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sword.

Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown. She saw it, and checked without thinking.

Emile looked at her, then down, and clearly caught the bright gleam on the floor.

Alors, I see it.’

Baring his teeth in a smile of triumph that was every bit an animal snarl, and leaping up onto the seat of the pew he was in, he jumped hazardously to the next.

In the distance a bell clanged, and chattering broke out in the doorway as several nuns came crowding in. Melusine, intent upon preventing Gosse from securing the fallen weapon, paid no attention. Vaguely she heard the distinctive sound of male voices as she saw Gosse dive towards the fateful pew.

‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine.

She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered.

‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew.

Melusine tried to squash down, still trying to maintain her guard. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. She could not move.

Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down.

With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her.

A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely.

Melusine!’

Distracted, Gosse blinked and his eyes flicked away from Melusine’s just as she flung the fullness of her gathered petticoats in the way of his blade. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target.

Next instant, Melusine’s blade sank into Gosse’s flesh. His sword-arm fell useless at his side and she knew herself safe. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath.

Melusine, her breath coming in short bursts, heard a sudden flurry of several heavy footsteps and harsh commands exchanged.

‘Get the swords!’

‘I’ll see to him. You deal with her.’

She saw the weapon wrenched from Emile’s hand and he dropped to the bench of the pew and sat there, grasping helplessly at the welling blood on his arm. Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword.

She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke.

‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’

Her eyes flew open. ‘Gérard!’

‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’

Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself.’

‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please.’

 Melusine began to sag, and felt his strong arms catch her up and lift her bodily into a comforting embrace.

‘But for now, I’m taking you home.’

Melusine’s arm crept up around his neck. ‘Home?’

‘To your family.’

Merci,’ she sighed and, surrendering at last to his oft-proffered aid, allowed her head to droop onto his chest. ‘I am done, Gérard. Me, you may have.’

There was a chuckle in his voice. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that.’

Chapter Twelve

 

In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler.

‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. ‘Not another caller will I receive this day. Deny me, if you please.’

‘Very good, ma’am.’

‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace.

‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’

‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. ‘I left a message at home that he should do so as soon as he returned from Kent.’

Saling coughed. ‘Will that be all, ma’am?’

‘Yes, yes. Go away,’ came fretfully from Prudence Sindlesham, and Melusine heaved a sigh as she looked towards the butler, who was making his stately way to the door.

To her consternation, the sound drew her great-aunt’s attention and she threw out a hand. ‘Stay, Saling!’

The butler halted, looking round enquiringly. Melusine glanced towards the elderly dame and found that sharp gaze directed upon her. But her words were not addressed to Melusine.

‘If Major Alderley should happen to call, you may admit him also.’

A hand seemed to grip in Melusine’s chest and she hit out. ‘Pray do not trouble yourself, Saling. The major will not call.’

She turned quickly away that her feelings might not be obvious to Lucy and her great-aunt. She had reason enough to be grateful to Prudence Sindlesham and it was not fair that this horrible feeling of loneliness should be made known to her. Also Lucy, who had been so much her friend. Melusine could not wish either to know how their kindness served only to emphasise the lack in her life ensuing from Gerald’s continued absence.

The events that had initially followed in the wake of her triumph over Emile Gosse had quite confused and dazed her. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. The arrival of la tante Prudence late next day had changed all this, it is true. For she and this old lady became at once friends. Gerald had himself told her that this Prudence will present her to society as Melusine Charvill. Also he had said—laughing in that way with his eyes which made a flutter in her chest—that Prudence will find an Englishman to marry her.

It would be the culmination of her plan. But why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. She had the dowry she needed for the lawyers were working to give her Remenham House. This was good. She was very satisfied about this. But about the unknown Englishman she was not so satisfied.

She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. The son of Prudence instead was obliged to take her back to the convent on Sunday to see Martha and tell her the good news, and to fetch her meagre belongings. And Gosse had been still there, so Martha said, and not in prison.

To be no longer with Martha was strange. They had cried a little, both. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. Only au revoir. All her life Martha had been there. Without her, it was lonely. Melusine was loath to admit how much more lonely since Gerald chose not to visit her. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. And not on Melusine’s account, but to see Prudence, who had no use for a cavalier.

Although Melusine had taken care to trouble herself about the hand she had cut, and was glad to find it healing very well. But did Gerald trouble himself about her? No. He says only that he must tie up all the loose ends. But days had now passed. How many ends had he?

Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention. She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire?

‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room. ‘Poor Gerald has been very busy about your affairs this last week.’

‘This is not a new thing,’ Melusine snapped, goaded. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs. But he does not come to see me since three days, even that these are my affairs and one could think that he would tell it to me if there is news, no?’

‘When he has news to tell he will come, child, trust me,’ the old lady assured her.

Melusine gritted her teeth. ‘It does not matter to me if he comes or no, madame. Soon I shall make my début, that it will be known that I am the real Melusine Charvill, and then I shall not require the services any longer of this imbecile of a Gérard.’

‘It’s already known,’ said Mrs Sindlesham, ‘judging by the number of callers we have had these two days.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Lucilla enthusiastically. ‘The whole town is talking. And I, I am happy to say, am in the delightful position of being in the know. I am sure I never enjoyed so much popularity in my life.’

The dimple that so fascinated Melusine peeped in her great-aunt’s cheek. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’

‘I should say so. I have held people spellbound—in confidence, so that we may be sure of its spreading like wildfire—with an account of all Melusine’s activities, and—’

Horror filled Melusine and she jumped up. ‘Lucy, do not say that you have told everyone all that I have done?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

Consternation filled Melusine’s breast. ‘But you are idiot. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle. This I know, for the Valades have taught me so, and the nuns also. How will I get an Englishman to wed me if they know that I behave not at all comme il faut?’

‘Perhaps the Englishman in question will not care,’ suggested Prudence, with a twinkle in her eye for which Melusine was quite unable to account.

‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and—and I know only...’

Melusine’s voice petered out. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her.

Lucy’s bright tones pursued her. ‘Never fear, my love. I’ve made no mention of guns and daggers or, indeed, any of the more exciting aspects of the business.’

Melusine turned her head. ‘But you have told them that I have been disguised, no? That I have broken into Remenham House, and—’

‘No, no, child, don’t be alarmed,’ said her great-aunt, her tone soothing. ‘Why, you have heard yourself all that is being said. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme.’

‘And was not she put out?’ demanded Miss Froxfield with a tinkling laugh. ‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters.’

‘In a way she had been,’ said Prudence. ‘She has constituted herself leader of the émigrés here, and feels justifiably slighted by having taken the pretend Valades under her wing.’

‘Lady Bicknacre too,’

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