To Rescue a Rogue (35 page)

“Not, alas, a waltz,” she said.

“Later,” he replied. “I promise.”

As the music began, Mara glanced up and saw two excited pairs of eyes peeping over the balcony in front of the musicians. Two hands waved. She wanted to wave back, but all eyes were on her. She couldn't see Madame Clermont, but she would be there, the specter at the feast.

Mara lost herself in the pleasure of the dance, and then was partnered by three dukes in succession—Yeovil, St. Raven, and Wellington. Wellington said, “I understand you're responsible for this campaign on Blanche's behalf. Well done, my dear. She's a gallant lady.”

Mara smiled at him with genuine warmth.

She was tired of dukes, however, and made sure to capture Dare for the next, but as they were waiting for the music to begin, Major Hawkinville came over to them.

“I have an interruption for you,” he said softly, “but I think it's one you'll like.”

“A witness from Waterloo?” Dare asked.

“No. Come.”

They strolled smiling out of the room and along the corridor, but Mara was strung tight. She needed no surprises tonight, good or bad, and neither did Dare.

“What?” Dare asked, as soon as they were free of the crowd.

“Madame Clermont's family. In your father's office.”

“And it's good?” Dare asked.

“Yes.”

They hurried down back stairs to the businesslike room, where Mara had studied the miniatures of the family. There they found three sinewy, solemn men in country clothing—doubtless a father and two sons. Two footman formed a kind of guard.

“Where is my daughter?” the older man demanded in French as soon as Dare entered. “What have you done with her? He”—he jerked his head toward Hawkinville—“said only she was here. Here? What place has she here?”

Dare raised a hand. “A moment, please, sir.” He dismissed the fascinated footmen, then said, “You are Monsieur Lameule from Halle, and your daughter is Madame Clermont?”

“That is she. She is unwell. We must take her home.”

Mara clutched Dare's arm with relief. The woman was mad. It was tragic, but wonderful.

“She did not lose a daughter?” Dare asked.

“But yes, sir, she did. That is what made her ill. First her husband, then her child. She took it into her head that this child found after the battle was her Annette, and she would not listen to reason. I'm sorry if she has done anything wrong, sir, but we have come to take her home.”

He seemed to think his daughter was a prisoner here.

Dare pressed his hands together and raised them to his lips. Mara realized she'd not thought to ask what he was doing about the opium. The normal evening dose would be beginning to wear off even without these additional strains.

The silence stretched, but then he said, “Please, come with me. We will take you to her.”

The three men rose uneasily. They were probably in their best clothes, but their country boots clumped as they all went up to the schoolroom. Dare had sent a footman to ask madam to meet them there, but clearly she had refused to leave Delphie. When they entered the schoolroom, she had Delphie by the hand and Pierre stood on guard, regarding the three strangers with deep suspicion.

Mara watched Madame Clermont as the men entered the room and saw no sign of dismay. Instead, the woman smiled in welcome. “Father! Giles, Antoine, see. I was right.” She picked up Delphie. “Here is Annette!”

Mara's heart shriveled.

But the father sighed. “Francine, my dearest girl, that is not Annette. Annette is dead.”

“No, no, look, Papa! This is she. Do I not know my own child?”

He went forward to put an arm around her. “Annette is dead, my dearest one. She is in heaven with the angels.”

Francine Clermont pulled away. “No, no!” She clutched Delphie to her, but Dare stepped forward and chopped at the woman's shoulder. It seemed to only startle, but it loosened her grip and he snatched the weeping girl. When Francine Clermont tried to get to Delphie, her father stepped in her way.

“It's a lie, Papa! I have found my daughter. I know my daughter, but they steal her again. I want my daughter back!”

Her father had no hesitation about wrapping the distraught woman in strong arms, but he rocked her, murmuring as he might to an infant. “I know, I know. It's hard, my chick, so hard. But she is dead. She is dead.”

Mara saw that Dare had taken the children away and she quickly followed into their bedroom. Delphie still clung to Dare, but the tears had stopped.

“What is happening, Papa?” Pierre demanded. “Who are those men? I do not like them.”

“They are good men,” Dare said, sitting in the rocking chair with Delphie, and gathering Pierre to his side. “They are Madame Clermont's family. She is not Delphie's mother, but we must be very sorry for her. She had a little girl just as precious and her Annette died. That was such a great sorrow that she won't believe it. She'd rather think that her child was taken from her, so she searches for her. Her family has come to take care of her and to take her home.”

Delphie nodded. “That is good.”

It could be an expression of sympathy, but Mara thought it was relief. And if Delphie was The´re`se Bellaire's child, she realized, there was no danger of more claimants.

“So you are our papa?” Pierre asked.

Dare hesitated, for there would always be a mystery about their origins, but he said, “Yes. And soon Mara will be your mother.”

“C'est bon,”
Delphie said and wriggled off his lap. “May we return to watch the ball, Papa?”

Dare looked bemused, but he sent them off accompanied by one of their nursemaids.

Mara took his hands, smiling. “Such resilience, but that, too, is
bon
.”

“Yes. Am I dreaming, or are all our major problems dispelled?”

