Mademoiselle At Arms by Elizabeth Bailey (ebook reader with android os .txt) 📕

Alderley might have been an expert for all the sound he made as he forced the lock with the heavy blade.

Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. Gerald stood quite still for a moment or two, listening intently. Utter silence answered him. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds.

As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the great shrouded shapes of the furniture. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own.

Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. Gerald’s task was to stop him from doing so. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. It was his belief that the French had enough troubles of their own in these difficult times without bothering to nose out British business.

Noiselessly, his booted feet stepping with careful restraint, he started forward, signalling to Roding to follow. Together they crept through the erstwhile drawing room and entered the massive flagged hall.

‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered.

‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary.

‘Maybe not,’ Gerald conceded, ‘but I’m damned if I herald my approach with a lot of unnecessary blundering about in the dark.’

Roding allowed that he had a point, and followed him as he began to mount the stairs. The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. But it seemed that their presence was not even suspected. For on reaching the second floor, a swishing sound came to Gerald’s ears, as of someone moving about.

He halted and put out a hand to stop Hilary. Finger to his lips, Gerald pointed in the direction of the noise. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation.

This was what he missed. This was the reason he had raised his little independent Company of Light Infantry and joined the West Kent Militia. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. The militia offered little in the way of relief. This was just what he needed. God send the fellow did turn out to be a spy!

Beckoning Roding on, Gerald crept down the corridor towards the source of the swishing he had heard. It had ceased now, but as he closed in on the area, a faint muttering came to his ears. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought.

The door to the room in question was closed. Gerald pressed against the wall, and signalled Roding to go to the other side of the door. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. Like most officers, he’d had it especially made, for a man who loved danger had need of a precision instrument of defence.

Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed.

Very gently indeed, Alderley grasped the handle of the door and stealthily turned it. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked.

He glanced up at Roding and met his eyes. A nod was exchanged. Taking a firm grasp of his pistol, Gerald eased back, let go the handle of the door, and at the same instant, swung his booted foot.

The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead.

Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door.

For a moment or two Gerald stood in the total silence of amazement, his pistol up and pointing, aware that Hilary was likewise stunned, standing with half-drawn sword. And then amusement crept into Alderley’s chest and he let his pistol hand fall.

‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy.’

‘Gad, but she’s a beauty,’ gasped Hilary, and slammed his sword back in its scabbard.

The lady, who was indeed stunning, Gerald suddenly realised, said never a word. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. The pouting cherry lips were slightly parted and the very faintest of panting breaths, together with the quick rise and fall of an alluring bosom, betrayed her fear. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back.

It struck the major that she was very young. But although startled and clearly afraid, there was no self-consciousness in her gaze and she was standing her ground. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast.

Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. ‘Forgive this intrusion, ma’am, I beg. We were expecting rather to find a male antagonist.’

Still the girl said nothing.

‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding.

Gerald switched to French. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’

Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. Gerald caught the look and slipped the weapon into his pocket. One did not use pistols against a female.

‘We mean you no harm,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You have no need to be afraid of us.’

Still no response. Gerald exchanged a puzzled glance with his friend. Was she so fearful still?

Roding shrugged and grimaced. ‘What do we do now?’

Gerald took a pace towards the girl. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room.

Gerald swore. ‘She’s terrified.’

Hilary’s gaze was raking the room. ‘She ought to be. Been making herself at home all right.’

Alderley glanced round the bedchamber. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. A long chest under one of the windows was open, some of its contents dragged out and spilling onto the floor. He drew an awed breath.

‘Was she planning to make away with all this stuff?’

‘What’s this?’

Hilary pounced on a black item slung on the floor by the dresser. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor.

‘Gerald, this is a nun’s habit.’

Before the major could verify this, the lady reappeared. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice.

‘Do not move, messieurs, or I shall be compelled to blow off your head.’

Hilary’s jaw dropped open, and he stood stupidly staring, the nun’s clothing dangling from his hand.

Gerald lifted an eyebrow. ‘Odd sort of a nun.’

The lady uttered a scornful sound. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. But one must disguise oneself. To be jeune demoiselle, it is not always convenient.’

Gerald controlled a quivering lip. ‘So it would appear.’ He nodded in the direction of her pistol.

The lady grasped it more firmly and turned it upon Hilary. ‘Move, you. Back, that you may be close together.’

‘I should do as she says if I were you, Hilary,’ observed Gerald, noting the fierce determination in the girl’s lovely face.

‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend. ‘That’s what comes of disarming yourself.’

‘A mistake, I agree.’ Gerald’s eyes never left the girl. ‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’

‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully.

‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. ‘Am I a fool? Can I blow off a head with a pistol which is not loaded?’

‘She has a point,’ conceded Alderley, relaxing a little as amusement burgeoned again

‘Ten to one she is a French spy,’ burst from Roding.

The pistol was lowered slightly. ‘I find you excessively rude, both of you,’ said the lady crossly. ‘You talk together of me as if I am not there. “She”, you say. But I am here.’

‘You are perfectly correct,’ agreed Gerald at once. ‘You are there. Why, is the question I would like answered.’

‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly. ‘But a spy I am not.’

‘Can you prove it?’ demanded Hilary.

‘Certainly I can prove it. That is easy. I am not French in the least.’

‘Not French?’ echoed Hilary. ‘That’s a loud one.’

‘It is true,’ insisted the lady. ‘I am entirely English.’

‘Entirely English,’ said Gerald as one making a discovery. ‘Of course. Why did I not realise it at once? It just shows how one should not judge by appearances. The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but—’

He was interrupted, and with impatience. ‘Alors, you make a game with me, I see that. It is better that you go away now, I think.’

‘Ah, but there’s the little matter of your presence here,’ said Gerald on a note of apology.

‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing.’

‘Also stealing,’ added Gerald, with a gesture at the clothes on the bed.

‘I do not steal,’ declared the lady hotly. ‘Parbleu, but what a person you make me! One who spies. One who steals. One who—who—tres...’ She paused, struggling for the word.

‘Trespasses,’ supplied Gerald.

‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. Pah!’

She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap.

Hilary made a movement as if he would seize the opportunity to disarm the girl, but Gerald stopped him.

‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops. And Pottiswick, of course. He will wish to have his fears laid to rest.’

The lady’s face came round, a puzzled frown on her brow. ‘Troops?’

‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. ‘I’ll handle her better alone.’

‘You certain? She’s a thought too volatile for my money.’

‘She once more,’ came in disgust from the girl on the bed. Her heavy pistol came up again, although she did not rise. ‘What do you say of these troops?’

‘You see, we’re militia. Milice,’ Gerald translated. ‘Civilian peace-keeping forces, you know. That’s why we are here.’

A scowl crossed the lady’s face. ‘You will arrest me? For—for—’

‘Trespass, theft and spying,’ snapped Hilary.

‘And housebreaking,’ added Gerald calmly.

At that, the girl jumped up. ‘Parbleu, the house, is it broken in the least? I do not think so.’

‘As a matter of fact, it isn’t,’ conceded Gerald. ‘We were wondering about that.’ With an air of real interest, he asked, ‘I suppose you did not dig a tunnel or fly in by balloon?’

The lady gazed at him blankly. ‘That is imbecile.’

‘Well, she didn’t walk through the walls, that’s certain,’ said Hilary acidly. ‘How did you get in? The house is all locked up.’

The lady looked unexpectedly smug. ‘Assuredly it is locked up. Alors, how did you get in?’

‘Oh, we broke in,’ Gerald told her cheerfully.

She stared. Then her eyes flashed. ‘And it is me you