Читать книгу His Counterfeit Condesa - Joanna Fulford, Joanna Fulford - Страница 10

During their journey that day they beguiled the time with cards. On this occasion it was piquet, a game which Sabrina enjoyed and at which she was particularly adept, as Falconbridge soon discovered.

‘Is this the sign of a misspent youth?’ he asked, having lost three times in succession.

‘Misspent?’ She smiled faintly. ‘On the contrary, I had a very good teacher.’

‘So I infer. Your father?’

‘No, Captain Harcourt of the Light Dragoons.’ Seeing his expression she hurried on, ‘It was all quite respectable. He knew my father, you see, for they had had occasion to work together in Portugal and they became good friends.’

‘A trusty mentor then.’

‘Yes, he was.’ It was quite true, as far as it went. Yet she knew she could never tell him exactly how much she owed Captain Harcourt. ‘He said that knowledge of gaming was an essential aspect of any young woman’s education.’

‘Did he indeed?’

‘Oh, yes, and he was right. His instruction has proved useful on several occasions.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the time in Lisbon, when Father and I were invited to supper and cards with the officers. One of them was a lieutenant whose honesty was highly suspect.’

‘Ah, he was cheating.’

‘Yes, marking cards. It took me a while to work out how he was doing it.’

‘And then?’

‘I played him at his own game. He lost fifty guineas that evening.’ Her eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘He wasn’t best pleased.’

Falconbridge’s lips twitched. ‘I imagine he was not.’

‘It served him right though.’

‘Absolutely.’

Sabrina tilted her head a little and surveyed him keenly. ‘Are you shocked?’

‘By the revelation of a card sharp in the army? Hardly.’

‘I mean by my telling you these things.’

‘No, only a little surprised.’

‘You think it not quite respectable?’

He smiled. ‘On the contrary, I am fast coming to have the greatest respect for your skills.’

What she might have said in reply was never known, for suddenly the vehicle slowed and then men’s voices were raised in challenge. The words were French. Falconbridge lowered the window and looked out.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘A French patrol.’

She drew in a sharp breath. ‘How many?’

‘Ten—that I can see. There may be more.’

‘Regulars?’

‘We’re about to find out.’

The carriage stopped and Sabrina heard approaching hooves and the jingle of harness. Moments later burnished cuirasses, blue jackets and high cavalry boots appeared in her line of vision. Their officer drew rein opposite the carriage window.

Falconbridge muttered an expletive under his breath. ‘I think I know this man. Not his name, his face.’

Sabrina paled. ‘Will he know you?’

‘Let’s hope not.’ He glanced at his companion and murmured, ‘Say as little as possible, Sabrina.’

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. Then the French officer spoke.

‘You will kindly step out of the carriage and identify yourself, Monsieur.’

With every appearance of ease Falconbridge opened the door and stepped down onto the roadway. The officer dismounted. Sabrina’s hands clenched in her lap. She heard Falconbridge address the man in excellent French. On hearing his own language the officer’s expression lightened visibly. For a moment or two his gaze met and held that of Falconbridge in a look that was distinctly quizzical. Then it was gone. He examined the papers that were passed to him and, apparently satisfied, handed them back.

‘These are in order. You will forgive the intrusion, Monsieur le Comte.’ He bowed. Then his glance went to the other passenger in the coach and lingered appreciatively. He bowed again. ‘Madame.’

For the space of several heartbeats she felt the weight of that lupine stare. It stripped her and seemed to enjoy what it discovered for its owner bared his teeth in a smile. Annoyed and repelled together she lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze. The rugged and moustachioed face suggested a man in his early forties, an impression reinforced by the grizzled brown hair that hung below the rim of his helmet.

‘Colonel Claude Machart at your service,’ he said then.

She inclined her head in token acknowledgement of the greeting while her mind dwelled regretfully on the pistols locked in her trunk.

‘May I enquire whither you are bound, madame?’ he continued.

‘Aranjuez,’ she replied.

‘Aranjuez? That is some way off. May I ask your business there?’

Before she could reply Falconbridge cut in. ‘A social gathering.’ His tone conveyed ennui. ‘One would rather not travel in these uncertain times, but on this occasion it cannot be avoided. Noblesse oblige, you understand.’

