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

have him keep an eye on Valade’s residence in Paddington, I think.’ Then memory hit and he stared at his friend. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’

‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly.

‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. ‘She obviously likes Leonardo. Which means after all that she did not expect to marry Valade. But in that case, why the raging jealousy about Madame having taken her place. Unless—’ Something clicked in his mind and he stared at his friend without seeing him. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’

‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.’

Gerald ignored this. ‘She knows them. Both of them. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it.’ He became aware of his friend’s face before him. ‘What do you think?’

‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding. ‘I think you’ve gone stark, staring crazy. Why can’t you let it be?’

Gerald grinned at him. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’

‘She said she wouldn’t murder you.’

‘Don’t you believe it. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her. My thanks, by the by.’

The captain shook his head. ‘I just don’t understand you, Gerald. If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’

‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly. ‘She’s an evil-tempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. And she’s pluck to the backbone.’

Hilary stared at him. ‘You’re either mad, or in love.’

‘What?’ gasped Alderley in shock. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Then you’re mad,’ Roding said flatly, and suddenly grinned. ‘But I’ve known that for years.’

Gerald laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘Lucky I have you to keep me from Bedlam, then.’

‘Don’t count on it. You’ll end there one day, mark my words.’ Then Hilary became serious again. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’

‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. ‘As for what to do, I wonder if young Charvill would be worth a visit. And I think I must pursue my acquaintance with the fulsome Madame Valade.’

***

 

Mrs Chalkney, a long-time friend of the late Mrs Alderley, had been delighted to oblige that lady’s son. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy. I am having them to my own soirée on Monday.’

‘Excellent,’ Gerald had approved.

‘I did not send you a card because in the normal way of things you rarely attend such affairs.’

‘Ah, but I have a special reason for doing so this time.’

Mrs Chalkney lifted her brows. ‘Indeed?’

Gerald grinned. ‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not.’

‘Gracious heaven, Gerald! If your dear mama could not drag you to the altar, I am hardly likely to succeed.’

‘In any event,’ Gerald told her, with a grin, ‘I can’t marry this one. She’s already spoken for.’

He endured the inevitable scold with patience, saluted Mrs Chalkney’s faded cheek, and went off to endure the necessary delay with what patience he could muster. What more was to be done? Frith’s investigations had proved fruitful, and the man was now keeping an eye on Valade. Gerald hoped he had covered all options and had resisted the temptation to pay mademoiselle a visit. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. An action which gave Gerald furiously to think. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course. It was all highly intriguing.

On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport.

Madame Valade was looking heartily bored, he noted, as his searching eyes found out the couple. He could scarcely blame her. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms.

Gerald noted the lady’s eyes brighten as she caught sight of him making his way through the throng towards her. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband?

His luck was in. Just as he reached them, the Comte de St Erme drew Valade a little apart and began to converse with him in rapid French. Valade accorded the major’s greeting a brief nod and gave his attention back to St Erme.

Gerald took Madame’s hand and kissed the fingers with a little more warmth than punctilio demanded. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’

‘Merci.’ She inclined her head, looking up at him through her lashes, and passing a tongue lightly over her lips.

Gerald smiled and crooked his elbow. ‘A little promenade, madame?’

Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. The close-fitting round gown, if a little old-fashioned with its very narrow waist and wide skirts, was becoming on a full figure, and the low décolletage, unencumbered by any form of covering, exposed a good deal of bosom. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm.

‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. ‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies.’

Madame gave one of those breathy laughs. ‘They cannot be worse than mine in English, monsieur.’

While he trod a deliberate path through the pink saloon towards the door, Gerald encouraged a flow of harmless chatter about the people Madame had met and the parties she had attended. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society.

‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame.’

‘About me?’ The lady’s lashes fluttered and her fan came up. ‘You would know more of me?’

‘I would know everything about you,’ Gerald told her, his tone at once provocative and inviting.

The major might not indulge in this sort of flirtation in the ordinary way, but he had seen enough among his army colleagues to know just how to go about it.

She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan. ‘I hope I do not understand you.’

You mean you hope you do, thought Gerald cynically. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive.

‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. Your name.’

‘Ah, that is easy,’ she began, laughing.

‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. ‘Let me see if our minds are attuned.’

The lashes fluttered demurely. ‘You would read my mind?’

Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so. This was unscrupulous, he admitted, because he had no intention of following through on the seductive promise in his conduct. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. Madame Valade was that kind of woman.

‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. She waited expectantly.

‘Let’s see now. Would it be Thérèse?’

She shook her head. ‘Quite wrong, monsieur.’

‘Alas. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’

‘Oh la la! That is not me at all.’

‘No, perhaps not,’ Gerald agreed with a smile. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie.’

‘But, no,’ She dimpled. ‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur.’

‘I’m afraid you are right. Very well, I give up. You will have to tell me.’

‘I could have done so at the first and saved you the pain,’ she told him merrily. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation.

Gerald was instantly on the alert. ‘Something wrong, madame?’

Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it.

‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband.’

Gerald cast a swift look up the corridor, but there was no one there, not even a shadow. His frowning gaze came back to her. She was making it up. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this.” Lord, he was right! But softly now. Let him be sure.

‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand. ‘I will make certain that we are unobserved.’

He made a pretence of rising and making a sortie to the corner to see if anyone was there. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon.

‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command. ‘Not yet, madame. You will leave me utterly distraught.’

Madame Valade reseated herself, and Gerald set himself to flatter her into relaxation again. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever.

‘You will not guess again?’

‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas. And you promised to tell me. Quick, now. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame.’

‘Then you shall no longer do so. I am called Melusine.’

Gerald let out a sigh both relieved and satisfied and repeated the name.

‘Melusine. How perfectly charming.’

He sat looking her over in silence for a moment or two, his thoughts revolving around the name and the way it fitted so exquisitely on quite another set of features. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and recollected himself, turning on the charm again.

‘Now, madame, tell me all about your life in France. Did you grow up at the Valade estates? You were born a Valade, I take it, even though your father is English.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm.

Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her. ‘Come, I told you I wish to know everything about you. That is my way, my dear. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘—with one I feel to be a stranger.’

The breathy laugh came, and Madame Valade abandoned her fan. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill.’

She pronounced it with a French inflexion, but Gerald understood her to mean the English name he knew.

‘You are related to General Lord Charvill?’

‘Monsieur le baron, he is my grandpére,’ she confirmed.

As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. ‘I lived with the Valades for some years. But then, because my papa had no money,