A witness to his fall in battle would make all perfect, but they were blessed.

Mara sat on his lap. “All is well with the world,” she said, and kissed him. But then she made a decision and said, “There is one very small thing, Dare.”

He looked wary, but she carried on and told him what Nicholas suspected about Delphie's parentage.

“Dear God,” he said, and she feared she'd made a mistake. But then he shook his head. “It's exactly what The´re`se would do, and in keeping that she had not a trace of love for Delphie.”

“You don't mind? People tend to resemble their parents.”

“There's nothing wrong with Delphie, while there was something very wrong with The´re`se Bellaire. She cared for nothing and no one but herself, but Delphie is a loving person.”

“And Napoleon?”

He laughed. “Was a brilliant man. In twenty or so years the world may have to be on its toes as Delphine Debenham begins to make her mark, but I doubt anyone will be the worse for it, especially,” he added, smiling into her eyes, “if she's been raised at Brideswell.”

They stole time for another kiss, but they were both aware that they would be missed and must not return to the ball disheveled. They stopped by the schoolroom, where Madame Clermont was quiet, but not at all at ease. She was rocking herself and weeping, guarded by her two concerned brothers.

All three Lameule men looked at a loss.

“Does the child resemble her Annette?” Dare asked softly.

“A little, sir, a very little,” Monsieur Lameule said. “You will not seek to punish her?”

“No, heavens no. She has all my compassion. Her child did die?”

“Of a certainty.” The man drew them out of the room. “It was most terrible, sir. After the battle, some French horseman fled through our village. Francine and Annette were in the street. They trampled the child before her mother's eyes. I think she cannot bear to remember, so of course Annette is not dead. Perhaps we should have made her see the child's body, but it was a horrible sight. I have never seen the like.”

“Is her home the best place for her then?” Dare asked.

“Of course, sir. She is surrounded by those who love her.”

“Then may I suggest something? Once she thought she had found Annette, your daughter became quite well. She was unhappy because Delphie didn't like her, but she did her best to tend to the child. There are many poor waifs who would be blessed by a good home among loving family.”

The man nodded. “Such a child would be much loved by all of us, and watched over by all of us. We have tried and tried to make her see the truth, but perhaps it is not possible or kind.”

“Perhaps not. We must return to our guests,” Dare said. “Do you require any help to return home?”

“No, thank you, milord.”

“All the same, I would like to give Madame Clermont a gift. For her future daughter, perhaps. And I fear it would be best to drug your daughter a little before trying to take her from this house. I can provide a little laudanum. It does ease the frantic mind, but should not be used for too long.”

Dare summoned his father's competent secretary and put all the arrangements in his hands. Then he and Mara returned to the ball. They sought out Major Hawkinville first.

“Thank you, Hawk,” Dare said.

“Mostly luck. I worked on the assumption that her family would set out to follow her. They would have to register with the alien office at their port of entry, so I sent men to check the most likely. Once I found their names, it was easy to trace them to London.”

“I wouldn't have thought of that,” Dare said.

“It's the sort of thing he's good at,” Clarissa Hawkinville said. “You can't imagine how organized our homes are.”

“No thanks to you,” her husband said with a smile.

“Two neat people would be unbearable. I'm so happy the problem is solved,” she said to Dare and Mara.

The word was spreading through the Rogues and they all came by to congratulate Dare. Then the duchess announced that as a great honor, Mrs. Beaumont, the famous actress, would perform a short piece for the company before supper.

Mara had forgotten Blanche and had no idea what sort of performance was to come. She took Dare's hand and prayed as they turned to look up at the balcony.

Blanche in some way looked taller as she addressed the room, and her trained voice reached every corner. “There are too few powerful parts in the theater for women,” she said, “especially ones which show women in their full virtue and strength, but I have chosen one such for this short performance. From Portia, in Mr. Shakespeare's play,
The Merchant of Venice.”

She managed in some way to soften her voice without becoming any the less easy to hear.

She held the silent room in thrall, but perhaps also she was asking for mercy for herself and Dare. Blanche left off the ending, specific to the play and concluded with the lines:

She bowed her head, and the room broke into rapturous applause. Mara thought of the mercy offered Major Berkstead and poor Madame Clermont, and squeezed Dare's hand. Revenge and even justice were often poor coin.

Blanche retreated, soon to emerge back in the ball-room on a proud Hal's arm, and receive further accolades.

Mara said, “I wish…” but stopped her own words. Society had endorsed Dare by coming here tonight. If doubts lingered, there was nothing more to be done about it. Probably no one on the chaotic battlefield had clearly seen what happened to Dare anyway.

Dare led Mara out into a waltz just as clocks chimed midnight. It was as well that the dance didn't require any change of partners for they became lost in a world of their own, one populated by moonlight faery dancers, and perhaps by Oriental arts.

When the music ended, he said, “The Rogues are to take supper together now,” and they walked toward the ballroom door. Just outside it, they encountered a striking man with dark hair and eyes and an impressive aura of vigor. Mara tensed, for there was something antagonistic about him.

“Canem,” Dare said, pleasantly enough but not as if addressing an old friend.