‘Of course.’ Machart smiled, an expression that did not reach his eyes. ‘And you will be staying where?’

‘At the house of Don Pedro de la Torre.’

‘Then you must be attending the ball.’

Falconbridge evinced faint surprise. ‘You are well informed, Colonel.’

‘It is my business to be well informed, monsieur.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

Machart threw him another penetrating look. ‘Well, let me not detain you further. Madame, monsieur, I bid you good day and a pleasant journey.’

Falconbridge climbed back into the coach and regained his seat. As he did so the Colonel remounted and, having favoured the travellers with a nod, barked an order to his men and the patrol thundered away. Sabrina made herself relax.

‘He didn’t recognise you.’

‘No, or we would be under arrest now.’

‘Do you recall where you saw him before?’

‘Yes, on the battlefield at Arroyo de Molinos last October. He was leading a detachment of cavalry.’ He paused. ‘My men engaged with them at close quarters. But it was many months ago and the scene chaotic. It is unlikely he would remember every face he saw that day.’

She knew the battle had resulted in a heavy defeat for the French. That would certainly have been held against them if Machart had remembered Falconbridge.

‘He struck me as being an unpleasant character,’ she said.

Her comment drew a faint smile. ‘What makes you think so?’

‘I’ve met enough military men to recognise the type. Let’s hope we’ve seen the last of him.’

Falconbridge mentally echoed the sentiment. He had a good memory for faces and the ability to read those he met. For that reason he could only agree with her assessment.

Sabrina felt more than a little shaken by the incident, and suddenly Aranjuez did indeed begin to assume the quality of a lion’s den. One false step would put them at the mercy of the French, of men like Machart. She shuddered inwardly, recalling what Falconbridge had told her earlier about the risks of capture and interrogation: Everyone talks by the third day. He had warned her but she had elected to come. There was no choice now but to see this through. Her father’s freedom depended on it.

She was distracted from these thoughts by a strong hand closing on hers. Its clasp was reassuring, like its owner’s smile. The effect was to create a sense of melting warmth deep inside her.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Our stay in Aranjuez will be brief. Once the ball is over I shall have urgent business requiring my return.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

He gave her hand another gentle squeeze and then released his hold again, leaning back in his seat, surveying her quietly. The sensation of inner warmth intensified. She resisted it. He had meant only to be kind. It would be foolish to refine on something so trivial.

‘I should not like to spend much more time in Colonel Machart’s company.’

‘No, though I believe he would not say the same of yours.’

‘It means nothing. He’s French so he can’t help it.’

Falconbridge bit back the urge to laugh. ‘How so?’

‘All Frenchmen are demonstrative in that regard.’

‘Are they?’

Sabrina saw the bait and refused to rise. ‘So it is said.’

‘And Englishmen are not demonstrative?’

‘Not in the same way.’

His expression was wounded. ‘What a body blow.’

‘I never meant it to apply to you. I was speaking in general terms.’

‘Based on your considerable experience, of course.’

‘Certainly not. I never meant to suggest…’ Too late she saw the expression in his eyes and knew he had been teasing her again. ‘You knew that, you horror.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ The apology was belied by a smile. ‘It was irresistible.’

Her chin came up at once. His smile widened. For a short space neither one spoke, though every fibre of her being was aware of the gaze fixed on her face. Even worse was the creeping blush she could feel rising from her neck to her cheeks.

‘I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.’

‘Forgive me. I was trying to be more…demonstrative.’

For a second or two she could only stare back but his smile was infectious and, unable to help it, she began to laugh.

‘No you weren’t. You were roasting me and enjoying it.’

The accusation left him unabashed. ‘I can’t deny it.’

‘You are quite shameless.’

‘So I’ve been told. I fear the habit is deeply ingrained now.’

‘I am sure of it,’ she retorted. ‘However, I shall try not to be so easy a prey in future.’

His enjoyment increased. Better still, the apprehension he had glimpsed in her face after the encounter with Machart was gone, just as he had hoped.

‘Good. I like a challenge.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s no use, sir. I shall not succumb. I’m wise to you now.’