The Reluctant Bride (22 page)

Through its own stupidity the moth had incinerated itself. Bleakly Emily watched its death throes on the wooden surface in front of her. ‘What good will that do?' she asked dully.

‘We need to know who constitutes the threat before we act. Our hopes are that Mademoiselle Delon will communicate with Madame Fontenay before she is to consort with one of Napoleon's trusted generals. We understand information will be exchanged. We have agents on hand to apprehend her when the time comes, though if we are able to apprehend Madame Fontenay then all our troubles would be over.'

‘I thought you'd already done that.'

The major looked uncomfortable. ‘Madame Fontenay escaped from custody. Fortunately she does not know her idiot husband was apprehended shortly after her flight and that not only does he know a great deal more about her clandestine activities than she thinks he does, he was decidedly forthcoming. He has furnished us with a great deal of information regarding the masquerade at the Chateau Pliny as well as background as to how Captain Noble – and, of course, you, by the double association – came to be implicated in the operation.'

Wearily Emily asked, ‘What operation and how was I implicated? I would love to know.'

‘Don't be droll, Mrs McCartney.'

‘My sister, then. How did Jack meet Mademoiselle Delon?'

Major Woodhouse sighed. ‘Perhaps you have been spared certain details, Mrs McCartney, relating to Captain Noble. A fond mother might choose to soften the truth when a ruthless operation like this is complicated by affairs of the heart.'

Clearly, Major Woodhouse had no compunction in laying that painful truth bare. He went on. ‘Captain Noble was sent by the British Government to France to lodge with Monsieur Delon, who has been a long-time ally of Britain. Because Mademoiselle Delon had already been recruited to her mother's cause it was inevitable Mademoiselle Delon would be instructed to use her … natural attributes to … persuade Noble to sympathise with her aims.'

The familiar rage at mention of Madeleine's name rose up in Emily's gullet but the major took the wind out of her sails with his amused response. ‘My dear Mrs McCartney, I don't know why you appear so outraged.
You
were the one to have married him. Mademoiselle Delon and Jack Noble were keen to marry, but your mother had already arranged a match for her with the most important man in the English/French alliance. Count Levinne.'

‘So what if this is true. I don't know any of these people. Except Jack.' Emily tossed the letters onto the escritoire and rose. ‘What do these letters tell you, Major Woodhouse? Nothing! You've read into them everything you believe, or perhaps what a fanciful Frenchman, or one who will say anything under duress, would have you believe. I think your intelligence gathering leaves something to be desired for I was not born in France, as you have suggested on more than one occasion.

Calmly Major Woodhouse recounted, ‘There is no record of your birth in this country, Mrs McCartney. Furthermore your father's long-term employee Lucy Gilroy asserts that you came to Micklen Hall as a small child directly from the revolution in France with your parents.'

She hid her shock. ‘It does not mean Madame Fontenay is my mother.'

The major frowned at her. ‘It does not,' he conceded, slowly. ‘However we
will
find the link, Mrs McCartney. Now, in the interests of your husband's safety, would you please allow me access to his library, a request, I might add, for which I have his authority.' He smiled a thin, cold smile. ‘That is, unless you have something you wish to tell me.'

Her bravado was fast diminishing. She paused halfway across the carpet. ‘How do I know you have Angus's authority? You say he does not even know I am being interrogated. If he did I know he would be here defending me.' Yet doubt assailed her even as she made the assertion. She thought back to the night she'd appeared in his bedchamber. Only three nights ago they'd lost themselves in a surfeit of lust, and she'd exulted in the abandonment. Her husband's subsequent cooling had been properly explained and last night they'd shared a more gentle love, and confidences, though they were not as easy with one another as she'd have wished.

Was there another reason for the emotional withdrawal she sensed in Angus? Had Woodhouse spoken to him of his doubts about Emily and a possible collusion with Jack with regard to this operation? Did Angus believe Emily a traitor?

She turned quickly so the major did not see her fear. He'd misinterpret it, of course.

‘You'll just have to take my word for it, Mrs McCartney.' He led the way to Angus's study, pulling out a chair so she could sit before opening the drawer of the bureau. ‘If there is nothing to hide there is nothing to fear. I wouldn't put it past you to use your husband's desk as a convenient hiding place for your own correspondence when he is away.'

