St. Raven, page 27
But as soon as Bourreau returned, the woman would tell him he’d had another visitor. If he missed the statue, he’d know who’d taken it.
Jane Wemworthy. Oh, poor Mrs. Wemworthy. It was to be hoped that she never visited Hatfield!
With any luck, he’d not know anything had gone. She was going to take the jewels, not the statue. At worst, she was going to switch the statues.
She put the hatbox on the table and looked around, failure chilling her. The statuette wasn’t on view, and there was nowhere to hide it. It must be in the bedroom. Perhaps in that valise.
There was little in this room that belonged to a guest—just a jacket tossed over the back of the faded sofa and three books on a table beside the only armchair. A clock ticked on the mantel over the empty fireplace, bracketed by two figurines, but they were cheap pottery pieces.
The furnishings didn’t offer hiding places—the sofa and chair were accompanied by a table with four chairs around it and an old-fashioned box bench against the wall.
Box bench.
She hurried over and tugged on the seat. It moved. It was heavy, but she heaved it up, and lo and behold—a chest!
By then she was so sure of failure that she just stared at it, as if it might vanish into pixie dust. But it remained as it was, a simple leather-bound chest with brass corners and a brass hasp-and-plate lock secured by a padlock.
She gave a little whoop of victory and set to work, praying Tris could hold Bourreau long enough.
She pulled the winkler out of her hatbox. There was not a lot of room between the lock and the side of the bench, but if she could lift the brass plate on the top, the padlock would be useless.
She put the edge of the tool against the metal and pushed. It went under the edge a tiny way. She gritted her teeth and put all her weight behind the tool, her senses quivering to catch someone coming. Her heart was racing with nerves, but also with triumph. All she had to do now was force open the lock, get the jewels out of the statue, and everything would be well.
Not everything, but she wouldn’t pay heed to that now.
At last the tool was a half inch under the metal. She paused to catch her breath and listen to the world beyond her pulse.
Nothing unusual.
Now to test the power of levers. Someone had said, “Give me a long enough lever, and I can move the Earth.”
The tool had a curve to it. She leaned down and the plate lifted a bit. It was working!
She paused again to listen, then had a thought. She dug the statue out of the hatbox. If she was caught before she could extract the jewels, she might still be able to make the switch.
Of course, being caught forcing open the lock was going to be hard to explain, but she couldn’t think like that now.
She pushed the statuette into one of her pockets, thinking that it was just as well, milord duke, that she was dressed in lowly wear rather than fashion, since fashionable skirts were too slim to allow use of pockets at all. There was certainly a bulge, but under the fullness, it might go unnoticed.
Then she saw the key on the inside of the room door. She dashed over and turned it. There. Now no one could burst in on her from the corridor. There was no key in the door to the bedroom. She shrugged. She’d done the best she could.
She turned back to her task, wishing her heartbeat would slow, that she didn’t feel dizzy. Wishing didn’t make it so, however, and at least her hands were steady when she leaned on the winkler again. The metal rose a bit more, and she saw the nails that held it in place.
It was going to work, and with any luck, when she’d finished she could push it back into place so it wouldn’t be immediately obvious. . . .
Then she heard noises.
Shouting.
A bang, as if something heavy had fallen.
She froze, as if being still might save her. But then she breathed again. The noises were loud rather than close. Somewhere people were shouting. She even heard a hunting halloo. Some rowdy rascals in or around the Cockleshell, but that was excellent. They would keep the inn servants tied up.
She turned back to the job and put all her weight to levering. And the metal sprang free!
Cressida suppressed another whoop, put aside the tool, and raised the lid. If the statue wasn’t in here after this, she was going to have a fit of the vapors. . . .
She stared.
The chest contained a jumble of jewelry and other precious items, many of them Indian. She thought she recognized some as very like pieces her father had owned—including, her bewildered mind noticed, a lot of erotic ivory statuettes.
Were there hundreds of these statues in England? Did Le Corbeau collect them as part of his dealings in risqué art? She had a nightmarish vision of searching through piles and piles of them, trying to spot the right one. . . .
