Dark brown eyes, bright locks… How many women in England, how many Frenchwomen in particular, could there bewith that particular combination? He couldn’t recall if he had ever seen…
And all at once he knew exactly who she was.
14
He’d danced with her. Christ, but he had. Just once. Rafe remembered it clearly now. He spent so little time in London, so little time in society – being whispered about and stared at had always been a torment for him – but his friend Simon Venables, before he’d given up on him in recent years and stopped trying, had occasionally endeavoured to persuade him that it wasn’t healthy for a young man to shut himself away from all company, and particularly the company of women. Eligible women.
It must have been about the time that Simon had married – yes, eight years ago. They’d been in London for the wedding, staying with Simon’s mother and his brother Philip, a light-hearted family party plus Rafe, and in the run-up to the ceremony he’d been persuaded to attend a few balls and other social events. He didn’t lack for invitations, despite the unsavoury rumours that had swirled around his name even then, and had hardened into accepted fact by now. The title and the money still worked their sordid magic. And Simon was the younger brother of a baronet and related to half the noble houses of the land.
It had been, appropriately enough, a masquerade of sorts. Simon and Elizabeth had been innocently delighted, he remembered, because the fact of their partial disguise had meant that they’d be able to dance together more often than the paltry two or three times that society normally permitted. He’d danced with Elizabeth, and with her sisters, but he’d recognised no one else, even if they must have known him for a scandalous Wyverne. He couldn’t remember now who had presented him formally to the lovely young woman in flowered green silk. Someone had. Simon’s mother, the Dowager Lady Venables, that inveterate matchmaker? He had no idea, and really it didn’t signify in the least.
They were all of them dressed as courtiers at Versailles. He’d had his grandmother to advise him well in advance, so he could be sure his blue and silver costume was authentic. It had been amusing, he’d had to admit, to ape the more formal manners of the previous century, and he had made a particularly sweeping bow to the young lady in the pink and green gown. She’d smiled as she took his hand, not mocking him, but enjoying his enthusiasm, he’d thought. She’d been a good dancer, and he’d admired her grace. She was very young, probably in her first season – but then he’d only been twenty-three or so himself – and as they twirled and turned about the room together her fine dark eyes were sparkling with pleasure. Brighter – he might even have told her, or maybe he’d just thought it, since he was after all only twenty-three and had little experience of ladies – than the enormous, fabulous pink diamond she’d been wearing about her neck.
Good God almighty. The diamond Rosanna had been wearing last night. The de Montfaucon diamond. He thought it had another name, as these things often did, but he couldn’t recall it. He remembered the jewel, though. There was no possibility of mistake.
He hadn’t stopped to consider before how the treasure had come into his father’s possession, and he’d never had any reason before today to link the bauble Rosanna loved to flaunt with the girl he’d danced with once and never seen or thought of again.
Mademoiselle de Montfaucon. The daughter of the Duke, one of the many noble refugees from the Terror. He struggled to recall if he’d ever heard her Christian name, if someone had addressed her by it or said it when he’d been presented to her as a suitable dancing partner. So very suitable, no wonder they’d thought of it – both of them so young, he a marquess’s son, she a duke’s daughter.
Yes. He did know. When the dance had ended, he’d heard someone address her: Clemence. It was Clemence. She wasn’t Sophie Delavallois. He’d always known that deep down, though he’d chosen to forget it last night. He’d set his previous suspicions aside in the headiness of what had roared into life between them, and when he’d knelt at her feet in worship he hadn’t cared who she was or what she was. But she was Clemence de Montfaucon. It surely couldn’t be a coincidence that she was living at Wyverne Hall of all places, in his father’s house, where the famous necklace that her family had saved from the chaos that had enveloped them was now kept. ‘Kept’, that was an innocuous little word. His father kept it, as he kept so many precious jewels that adorned Rosanna’s body. Lord Wyverne liked his possessions.
He was a collector, an obsessive hoarder of the beautiful and the rare. So Rafe had always assumed that Wyverne had bought them all – the jewels, the pictures, the woman. He supposed it was entirely possible that Sophie’s… that Clemence’s father had been obliged to sell the precious diamond to provide for his family. The Marquess, his father, was just the man to enjoy getting something valuable cheaply because of desperation, to enjoy on top of possession the fact that the sale hurt the seller.That would be disreputable, dishonourable, loathsome, but not… not criminal.
He had an uneasy feeling that there were things he wasn’t yet aware of; that Sophie’s reasons for having inserted herself into his father’s house would bring him most unwelcome news. But he knew who would know more.
He must set aside for now his own feelings, the turbulent mix of emotions that roiled within him as he struggled to absorb what he had discovered. He wouldn’t think about last night, and whether in thinking it such a wonderful moment of escape he’d been deluded or deceived, and what if anything he should do about it. He needed to talk to his grandmother.
