‘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 She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it.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, you understand, he sent me to a convent.’
‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest.
‘Yes, for there were too many females for the vicomte to make me a dowry. It was never intended that I should marry Monsieur Valade, but after the tragedy—’ her eyes darkening in genuine distress ‘—and that he was the only survivor, he came to me in the convent and married me, and brought me to England.’
So pat, thought Gerald. A neat tale, giving little away. He would have to probe further. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy.
‘Ah, the tragedy. Poor little one.’
Her hand shook as he took it in his, and she uttered involuntarily, ‘Oh, it was so horrible! They came like animals, with long knives that they use to cut grass, and heavy clubs. They set about everyone—everyone. They did not care—servant or master, it meant nothing. People running, screaming, hiding...’ She shuddered, throwing her hands over her face.
Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. The shock and distress were genuine. She described it so vividly. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. But she was not there. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake.
In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. She appeared not to have realised the implications of her outburst, but clung a little to Gerald’s hands which had taken hers in a comforting clasp.
‘How happy for you that Valade came to take you away from France,’ he said encouragingly, adding with one of those intimate looks, ‘Happy for me, too.’
She simpered, and withdrew one hand so that she might smack his fingers playfully. ‘You are outrageous.’
‘I know,’ he said, smiling. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’
‘Oh, but yes. So kind, so good to me always.’
With difficulty, Gerald bit back a laugh. ‘You must have been an exceedingly good pupil.’
‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. ‘The nuns, they teach prayer and obedience.’
Oh, do they? No kitchen service? No feeding of pigs? It was evident that this woman knew nothing of nuns, if a certain young lady’s artless reminiscences were anything to go by.
‘And your schooling?’ he pursued.