She shook herself. Le Corbeau had stolen one from La Coop—she knew that—so it was here. She pushed her spectacles up her nose and began to disentangle the statues from chains, necklaces, and weapons, looking feverishly for the right style of hat.
“I could call your bluff,” Tris said to his cousin. “I doubt you have the money to drag this through the English courts, and I’d win in the end.”
The Frenchman still wore his gambler’s smile. “Perhaps. But you can avoid all with just a little generosity. And your family does owe me something.”
“You’re my uncle’s bastard. That doesn’t carry any claim at all.”
“The duke treated my mother heartlessly.”
“He treated everyone heartlessly—”
Riotous sounds cut off what Tris was saying. Loud voices down below. A bang that shook the old building, as if a heavy piece of furniture had been overturned. A cry that sounded like a hunting halloo.
Tris shared a look with Bourreau, and in accord, they went to open the door. The disturbance could have nothing to do with his affairs, but Cressida . . . He had to keep her safe.
Was it Miranda? He couldn’t imagine her causing a riot—at least, not of this sort. It sounded more like a drunken mob down there. Was there a by-election going on?
But then he heard boots rumbling up the stairs.
He and Bourreau were halfway down the corridor when the drunks spilled out at the top of the stairs, crying, “Halloo!” and “Tallyho!” and banging on all the doors.
“Corbeau!” someone bellowed. “We have you now!”
Crofton!
Tris turned to Bourreau, but his cousin was already hurtling down the corridor straight for the mob. With a curse, Tris took after him. Cressida was in Le Corbeau’s rooms!
Some of the rioters burst into the farthest room, and a woman shrieked. With a roar, Tris battered his way into the room. Bourreau was hauling a man off the bed.
Off a woman.
Three animals were on her. Tris hurled one across the room to crash into the wall before he realized that the woman was big, naked, and not Cressida.
The man he’d hurled had been Pugh, still in his Henry VIII clothes. Bourreau had knocked out a tiger and was rolling on the floor with a Harlequin and a man in crumpled ordinary wear.
The wild-eyed woman was wrapping a blanket back around herself and seemed safe. Tris whirled, searching the room.
Cressida?
He heard a crashing, splintering noise from the adjoining room and leaped over the fight on the floor—
Then froze in the doorway.
There she was, pale, wide-eyed behind spectacles, and clutching the statue, facing Crofton and a bunch of wild, drunken men who had just battered down the door. She glanced at Tris once, their eyes held for a heartbeat, then she looked back at Crofton and his drunken pack.
Every muscle tensed to dash to her side but Tris knew instantly that her best protection might be the duke not the man.
She was caught, and too soon. A quick glance showed no sign of another statue. They’d failed, but now to get her safely away from here.
To do that, he had to act as if she were a complete stranger.
He brought his quizzing glass into play. “What,” he drawled, “is the cause of this disturbance?”
Crofton swung around, eyes narrowed. “St. Raven?” Then he turned back to eye Cressida. “Well, well, well . . .”
Chapter Twenty-five
Tris maintained a bored demeanor, turning his quizzing glass on Cressida. “And who, may I ask, are you, ma’am?”
Her eyes were still huge, but she had some of her color back. Perhaps it was faith in him. He hoped it was justified.
She dropped a curtsy. “My name is Cressida Mandeville, Your Grace.”
“You know him, I see,” sneered Crofton.
Her surprise was beautifully done. “All London knows the Duke of St. Raven by sight, Lord Crofton.”
“Then what are you doing in a man’s locked room, eh?”
“I was unaware that door was locked, sir. I entered by the other one.”
The innkeeper arrived then, pushing into the room, puce and sweating, some menservants behind him. “I’ve sent for the magistrates! I’ll have the law on you all.” Then he saw Tris. “Your Grace! Oh, Your Grace, I’m that sorry you’ve been disturbed—”
Tris raised a hand and took control. He strolled into the room, closer to Cressida, eyeing both her and the statue through his quizzing glass. “Your statue, ma’am? How very . . . peculiar.”
