That young man grinned. “Guess!”
Vashti leaned back upon her pillow after first insuring she did not thereby squash any wildlife and carefully moving the turtle to safer ground. An action such as she contemplated must bring her under the gravest censure; no lady with a care for her good name would become connected with a gaming hell. But what did an aristocratic background matter, now that they were reduced to such straits? In point of fact, it had been so many years since Vashti was treated like a lady that she frequently forgot her father had been a comte.
“I wonder what Papa would do?” she mused. “At least, were the house reopened, we would be in an excellent position to hear the latest news from the visiting émigrés. Or Orphanstrange would!” A tickling sensation assaulted her nostrils. “Providing there
is
word!” she added gruffly.
“Moonshine!” Charlot did not care to have this exciting day culminate in a fit of the weeps. “You are merely feeling fagged—and cross, too, I’ll warrant, because you have had a great many things forced on you against your will. I know you didn’t wish to come to London, but if I hadn’t made a push, we’d still be in Brighton, listening to Aunt Adder scold. I’ll tell you what it is, Vashti: you want resolution. You’re afraid to express an opinion for fear someone will take it amiss.”
Had Vashti expressed herself at that moment, she would have boxed her beloved young brother’s ears. Nobly, she did no such thing, nor mention that save for her submissiveness Charlot would have had no roof over his head.
“And now I’m scolding!” Charlot unwound Python from around his neck. “Sorry, sis! Tell me what else Minette said to you about Mountjoy House. I’ll wager
that
was why she spun that taradiddle about the drains; she wanted to speak to you alone. Aunt Adder would have called her a slyboots.”
“Aunt Adder would have called her worse than a slyboots,” retorted Vashti drily. “It wouldn’t be overly difficult to reopen the house, according to Minette. All that’s lacking is the wherewithal, and she thinks Mr. Heath may be persuaded to advance us that.” Despite her forebodings, Vashti couldn’t keep the amusement from her voice. “Does Mr. Heath prove disobliging, Minette assures me we may pop the plate.”
“Plate?
Have
we plate?” Charlot was intrigued. “Fancy that! Do you know what I think, Vashti? I think that if Papa was in our place, he’d reopen Mountjoy House. Nobody even need know we’re here, if you don’t wish it—and while everyone else is engaged with gambling, we can search the house!”
“Search the house?” Vashti was at a loss to understand why Charlot should be so enthused by this prospect. Herself, Vashti would rather have explored a tomb.
In his impatience, Charlot bounced, thereby disturbing the myriad occupants of the bed. “Marmaduke’s treasure, goose!”
“I’d quite forgotten that.” Vashti stared at the carved oak mantel, from behind which came noises indicative of a whole herd of rats. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try our hand. If the house isn’t profitable, it may still be sold. The furnishings alone should bring us enough to live on for a time, though I’m not sure what they’re worth.”
“Capital!” Charlot further disrupted his menagerie to give his sister a quick hug. “But I don’t think you should trust that Minette. Mr. Heath will look after the business for us if you ask him, surely—why should he not? He looked after it for Cousin Marmaduke.”
“Not too felicitously,” Vashti responded drily. “Cousin Marmaduke was fairly deep in debt.”
Lest his sister rescind her decision, Charlot adjudged it time to withdraw. “It’s not Mr. Heath’s fault if Cousin Marmaduke was a loose fish!” he observed as he gathered up his various pets, including Greensleeves from atop the lacquered cabinet, and trotted toward the door. “You won’t be sorry, Vashti, I promise! When I find Marmaduke’s treasure, you may set yourself up in the
very
latest mode!”
Alone at last—save for Calliope, who had usurped her pillow—Vashti drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees, staring at the cold hearth. It was a posture in which most ladies would have appeared ludicrous. Vashti, instead, was infinitely provocative, though she did not realize how compelling were her looks, having been granted scant opportunity to indulge the sin of vanity during the past ten years.
As was her habit when perplexed, Vashti nibbled on her lower lip. There was scant relief for her in the decision so reluctantly made. Did Charlot not patently enjoy the notion of living in London, were he not convinced a treasure was hidden somewhere in this old house— Vashti could not bear to cause her brother’s spirits to plummet as low as her own. Little enough harm would be done by indulging him, she thought. And she herself would benefit from a brief retreat from Aunt Adder’s bitter tongue.
