Chapter 15

15

Rafe didn’t want to wait, he was desperate to know the truth, but there was no point leaving now – the Dowager would still be asleep, or at least in her bed, Marchand would make sure of that, after the exertion of last night. Grandson or not, he’d get short shrift from the benevolent dragon who guarded her door if he presented himself before what she considered a respectable hour.

The hands of the clock dragged round unconscionably slowly, but at last he judged that it was time, and headed out for his stable to have his favourite bay mare, Cinnamon, saddled. John Wilson, the groom who’d known him since his youth, shot a sharp look under his heavy brows – obviously Rafe was not, to one well acquainted with him, quite his normal self today. But John said nothing, and soon Rafe was trotting and then galloping across his own land towards his father’s much more extensive acres. He found pleasure, and a sort of escape from the turmoil of his thoughts, in the exhilaration of the motion.

He rode round to the stable block and left Cinnamon in the care of Tom Wilson, John’s brother and Wyverne’s head groom. After a few words of casual conversation, he made his way up to his grandmother’s rooms. The huge house was very quiet, since no doubt gambling, excessive drinking and other diversions best left undescribed had gone on until the early hours, and the participants would still be recovering in their beds, or someone else’s. He wondered if Sophie were awake, and hoped on this occasion that she was not already with his grandmother. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her – he didn’t care to admit to himself how much he did – but he’d prefer to be in possession of all the facts first. He was uncomfortably aware that a careless word from him could cause enormous damage, and he wasn’t even sure yet if he was going to let her know that he’d discovered her secret, and how he might approach the subject with her if he did.

His luck was in; Marchand admitted him, grumbling, to Delphine’s sitting room, and then absented herself. He bent to kiss his grandmother’s soft cheek, noticing with a pang how pale she was, how obviously weary. ‘You could have stayed in bed today,’ he chided her gently.

She shrugged. ‘You know I do not sleep much, Rafael. And nor,’ she said as she regarded him shrewdly, ‘did you last night, I perceive. What’s the matter, my dear?’

Of course she would see that he was agitated; he had never been able to conceal his feelings from her, no matter how hard he tried. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Mademoiselle Delavallois.’

‘Ah,’ Delphine responded enigmatically.

‘I realised something about her last night,’ he said cautiously. He couldn’t be perfectly sure how she would react to what he now knew; he didn’t think she would dismiss Sophie from her service, but he supposed that rather depended on why the mysterious young woman was here in the first place. He didn’t want his grandmother to be hurt, distressed, but then he did not want to cause Sophie the least harm either, and he wasn’t sure now if this was even possible – it was a devil of a coil they found themselves in.

The Dowager, as was her way, cut straight through it to the heart of the matter. ‘I apprehend,’ she said drily, smiling a little, ‘that you have at last realised who my so-called humble little companion really is. I must say, it has taken you long enough. I know you met the child at least once years ago, for I recall you told me so then.’

He was astonished. Almost one hundred years old and she could still surprise him. ‘You knew?’

She scoffed. ‘Of course I knew! That dyed hair and the ingenious little story of her obscure parentage did not deceive me for more than a moment or two. She bears a strong resemblance to her great-grandmother, who once upon a time was a great rival of mine. Her smile, it is just the same; the way she carries herself. I have little to do here but relive memories from long ago; I could not possibly be mistaken. And Clemence de Montfaucon vanished eight years ago, vanished so completely that none of the people I sent could ever find any trace of her, so it all fits together perfectly. God knows where she has been in the intervening time; I dread to think.’

She took his breath away. ‘You were trying to trace her… Why?’ And then it struck him like a dizzying blow to the stomach. ‘Because of the diamond. Because Wyverne has the diamond.’

‘Your wits have not entirely deserted you,’ she said with a flash of her teasing spirit. ‘But in truth it is no matter for humour. As soon as I saw the Stella Rosa about that creature Rosanna’s neck eight years ago, and recognised it, for there cannot be another stone like it, of such size and in such a setting, I feared that Wyverne had obtained it in some dishonourable manner. I have never been able to keep track of all his terrible deeds – in reality, I didn’t want to. But I was younger then, barely ninety, and I still had a little energy, and so with Marchand’s help I sent Samuel Wilson to London to see what he could discover. And it was much worse than even I could have imagined.’ She sighed, and her frail hands moved restlessly in her lap. ‘When I confronted Wyverne with what I had discovered – I was braver then than I am now – he laughed in my face and boasted of what he had done.’

