Part 24 (2/2)
Arabella stood in the middle of the room, clasping her elbows, trying to decide what to do next. Jack had to go to Paris immediately. He had to find out if the woman was indeed his sister. If she was, he would buy her freedom. Somehow he would get her out of that h.e.l.lhole. But, dear G.o.d, if she was Charlotte, how would he react to the knowledge that she had languished in a French jail and he had not known? She had suffered and in ignorance he had done nothing to help her?
He would find it unendurable. And only she could tell him.
”What is it?” Meg spoke softly from the door, face and voice filled with concern. ”You look dreadful, Bella. What has happened?”
Arabella told her. When the telling was done she was infused with renewed vigor. A sense of hope. If Charlotte's fate was at the root of Jack's darkness, then maybe after the first shock of this news it would lift. He would rescue her, bring her back to the bosom of her family, and the long nightmare would end.
”I have to find Jack at once.” She strode to the door. ”Send someone with a message to Lady Beauchamp to say I'm unable to keep our appointment today. And could you ask Louis to pack a portmanteau for the duke? He'll be away for at least a week.”
”What about you?” Meg said, following Arabella into the hall. ”Shall I tell Becky to pack for you?”
”I don't know,” Arabella said. ”It depends how Jack takes the news.” She gave a twisted smile. ”He'll probably want to shoot the messenger.” She hurried into the hall and accosted the steward. ”Tidmouth, where is his grace?”
”At Maitre Albert's, your grace,” the steward informed her.
”Who is he and where is he?” she demanded impatiently.
”The fencing master, madam,” Tidmouth told her. ”He is to be found on Albermarle Street. Number 7, I believe.”
”Thank you. Send someone to the mews for my horse . . . oh, and the duke's. I want them in five minutes.” She ran for the stairs, leaving the steward distinctly put out at these rapid-fire orders. His mistress was usually rather delicate in her dealings with him, careful not to tread on his dignity.
Arabella rang for Becky, then struggled out of her morning gown, roughly yanking the b.u.t.tons loose. She had just pulled a riding habit out of the wardrobe when the maid hurried in. ”Help me with this, Becky.” She thrust her arms into the sleeves of her s.h.i.+rt. ”Quickly.”
Becky asked no questions but helped her mistress into the skirt, waistcoat, and jacket. Arabella sat down to pull on her boots. Her heart was beating fast, and she was aware of panic crisping the edges of her surface calm. She crammed the high-crowned beaver hat on top of her disordered hair, grabbed up her gloves and whip, and raced down the stairs.
Meg was waiting for her in the hall. ”The groom's there with the horses.”
”Thank you.”
”I'll take the dogs to the park,” Meg said. ”When we get back I'll keep them upstairs with me. If you need me, you'll know where to find me.”
Arabella kissed her quickly. ”I'm sorry . . . this is going to spoil your visit.”
”Oh, for heaven's sake, Bella. Go.” Meg pushed her towards the door that a footman, his eyes wide with curiosity, jumped to open for her.
Arabella ran down the steps, bent her knee for the groom to help her mount Renegade, and then told him to lead Jack's horse. He mounted his own cob and took the reins of Jack's raking chestnut.
”Albermarle Street,” Arabella said. ”And quickly.”
The liveried groom tipped his hat and set off at a brisk trot. Arabella restrained the urge to put Renegade to a canter. The streets were too narrow and crowded on this bright May morning and they had to weave their way between loaded drays pulled by stolid cart horses, barrow boys, and street vendors, not to mention window-shopping pedestrians.
They turned onto the quiet residential Albermarle Street after a quarter of an hour and found No. 7. A tall row house with black railings, it looked like any one of the others on the street, but there was a discreet plaque set beside the door, declaring simply, Maitre Albert. Presumably anybody coming here understood the significance of Maitre Albert, Arabella reflected as she dismounted and approached the door. She raised a hand to knock and then saw that the door was slightly ajar.
She entered a narrow hallway with a steep flight of stairs at the rear. She could hear the sound of soft footfalls above, the ring of steel on steel, but no voices. She hurried up and paused at a set of double doors facing her. The sounds were coming from behind them. Tentatively she raised the latch and pushed the door gently inward.
A long gallerylike room opened before her. Men stood around the walls, foils in hand, tips touching the floor, as they watched the pair of fencers in the center of the room. Jack and another man, a small, lithe, monkey of a man who danced on the toes of his stockinged feet. Jack moved as quickly as the silver blade in his hand in thrust and counterthrust. Both men were expressionless, all their attention focused on the play of the epees. Arabella, despite her panicky sense of urgency, despite the tightness in her chest, the cloud of dread enveloping her, watched in fascination. It seemed impossible that either swordsman would get beneath the guard of the other, so quick and sure were they.