But after that respite, then what? They couldn’t live indefinitely in a gaming hell, even were the establishment profitably run. As for Marmaduke’s treasure, of which Charlot had such high hopes, Vashti wasn’t even certain that such a thing had ever existed. If it had, what could it have been? From what she’d heard of Marmaduke, he’d have hoarded nothing that could be readily exchanged for wealth.
Vashti firmly removed the indignant Calliope from her pillow and lay back. As she had anticipated, slumber proved elusive. Vashti clasped her hands behind her head, once more went over the events of the day. What preconceptions had people of Marmaduke’s heiress? What expectations had she failed to meet—and why? Mr. Heath’s reservations she could understand; Vashti had her own reservations about residing in Mountjoy House. But Mr. Heath had remarked upon her appearance, and Minette had also said that Vashti was a surprise.
Surprise? Minette herself was that. Vashti glanced at Calliope, who had settled down, muttering, atop her feet. “Minette is a baggage!” she remarked aloud.
Came a burst of ghostly laughter, hard upon her words, so abrupt and brief Vashti might have thought she imagined it, save that Calliope’s fur stood straight on end. Motionless, frozen, they waited, but the eerie sound was not repeated. Looking baleful, Calliope subsided once more onto Vashti’s feet.
What precisely
had
they heard? Vashti suspected she’d rather not know. If ever there was a place ripe for haunting, it was Mountjoy House. Vashti pulled the covers up over her head.
CHAPTER SIX
In an amazingly short time, the massive doors of Mountjoy House were thrown open to the public once again, by means which the house’s owner didn’t care to guess. Wine flowed copiously in the public rooms, where reckless gamblers clustered around the faro table and the E.O. stand. No game of chance had been overlooked. For those not addicted to faro and E.O., there were hazard and whist, piquet and macao, a form of vingt-et-un. To tend to the visitors, and the house itself, an appropriate number of servants had been hired.
On one of those servants, Lord Stirling was currently venting his spleen. Because he would rather have been a great many other places, it was in no good temper that Yves had arrived at Mountjoy House. Nor had his ill humor been alleviated by exposure to the more fanciful aspects of the house’s interior, not even the entrance hall and vestibule, with simple graceful vaulting, nor the carved staircase where the late Marmaduke had taken his final tumble. Indeed, so annoyed was Lord Stirling with the footman who guided him so inexorably toward the gaming rooms that he was tempted to dispatch the servant to a similar fate.
“Devil take it, I do not
wish
to play!” he snapped, at the top of the stair. “I guarantee Mademoiselle Beaufils will see me, do you but present her my card.”
The footman had his orders, queer as they might seem. “I will apprise Mr. Orphanstrange of your request, milord,” he responded with a wooden countenance and a stiff little bow. His impassivity thawed somewhat as Lord Stirling reached into a pocket and withdrew a coin. The coin changed hands. “Now that I think on it, I believe I saw Mademoiselle Beaufils go into the library, milord. The last door on your left, there along the hall.”
His temper no bit soothed by this exchange, Lord Stirling strode down the hallway, paused before the library door, grasped the knob. Silently he entered, curious as to what he’d find.
The room was large and dark, its central point a chimney piece apparently inspired by tombs, in front of which snoozed an Afghan hound. Atop the chiffonier snoozed a multicolored cat, sprawled on its back, with all four furry legs extended straight into the air. Rows of books lined the walls, some bound in velvet, some fastened with tarnished metal clasps. Piles of books were stacked upon the library table. And an inordinate number of volumes were strewn about the floor.
Of these details, Yves briefly took note. The focus of his attention was the slight figure perched all unsuspecting atop the library steps. Her back was turned to him. As Yves watched, she removed another book from the shelf, shook it briskly, let it fall.
So much for any fleeting hope that she might know nothing of missing memorandums and spies! Lord Stirling strode forward. “Hello, Vashti—or should I call you Mademoiselle Beaufils?” He was barely in time to prevent her tumbling off the library steps, so quickly did she spin around. “You are not happy to see me. Little zany, what the
devil
have you been about?”
