The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (13 page)

Nigel stayed long enough to be sure no recognition sparked in Madame Briand’s coal black eyes as she addressed him before he excused himself and finally took his leave.

Nigel was sure he had seen “Madame Briand” before. Except that she had been a mademoiselle—and her name had not been Yvette. That name was false, just as, he suspected, was the name “Celestine Jenoit.”

AFTER KATHRYN LEFT her vantage point outside the library, she had wandered toward the small kitchen garden, where the fragrance of the rain-battered herbs rose to greet her. A church bell rang in the distance, and she had looked up in time to catch sight of Blackshire as he boarded his phaeton and departed.

She got a perverse satisfaction from the knowledge that the lilac lady’s charms had not had the power to hold Blackshire for long, though she recognized the notion for what it was, another stab of jealous asperity. She reached down and picked a sheaf of mint, crinkled it to bring out its fresh fragrance and inhaled deeply.

“Lud!” she muttered to herself. “If my wits can be scrambled just by a silly kiss or by a glimpse of a manly smile and a bit of sinew, perhaps Mama and Papa were right to keep me penned in the country.”

But she knew there was more to her sudden feeling than mere reaction to a virile, jaunty smile or a handsomely turned leg. After all, she’d seen John Bothwell naked once, though he’d been up to his waist in river water, and Robert Brice had the most beautiful smile, and both lads had stolen kisses from her once or twice as they were growing up.

A little voice asserted that neither of their kisses had affected her the way Blackshire’s had. But that was pure nonsense! His kiss was no different. It was just a short pressing of the lips and a closing of the eyes. It was nothing.

It was everything.

She closed her eyes. Neither of her country suitors had ever caused her to be so all about in the head. She hadn’t lain awake at night thinking of their kisses, only to go to sleep and dream it all again. Blackshire seemed possessed of an almost magical power over her.

“Perhaps he truly is a demon,” she grumbled and wandered toward a fluffy carpet of yellow sunshine, a patch of newly budded daffodils.

After she rambled outside for a few minutes, heavy sweet-smelling raindrops began to fall again, clattering upon the new green leaves and down upon her head. She jogged lightly to the front door and ducked inside. All was quiet. The students would be at their French lesson—which, unfortunately, was conducted in the library, for Lady Marchman had an extensive collection of French literature.

Good, Kathryn thought, moodily. She had no desire to pore over a mountain of dusty, musty old books today, anyway. She would much rather go outside and smell the rain-washed air and pretend she was back in Heathford. She’d just sneak back upstairs and borrow Jane’s umbrella.

Placing her bonnet and cloak upon her peg, she started for the stairs, but she paused when she heard voices emanating from a parlor. The voices were soft and difficult to ascertain, but the word “book” clearly sailed to Kathryn’s ears.

What book?

Could whoever it was be talking about the diary? Had it been discovered? She crept soundlessly to the closed door and put her ear to it

“La,” she heard Lady Marchman exclaim, “the thing was full of such daring exploits. Why, I do believe it was the naughtiest thing I’ve ever read.”

Kathryn’s mouth went dry, and her body shook with apprehension.

Lady Lilac’s voice trilled in laughter. “You weel not share it with the pupils, will you, Agnees?”

“Oh, heavens no!”

“Then eet is where they cannot find eet?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Someplace very safe?”

“Oh, yes. Quite safe. It is not out in the open.”

“Eees eet in your chamber?” the lady persisted.

“Yvette! Why do you plague me so? If you must know,” Lady Marchman began and tittered nervously, “I have misplaced the book. But do not worry for the innocence of any of my girls. It is so miserably well hidden that even I cannot find the thing.”

“Oh, my lay-dee! Do not say so! We must find it. Immediately.”

“My dear Yvette, I am certain it is just wedged under some of Mary’s belongings upstairs in our chamber. We recently had to begin sharing a room, don’t you know, and I would not be so careless as to lose something you had given me.
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
is not gone forever.”

Childe Harold
?! Kathryn nearly collapsed with relief. They were speaking of a book by Lord Byron and not one penned by Ophelia Palin!

Mopping at her perspiring brow, Kathryn retrieved Jane’s gray parasol. Back in the foyer, she had to put the cumbersome thing down in order to don her cloak again. But before she could slip out the front door, in stepped the dancing master.

