The Soldier's Dark Secret

‘You don’t believe that, do you? You have one of your famous code-breaker hunches, don’t you?’ His smile was non-committal. Most certainly, he was the Lieutenant-Colonel today, Celeste thought. Caution personified.

The door of the carriage was opened. She stepped out, and the butterflies in her stomach multiplied a hundredfold as she eyed the ornate portico of the Hotel Beynac. Behind these huge double doors might very well lie the answers to her questions. Which would mean the end of her journey. Which would mean, more than likely, and most importantly, the end of her time with Jack, for she could not imagine him returning to Trestain Manor.

So be it. Celeste’s heart would be broken, but she would at least tell Jack that she had a heart and that it belonged to him and always would. He would not love her, but she would not let him deprive her of her love for him. She would not be miserable. Well, for a time perhaps, but misery was better than indifference, and she was done with indifference. She would find a way of being happy. She absolutely would!

The door swung noiselessly open. Jack took her arm, smiling down at her reassuringly. Her heart turned over. Celeste gritted her teeth and walked passed the liveried footman, her head held high.

* * *

Madame Juliette Rosser was exceedingly tall, exceedingly thin and exceedingly old. Her white hair was piled high on top of her head. She had the kind of cheekbones on which, Jack thought, a knife could be sharpened, and the kind of long, thin nose that could cut paper. She was dressed in the height of fashion, in a black-silk afternoon gown with an overdress of grey—and very expensive—lace.

The Hotel Beynac was also dressed in the height of fashion—also very expensively, though it had the kind of elegance which could only be achieved by a combination of money and power. The furnishings were new, but the tapestries were old, and the array of objets d’art which adorned every surface looked worthy of the Palace at Versailles. Which might well indeed have been where some of them had originated.

As he made his bow low over Madame Rosser’s liver-spotted hand, Jack was aware that her gaze was fixed on Celeste. She nodded absently at him, but when Celeste made a deep curtsy showing, Jack thought proudly, not a trace of her considerable nerves, Madame Rosser raised the eyeglass which hung from her neck on a gold chain and slowly inspected her from head to foot.

Celeste tilted her chin at the woman. ‘I trust I pass muster.’

Jack bit back a smile. Madame Rosser, to his surprise, gave a crack of laughter. ‘Yes, there can be no doubt about it,’ she said.

‘Excuse me, Madame, but no doubt about what?’

The woman raised her thin brows haughtily. ‘Why, that you are Georges’ daughter. I assumed that was why you were here.’

Celeste’s hand went to her breast. ‘Georges?’

‘My nephew. Georges Rosser, the Comte de Beynac.’ The thin eyebrows were raised even farther as Celeste’s jaw dropped. ‘Sacré bleu, I don’t believe it. The little English milksop actually kept her mouth shut all these years. You had better sit down,’ Madame Rosser snapped, ‘and you too, Mr Trestain,’ she added in English.

‘I can speak French passably well,’ Jack said, helping Celeste on to a gilded sofa covered in wheat-straw satin.

The old woman ignored him and picked up a hand bell, which was answered so quickly Jack suspected the butler must have been standing outside the door of the huge first-floor drawing room. ‘Cognac,’ she snapped, ‘and then you may go, Philippe. We are not to be disturbed.’

‘I am not going to faint,’ Celeste said, though Jack thought she looked as if she might very well. ‘I don’t need a cognac.’

Madame Rosser sat down on the chair opposite. ‘Perhaps not,’ she said, ‘but I most certainly do.’

* * *

‘They were betrothed in 1788, Georges and your mother,’ Madame Rosser began. ‘Blythe Wilmslow was not the match my family wished for such a prestigious title as the Comte de Beynac, but my nephew was one of those fellows who had read that dreadful man Rousseau’s la nouvelle Héloïse. Foolish boy, perhaps if he’d claimed a better acquaintance with Rousseau, he could have persuaded that madman Robespierre he was on his side. Rousseau, you know, was much admired by Robespierre and Saint-Just,’ Madame Rosser said. She took a sip of cognac and sighed heavily. ‘Perhaps you don’t know. You are so young. You can have no idea of what Paris was like then, during the Terror. Every knock on the door sent one’s blood running cold. There was no rhyme or reason, by then, for many of the arrests. A slighted neighbour. An old score being settled. Mourning too openly for a guillotined husband. Anything.’

She slumped back in her chair, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. Celeste looked helplessly at Jack. ‘If this is too much for you, Madame...’ she said tentatively.