away from home!” she said, throwing down her cards. “It is because Papa is so stubborn—well, you know what he is! Or do you? It is very queer how you recall some things, and others you do not.”
“Not so queer as all that.” Lord March pushed aside the abandoned cards and stretched out his long legs on the bed. “I remember everything up to the point when I ‘disappeared’ on my way home from White’s. Only then does memory fail. It is my theory I was attacked by footpads, and struck, and lost all notion of who I am until the other night when I was again assaulted.” His expression was wry. “You look skeptical, brat! I cannot blame you for doubting so farfetched a tale. But if you are doubtful, others will be even more so, I think.”
“Doubtless you are correct.” Mab drew her cloak closer about her and settled more comfortably upon the wooden chest. “Let us test your theory! How much are you aware of what has happened, during your absence, in the world? Do you know, for instance, that Bonaparte spent the summer drilling his Grande Armée? They marched about in rhythm singing songs about sailing for England. Now he has crowned himself Emperor. It’s said he paid the husband of an actress thousands of francs to stage-manage the ceremony.”
“And at the last moment Mme. Bonaparte confessed to the Pope that she was no more than a legalized concubine, and a hasty religious marriage took place. There were conflicting versions—clever Josephine trapped the Emperor, or the Emperor trapped the Pope, or the Pope stood his ground and made them both look absurd.” In his turn, Lord March looked ruminative. “It would seem I remember some things.”
“Mayhap the rest will come back to you.” Lady Amabel wrinkled her pretty nose. “Perhaps if I were to hit you on the head—”
“Pernicious wench!” responded Lord March, amused. “Since whist is too dull for you, shall we play a rubber or two of piquet?” Mab immediately agreed. A brief silence descended upon the secret room.
“Blast!” muttered Mab, a reckless player. Hoping for a change each rubber, she had risked all on the chance of a maddeningly elusive coup. “I think that during your absence you must have been an ivory tuner, or a Captain Sharp! A gentleman should not trounce a lady shamelessly at cards, but at least let her think she may win.”
“A lady, perhaps.” Lord March grinned. “But not a little baggage that he once dandled on his knee.”
“Did you really?” Mab’s imagination was caught by this suggestion. A gentleman fond enough to bounce her upon his knee might well be persuaded to intercede on her behalf with her misguided papa.
“I did.” Marriot’s long acquaintance with Lady Amabel had taught him to recognize and distrust the speculative gleam currently present in her blue eyes. Loweringly, he added, “And very damp you were! No, my girl, you will not pitchfork me into this battle of wills you are having with your papa. I have difficulties of my own to resolve, in case you have forgot.”
A good-hearted girl, Lady Amabel could not argue this point; and even had she been inclined to, there was not sufficient time. With a faint groan of protest, the secret panel swung slowly open. Mab leapt to her feet, clutching the ancient Toledo sword.
“What the deuce?” inquired Lady March, somewhat faintly, due to the sharp blade pointed at her throat.
“How was I to know it was only you?” responded Amabel, lowering the sword. “I thought perhaps Henrietta had discovered the entrance.”
“Even if she does discover it, I do not think we can permit you to cut her throat, infant.” Lord March’s tone was preoccupied, his attention all for his wife. Eleanor was dressed for the out-of-doors in a long black redingote with high collar and sleeves, a straw hat turned up in front and trimmed with green ribbons, half boots of kid, buff-colored suede gloves, and huge bearskin muff. “You’re cold, Nell! Come here and
“Not so queer as all that.” Lord March pushed aside the abandoned cards and stretched out his long legs on the bed. “I remember everything up to the point when I ‘disappeared’ on my way home from White’s. Only then does memory fail. It is my theory I was attacked by footpads, and struck, and lost all notion of who I am until the other night when I was again assaulted.” His expression was wry. “You look skeptical, brat! I cannot blame you for doubting so farfetched a tale. But if you are doubtful, others will be even more so, I think.”
“Doubtless you are correct.” Mab drew her cloak closer about her and settled more comfortably upon the wooden chest. “Let us test your theory! How much are you aware of what has happened, during your absence, in the world? Do you know, for instance, that Bonaparte spent the summer drilling his Grande Armée? They marched about in rhythm singing songs about sailing for England. Now he has crowned himself Emperor. It’s said he paid the husband of an actress thousands of francs to stage-manage the ceremony.”
“And at the last moment Mme. Bonaparte confessed to the Pope that she was no more than a legalized concubine, and a hasty religious marriage took place. There were conflicting versions—clever Josephine trapped the Emperor, or the Emperor trapped the Pope, or the Pope stood his ground and made them both look absurd.” In his turn, Lord March looked ruminative. “It would seem I remember some things.”
“Mayhap the rest will come back to you.” Lady Amabel wrinkled her pretty nose. “Perhaps if I were to hit you on the head—”
“Pernicious wench!” responded Lord March, amused. “Since whist is too dull for you, shall we play a rubber or two of piquet?” Mab immediately agreed. A brief silence descended upon the secret room.
“Blast!” muttered Mab, a reckless player. Hoping for a change each rubber, she had risked all on the chance of a maddeningly elusive coup. “I think that during your absence you must have been an ivory tuner, or a Captain Sharp! A gentleman should not trounce a lady shamelessly at cards, but at least let her think she may win.”
“A lady, perhaps.” Lord March grinned. “But not a little baggage that he once dandled on his knee.”
“Did you really?” Mab’s imagination was caught by this suggestion. A gentleman fond enough to bounce her upon his knee might well be persuaded to intercede on her behalf with her misguided papa.
“I did.” Marriot’s long acquaintance with Lady Amabel had taught him to recognize and distrust the speculative gleam currently present in her blue eyes. Loweringly, he added, “And very damp you were! No, my girl, you will not pitchfork me into this battle of wills you are having with your papa. I have difficulties of my own to resolve, in case you have forgot.”
A good-hearted girl, Lady Amabel could not argue this point; and even had she been inclined to, there was not sufficient time. With a faint groan of protest, the secret panel swung slowly open. Mab leapt to her feet, clutching the ancient Toledo sword.
“What the deuce?” inquired Lady March, somewhat faintly, due to the sharp blade pointed at her throat.
“How was I to know it was only you?” responded Amabel, lowering the sword. “I thought perhaps Henrietta had discovered the entrance.”
“Even if she does discover it, I do not think we can permit you to cut her throat, infant.” Lord March’s tone was preoccupied, his attention all for his wife. Eleanor was dressed for the out-of-doors in a long black redingote with high collar and sleeves, a straw hat turned up in front and trimmed with green ribbons, half boots of kid, buff-colored suede gloves, and huge bearskin muff. “You’re cold, Nell! Come here and
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