‘I want Angus's authority in writing. This is preposterous. Have him sent for immediately. He will defend me.'

‘You protest too vehemently, Mrs McCartney. The evidence is stacked against you. Your mother established links with England through Captain Noble when he was recruited to the enemy side through your sister. You were affianced to Captain Noble before disgrace forced you to wed the honourable Major McCartney whom you made no secret of despising. His usefulness soon became apparent when, fortuitously, he was recruited to take Captain Noble's place in this operation.'

The major shook his head as if he thought her disingenuous. ‘Do you really think you can make me believe you are ignorant of the whole operation?'

Emily did not reply. Dully, she stared at the remains of Jack's letters, charred and disintegrating, like her hopes and dreams. The major had come to her for evidence to support his outrageous claims, but what did he expect to find? An incriminating letter in her handwriting? A record of payment for disseminating false information?

‘What's this?' Major Woodhouse had picked up the Book of Children's Verse and opened it at the front page where she'd written her greeting to Madeleine.

Sickened by the sight, Emily replied, ‘A gift Angus was to take to Mademoiselle Delon. Jack used to take parcels from me to'—bitterness welled up in her—‘the child I thought Madeleine to be. Angus refused … and then told me the truth.'

‘Of course,' Major Woodhouse said in a tone which suggested he didn't believe her for one moment. ‘Your husband is known for his honesty and plain speaking.' He started flipping through the pages, adding conversationally, ‘Jack Noble had no such virtues. I'm sorry you find this intrusive, Mrs McCartney, but I am confident I will find
something
— What is this?'

Emily looked over his shoulder. Her stomach clenched.

From between the pages he withdrew a sheet of vellum.

‘I don't know—'

The major began to read, carefully and in a tone of disbelief as he angled himself towards Emily, ‘
M – Your information was most useful. Six months on we have another conduit. Major MC. Continue to be good to him. You know what to do. Once he has delivered the information supplied to him he is no longer needed. Your father will be protected. Rest assured I have destroyed your letter. Tell F she can anticipate funds shortly.'

It made no difference that Emily looked helplessly at him. That the letter was unsigned. Her innocence was clearly interpreted as play-acting.

Slipping the book into the leather pouch he carried, the major's look conveyed his satisfaction.

Emily heard the panic in her voice. ‘Angus is in danger and … I don't know where that letter came from—'

‘Really?' He smiled. ‘Tell that to the court.'

She rose from her chair and took a step towards the door. The room felt hot and close. Her love for Jack had been a lie and now this—

‘Where do you think you're going, Mrs McCartney?' The major's hand upon her shoulder was heavy and shocking for its lack of deference. ‘If you're so keen to convince me of your innocence, let us see what
exonerating
material I might find.'

Pushing her back into her seat, he turned again towards the large desk where Angus kept his papers in drawers and cubby holes.

‘Please feel free to speak. You're more likely to escape the hangman's noose if you're prepared to shed light on those we're investigating.'

She didn't answer, her mind whirling with possibilities. Angus? Could he have planted a letter implicating her in these activities? Jack had betrayed her when she had believed the sun shone out of him; when she'd have given her life for him. But Angus? He was the antithesis of Jack, yet her judgement had already cost her dearly.

If not Angus, then one of the servants? She tried to breathe evenly, watching Major Woodhouse continue his careful search. Had
he
planted the evidence to entrap her?

The major's voice cut through the mists of desperation.

‘Perhaps you'd care to tell me who
this
woman is.'

He'd tossed upon the desk a number of sketches Angus had drawn and Emily felt the pull of her heartstrings as she recognised the hastily but beautifully executed charcoal likeness of herself. She remembered with a mixture of pain and remorse her wedding night when she had cried herself to sleep clutching Jack's letters.

Angus had drawn her as the picture of serenity, long dark lashes curled upon her cheek, almost childlike in repose.

It was not painted by a man who saw vice and corruption but was tenderly, beautifully drawn … by a man who saw his wife's devastation at her lot evidenced by the ribbon which protruded from beneath the pillow concealing a dead lover's letters, the red ribbon a symbol of the knife wound to her new husband's heart.

