The Ruby Pendant Read online

  The Ruby Pendant

  by

  Mary Nichols

  Originally published in 1997 by Mills & Boon

  Copyright 1997 and 2013 by Mary Nichols

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Mary Nichols 2013

  Cover design by Elaine Nichols.

  The image of the Regency dress is reproduced by kind permission of Anne Styles

  and the pendant by kind permission of Sofia Jewelry

  When Lieutenant Pierre Veillard, a French prisoner of war, paints Juliette Martindale's portrait as a French aristocrat in sumptuous clothes of satin and brocade, wearing an ostentatious ruby pendant, and not the gentle, innocent daughter of Viscount Martindale clad in muslin, he sets off an avalanche of mystery, lies and betrayal that threatens her very existence. Her parents are so shocked, Juliette is packed off to London for a Season where she meets Philip Devonshire, a young friend of her father's whom entrusts him to escort her, and a cousin she has never met before who is the heir to the Martindale estate and whom she is expected to marry. She does not like him and cannot understand this haste to have married off, but her mother's reasons are compelling. To avoid it she allows herself to be inveigled into helping some French prisoners of war escape and finds herself in France and here she meets Philippe Devereux, who captures her heart. But no one is who they say they are, danger is everywhere, and she longs to return to England. But how? Who can she trust?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  1813

  There were three people in the garden of Viscount Martindale's country home on the southern outskirts of Peterborough, three people who made unlikely associates. One, a young man, fair-haired and thin as a reed, was dressed in what had once been the resplendent uniform of Napoleon's Old Guard, covered in silver lace and gold braid. Now it was shabby and devoid of any decoration; even the silver buttons had been removed and replaced with leather ones.

  His boots were worn down at the heel and his hands, still long-fingered and expressive, were brown and dirty and the nails cracked.

  Lieutenant Pierre Veillard, prisoner of war, had given his parole not to attempt to escape and was being employed on his lordship's estate as a gardener. Not that he was gardening at this moment. He was standing at an easel, paint brush in hand, putting the finishing touches to the portrait he was making of the second of the trio, his lordship's daughter, Juliette.

  The young lady, sitting beneath an apple tree in full blossom, was clothed in a simple gown of spotted muslin over a matching silk petticoat, with a velvet ribbon round the high waist and threaded through the puff sleeves. Her figure was slim, though well-rounded enough to satisfy the fashion of the day.

  Her hair was so fair it was almost silver and framed an oval face with high cheekbones, a firm, well-defined mouth and eyes as blue as the spring sky above their heads, which was, the young man had decided, very extraordinary, considering Lord Martindale was dark as night and his wife was certainly not fair.

  He had wanted to paint her the minute he had set eyes on her several weeks before; his artist's eye stirred not only by her beauty but by something indefinable, a faded memory of he knew not what, but it had taken a great deal of toadying to her ladyship before permission had been given and then the execution of his task had not been easy. Miss Martindale found it extremely difficult to sit still.

  Juliette wanted to talk, to find out about this handsome Frenchman. She knew his name and that he was, at twenty years old, a year older than herself, and had been captured at the Battle of Salamanca the previous July. She understood she was supposed to look upon him as an enemy, but how could she do that when he was so charming to her and to Mama? It was not his fault he had had to fight. It was all the fault of that fat Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte, who had set the whole of Europe into conflict.

  If only this dreadful war could be over and Napoleon defeated, the aristocracy of France could return to their homes and everything would be as it was before and young men like the lieutenant could take their rightful place in society again.

  At nineteen and carefully nurtured, Juliette was too innocent of the world to know the harsher side of war, though she could hardly be unaware of the conflict when the newspapers that arrived at Hartlea were full of it and it was so frequently the topic of conversation between her parents.

  The lieutenant was an officer and a gentleman, so her parents believed. She smiled slowly. Would an English gentleman have lured her away from her maid and into the summer house to kiss her so fervently? If Papa or Mama ever found out about that, he would be sent back to the camp at Norman Cross and not allowed out again, parole or no parole.

  It was the first kiss she had had from any man apart from her papa and she knew she should not have allowed it. She should have run away or shrieked for help, but she had done nothing of the kind. Always ready for new experiences, new sensations, she had allowed it to go on and nothing dreadful had happened as a result.

  The heavens hadn't fallen in; she had not been visited by some dreadful calamity and no one had treated her any differently, though she felt sure her guilt was written on her face.

  But then, she asked herself, what was so very wicked about a kiss? Lips on lips that had given her a frisson of excitement at the time, but which was difficult to recall now. That, surely, was not love? There was no one she dare ask, not even Anne Golightly, her maid, and the third member of the trio.

  Anne was acting as chaperon, a task she found tedious in the extreme and though she had brought some mending to keep her occupied, she frequently dozed off. Her head was nodding now, her hands idle in her lap.

