Mademoiselle At Arms - Elizabeth Bailey (best 7 inch ereader TXT) 📗

this afternoon.

Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out.

That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington?

The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign.

Doesn’t know where he is, thought the captain. Looking for something, or someone, probably. Visiting? Dressed for it, certainly. An unwelcome idea came to him. Would Gerald wish his friend to follow the man?

He had hardly registered the decision that he had best do so, albeit with some reluctance, when his trained senses alerted him to an extraordinary circumstance. The Frenchman was already being followed.

A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. But his eyes were on the Frenchman, and as Valade moved up the other road a little way, the lad shifted alertly, and swiftly closed the distance to the intersection. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches.

‘Sir?’

Hilary threw a brief glance at Trodger, and quickly returned his intent gaze to the Frenchman, who had halted once more, and stood as if thinking deeply.

‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly.

‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again.

‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’

‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger.’

‘But me orders, sir? Are we to—’

‘Gad, but that’s her,’ interrupted Roding suddenly.

The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. But some little distance behind him, someone had come out from the shadow of the building and, seeing the Frenchman reappear, darted back again as quickly. His attention drawn, the captain was easily able to make out the pretty features under the feathered hat, and the same dark riding habit the fugitive had worn on that first occasion at Remenham House.

Don’t say the wretch was also following Valade. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought.

‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified.

‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her.

‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow.

A pair of startled blue eyes looked up into his. ‘Comment? What do you wish?’

‘What the devil do you think you’re up to now, I’d like to know?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘It is in no way your affair, monsieur, and you will unhand me at once.’

‘No, I won’t.’ The captain grasped her more firmly. ‘I’m taking you to Gerald, my girl.’

The girl glanced up the road and turned back, annoyance in her face. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. ‘I do not know your Gérard. And I do not know you. Please to release me.’

‘I’m not going to release you, so it’s no use complaining. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. And as for not knowing me, you abominable little liar, you’re perfectly aware that we met at Remenham House.’

‘Remenham House,’ exclaimed Trodger, who had been watching this interchange open-mouthed. ‘Is she the Frenchie we’ve been watching for then, sir?’

The lady’s furious features turned on this new target. ‘I am not French in the least, bête.’

‘Woof!’ uttered the sergeant, jumping back. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’

Roding ignored this. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’

A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them.

The lady looked them over in silence, and then pouting lips trembled, dark eyelashes fluttered, and in a broken voice, she pleaded, ‘Honoured messieurs, you will not allow this—this pig, to be thus cruel? He cannot arrest me. I have done n-nothing.’

The pathetic sob which accompanied the last word had a signal effect on two of the company at least. Glancing at each other, they rose from their seats and ventured to address the captain.

‘Um—begging your pardon, sir, but—um—what was you meaning to arrest the young lady for?’

‘Trespassing, theft, and suspicion of spying,’ announced Roding fluently.

‘Woof!’ uttered Trodger, gazing at the lady in some awe.

‘Caught in the act by myself and Major Gerald Alderley only last week.’

The mention of Alderley’s name, as Roding had confidently expected, caused the soldiers’ eyes to veer across to the young lady again, this time with a good deal less sympathy, and much more uncertainty. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again.

Grimly Hilary smiled to himself at the effect of Gerald’s name. In military circles, highly exaggerated tales of Major Alderley’s derring-do were bruited from lip to lip and passed on to raw recruits to strengthen morale.

The young lady saw the change, and almost snorted. ‘Very well, arrest me. But if you mean to take me to this Gérard, I shall know what to say to him.’

‘Sir!’ called Trodger, as the captain began to lead the young lady off. ‘Shall we abandon the guard, then, sir?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘But if she’s going to gaol—’

‘Just keep watch, like you’ve been told,’ Roding said severely, turning to glare at his sergeant. ‘The major will tell you when to stop.’

‘Your major will tell you nothing at all,’ put in the young lady acidly, ‘because certainly I am going to kill him.’

‘You ain’t never!’

