‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain. He is already married.’
‘Married?’
‘I did mention Madame Valade, did I not?’
At that, a growl of startling ferocity escaped her lips. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. This is altogether insupportable. Eh bien, we shall see.’ She focused on Gerald’s face. ‘And for you, monsieur le major, it will be well if you do not make me a shock like this again.’
Turning, she climbed over the low haha wall. Gerald reached out a hand to stop her.
‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you.’
‘So that you may interest yourself in my affairs even more?’
‘Then I will go with you,’ he offered.
‘No! Let me alone!’
‘It is not safe!’
‘That is entirely my affair, and not your affair in the least,’ she told him haughtily. ‘En tout cas, I have waiting for me a cavalier.’
‘Oh, have you?’ grunted Gerald, surprising in himself a surge of some odd emotion at these words. ‘Damnation!’
Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden.
Gerald watched her vanish into the darkness, unusually incensed. Hang the wench! Roding was right. He was mad. Lord knew why he had any interest in an impertinent girl who would certainly have spit him with that dagger! He reached into his pocket and brought it out, examining it in the increasing light as he slowly made his way back up the terrace. A pretty piece. Gold-handled, too. Small, but eminently serviceable. For whom had its sharp point been intended?
Valade? Or perhaps his wife now that the girl had word of their marriage. What a heat that news had wrought. Had she expected to wed Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He must find out more.
Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess.
He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him.
‘Where the devil have you been?’
‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens.’
Hilary stared. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’
‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. ‘She’s gone. This time she tried to kill me with a dagger.’
‘What?’
‘Neat little toy. I’ll show it to you later.’ He glanced about and saw his quarry holding court at one end of the vast mirrored chamber. ‘At this present, I must appropriate Lady Bicknacre.’
‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked.
‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. ‘I’m following a scent.’
Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. He had adroitly captured her and led her away from her other guests on the pretext of feigning an interest in her charitable attitude to the newly arrived French.
Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. ‘Poor things. Can you imagine how dreadful it must be for them? Most of them arrive here almost penniless.’
‘Gather their bankers are still able to transfer funds,’ remarked Hilary, who had tagged along, apparently determined not to leave Gerald to make even more of a fool of himself. He had already spoken his mind on the folly of allowing a clearly dangerous female to escape a second time.
‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively. ‘Their lawyers are working tirelessly, but they report that the situation is daily worsening.’
‘Some, of course,’ put in Gerald, ‘have been unable to recover anything. Like the Valades, I imagine.’
‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones.
‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major.
‘Still, the comtesse has them well in hand. She has even found them accommodation in the house where she is putting up herself. In Paddington. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends.’ She shook her head. ‘Pitiful.’
‘Very much so,’ Gerald said, matching her tone, and at once forced the discussion back to his own point of interest by adding, ‘I was particularly struck by those poor Valades. Do you know much of his background?’
‘Only that he is, or was, related to the Vicomte de Valade. It seems he does not inherit the title.’
‘Well for him,’ remarked Captain Roding.
‘He could have little comfort there, indeed. But it is not entirely without hope, for perhaps they may find some succour with Charvill. Personally, however, I doubt if—’
‘Charvill?’ interrupted Gerald without ceremony, all his senses at once on the alert. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’
‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. ‘He was our first commander, and a more stiff-necked—’
‘Exactly so,’ concurred Lady Bicknacre. ‘Which is why I feel sure he will utterly repulse the girl, even if she is his granddaughter.’