  No one had spoken for several minutes. The early bees buzzed among the apple blossom, a rook cawed in an elm and the stable cat stalked along the top of the garden wall, its attention riveted on something in the long grass.

  `Is it nearly finished?' Juliette spoke at last. 'I do so hate sitting still.'

  `That I know, mam'selle.' Lieutenant Veillard smiled as he cleaned his brush on a piece of rag and stood back to look at his handiwork. 'There, it is done.'

  `Anne, wake up, do!' Juliette turned to her maid. 'Go and tell Mama it is done. She must be the first to see it.'

  The maid, startled into wakefulness, picked up her sewing and hurried towards the house, a large square mansion, which had stood there since before Cromwell's time, impervious to war and riot, flood and fire.

  Juliette jumped up and ran to look at the painting. She stood transfixed, her mouth a small round 'o' of surprise. Here was no gentle English girl clad in muslin - here was a French aristocrat in all her costly splendour.

  The face and figure were Juliette's, but the silvery hair was piled up à la Madame Pompadour; the clothes were sumptuous satin and brocade, padded and hooped, the bodice cut low to show off a necklace so elaborate and crowded with gems it must ha
ve weighed the wearer down. There were diamonds, emeralds and rubies along its whole length, with a silver filigree pendant at the bottom in the shape of a heart with a huge ruby in its centre.

  Her hands, in her lap, clutched a fan and there were rings on all her fingers. The pastoral English setting had become very French, with bougainvillea and plumbago and vines climbing against a mellow brick wall. In the distance was a French chateau.

  `Why did you do it like that? Oh, I do not know what Mama will say.'

  Her mother, who had arrived at that moment, said nothing. She simply stared for several minutes, then, with a hand that shook visibly, snatched the painting from the easel and, taking Juliette's arm, marched her back to the house without speaking.

  `Mama, I know it is not what you expected, and I confess it surprised me too,' she said, almost running to keep up. 'But do you not think it is well done?'

  `Well done?' It was said through gritted teeth, though she had released her grip on her daughter as soon as they were safely indoors. 'Just who does that young man think he is?'

  Juliette was perplexed. 'Why, you know who he is, Mama. Papa does, at any rate, or he would not have allowed him to come and work here.'

  `Has he been in the house?'

  'I do not know. Why do you ask?'

  `He hasn't been upstairs, wandered into any of the rooms? My boudoir, for instance?'

  `Goodness, Mama, I should not think so. If he has been in at all, it is only into the kitchen when Cook has offered him food and drink. Why would he go anywhere else? You surely do not think he is a thief?'

  `I sincerely hope not.'

  `Oh, I am sure he is not. What do you imagine he has stolen?'

  Her mother did not answer, but hurried up to her boudoir with Juliette at her heels. Juliette remained in the doorway as Lady Martindale stood the picture on a chair, then crossed the room to her escritoire and, extracting a key from the bunch on the chatelaine at her waist, unlocked one of the drawers and took out her jewel case.

  Intrigued, Juliette watched as she checked its contents and then replaced it. 'Mama, surely you do not think he would steal your jewels?'

  'No, of course not.' Although she sounded relieved, there was still a note of doubt in her mother's voice.

  `Then what has your jewel box to do with the portrait? You have nothing like that, have you?' She pointed to the picture, realising the necklace it portrayed was so large that it would not have fitted into the box in any case, and so costly that it would not have been left in a drawer, even a locked one.

  `No, I have not,' she said somewhat sharply. 'It would be far too ostentatious for my taste, but all the same I think we have been sadly deceived by that young man.'

  `Why?' Juliette was perplexed. Her mother's behaviour was so uncharacteristic of her. She was usually very cool and dignified, almost too repressed sometimes. 'Is it because he has painted me as a French aristo? I suppose that is how his imagination conjured me up. Perhaps I should be flattered.'

  `Flattered! It is disgraceful. Humiliating. You will not speak to the lieutenant again. We were fools to trust him, to trust any Frenchman. And as for you...' She stopped suddenly. 'Go to your room and stay there. Until that man has been sent packing, you will stay indoors. Now go.'

  Juliette turned and went along the gallery to her room where she sat in the deep window seat, leaning against the cool stone of the embrasure, gazing out on the garden, her thoughts in a turmoil. What had come over her mother? She had not expected her to like the picture - she hadn't been very sure of it herself - but it had been well painted and the likeness was most definitely there, so why could she not have simply said so and left it at that?

  No one had behaved with any impropriety, except for that stolen kiss and her mother knew nothing of that, so what was the lieutenant being accused of? Theft? Of what? That glittering necklace? She leaned forward to watch as the lieutenant came from the garden with his easel under his arm and disappeared in the direction of the stables. He had a room above one of them where he slept and kept his painting materials.

  Her mother had spoken of humiliation; it must have been that and more for the lieutenant to live among the horses and do menial tasks when by all accounts he came from a good family. Perhaps that was why he had portrayed her like that; it reminded him of home.

