Joanna Maitland – My Lady Angel (страница 4)

She nodded politely towards her visitor and stepped further into the room. Behind her, the door closed with a tiny click. Willett was no doubt standing on the other side, ready to defend her against the foreign intruder. Willett had a profound distrust of all things foreign.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Angel said evenly. ‘To what do we owe the honour of your visit?’ She looked steadily at him, her head tilted slightly to one side as she assessed him more fully. Yes, there might be a slight family resemblance…but almost all the Rosevales were fair, like Angel herself, whereas this man had chestnut hair and dark eyes. And the features of a Greek god.

‘My lady, I seek the Marquis Penrose.’ He pronounced the title in the French fashion, but that barely registered with Angel.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden thundering of her pulse at the visitor’s question. He did not know! She took a deep breath. ‘The Marquis of Penrose died more than a year ago, sir,’ she said. ‘Since my father left no male heirs, the title died with him. There is no longer a Marquis of Penrose.’

For a moment there was a shocked silence. Angel saw that her visitor’s widening eyes were dark blue rather than brown, as she had first thought. Perhaps he was a Rosevale after all?

‘Your pardon, my lady. I do not understand,’ he said at last, shaking his head.

Angel motioned him to one of the wing chairs. He waited courteously until she had seated herself before following her lead. He moved with a degree of elegance that would draw every female eye.

‘If you will have the goodness to explain your errand, sir, I am sure I shall be able to provide you with the information you seek. Tell me, why did you wish to see my father?’ She tried to smile encouragingly at him.

‘I am Julien Pierre Rosevale, my lady. I arrived from France just a few days ago. The crossing was—’ he closed his eyes for a second, and swallowed ‘—painful.’

Angel’s mind was racing—a Frenchman called Rosevale?—but she forced herself to nod in sympathy. Only the most urgent business would persuade any sane person to brave the Channel in the depths of winter.

‘I came to seek help from the Marquis since he is…was my father’s brother. It was not possible to travel before, because— Well, no matter. I think…you and I are cousins, I think?’ It seemed that he was more than a little bewildered.

‘You are Julian Rosevale’s son? But—’ Angel smoothed her silken skirts in an attempt to hide her consternation. ‘Forgive me, monsieur, but I had understood that my uncle and all his family perished on the guillotine. How is it that you alone escaped?’

‘Not I alone, my lady. I have a younger sister. Her name is Julie. Both of us escaped the terrible fate that took my father and mother, and all my mother’s family. My father’s servants saved us both and brought us up. They swore we were their own children.’

‘Your father’s servants?’

‘Gaston, and his wife, Hannah,’ he said, nodding. ‘Gaston came from the d’Eury family estate at the time of my parents’ marriage. But Hannah is English. She made us both speak English always when we were alone. Never outside the house, of course. We were always afraid that one of the spies might hear us. There were spies everywhere.’

That explained his remarkable command of English, Angel concluded. His use of the language was almost faultless. Only the occasional tiny slip betrayed his origins.

And the longer he talked, the less obvious it seemed to become.

Aunt Charlotte’s tightly clasped fingers were almost as white as her face, but her back was ramrod-straight and her features were set.

‘Aunt, you will allow me to present our visitor,’ Angel said simply, drawing him into the room. ‘He is lately arrived from France, in spite of the winter storms. He says his name is Julien Rosevale, son of your brother, Julian.’ It was an odd way of performing an introduction, to be sure, but she was not about to accept this man’s word as to his identity. Aunt Charlotte would be in a much better position to judge the truth of his claim. ‘Sir,’ Angel continued smoothly, ‘this is my late father’s sister, Lady Charlotte Clare.’

Aunt Charlotte had risen from her place, acknowledging the visitor’s extravagant bow with only a slight nod. She did not extend her hand. Instead, she stared intently at him. ‘You do not have the look of the Rosevales, monsieur,’ she said at last.

‘No, my lady. I take after my mother’s family. The d’Eury family all have…had dark hair.’

Aunt Charlotte nodded thoughtfully and motioned the visitor to approach. ‘You are much of a height with Julian, certainly. As to the rest…’ She turned to Angel who had remained near the door, watching. ‘My dear, would you be so good as to go to my chamber for me? In the drawer beside my bed you will find a carved ivory box.’ She began to fumble inside the high neckline of her gown.

