Ramage's Devil (4 page)

Those buttons! Being constantly in the company of a woman with a beautiful body (with a body, he told himself proudly, which delighted a French dressmaker who took pride in cutting and stitching her material to emphasize or take advantage of every nuance of breast and thigh), buttons took on a new meaning for him. Previously they were devices for holding together pieces of cloth; now they could be a gateway to ecstasies.

Slowly she undid the buttons of her dress, starting at the bottom so that finally with a quick shrug of her arms the whole dress slid to the floor, and as he started up from the armchair she said: “No, dearest: poor Gilbert has spent the whole afternoon boiling this water—let's use it while it is hot.” More buttons, more shrugs, and she stood naked, pleased at his obvious pleasure in watching her. Yes, her breasts were firm; yes, her hips were generous without being plump. Yes, her buttocks had that pleasing fullness: so many Frenchwomen, she noticed, had the flatness of young boys.

She turned slowly, and then picked up the towel. “You bring the soap,” she said, and he stood up and began to undress, thankful that while in France he found it easier to forget breeches, which the French seemed to associate entirely with the aristocracy, and wore the trousers which the
sans-culottes
had adopted as a garment and a slogan.

By the time they had bathed and dressed, Sarah wearing a pale yellow dress which was low cut in the latest fashion, Ramage was sure he would doze off at the dinner table. However, in the high-ceilinged dining-room, sparsely furnished with a table and five chairs, they found Jean-Jacques in high spirits. He had, he told them, just been able to trace some more of the furniture left behind and stolen by looters when he fled the Revolution.

Stocky, with crinkly black hair, a nose so hooked that in some lights he looked like a contented puffin, and dressed as though Louis XVI was still on the throne, instead of long ago executed by a revolutionary mob, Jean-Jacques wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Landerneau, out on the Paris road, that's where I found them,” he said. “A dining table, twelve chairs, the sideboard and wine-cooler.”

“Who had them?”

“The mayor. He was using the table and four chairs; the rest were stored in his stable. Luckily his wife was proud of the table and kept it well polished.”

“What happens now?” Sarah asked.

“Tomorrow I am sending my bailiff and a couple of carts to collect everything. With plenty of straw to protect the wood.”

“The mayor doesn't claim they're his?” Ramage asked.

“Oh yes, although of course he doesn't deny they were once mine. He claims the Revolution put an end to all private property.”

“You had an answer ready for that!” Ramage could imagine the conversation.

“Oh yes. He had half a dozen silver tankards on the sideboard with someone's crest on them, so I said in that case I'd take three since he had no claim to them. His wife nearly had hysterics!”

“But you haven't made a friend—a mayor can be a dangerous enemy,” Sarah said.

“The Count of Rennes has few friends in Brittany after the Revolution,” Jean-Jacques said grimly. “My real enemy is Bonaparte, so I need hardly care about the mayor of little more than a hamlet. And since Héloïse—well, stayed behind—when I went to England I have no sons to inherit the title or this château. Rennes,” he said quietly, as though talking to himself while he stared back through the centuries, “the ancient capital of Brittany. Two hundred years ago we were one of the half dozen most powerful families in the country. Now the last survivor is reduced to retrieving sticks of his furniture from the local thieves. Where are all my paintings, my silver, my gorgeous carpets, the Gobelins tapestry which ran the length of that wall?”—he gestured to one side of the long dining-room—”the Venetian glassware which has been handed down from father to son for generations? Being used by oafs.

“I don't begrudge oafs their possessions, but they are just as content swilling rough wine from pottery mugs. They get no pleasure from looking at and using a Venetian goblet; indeed, it just means they get short measure. To them, a Gobelins is a piece of cloth that keeps out a draught, or makes a good tarpaulin to prevent hay blowing off a rick. I could accept the local people stripping this château when the Revolution began if I thought they'd
appreciate
the treasures they stole. But …”

Ramage wanted to change the subject to cheer up the Count, whose grandfather had begun the family friendship with the Blazeys, but there was a difficult question to ask, and now was obviously the time to get the answer.