A cold dread was creeping through his body, so strong it was a physical sensation that made him shiver. ‘What had he done?’ he almost whispered.

‘The de Montfaucons left France with very little, and when they had sold or pawned all the rest of his wife’s jewels they realised, I suppose, that they must part with this last most precious thing. Wyverne wanted it and let it be known that he did – he has always had the ability to scent distress in others, where he may profit or get pleasure from it. Even as a boy he was like that. He offered to buy it – at a sufficiently low price, I am sure, but still, it would have been enough for the family to live on quietly for many years. And de Montfaucon would not want the humiliation of a public sale, to have his plight be an object of general discussion, so he was all the more vulnerable.’

‘That’s how I assumed Wyverne won all his treasure,’ said Rafe dully. He knew there must be much worse to come. ‘Pressure, taking advantage of people… I told myself that such proceedings were unpleasant, dishonourable, but not criminal. No laws were broken. Even as I said such things to myself, I despised myself for weakness.’

‘He makes us all weak,’ said Delphine bleakly. ‘There is nothing he would not do, and this gives him great power over ordinary people, who have limits on their behaviour. In order to defeat him, one would need to be entirely without conscience, without moral scruples or human feeling. Without love. Such a person would be as bad as he, and there are few such. It is useless to reproach yourself. I, his mother, say this. I have had years to come to know just what he is capable of, and I have always tried to shelter you from the worst of it.’

‘That time has long passed. Tell me, Grand-mère.’

‘He met with de Montfaucon – and you must remember, Rafe, that the Duke was a broken man already, in body and in spirit, before he ever set eyes on your father. His poor mother had gone to the guillotine – he had been unable to save her – along with many of his relatives and his dearest friends. He had lost almost everything, and had been lucky to escape with his life and the lives of his wife and two children, and what jewels they hid about their persons. And then years in London, slowly selling off all they had to maintain the appearance of dignity, their lodgings growing shabbier with each move. Now his daughter was of an age to make her come-out – she was a beauty and might marry well and save them all – but they needed money to pay for this. Their credit was exhausted.

‘Wyverne told me, smiling that smile of his, that he promised de Montfaucon they would meet and discuss the sale. But that was not what happened. He took the diamond from him. Took it and walked away.’

‘That’s not possible,’ said Rafe. ‘It’s blatant theft. Even he would not dare to do such a thing. The damned pink diamond is well known – half of London would know it in an instant, and know who owned it. I myself saw it around Sophie’s neck when I danced with her at that ball. It’s a famous heirloom of her house!’

‘Wyverne told de Montfaucon that he was quite at liberty to inform all the world that he had sold the jewel, and to whom. But he said – I will never forget his face as he described it to me – that if the Duke tried to go to law over the matter, to accuse Wyverne of theft, he would make sure he regretted it. Wyverne intended to spread abroad a shocking tale: that he had demanded Clemence’s maidenhead as part of the sale, and offered a higher price if that was included.’ Rafe groaned when he heard this hideous revelation, but did not think for a second to disbelieve what his grandmother was saying. ‘Wyverne would say that de Montfaucon had tried first to offer his wife up instead, such was his desperation, but he had spurned this paltry offer, and the transaction had occurred precisely as he wished. He was prepared to describe the event in extreme detail – you know what he is, you cannot doubt how much he would enjoy that. I expect he did describe how his foul imagination pictured it, to the child’s father. I expect he made it sufficiently convincing. And he promised he would say that afterwards, after the deed was done and the girl despoiled, in his greed the Duke had sought more money and threatened to brand Wyverne a thief if he refused to give it. Wyverne would tell everyone he was simply calling his bluff, and reveal all the distasteful details. Make sure all the world knew them. After all, he has no reputation to lose – he is well known to have not the least scruple.’

‘Surely no one would believe such a farrago of nonsense. It’s nothing but a pack of diseased lies, like something from one of your damn novels!’ Rafe was almost pleading.

‘I think you are wrong, my dear – I think people would believe that Wyverne of all people could easily concoct such a Satanic bargain.’