Angel hesitated. There were servants enough to run such errands, surely?

‘Forgive me, my child, but I cannot entrust my box to a servant.’ She finally succeeded in extracting a fine gold chain from under her gown and detached two keys from it. ‘You will need the key,’ she said, handing the larger one to Angel.

‘Very well, Aunt.’ Angel felt oddly reluctant to leave the old lady with the strange new arrival. There could be no danger, of course, with so many servants about, and yet…

‘Thank you, Angelina,’ said Lady Charlotte, with decided emphasis, nodding in the direction of the door. It seemed she had no qualms about being alone with the Frenchman.

Angel turned to leave. Her new-found cousin was before her, however, opening the door with a flourish. Where on earth had he learned such manners? They did not sit at all well with a child of the Revolution.

She ran lightly up the stairs to her aunt’s bedchamber, wondering what could possibly be in this mysterious carved box. She was sure she had never set eyes on any such thing. It must have been kept well hidden.

The table alongside Aunt Charlotte’s bed was nothing out of the ordinary. The brass key slid into the lock in the single drawer and turned easily. This drawer must have been opened many and many a time.

The drawer contained a bundle of letters tied with a black ribbon, a pressed posy encased in a protective sleeve of finest muslin, and a beautiful carved box.

The box was locked.

Lifting it out, Angel was struck by the warmth of the ivory in her hand. The box was very old. It was worn, particularly around the small brass lock, where it was only just possible to make out the tiny sprays of carved flowers. What could it contain? It seemed to weigh nothing at all.

She carefully closed and locked the drawer, casting a last glance at its contents. Such a pile of letters. And the posy looked fragile enough to shatter at a breath. Who had given it to Aunt Charlotte? Her late husband? Or was there perhaps a secret lover in the old lady’s past? It was most intriguing.

She hurried back down to the drawing room, carrying the precious box. Willett was standing guard outside, just as before. He had been listening, of course, but he would never admit to it, not to her. If she wanted to know what had been discussed in her absence, she would have to ask her aunt.

The Frenchman jumped to his feet the moment the door opened. He had been sitting close by Lady Charlotte on the sofa. Angel fancied he had even been holding the old lady’s hand. He was certainly quick to seize an opportunity. Angel had not been gone from the room above ten minutes.

‘Thank you, my love,’ said Lady Charlotte, reaching up to take the box. ‘This is just what we need.’ She busied herself with the tiny key, talking all the while. ‘I am sure that Pierre is just what he says, but I shall produce the proof in a trice.’

‘Pierre…?’ Angel looked enquiringly towards the Frenchman.

‘My family have always called me Pierre,’ he said quickly. ‘Since my father was Julian, and my sister is Julie, it seemed easier for everyone.’ He smiled at her, as if he knew she would understand. And she found that she did.

‘Here we are!’ said Lady Charlotte.

The box was open. Its deeply cushioned interior contained two miniatures—of a man and a woman, both dressed in the elaborate style of the French court of decades before.

Lady Charlotte offered the man’s portrait to Angel. ‘This is Julian Rosevale, my dear. Your uncle…and Pierre’s father.’

So that explained the locked drawer! Aunt Charlotte must have found a way of keeping in touch with Julian, in spite of the family feud.

The portrait showed a Rosevale, no doubt of it, in spite of the powdered wig. He looked like a younger version of Angel’s dead father. She felt a sudden sadness at the thought of her uncle’s terrible end, and the fact that she had been told almost nothing about him until now. That cursed Rosevale temper!

‘And this—’ Lady Charlotte handed over the second portrait ‘—this is Amalie d’Eury, Julian’s wife. And Pierre’s mother. The likeness is very strong, I think.’

Angel studied the beautiful miniature. It was impossible to tell the colour of the lady’s hair, since it was heavily powdered, but her brows were dark and her eyes were blue. She had the same fine features as Pierre, and the same determined chin. If the portrait was a true likeness, there could be no doubt that Pierre and Amalie d’Eury were related in some way.