“Héloïse—have you seen her?”

“The Countess of Rennes, in the eyes of my church still my wife, though no doubt divorced by some new law of the Revolution? No, I last saw her here nearly ten years ago, when she refused to escape with me.”

Sarah knew only that the Count had spent his exile in England alone while his wife stayed in France, and could not resist asking: “Why did the Countess stay?” A moment later she could have bitten her tongue.

The skin of Jean-Jacques' face suddenly seemed too tight for the bone structure, but he struggled to present an unconcerned smile. “She agreed with the aims of the Revolution, or at least she said she did. She was very young then. It goes back a long time: she hated her father, who was of course one of the King's favourites, and she imagined the King once snubbed her at Versailles. Hardly the stuff of revolution, one might think, but she brooded so that when the mob from Brest and Nantes and Angers came yelling through the gate, crying death to the King (and the Count of Rennes) she met them in old clothes and invited them in and served them my best wine. Meanwhile I escaped with my valet and my life. She was very beautiful. Still is, I expect. She is the mistress of one of Bonaparte's generals, I believe: a former corporal, who is not too proud to bed a citizeness who has an old title in her own right and another by marriage.”

He signalled to one of the servants, indicating that the glasses were empty. “The candles are getting low, too,” he said, and apologized to his guests. “Before long we'll be reduced to using rush dips.”

Sarah said: “You know, all that riding has made me so tired … Perhaps Nicholas will give you your game of backgammon.”

The Count stood at once, apologetic. “Of course, both of you must be worn out: how thoughtless of me to keep you up talking of sad yesterdays. Yesteryears, rather. But tomorrow perhaps we shall dine at a more suitable table—I must be the first Count of Rennes to entertain in his own dining-room with his guests seated round a scrubbed kitchen table.”

Ramage laughed and turned to Sarah. “In Jean-Jacques' defence, I should explain that the house he bought in England was furnished with the finest English furniture he could find!”

“Ah, the house in Ruckinge. You know Kent, my dear? Not Ruckinge? I was fortunate enough to be able to carry jewellery with me when I left here for England and by selling some I could buy a house in Kent. Although I love that house, my heart is really here, even though the château is almost empty. I spent my childhood here. My father's father's father—so many forebears—grew up here and died of old age. The vaults in the chapel are nearly full. There'll be just enough room for me. Perhaps the original builder saw into the future and knew how many of us he would need to accommodate!”

“You seem to be full of gloomy thoughts tonight,” Ramage said as he helped Sarah from her chair.

“Yes, and as your host I am appalled that I have to put you in a suite over in the east wing furnished only with a bed, two chairs, commode and a single armoire. And no curtains at the windows.”

“You should see the great cabin of a frigate,” Ramage said dryly.

The Count led them to the door and once out of earshot of the two servants said: “I met an old friend today. He lives at La Rochelle but travelled to Rennes by way of L'Orient to arrange some business. He was an officer in the old Navy and like me escaped to England. He says that five ships of the line and six frigates are being prepared at La Rochelle, and seven and eleven of each in L'Orient. How does that compare with Brest?”

“Eleven and sixteen,” Ramage said grimly. “So 23 ships of the line and 33 frigates are being commissioned along the Atlantic coast. I wonder what's going on at Toulon?”

“I must admit that's a large fleet for peacetime,” Jean-Jacques said, and then added, as if to reassure himself that there was a future: “But I am sure Bonaparte wants peace now. At least, he wants to—how do you say, to ‘consolidate.' You've seen how he has sent most of his soldiers home to reap the harvest. There are many hundreds of miles of roads still to be repaired—thousands in fact. Today France is a whole country where reaping, ploughing and sowing will take every available man this year if the people are not to starve. Already he is gambling on a good harvest—a bad one would topple him. People will go short in time of war, but with peace they want full bellies.”

Ramage shook his head. “Ten bad harvests won't topple a man who controls the biggest army and the most powerful police force the world has ever seen.”