And now Emily's.

She brushed away her tears. Weakness. Her father abhorred weakness. She realised with shame how weak she'd been during the past months and rallied her attention. The major had not been referring to this tenderly rendered likeness of herself.

One impatient finger stabbed at a small oil painting. It was a woman, familiar but difficult to see clearly in the gloom. He moved the painting closer to the light of the oil lamp and the shock she'd felt at the discovery of the illicit letter was nothing compared to the fear she felt now.

Leaning over the desk she studied the artist's rendition, so familiar but so out of place in her husband's study. It was not a recently painted picture. The clothes were not of the fashions of the last five years.

The woman, dark-haired and golden-skinned, wore a jaunty smile. The familiarity of expression and her luxuriant beauty made Emily gasp.

Emily knew exactly who this woman was, for she had seen this very picture, or at least one almost like it, on the wall of her mother's dressing room.

She glanced up to see the major staring at her with hard eyes. ‘You know, don't you?' He made it a statement. ‘Fanchette Fontenay,' he intoned. ‘Your mother. Perhaps there's something on the back,' he suggested and when he turned it over Emily's shock was compounded, though it went some way to explaining how it came to be in her husband's possession.

‘To Jessamine,' he read, ‘from Mama. 1808.'

Locked in her sitting room, Emily's nightmare worsened as the evening wore on. She could hear sounds that indicated the major was moving furniture, no doubt searching through everything in Angus's study, and her stomach knotted with fear.

She had been branded a traitor on the basis of an incriminating letter supposedly from herself to Madeleine.

The major claimed Fanchette was her mother but Emily knew she was her aunt. He claimed Emily had been born in France but she'd never been out of England. He claimed Madeleine was her sister. There was not a shred of evidence to bear out such a claim.

Now, apparently, she had two sisters. ‘Your mother fostered out two of you. Why not three?' he'd replied to Emily's arch question.

Major Woodhouse continued searching the house for more evidence to shore up his belief she was a traitor. She'd become a creature beneath contempt long before the discovery of the letter in the Book of Children's Verse.

If only she knew who had written the letter. She had to find out.

Angus would not, could not, have done such a thing. No, he was not in league with a traitor. His association with Mademoiselle Delon was innocent in a way that Jack's – on all levels – had not been.

And Madame Fontenay? Even thinking the name aloud made her feel sick. Her
mother
?

She shook her head, trying to reason out the impossible connection.

Her mother was Marguerite Laurent, wife of Bartholomew Micklen who had saved her from the guillotine during the revolution in France. Major Woodhouse based his assertions regarding Emily's parentage on wild supposition.

Hugging herself as she rocked on the bed, she acknowledged that the major did not believe himself mistaken. He'd long ago written Emily off as a faithless wife. In his eyes she'd transferred her loyalties too quickly and easily from Jack to Angus; he'd seen her pregnancy as a crime for which she had not received proper punishment. Now he intended seeing Emily pay the highest price for her sins.

With a moan, she buried her face in her hands. Could a letter she had not written and a painting that was not hers be sufficient evidence?

The wind whipped a tree branch across the window pane. Emily reached across the sofa to see the catch was secured properly, though a tree branch through the glass was hardly a calamity under present circumstances.

She could tell by the keening outdoors that a storm had blown in. Through the window she saw the major's coachman draw his muffler more snugly around his neck beneath his greatcoat as he waited for his employer. No doubt he'd not have expected his evening to be so protracted. If it were to be no more than a short visit he'd have gone into the kitchen but clearly he was under orders to remain with the horses.

Pacing like a caged animal, Emily tried to subdue her fear. What would happen to her when Major Woodhouse's search was completed? Would he bundle her into the carriage or allow her to remain in her own house?

Either way, she was a prisoner. She'd tried both doors. The only way out was through the window and she could hardly …

She caught herself up as she reformed the question. Why could she not …?

The mere idea of behaving in such an outlandish and unladylike manner struck as much fear into her as the thought of landing up at Newgate.

Yet nothing could be worse than being convicted for a crime she did not commit while Angus was in danger.