  The sound of hooves and wheels on the gravel of the drive caught her attention and she looked down to see the Viscount's carriage drawing up at the front door. She left her room and stood looking over the gallery rails as he came into the hall and a footman took his hat and travelling cloak. Her mother, who had gone downstairs again, hurried out of the library to meet him, still very agitated.

  `Edward, thank heavens you are home. There is something I must show you.'

  'Can I not change out of my dusty travelling clothes first?'

  `No. Please, Edward.' She took his hand and almost pulled him into the library and closed the door.

  A few minutes later, her ladyship emerged and ordered one of the footmen to fetch the lieutenant, then she went back into the library. Juliette held her breath, wondering if they would also send for her, but no one came to her.

  Five minutes later, the Frenchman was brought through from the rear of the house. He did not look up and did not see Juliette, standing at the head of the stairs, as he was shown into the library. His escort closed the door on him and disappeared down the hall again.

  Overcome by curiosity, Juliette crept downstairs and put her eye to the keyhole. She could see her father standing before the hearth. He was a fine figure of a man in his fifties, still very handsome though his black hair was greying a little at the temples. He looked sombre but not as agitated as her mother had been. The lieutenant was standing a little to one side, the offending portrait propped on a chair between them.

  She could not see her mother, who was out of her limited field of vision. Her father was speaking, but the door was a thick one and she could not hear what was said, except an odd word here and there. 'Pendant... Where...? Who...? Innocent child...' That was her, she supposed, but she resented being called a child. And the Frenchman had a frightened look. Was Papa threatening him? He seemed to be protesting about something, swearing he could not remember. Remember what?

  `Juliette!' The door had been opened suddenly. 'What do you think you are about?'

  Juliette straightened up, scarlet-faced, to face her mother. Lady Martindale's usually even features were pinched and her dark eyes betrayed something that might have been anger but which could equally have been fear. She did not look like the handsome, youthful mother whom everyone teasingly likened to a sister. It frightened Juliette a little.

  `Nothing, Mama, but why is Lieutenant Veillard being grilled by Papa in such a rag-mannered way? He has done nothing very bad.' She tried to peer past her mother to see what was happening in the room, but her ladyship came out into the hall and shut the door firmly behind her.

  `That is for your papa to judge. Now, run along. Find some sewing to do.'

  `I don't feel like sewing, I am too agitated.'

  `Agitated?' Her ladyship was displaying signs of that herself. 'Why should you be agitated?'

  `Because of what has happened. There is something smoky going on and I want to know what it is.'

  Her mother took a deep breath and her next words were said in her usual well-modulated voice. 'There is nothing going on, Juliette. Your papa is concerned that the lieutenant should have taken such liberties. He is simply trying to find out why and it is very impertinent of you to call him rag-mannered. Have you no respect?'

  `I beg pardon, Mama. I did not mean that, but he does seem somewhat up in the boughs. And you are not yourself at all.'

  `That is enough, Juliette. Now, run along do, and no more listening at keyholes or I shall have to tell your papa.'

  Reluctantly Juliette returned to her room and fetched out her needlepoint, but she was eaten with curiosity. What were the two men saying to each other'? The lieutenant would su
rely not confess that he had kissed her. Supposing he offered for her? No, he would not do that.

  Even if he were so presumptuous, her father would soon put him right. She was a considerable heiress, being her father's only child, and was expected to make a good marriage. An offer from a defeated French officer, who could not even afford to buy a new suit of clothes, would never be entertained.

  She sighed. He was such a romantic figure, with his classic good looks and Gallic charm, not stiff at all, like so many young men of her acquaintance who treated her as if she were made of porcelain and would break at a touch. She had expected the painting to portray her like that, but instead it had given her a robust, rather coquettish appearance, almost like a courtesan. She giggled suddenly. That was what had so infuriated her papa. Oh dear, poor Lieutenant Veillard!

  It was at supper that night she learned that the lieutenant had been sent back to the camp and, more importantly, that she was to go to London for the Season. 'It is time you came out,' her mother said. 'We were wrong to postpone it last year.'

  `But, Mama, you were not at all well. You said it would wear you out.'

  `So I did, but that was last year.'

  It was obvious that her parents intended to separate her from the lieutenant as soon as possible. It was a deal of fuss over nothing at all. She liked the young man, had even encouraged him to talk about himself, which was how the kiss had come about, but she had no wish for a closer relationship with him, nor, indeed, with any young man of her acquaintance.

  Now she was going to have a Season and would be expected to choose a husband from the eligibles about town before the end of it, fortune hunters, most of them. To her mind the whole process was nothing but a gamble and the odds of coming out of it with any chance of lasting happiness were very long indeed. And marriage would mean leaving her beloved Hartlea. Her protests that she did not want to go were met with stern implacability by her father.