“Still,” the Count persisted, hope overcoming reason, “Bonaparte has concluded a peace with the Russians, and Britain is isolated. The world is at peace. I have no need to remind you that by the Peace of Amiens England has surrendered most of her colonial conquests—and in return Bonaparte has given up the deserts of Egypt. He has all he wants. You don't suppose he needs Spain, Portugal, the Low Countries, Scandinavia … ?”

“I do, but I'm probably in a minority,” Ramage said. “Bonaparte has kept control of the Italian states and Switzerland.”

“But he knows he can't beat the British at sea. Think of the Battle of Aboukir Bay—what a disaster for France! He is a soldier; he has created a great army. But he can't use it to attack England because the Channel is in the way. He realizes this. And that is why he sends his soldiers home.”

“But why does he prepare his navy—the navy you say he knows cannot defeat the Royal Navy?”

Jean-Jacques held out his hands, palms uppermost. “Perhaps to make sure they are in good condition before he stores them away—or whatever you sailors call it.”

“Perhaps,” Sarah said, taking Ramage's arm. “You must excuse the bride for dragging her groom off to bed, but she is going to sleep standing on her feet!”

S
HE WAS LYING on her side with her back to him, and for a moment he marvelled that the female body had been so shaped that in this position it fitted the male so perfectly. But sleeping alone in a swinging cot at sea—for him that would from now on be an almost unbearable loneliness. Quite why horses should now be galloping with harness jingling he did not know, and he opened his eyes to find the first hint of dawn had turned the room a faint grey.

Horses? Harness? Now, as he shook the sleep cobwebbing his head, he heard shouted commands coming from the centre of the château; from the wide steps leading up to the front door.

He slid out of bed and walked to the window, cursing the coldness of the marble floor but too impatient to find slippers.

A dozen men on horseback, blurred figures in the first light. Perhaps more. Now he could just distinguish that they were dismounting. Some were hurrying up the steps, sword scabbards clinking on the stone, while a single man held all the reins.

One man was making violent gestures at the great double door—presumably pounding on it with his fist. Then he heard more horses and another five or six men cantered past the window towards the others. Soldiers. Even in the faint light it was possible to distinguish them—and only cavalry would have so many horses.

She was standing behind him now; he could feel her breasts pressing into his shoulder blades. “What is it?” she whispered. “It's so cold. Why aren't you wearing a robe? You'll get a chill.”

“French cavalry,” he said briefly. “Quickly, dress in riding clothes. Don't try and light a lamp.”

He hurried across the room and pushed their two trunks so that, from the door, they were hidden by the armoire and commode. He then bundled up the clothes they had been wearing the previous evening and which they had been too tired to do more than drape over the chairs, and pushed them under the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Hurry, darling. Something's happened and these soldiers aren't here on a search for army deserters. They look more like an escort for Jean-Jacques or me. The second group was leading a riderless horse.”

“You don't think … ?”

“The mayor of Landerneau may be trying to keep his furniture by telling the
préfet
some tale. Don't forget Jean-Jacques is very vulnerable—he's only recently returned from exile.”

She shivered as she sorted out underwear. “And he has the notorious Captain Lord Ramage staying in his house.”

“That can't be a crime,” Ramage said as he pulled up his trousers, but his voice was doubtful, so that what was intended as a statement sounded like a question. “Anyway, whatever they're up to I can't think the soldiers know anything about us. One spare horse … that's for Jean-Jacques.”

“The officer in charge can easily leave two of his troopers behind, or have two of Jean-Jacques' horses saddled up for us. Or make us walk.”

“Let's rely on them not knowing we're here!”

“The servants,” Sarah said, ignoring her husband's attempts to reassure her, “can they be trusted? Will they tell the soldiers we are here?”

“If you hurry up, we won't be here, darling,” Ramage said, reaching for his jacket. “We'll be hiding in another room, so if the French soldiers search our suite they won't find us.”

“Dearest,” she whispered, “do up my buttons.” She turned her back to him so that he could secure her coat. By now, he noticed, it was getting appreciably lighter. He had been thinking that the first cavalry had passed only a couple of minutes ago, but he realized it was now nearer five.