Having been excused from the daily dancing lesson, as she had from all of the other classes, due to her Interesting Condition, Kathryn knew Monsieur Revelet only by the hilarious description given her by Jane that morning. He was a pinched man, short yet gangling, and not at all what one would expect from the typical suave dancing instructor. In a plain, olive green short coat and mustard-colored breeches, he was dressed unfashionably; Kathryn could see that even with her unpracticed eyes.

He was not even particularly graceful. But he was fashionably French—which is what must have persuaded Lady Agnes to hire him.

Kathryn thought of the lilac lady and her trilling accent. Evidently, Lady Agnes had a fascination for the French, as did most of the
ton
, and she cultivated their acquaintance.

Upon seeing Kathryn in the foyer, Monsieur Revelet, much to her surprise, fixed her with a look of distaste and waggled his finger. “Ees good your school geeves lessons in deportment, no? For I think zee young lady’s manners need—how do you say?—refinement.” Kathryn stared at him incredulously, and he continued. “Listening to others in secret ees very bad, I think.” With that, he walked with an air of calm superiority into the library, Kathryn staring after him.

How did he know she’d been eavesdropping?

As he passed into the salon, the lilac lady greeted him with a slight nod of recognition. And then, in a breathless, panicked tone, he cried, “Lady Marchman, Lady Marchman! I think there is a fire outside! Come into the library. Hurry!”

Kathryn’s eyes narrowed and she wrinkled her brow. Monsieur Revelet’s manner had changed from calm smugness to alert fright much too quickly! The high-pitched, startled-rabbit tone of voice he was using now did not match the manner of the man who had chided her for eavesdropping only seconds before.

Something was amiss.

Kathryn decided to investigate this fire for herself. Dashing outside, she looked for flames but saw none. Finally, she spotted a thin wisp of smoke curling up into the still, moist air just beyond the tall hedgerow bordering the lawn. It did not look very serious, and she was certain Monsieur should not be so agitated.

She darted under the rhododendrons and peered into the library as she had before. Lady Marchman and Monsieur Revelet were still standing together at the far window, and the lilac lady— Where was the lilac lady?

Craning her neck, Kathryn caught sight of the woman. Standing on one of the topmost rungs of the tall library ladder, her pink silk skirt waving in a most shocking manner, the lady slipped her slender fingers into the top of her silken bodice and plucked from her generous decolletage what appeared to be a small packet of papers. Quickly, she tucked the packet into a slim, brown leather-bound book on the highest shelf, grasped an impossibly low rung of the ladder, and swung down, accomplishing a maneuver that would have made a monkey at the menagerie envious. Smoothing her skirt, she then pasted a concerned look on her face and addressed the two at the window, who turned around. Kathryn cursed the drizzle and the closed windows, for she couldn’t hear what was said, but it wouldn’t have mattered if the day were fine and the windows open. Her heart was beating so hard, she would have had difficulty hearing herself speak.

Had she just seen what she thought she had? Had Monsieur Revelet actually created a diversion so that the lilac lady could hide her papers in the library unobserved?

There was one way to find out.

Kathryn quit the rhododendron bush and struck out for the hedgerow toward the smoke she saw. She hurried down the length of the gnarly old yew hedge, her booted heels crunching the wet gravel of the drive. At the end, she discovered a sleeping nag hitched to an unattended gig pulled to the side of the drive, a gig that must belong to the dancing master, she was certain, for there lay some soggy sheet music on the wooden seat.

On the other side of the hedge, a small pile of dry, green branches had been set afire. Upon closer examination, Kathryn found a block of paraffin at the base of the pile, which in this damp weather had been needed to ensure the fire would continue long enough for Lady Marchman to see the plume of smoke. For Kathryn held no doubt that
that
was exactly what had occurred. Someone had deliberately set the fire, and Kathryn was fairly certain she knew who had done it. She strode purposely back around the hedge to search for some evidence in the shabby, two-wheeled cart she’d passed.

It wasn’t difficult to spot.

Kathryn spoke soothingly to the horse, who had awakened and was rolling her eyes nervously, sniffing the smoke in the air. Quickly, Kathryn examined the gig, discovering why the man had left the laboriously copied sheet music out in this weather. Lifting it aside, she discovered beneath the sodden music a block of paraffin and a jackknife.

She also found a red felt hat. Red felt, such as she might have assumed would be worn by a gardener! He’d been spying on the people in the library. Kathryn was outraged. Her first impulse was to inform Lady Marchman of what she’d seen without delay.

But she couldn’t.

After all, he’d seen her spying, too. Were she to inform Lady Marchman of her discoveries, then Monsieur Revelet would not only deny her story, but he would probably tell Lady Marchman he’d caught Kathryn spying.