Unlatching the window, she leant out, reaching for the tree branch which swept within a foot of the pane. It was not a perilous drop if worse came to worst, she thought, as her silk slippers at first failed to find a purchase. But within seconds she was discovering that a childhood ability to climb trees was a skill one retains for life if one's agile or desperate enough.

She was relieved she had not fallen so she could address the coachman looking like a lady. A quick glance told her that her silk dress remained unspoiled while the diamonds commanded respect. Behind her back she clasped the painting of her aunt.

Covering the last few yards at a run she cried out, glad of the keening wind which muffled her voice from those indoors.

‘Major Woodhouse has had a seizure. Quick!' She waited impatiently while the coachman jumped down from the box to open her door and put down the steps, adding, ‘My maid is with him now. Follow the road to London until I tell you to stop. I'm going to fetch the best doctor I know.'

Little matter if he thought it an odd delegation of authority. He was a servant and it was not his place to challenge her.

Angus contemplated the storm ruffled waters that had delayed his departure to Calais. Sleep had proved impossible so he'd done what he should have done a long time ago: written Emily the truth. For though he had every intention of delivering this in words, face to face when he returned, a mission such as he was embarking upon always carried dangers. And Emily deserved the truth.

He turned at the rapping on the door. At this time? Dawn was still many hours away.

Immediately his thoughts returned to Emily. They were never far from her. Their last night together had been satisfactory, but after what he'd experienced the night before that, he'd wanted so much more.

The fault was his. He knew he'd not done a good job in reassuring Emily that he was unaffected by his discovery of her correspondence with her aunt. He'd not responded to her protestations of her newfound love for him as she'd have wished, but he just wasn't terribly good at play-acting and Emily's quiet desperation that he reassure her with words and kisses had been too similar to what Jessamine had wanted from him.

God, his feelings for Emily could not be
more
different. He
adored
her. And he was reasonably reassured she loved him. But learning that his very nature was anathema to her – or had been mere weeks ago – was something he still had to reconcile.

Nevertheless, hope that it was Emily was in the ascendant as he flung open the door.

‘I hadn't expected to see you again,' he muttered when Woodhouse shouldered his way in.

Woodhouse tossed his hat upon the bed, raked his hands through his wet and mud-streaked hair and went to the window, turning a highly agitated face to Angus.

‘Yesterday you didn't want to hear that your wife is up to her ears in this sorry business,' he said, without preamble. ‘But hours ago I discovered in your own house numerous pieces of evidence to implicate her.'

He was breathing heavily, his mouth working, as if he didn't know whether to appear triumphant or sympathetic. Because he'd been Angus's friend for so many years he obviously settled upon the latter, adding, ‘Sorry, old chap. I take no pleasure in being the harbinger of bad news. But now that we know, we are far better placed to deal with this threat, once and for all.'

Angus, lowering himself onto a chair at the tiny table, noted his friend bore the signs of a desperate journey on horseback. Forcing emotion from his voice, he asked, ‘Where is Emily now? I trust she is safe and you've not transported her to Newgate on a mere suspicion.'

A glance from beneath his lashes before he conveyed his porter to his lips showed the indignant flare of Major Woodhouse's nostrils before the other man said crisply, ‘I found clear evidence Mrs McCartney is the daughter of Madame Fontenay. A letter contained within a book you were apparently to carry from your wife to Mademoiselle Delon indicates the connection between the two and hints at grave danger for you, McCartney.'

‘Drink, Woodhouse?' Angus offered with a smile, indicating the jug.

Angrily, Woodhouse pulled the offending piece of parchment from his coat pocket and thrust it at Angus. ‘Read that. Perhaps then you'll agree it's time for the authorities to rein in that wife of yours, who some hours since demonstrated her innocence by climbing out of her sitting room window and stealing my carriage in her desperate bid to escape justice.'

‘By God, you go too far!' Fury that Woodhouse's strong-arm tactics had driven Emily to such desperation made Angus rise so abruptly he knocked his chair over as he glared at Woodhouse. ‘Where is she now?'