He saw her lips twitch and prayed she could hold to her act. “It belongs to my father, Your Grace.”
“I won everything off your father,” Crofton snapped, “including his dirty statues. I call you thief, Miss Mandeville, and doxy to Le Corbeau, and I’ll repeat that when the magistrates arrive. I’ll see you whipped at the cart’s tail.”
Tris turned, ready to step between Crofton and Cressida if necessary. He prayed the man would make the move. He’d never wanted anything in life as much as he wanted to smash Crofton’s face to a bloody pulp. For the moment, he managed not to even let his hands form fists.
“You won nine statues, sir,” Cressida said with icy disdain. “There were ten, which can be proved. You did not win the possessions in our London house.”
Crofton’s snarl was pure frustration. How he must hate Cressida for escaping.
“Then what about Le Corbeau? Explain what you’re doing in his rooms, if you can.”
Before Cressida could try, Tris intervened. “More to the point, Crofton, what are you doing here?”
“Hunting crow. Perhaps you’d left my party, duke, before Le Corbeau invaded to filch my property.”
“Certainly I had. It was a tedious affair. But why here? Monsieur Bourreau was cleared of suspicion.”
“Easy enough for one of his colleagues to take to the road in his distinctive getup. Fooled the magistrates, but it doesn’t fool me.”
Jean-Marie burst into the room then, bruised, disordered, but visibly simmering with rage. He had his model in a protective arm, swathed in her blanket. He sat the woman on the wooden settle and turned on Crofton.
“You accuse me!” he snapped, eyes blazing.
Ah, the French temperament. Very useful.
“Moi! Un artiste! Un homme innocent!” Eloquent hands emphasized every point. “You accuse me—me! I was proved innocent. What does an honest man have to do in zis wretched country to be left in peace? You have invaded my room! Damaged my property! Assaulted my respectable model—”
“Respectable?” chortled the tiger, staggering in and heading straight for the blanket-wrapped woman. Jean-Marie whirled and kicked the man in the balls. The tiger shrieked and rolled into a knot of agony.
Tris couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Bravo!”
Not sure where the next throw would take them all, he turned to Crofton. “My cousin, Jean-Marie Bourreau,” he introduced, “whom I was visiting on family matters.”
“Cousin?” Crofton exploded.
“Cousin. My uncle’s son on the wrong side of the blanket. I suggest you leave, Crofton, and take your detritus with you. Kindly pay the innkeeper for damages as you go.”
Crofton’s eyes shifted around. “Not until I know what Miss Mandeville is doing here with that statue. We have only her word that there was one at her father’s London house. I think the whole set was at Stokeley Manor, which means that is one of the ones the Crow stole. And that,” he said, confident enough to meet Tris’s eyes, “proves that your ‘cousin’ is the Crow, and that Miss Mandeville is in league with him.”
Tris could almost hear the gears of Crofton’s mind turning. “Would I be completely mistaken, St. Raven, to think that particular statue is the one that your bit of Turkish delight expressed such an interest in?”
Tris worked at not showing any effect, and inspected the statue again through his quizzing glass. “It is perhaps similar enough to serve. Is it for sale, Miss Mandeville?”
She curtsied. He hoped her pink cheeks could be seen as natural in this outrageous situation. “Certainly, Your Grace. I came to offer it to Monsieur Bourreau, as he was recommended to me as a collector of such items. As you know, Lord Crofton,” she added with false sweetness, “my family has need to sell everything that is not essential to survival.”
She was a queen among women.
This damnable scene, however, was hammering nails into their coffin. All these men, despite drink, would remember this encounter and talk about it. Her being here was unfortunate but not ruinous. It was, however, a springing point to hell if anyone decided that Cressida resembled St. Raven’s houri.
Tris glanced at Crofton. He looked baffled, and no wonder. He had a string of events that seemed to suggest an unholy alliance. On the other hand, who was going to believe an illegal connection between a French highwayman, a virtuous provincial lady, and a duke? Especially when the virtuous lady was the image of propriety in her dull clothing, tidy bonnet, and spectacles.
