temper again. Let me see now.’
He scratched his chin as if he thought about it, but covertly kept a careful
study of what he could see of her face. ‘There were the Comte and Comtesse de
St Erme. A Madame Valade and her husband. And two other ladies. I forget. Ah,
Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me.’

She had given nothing away. Now what? There was an interest,
or why ask him who they were. He added, ‘Also others, but I don’t recall them.’

‘
Eh bien
.’ She shrugged. ‘Me also I do not recall
them.’

‘Indeed?’ said Gerald, surprised. ‘None of them means
anything to you at all? How odd. I was ready to wager that your name would have
marched with one of them.’

‘
Comment
?’ she demanded with some heat. ‘You think I
am like that Valade? No, a thousand times.’

At last. But Gerald kept to a casual note. ‘Did I say so? When
last heard from you were claiming some good English name. Brown or Jones, I
dare say.’

A laugh escaped her. ‘Certainly those are names of the most
undistinguished, and I would scorn to have them.’

‘What name would you like, then?’

Her shadowed features turned in his direction. ‘I am not a
fool. You wish another name?
Eh bien.
Lee-o-no-ra.’