‘But not that a father would agree to it,’ he persisted. ‘De Montfaucon had a reputation as an honourable man, not some vicious scoundrel.’

‘As to that… perhaps not,’ sighed Delphine. ‘But you have every reason to know the world. It scarcely matters in the end if the tale were believed or not – the poor girl’s good name would be utterly destroyed in any case. People do not need fully to credit rumours in order to spread them. She would be ruined, she would be unable to marry any decent man. The whole family would be cast out from society.’

‘Good God,’ he said blankly. He was not attempting to argue with her now.

‘Wyverne said he threw down a purse, a few miserable guineas, and took the jewel from de Montfaucon’s unresisting hand – he’d brought it, unsuspecting, so they could look at it together before the sale. He said the last thing he saw, as he left the tavern room where they had met, was the Duke upon his knees upon the floor, frantically gathering up the shining coins where they had spilled in the dirt. He laughed as he told me that.’ She hesitated for a moment, and then added, ‘And he told me too that he’d seen you dance with Clemence while she was wearing the jewel, and thought what a pretty pair you made. So young, so innocent, he sneered. So deluded as to the real nature of the world. That gave his actions extra spice, he said.’

‘Does it ever occur to you,’ Rafe said in an attempt at composure that fell sadly short, ‘that he is insane? Not just wicked, but actually insane?’

‘Frequently,’ said Lord Wyverne’s mother, and her tone was infinitely weary. ‘I first feared it when he was twelve years old and I found that he had tortured… But there is no point in this. It is ancient history, and I am afraid that the tale is not quite done.’

‘Go on.’ He’d taken her thin hand and held it some while back; he wasn’t sure if he was comforting her, or she him.

‘He told me, and my investigations confirmed at least the bare facts of it, that de Montfaucon went home, told his wife what had happened, and then took a pistol and put a period to his existence in front of her. I don’t know if his children, Clemence and her brother Louis, who was a few years younger and never strong, saw the horrible scene or not. I can only hope not.’

Rafe had his face in his hands now. ‘The mother, the brother…? They’re dead now?’

‘They had to leave their lodging soon after. I do not know if they asked friends for help and were refused, or if by then there was no one they could ask. Perhaps they were too proud, or too shocked. They found meaner, cheaper lodgings, to which my people were able to track them – they must have been living on the pitiful sum of money Wyverne flung down, and on the sale of their clothes and so on, whatever possessions they had left.’ Delphine would not spare herself the last few agonising details. ‘The Duchess, Marie-Claude was her name, I remember her when she was just a girl, and her little son, they quickly fell sick in one of the epidemics that so often ravages the slums of London. Typhus, perhaps. It scarcely matters. Wyverne killed them all, as surely as if he had shot them himself.’

‘And… and Clemence?’

‘She disappeared utterly. Samuel, and the people he employed – a Bow Street Runner, and others – could find no trace of her. They laid out a large sum of money, made diligent enquiries, but they could learn nothing. It was assumed that she had come to the point where all she had to sell…’

‘Enough,’ said Rafe very low. ‘I cannot fail to understand how desperate she must have been, and how few choices she had. Enough.’

A little silence fell between them. Delphine said at last, her voice no more than a whisper, ‘I would have helped them. It was only a few pitiful months too late, when I found out and searched for them. I would have helped them, Rafe. It must be my fault somehow, what he is. His father and I between us, somehow we made him what he is. I was a bad wife to a bad husband; our relationship was broken from the very beginning and it must have affected Gervais very deeply. So I am responsible for his cruelty, I have always known, and I would have done all I could to set it right…’

‘I know you would. It’s not your fault, though. How can it be? You had other children, and they were not like him. You are a good woman, Grand-mère.’

‘I don’t think I was ever that. But thank you. I have done my best by you, at least.’

He raised her paper-thin hand and kissed it, and she squeezed his fingers in response with all her feeble strength. Then with an effort he said, ‘Does Sophie know that you have guessed her secret? Have you spoken of it?’

She shook her head. ‘I have hesitated to say anything, for I fear to make her speak of all the hideous truth of it. She must be so angry. She must hate Wyverne more than I can easily imagine. She has every reason to do so.’

‘I’m almost past the point of caring, but do you have the least idea why she is here? Do you think she has come seeking revenge?’

‘And could you blame her if she has?’