Jean-Marie strolled toward Cressida and took the statue, turning it in his hands. “An excellent example of erotic temple art from Kashmir, Miss Mandeville, zough not, I am desolate to say, of great rarity.”
Tris wondered if he had a clue what he was talking about.
“I could offer you no more than t’irty pounds for it. What a shame it is not a pair.”
“It was a set of ten, monsieur. We do have some other Indian artifacts, though, alas, most passed into Lord Crofton’s hands.”
“I am only interested in—your pardon, mademoiselle—ze erotic art.” He returned the statue to her. “Let me know if you wish to sell.”
“Allow me to offer first, Miss Mandeville,” Tris said. “As Lord Crofton mentioned, I have someone in mind who would like that piece.”
Most of Tris’s attention was on Crofton, however. The man was thwarted and thus dangerous, and a hint of humor in Jean-Marie was not helping.
Crofton glared at Jean-Marie. “I still say you’re the Crow, Froggy, and that you raided my house last night. I’ll search this hole before I leave, and no one’s going to stop me.”
Good, thought Tris. I still might have a chance to batter him to bits. “You forget, Crofton, Monsieur Bourreau is my uncle’s son—and thus under my protection.”
“Protection,” Crofton snarled, his face reddening. “Let’s talk about protection! That woman”—he jabbed a finger at Cressida—“who looks so prim and proper, was your companion at Stokeley Manor, dressed to suit her nature. And she’s a known cohort of Le Corbeau—”
“I most certainly am not!” Cressida cried.
Tris raised a hand again and turned his quizzing glass on her, looking her up and down. He dropped all the acid disbelief he could into his words. “Crofton, I think you are mad.”
Crofton turned to his followers. “You saw St. Raven’s houri!” he yelled. “That’s her. That’s her! And the little bint had the nerve to act so prim and proper with me. No wonder she let herself be snatched by Le Corbeau. It was a setup!”
“You’re raving,” Tris said.
He was, too, flecks spitting from his mouth.
“St. Raven’s houri?” It was Pugh, staggering in, clutching his head. “Where? Want a go at her.”
Tris didn’t let himself serve Pugh as Jean-Marie had served the tiger. Instead, he indicated Cressida. “Lord Crofton thinks that this Miss Mandeville was with me at his party.”
Pugh stared, then shook his head. “Man’s mad. Suspected it for a while. That houri was a tasty morsel.”
Tris saw spots of color bloom deeper on Cressida’s red cheeks and wished he could reassure her that she was the tastiest morsel imaginable.
He turned to Crofton. “Since Miss Mandeville seems to lack male protection and you have linked her name to mine, it is for me to defend her honor. Do we need to take this any further?”
Sir Manley Bayne was sober enough to grab Crofton’s arm. “Must be mistaken, Croffy. I remember that bit of Turkish delight. Really, Croffy, no resemblance. Look at all those bobbling curls, and the glasses, and the tight little mouth. Remember that bit with the cucumber? . . . No, really.”
Crofton turned to look at Tris, and Tris saw pure hatred. A duke was untouchable by this, but Cressida . . .
Cressida, with her longing for peaceful, conventional Matlockian propriety. Tris knew how small towns worked. They were worse than London. A touch of scandal was like leprosy. A person was never clean again.
And such gossip couldn’t be stopped, not even with a pistol ball. Especially gossip as juicy as this, involving both a duke and a romantic highwayman. Killing Crofton, dammit, wouldn’t help. Her only safety was if there was never any believable connection between Miss Mandeville and the wicked Duke of St. Raven.
He gave her a slight bow. “Miss Mandeville, I deeply regret that due to a coincidence your name has been linked with mine in a distasteful connection. I doubt that the slander will be repeated, but if you should experience any repercussions, please inform me, and I will take care of it. As for that statue, I am still in the mood to purchase it.”
Her eyes met his, and he saw she had made the same grim, logical journey as he. But perhaps she had been too sensible to ever be teased by hope.
