Page 22 of The Count’s Charade

“Has Mab been talking to you?”

“It is not needed to speak with her. It is not good that I make people talk of you this way. But there is more danger than this.”

Yes, from the Frenchmen who sought him. Grace sighed, and ever practical, looked about for his nightshirt. He had thrown it to one side on the covers.

“Will you manage to undress again?”

“If not, I will sleep so and wait for Reuben in the morning.”

“Sleep well, then.”

She turned to go. Henri’s voice stopped her before she could get around the door.

“Un moment!”

Grace turned her head, and saw a light in Henri’s eyes that set up a pattering at her bosom. “Yes?”

“I wish you to know how I admire you. You are a woman brave beyond any I have met. I have come here with a wound deep and not only of the body, and it is from you I gain courage to live on.” A smile crept into his features. “As it is said, I ‘take heart of Grâce’. I do not have words to thank you.”

It was ample reward, and Grace felt pricking at her eyes. But the desolation on her heart rose up again to taunt her. She forced a smile, and retreated. As she made her way to her chamber, she was acutely aware, as she never had been before, of the hateful inadequacy of her own body.

It was a relief to be lying once more in her bed, where she felt as like any ordinary woman as it was possible for her to feel. What had been normality felt alien in the remembrance of Henri’s open reference to her deformity. She was unused to such plain speaking. Her acquaintance were more in the habit of pretending not to notice, or behaving as if her awkward thumping tread did not exist. Or perhaps they were too accustomed to see it to pay undue attention. Upon first meeting her, most people were apt to make an unnatural effort not to look, once they had seen and schooled their startled features to disinterest. Only urchins in the street were unselfconscious enough to stare. And only Henri Rousselle had asked her about it outright.

She ought to be glad of his lack of artifice, of the assumption of intimacy that allowed him to speak of it. But all she was able to feel was an intensity of bitterness that was utterly out of character. Grace had never been bitter. Brought up to believe in the omniscience of the Almighty, she had accepted Papa’s dictum that God had his reasons for thus afflicting her. She had known she was valued in despite of it, she had known she was loved.

A pang caught at her breast. Grace sternly dismissed it. She had nothing for which to be bitter. On the contrary, she had independence and a life that had been the fulfilment of all her ambition. Had been. The words echoed flatly in her mind. Grace rebelled against the rise of despondency, lashing herself into resentment.

What, was she so easily seduced into intolerable yearnings? What had she to hope for? Merely because a stranger had thrown a modicum of excitement into her life, was she to fall victim to idiotic dreams? He was handsome, true. She might go so far as to say he was the embodiment of those foolish fancies any young woman must experience. But she, Grace Dovercourt, was no longer young. Nor was she the sort of woman who could excite the amorous interest of such a man as Henri Rousselle. Even if she were — forlorn hope! — what would it avail her when he would very soon be gone from here? And to the Lord alone knew what dread fate.

It would be better for her to learn indifference, and that right speedily. If he survived, she had done her Christian duty, and made reparation for the neglect that might well have ended his life. That must suffice her.

Besides, Henri wanted to leave. That much was plain. In her interests, he would have her believe. Grace cared neither for her reputation, nor for the danger, if keeping him here would keep him safe. An incipient memory gave her his words again: I take heart of Grâce. They sang an echo in her bosom and a deeper knowledge told her that if she would secure her own peace of mind, she must let Henri go.

A decision blasted upon the following morning, when three Frenchmen turned up on her doorstep.

The spokesman was a man outwardly of similar cut to Henri. He was more than passably good-looking, if not the equal of his compatriot above stairs, with brown eyes set in symmetrical features and a somewhat full-lipped mouth. At sight of Grace, moving in as Jemima stepped aside for her, he removed his hat, revealing brown locks tied in the nape of his neck, and introduced himself in almost fluent English as one Loriot, engaged upon the business of the French government.

Grace thrust down on the tattoo hammering in her chest. She could feel tension in the maid hovering behind her, but she would not let her own anxiety appear in her face. Had she not prepared for this moment? She raised haughty eyebrows.

“French? French? Are you aware, sir, this country is at war with France?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” came the curt response. “But we are engaged upon the affairs diplomatic. You wish to see my papers?”

Shrugging, Grace rejected this offer. “I should suppose they must be in order, or Mr Wooferton would not tolerate your being in the area. What do you want with me?”

The fellow inclined his head. “It is a matter internal, mademoiselle. We seek one of our countrymen.”

“Here? What would a Frenchman be doing here?”

“Seeking shelter, perhaps,” said Loriot, apparently impervious to the inflection of astonishment. “He was wounded.”

“Wounded?” Grace gave an exaggerated start, glancing quickly over her shoulder at Jemima. “You mean he was French? Lord, and I never guessed it!”

Interest sprang up in the fellow’s face and he straightened. His two companions, less neatly garbed than the first in unmatched coats and breeches, had hung back upon the path looking bored. No doubt these questions had been asked fifty times already. Grace saw them shift and glance at each other.

Sure that Henri’s pursuers must inevitably come, she had toyed with the notion of denying his presence, and decided with reluctance that it would not serve. There was no saying how far the news had spread that a man lay wounded in her house, and though she would vouch for it most of her acquaintance would scorn to betray it to these foreigners, she was no fool. Gold, if they had any, might turn a stout English heart as soon as any other. She elected the more dangerous course, which would at least permit her to weave a tale of half-truths among the lies.

“You have seen him?” came eagerly from the leader.