15
Rafe didn’t want to wait, he was desperate to know the truth, but there was no point leaving now – the Dowager would still be asleep, or at least in her bed, Marchand would make sure of that, after the exertion of last night. Grandson or not, he’d get short shrift from the benevolent dragon who guarded her door if he presented himself before what she considered a respectable hour.
The hands of the clock dragged round unconscionably slowly, but at last he judged that it was time, and headed out for his stable to have his favourite bay mare, Cinnamon, saddled. John Wilson, the groom who’d known him since his youth, shot a sharp look under his heavy brows – obviously Rafe was not, to one well acquainted with him, quite his normal self today. But John said nothing, and soon Rafe was trotting and then galloping across his own land towards his father’s much more extensive acres. He found pleasure, and a sort of escape from the turmoil of his thoughts, in the exhilaration of the motion.
He rode round to the stable block and left Cinnamon in the care of Tom Wilson, John’s brother and Wyverne’s head groom. After a few words of casual conversation, he made his way up tohis grandmother’s rooms. The huge house was very quiet, since no doubt gambling, excessive drinking and other diversions best left undescribed had gone on until the early hours, and the participants would still be recovering in their beds, or someone else’s. He wondered if Sophie were awake, and hoped on this occasion that she was not already with his grandmother. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her – he didn’t care to admit to himself how much he did – but he’d prefer to be in possession of all the facts first. He was uncomfortably aware that a careless word from him could cause enormous damage, and he wasn’t even sure yet if he was going to let her know that he’d discovered her secret, and how he might approach the subject with her if he did.
His luck was in; Marchand admitted him, grumbling, to Delphine’s sitting room, and then absented herself. He bent to kiss his grandmother’s soft cheek, noticing with a pang how pale she was, how obviously weary. ‘You could have stayed in bed today,’ he chided her gently.
She shrugged. ‘You know I do not sleep much, Rafael. And nor,’ she said as she regarded him shrewdly, ‘did you last night, I perceive. What’s the matter, my dear?’
Of course she would see that he was agitated; he had never been able to conceal his feelings from her, no matter how hard he tried. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Mademoiselle Delavallois.’
‘Ah,’ Delphine responded enigmatically.
‘I realised something about her last night,’ he said cautiously. He couldn’t be perfectly sure how she would react to what he now knew; he didn’t think she would dismiss Sophie from her service, but he supposed that rather depended on why the mysterious young woman was here in the first place. He didn’t want his grandmother to be hurt, distressed, but then he did not want to cause Sophie the least harm either, and he wasn’t surenow if this was even possible – it was a devil of a coil they found themselves in.
The Dowager, as was her way, cut straight through it to the heart of the matter. ‘I apprehend,’ she said drily, smiling a little, ‘that you have at last realised who my so-called humble little companion really is. I must say, it has taken you long enough. I know you met the child at least once years ago, for I recall you told me so then.’
He was astonished. Almost one hundred years old and she could still surprise him. ‘You knew?’
She scoffed. ‘Of course I knew! That dyed hair and the ingenious little story of her obscure parentage did not deceive me for more than a moment or two. She bears a strong resemblance to her great-grandmother, who once upon a time was a great rival of mine. Her smile, it is just the same; the way she carries herself. I have little to do here but relive memories from long ago; I could not possibly be mistaken. And Clemence de Montfaucon vanished eight years ago, vanished so completely that none of the people I sent could ever find any trace of her, so it all fits together perfectly. God knows where she has been in the intervening time; I dread to think.’
She took his breath away. ‘You were trying to trace her… Why?’ And then it struck him like a dizzying blow to the stomach. ‘Because of the diamond. Because Wyverne has the diamond.’
‘Your wits have not entirely deserted you,’ she said with a flash of her teasing spirit. ‘But in truth it is no matter for humour. As soon as I saw the Stella Rosa about that creature Rosanna’s neck eight years ago, and recognised it, for there cannot be another stone like it, of such size and in such a setting, I feared that Wyverne had obtained it in some dishonourable manner. I have never been able to keep track of all his terrible deeds – in reality, I didn’t want to. But I was younger then,barely ninety, and I still had a little energy, and so with Marchand’s help I sent Samuel Wilson to London to see what he could discover. And it was much worse than even I could have imagined.’ She sighed, and her frail hands moved restlessly in her lap. ‘When I confronted Wyverne with what I had discovered – I was braver then than I am now – he laughed in my face and boasted of what he had done.’
A cold dread was creeping through his body, so strong it was a physical sensation that made him shiver. ‘What had he done?’ he almost whispered.
‘The de Montfaucons left France with very little, and when they had sold or pawned all the rest of his wife’s jewels they realised, I suppose, that they must part with this last most precious thing. Wyverne wanted it and let it be known that he did – he has always had the ability to scent distress in others, where he may profit or get pleasure from it. Even as a boy he was like that. He offered to buy it – at a sufficiently low price, I am sure, but still, it would have been enough for the family to live on quietly for many years. And de Montfaucon would not want the humiliation of a public sale, to have his plight be an object of general discussion, so he was all the more vulnerable.’