Complex indeed were the myriad emotions Vashti felt at being plucked off the library steps and clasped to a gentleman’s chest. A very handsome gentleman he was, moreover, with his golden curls and blazing blue eyes. “I was, er, dusting the bookshelves! They have been shockingly neglected, as you can see.” The gentleman appeared far less interested in the library shelves than her own face. Futilely, Vashti struggled to free herself. “Sir, I think there is some mistake!”
“If so, it is yours.” Critically, Lord Stirling surveyed his captive, who fit so snugly in his arms. “Don’t try and pull the wool over
my
eyes. You’re to be felicitated on keeping your looks, my dear.” Belatedly recalling the purpose of his visit, he set her on her feet.
No sooner did the madman—who else but a madman would treat a stranger with such casual familiarity?—release her than Vashti took refuge behind a chair. “You are looking for the gaming rooms, I conjecture. They are back along the hallway. You will find them in a twinkling, sir, do you go back the way you came.”
“A good try, but you may not so easily send me about my business.” Skirting the hearth upon which the hound slumbered, Lord Stirling availed himself of a window seat. “We have a great deal to discuss, you and I—such as the object of your diligent search.”
This madman thought he knew her? Vashti almost wished it were true. He was by far the most attractive gentleman she had ever set eyes upon, his athletic figure set off to good advantage by black breeches and silk stockings, long-tailed dark blue evening coat and white waistcoat and faultlessly pleated cravat.
A pity so very personable a specimen must be deranged, which he clearly was. Despite the restricted life she had led in Brighton, Vashti was not so naive as to believe sane gentlemen went about plucking ladies off library steps and embracing them without so much as a by-your-leave.
“You disappoint me,” Yves remarked. She had changed more than he initially thought—not in appearance, she still looked remarkably young; but in a more subtle alteration of attitude. The Vashti Beaufils he had known would never have stood staring at him in so shocked and defenseless a manner, nor have cowered behind a chair. Nor would she have ever worn a gown remarkable only for its lack of anything to distinguish it, not even a single tuck around the hem.
For that matter, she would neither have eschewed the noisy gaming rooms for a peek into the library, no matter how great the potential gain. “I begin to think I
have
erred,” he said slowly. “Or perhaps that is what you would have me think.”
Since the gentleman didn’t apparently intend to offer her further violence, Vashti dared step out from behind the chair. “I’ve changed since when?” she asked. “Forgive me, sir, but I think you must be all about in your head!”
Perhaps he was, mused Yves, else he would not be drawn to this unfashionably clad female with her tousled curls and dust-smudged face. The attraction annoyed as much as it surprised. Yves had learned in his salad days the unwisdom of allowing a woman the upper hand. Especially this woman! Either she’d become a damned good actress, or she had no memory of him. Yves was startled to discover that her forgetfulness stung his pride.
Why was the gentleman looking at her in so forbidding a manner? Vashti edged toward the fireplace. “Perhaps you have merely taken a drop too much to drink,” she offered. “I understand it can lead a person to take very queer turns, though I never indulged myself.”
Lord Stirling decided it was impossible for a lady to entirely forget a gentleman with whom she had shared a grand passion, however long ago and brief. Therefore, Mademoiselle Beaufils was prevaricating mightily. In truth, she should have gone upon the boards. Did he not know better, Yves would swear she was a delightful innocent.
But he did know better. Sternly, Yves reminded himself that the character of Mademoiselle Beaufils was not half so lovely as her face. “I haven’t overindulged in the grape, I promise you, although I perfectly understand how it is you might wish I had. You may put down that poker, Vashti. My thirst for violence is temporarily slaked. Come, let us cry friends. Sit down and talk to me.” She hesitated, and he looked rueful. “I promise to offer you no further abuse.”
Far more experienced ladies had failed to withstand that rueful look. Vashti sat down, as requested, but in the farthest chair. Despite his annoyance, Yves found himself amused, so excellently did she portray the country mouse.
Shyly, she glanced at him. “How is it that you know my name, sir?”
How deftly she pricked his pride! Yves refused to play her game. “I am Santander, ma’am!” he responded, so harshly that Calliope rolled over and hissed, and Mohammed opened one faintly curious eye. “If it offends you that I call you by your Christian name—”