Then Jack saw her. He danced back from an attack, spun on the ball of one foot to renew his advance, and saw her in the doorway. With one swift motion he had knocked aside his opponent's blade and then he was coming over to her, his breathing swift, his light step soundless.
He wasted no time on exclamations. ”What is it? What has happened?”
”I have to talk to you,” she said. ”Where can we go?”
He gestured towards a door in the side wall, then said, ”Albert, I must ask you to excuse me. An unceremonious end, I ask your pardon.”
The other fencer bowed, saluting with his sword. Jack did the same, as if these form courtesies were obligations of the sport that must be obeyed even in direst necessity. Then with a hand in the small of his wife's back, he urged her towards the door.
It was a small room, one wall lined with mirrors, a padded mat on the floor, foils in racks along one wall. A tall window looked down onto the street. Jack perched on a long table beneath the racks and looked at her. He still held his epee, its b.u.t.toned point resting on the floor between his stockinged feet. His eyes were alert, the hint of alarm in their depths barely visible.
”So?” he said quietly.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, to calm the blood rus.h.i.+ng through her veins. Her hands were shaking and she clasped them tightly against her skirt. ”Your sister,” she began. Jack went very still, his gaze now opaque.
”Charlotte . . . the comtesse de Villefranche . . . it . . . it's possible that she is in the prison of Le Chatelet.” It seemed simpler just to blurt out the salient facts.
He didn't move, didn't speak, just stared at her in seeming incomprehension until she was obliged to fill the dreadful silence. ”Monsieur Christophe has a friend . . . just escaped from France. He thinks he might have met your sister in prison.”
At last Jack spoke, his voice flat. ”My sister is dead.”
She reached a hand out to him but something stopped her from touching him. ”No . . . not necessarily, Jack. She may be alive.”
He shook his head in an almost irritable gesture of denial. ”Why would this man come to you with such a tale?” His gaze was fixed upon her, and now there was just a flicker of life . . . of hope, perhaps . . . behind the blank stare of incomprehension and disbelief.
”Because I asked Christophe to see if any of the emigre community knew anything of the comtesse,” she said. ”Until this Monsieur Flamand, there was no one. But he came to me this morning. I came to find you. You have to-”
”Don't tell me what I have to do,” he interrupted in a voice so soft she could barely hear it, and yet every word was enunciated so that it seemed as if he was shouting. ”My sister is dead.”
She shook her head, repeating stubbornly, ”Maybe not, Jack. There is a chance that she is not.” When he said nothing, just gazed into the middle distance with eyes that did not see her, she rushed on. ”Your horse is downstairs. And Louis is packing a portmanteau.”
He turned and left the room and for a moment she couldn't follow him. This utter expressionless quiet was impossible to react to. After a moment she went back into the long gallery. Jack, once more booted, his epee sheathed, was heading for the double doors. She ran after him. He ignored her as he took the stairs two at a time, went out to the street, mounted his horse, and set him to a fast trot.
Arabella mounted with the groom's help and went after Jack. She didn't know what to do, but she did know that she couldn't let him ignore her like this. If she was not worthy of his confidence, then their marriage was a sham, as hollow as Richard II's crown.
She arrived at the house some minutes after Jack. His horse was loosely tethered to the railing and the front door still stood open. She slid from her horse and hurried up the front steps, holding her full skirts away from her feet. Tidmouth was about to shut the door when she barged past him and ran for the stairs. She went into her boudoir and then stopped, forcing herself to calm down. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, sweat beading her forehead, her hair a dusty tangle flying out from beneath her hat, her cravat crooked. She hurled her hat and whip onto a chair and marched through her bedchamber and opened the door to Jack's room.
Jack was changing into riding britches. Louis was smoothing the folds of a s.h.i.+rt as he laid it into an open portmanteau on the bed. ”You can spare me five minutes,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. ”Louis, leave us, please.”
The valet looked towards his employer, an indignant question in his eyes. He did not take orders from the d.u.c.h.ess. But Jack gave him a curt nod and Loius left with a sniff.
”What is it?” Jack asked, tying his cravat.
”Why wouldn't you tell me you had a sister?” she asked, standing beside the bed, one hand on the bedpost, finding its cool, smooth curve comforting.
”It was no business of yours and still isn't,” he stated.
”I am your wife, Jack. How could it not be my business?” she asked quietly, fixing her eyes on him, willing him to respond in some way.
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