‘I don't know, but she's guilty as sin.' Woodhouse maintained the courage of his convictions, brandishing the letter he'd found and glaring at Angus. ‘I presume we'll find her at Micklen Hall, but as Dover was not too great a diversion I felt that, as your friend, you should be apprised of the situation before your wife is arrested – as will inevitably be the case. You will, of course, be at Pliny in time for the masquerade in less than seventy-two hours, though in the name of friendship I will allow you to see Mrs McCartney before she is condemned.'

‘Are you out of your mind?' Angus scanned the letter before casting a fulminating stare at Woodhouse. ‘There is nothing to indicate my wife wrote this letter.'

Major Woodhouse mutinously defended his beliefs. ‘There is more. A painting of Madame Fontenay with the inscription on the back which reads “To Jessamine from Mama”. It's dated 1808. We know Madame Fontenay had two daughters – both bastards and both fostered out at one stage or another. Madeleine Delon is one of them, your wife is another. I would suggest, based on this painting that clearly belongs to your wife, that this unknown Jessamine was a third.'

Quietly, though his heart was beating rapidly, Angus said, ‘That painting came into my possession through Jessamine, the woman who was once my mistress. Emily has never seen it. Nor do I believe she knew anything about the letter found in the Book of Verse. It must have been placed there by someone else.'

‘Who else? The connection is too strong. You wife is clearly related to Mademoiselle Delon and now, it would appear, also to this Jessamine.'

Angus began to pace, muttering as he racked his brains to remember what Jessamine had told him of her past. Jessamine? How on earth could his dead mistress be implicated?

He recalled the shrill cries of the gulls and the shouts of the dock workers overlaid by the salty tang of the breeze as he'd prepared himself for bed. Jessamine had recounted her terror of that very combination. Well, minus the dock workers. What had she said?

I went to England to find my half-sister after learning she lived on the Kentish coast with mama's sister.

But the only person I met was my uncle, who entombed me in a cave by the sea, for he said I was too dangerous to live.

The story had horrified Angus, but the extent of the horrors Jessamine had lived through could not make Angus love her.

Now, in this altered context, and with its implications for Emily, her story resonated terrifyingly.

‘Oh, God, Emily …' he muttered, only half to Woodhouse. He swung round to his friend, dread turning to icy fear. ‘You've been to my brother's house?' he asked.

‘It was the first place I looked.'

‘Then the only other place she'd go is Micklen Hall.' The pieces of the puzzle that were slowly being assembled before his very eyes pointed to Micklen's involvement. First with Jessamine's attempted murder and now the wide-reaching operation in which Madame Fontenay played centre stage.

His fingernails dug into his palms as he silently intoned,
Please, don't let Emily have returned to Micklen Hall. Not to her father's house
.

‘I presumed the same but I thought she'd come to you first if she thought she had the means to prove to you her innocence.'

Angus clenched his fists and tried to work out how long it would take him to ride to Micklen Hall. An hour perhaps.

‘Micklen Hall,' he muttered. ‘
Dear God
, I pray she has not gone there.'

‘If you find her, then you have no choice but to hand her over, Angus, so that she can prove her innocence.' Major Woodhouse clearly did not share his concerns that Emily was in great peril.

Angus ignored him as he strode to the door.

He heard Woodhouse's boots upon the floorboards coming after him and swung round.

‘You have been a good friend, Woodhouse,' he snarled, ‘but I swear I will never forgive you if harm has come to Emily.'

There was no sympathy in the look Woodhouse returned. ‘She has manipulated you, Angus, just as she manipulated Jack Noble. I should have kept this from you until we had her safely under lock and key and every piece of proof documented and beyond doubt.'

Angus exhaled in fury as he strode up the corridor. ‘Leave me to find Emily,' he said over his shoulder, ‘and I swear I will see she gives a good account of herself, but I'll be damned if you accompany me, breathing down my neck.'

‘Why should I trust you?' his friend demanded, bearing down on him.

Angus turned abruptly and slapped a hand on the other man's shoulder. ‘Because I have never let you or my country down,' he answered quietly, his voice gaining strength as he added, ‘God damn you, Woodhouse! You have no idea of the danger you have put her in. It's Bartholomew Micklen you want, not Emily. Micklen tried to kill Jessamine because he said she was a threat. A threat to what? I have yet to find out but it's at the centre of everything. Do you know how much greater the danger is to Emily, thanks to your interference?'