‘Back to your post, Trodger,’ ordered the harassed captain. ‘As for you—’

‘Do not address me. You are without sense and not sympathique in the least. And when I have finished killing your major, I shall also kill you.’

The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands. His face warm, Captain Roding glared them into silence, and firmly marched his captive off down Piccadilly, heading for Stratton Street where the town house of the Alderley family was situated.

‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. ‘What Gerald wants with you has me beat.’

He received a glare from his captive. ‘You are rude, and stupide, and altogether a person with whom I do not wish to speak. So now I will say nothing more to you, and you will please to say nothing more to me, for I do not reply.’

It was thus in stony silence that the pair traversed the short distance to Stratton Street, where Roding knocked on the major’s door and entered a pleasant wood-panelled hall, with his prisoner firmly in tow.

‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over.

‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side.

‘Good. I’ll announce myself.’

The footman did not object, but it was plain he felt he was neglecting his duty, for he emitted an admonitory cough, causing the captain to pause in his way to the library across the hall.

‘What is it?’

‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’

‘You can leave the young lady to me.’

‘What young lady?’ demanded a voice from the back of the hall. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found her!’

‘Ah, Gérard,’ uttered the girl in a gratified tone as Major Alderley walked through into the light. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me.’

‘Of course he will release you,’ Gerald said at once, concealing his delighted satisfaction at this unexpected piece of good fortune. ‘I’m only surprised you have not released yourself. No pistols, no daggers today?’

‘Would you have me show a pistol with so many soldiers? I am not a fool. And you have stolen my dagger.’

‘Had the advantage of her this time,’ Roding put in before Gerald could respond. He let go of the girl’s arm. ‘Caught her sneaking after that Valade fellow. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day.’

‘Ah, the matter begins to come clear,’ Gerald said. ‘The place was full of barbers and military men.’

‘Exactly so. And she—’

‘She!’ interrupted the young lady crossly.                     

‘Yes, very rude,’ agreed the major. ‘Hilary, you must stop referring to mademoiselle as “she”. But we cannot discuss this here.’ He bowed and indicated the open door at the back of the hall. ‘Mademoiselle.’

Gerald was relieved to find the girl did not attempt to run away, but meekly allowed him to usher her into the spacious and comfortable library which was his habitual haunt when at home. This lapse was possibly due to her apparent determination to make full protest of Hilary’s conduct.

‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you. And this idiot, he has threatened to arrest me and make them take me to prison. What would you? I cannot fight them all.’

‘No, of course you could not,’ Gerald soothed. ‘Monstrously unfair of you, Hilary.’

‘Unfair!’ echoed his junior.

‘And this is not all,’ went on the lady, evidently determined to disclose all her wrongs. ‘When I thought to make them sympathique for me, with a little tear, you understand, and some tricks feminine of this kind—’

‘Feminine tricks, too?’ cut in Gerald admiringly, controlling a quivering lip. ‘Very useful, of course.’

‘Useful certainly. But he tells them that I am a spy. One cannot expect that soldiers can be sympathique to one they believe may be a French spy. That is not reasonable.’

‘A very low stratagem, Hilary,’ Gerald said, turning on his captain with mock severity. ‘How could you? No wonder mademoiselle is angry with you.’

‘What?’

Roding’s glare tried Gerald’s control severely, but he pursued his theme unheeding. ‘I am extremely displeased. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off.’

Mademoiselle, who had been nodding in agreement at Roding during the first part of this speech, abruptly turned to face Gerald again.

‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. ‘You imbecile. You make of me once more a game? Eh bien, I have told your friend that I will kill you, and if you will give me my dagger this minute, I shall do so at once.’

‘But what have I done?’ protested Gerald innocently. ‘I’m on your side.’

‘You are not on my side at all, and it will be better that, instead of saying such things to him, you would say them to yourself.’

Gerald opened his eyes at her. ‘You mean I should give myself a dressing-down? Very well.’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. ‘Gerald Alderley, I don’t know what you deserve. It will serve you out if I give her dagger back to mademoiselle, so that she can plunge it right into your chest.’

To his intense satisfaction, mademoiselle burst into laughter. ‘I have a