Which, of course, was the truth.

Either way, Lady Marchman might never trust her enough to leave her alone again, and then Kathryn would never find Great-aunt Ophelia’s diary.

It began raining in earnest, and, since the library was occupied, Kathryn huffed in frustration and retreated to her bedchamber. She was very tired. She had not had a whole night’s sleep since before she’d left Heathford. Perhaps she would just close her eyes and take a nap. Climbing wearily into the bed, she stared at the gray plaster ceiling.

Suddenly, Blackshire’s admonition to Jane to be observant and to be careful of what she said aloud echoed in her mind. And now people were spying and starting fake fires and hiding papers?

What did it all mean?

It would have been much less surprising if she’d seen the lilac lady steal an object from the room, perhaps one of Lady Marchman’s valuable first editions or a small, silver picture frame. But to go to such lengths to hide a sheaf of papers? Who was she hiding them from? It certainly wasn’t the dancing master. He was the one who had created the diversion that had allowed the woman to place the papers on the shelf in the first place. He had to have known what she was doing. But that still didn’t answer why she had done it. Kathryn knitted her brows together and twisted the edge of the bed sheet. Perhaps the cache of papers was meant for him.

Perhaps it was a love letter.

Lady Marchman, high-stickler that she was, would never leave her two French acquaintances alone. They would have no opportunity to speak privately or to pass their love note unobserved. Yes, Kathryn reasoned, that explained everything to a nicety.

Everything but Blackshire’s remarks to Jane. Hadn’t he told her to be observant? To report to him any unusual activity?

And then there was that enigmatic look of recognition that had passed from the lilac lady to Monsieur Revelet. It was not one of love, or even of the sort of anger born of a lovers’ quarrel. It was . . . passionless, which didn’t make any sense at all and blew Kathryn’s theory to shreds. But if the papers were not a love letter, what were they?

And what was their connection to Blackshire and Jane?

And one more little detail nagged at her. The book the papers were hidden in was a slim, brown leather volume. Could it be Auntie’s diary?

The gray afternoon light seemed more like twilight, and Kathryn, accustomed to country hours, grew drowsy. She yawned, hoping she would be able to hold a lighted candle and climb the narrow library ladder at the same time without tumbling down. Owing to the school schedule, she doubted Monsieur would have an opportunity to retrieve the book this afternoon or evening.

But Kathryn would.

Before long, she yawned again and drifted off into a deep sleep.

NIGEL DROVE FROM Baroness Marchman’s School for Young Ladies to his town house in Berkeley Square and, waving off the assistance of his butler, shrugged out of his blue coat on his way to the library. He had some thinking to do. He helped himself to some brandy and sat down in one of his brown leather chairs before the fire. Before those last few moments in Lady Marchman’s parlor, he had been able to cling to the belief that Lady Marchman was completely innocent, that this whole investigation was based on some horrible misunderstanding.

But the appearance of “Madame Briand” had shattered those comforting thoughts. On his fingers, Nigel ticked off what he knew about her so far: Briand was French; she was masquerading under an assumed identity; and she apparently paid regular and frequent visits to Lady Marchman.

Nigel abandoned his hope that Lady Marchman was not entangled in some evil business. He rubbed his eyes, remembering how, when he’d taken her aside to inform her of Miss Davidson’s fainting spells, the old woman’s lined face had filled with concern. At how she had confided to him that the girl was in some trouble or other and might need a friend in high places—meaning Nigel, of course. He remembered the conflict he’d seen in her eyes when she’d obviously wanted to tell him something more about Kitty, but felt she could not, for some reason. And he recalled how her eyes sparkled at a jest he had made, how she had dimpled like a young girl when he bowed over her hand upon taking his leave.

And how very much he wished he were not the one who would be responsible for sending her to the gallows.

Nigel had captured all manner of people during his years in service to his country. But always, he’d known his quarry was sinister. He could feel it in his bones. This time, however, he couldn’t feel it. He felt only the warmth of Lady Marchman’s glowingly girlish smile. The touch of her papery hand lingered in his heart. It was not the icy grasp of a villain.

He swore. He was getting soft. Perhaps it was time to tell Sir Winston it was over. He could give some excuse or other—time to marry and get a son. It was half true. It was time to get married and—was he going mad? He was only nine-and-twenty. The Earl of Reeve had waited to wed until he was nearly forty and still had found a sweet, biddable, and intelligent young wife. Nigel knew he had time to wait.