‘You must. We’re at Dieppe. What you want is food,’ his lordship informed her callously.
Miss Challoner was impelled to sit up. ‘You can force your presence on me, I suppose,’ she said bitterly, ‘but if you have any feeling at all you will not talk to me of food.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Vidal. ‘You don’t know it but you will be perfectly well when you have dined. Get up and come ashore.’
That last magic word brought Miss Challoner to her feet. His l
ordship offered his arm. ‘That’s better,’ he encouraged her. ‘I’ve bespoken dinner and beds at the Coq d’Or.’
They came up on to the deck. Miss Challoner, having requested my lord to precede her, climbed up the companion as quickly as a swimming head would allow. Once on deck she observed that the sea was miraculously calm and blue, and blinked at it in surprise. Then she saw the long shadows on the quay, and asked what time it was.
‘Close on six,’ replied Vidal. ‘We met rough weather.’
Her brain refused to work. She kept on repeating to herself: ‘I’m in France. I can’t get home now. It’s of no avail to ask the time. I’m in France.’
The Marquis led her up the gangway and along the quayside until the Coq d’Or was reached. ‘Your gear has been taken up,’ he said.
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘But I have none,’ she said.
‘You are forgetting,’ he replied ironically, ‘I told Sophia to bring nothing, but promised I would provide her with what she might need.’
‘Have you bought – dresses for Sophia?’ she demanded incredulously.
He grinned. ‘Oh, not only dresses,’ he replied. ‘You can teach me nothing of what a lady requires. Shifts, négligées, lappets, beads, perfume from Warren’s, Poudre à la Maréchale – you’ll find ’em all there. I have endless experience, I can assure you.’
‘That I do not doubt,’ she said.
He bowed. ‘I trust you will approve my taste,’ he said, and handed her over to the waiting abigail.
Miss Challoner saw nothing for it but to go upstairs in the wake of this damsel. She had a very fair notion of what her appearance must be, and she felt quite unequal to the coming scene with the Marquis until she had tidied her person.
She spoke French prettily enough, and had no difficulty in making the maid-servant understand her wants. She washed her face and hands, did up her hair again, using the brush and comb of his lordship’s providing, and very gingerly withdrew the pistol from the pocket of her cloak. She thought she would be able to hold it so that the panniers of her gown concealed it from view, and practised this in front of the mirror. Deciding that it was hardly successful, she held the pistol in her right hand and draped her cloak over her arm, so that its folds fell over the weapon. Satisfied, she left her chamber and went downstairs to the private parlour his lordship had engaged.
He was standing by the fire with a glass in his hand. Suddenly she knew why his eyes glittered so strangely; his lordship had been drinking, and was drinking still.
She took one quick look at him, and went to the table, and seated herself, holding the pistol under her skirts, and putting her cloak over the back of her chair.
‘I find that you were right, sir,’ she remarked politely. ‘I shall be the better for some food.’
He strolled over to his chair and sat down. ‘You look as though you need something to warm you,’ he said. ‘Will you drink burgundy with me, or ratafia by yourself ?’
‘Thank you, my lord, I will drink water,’ answered Miss Challoner firmly.
‘As you please,’ he shrugged and leaned back in his chair, lazily watching her.
The entrance of a liveried man, followed by one of the inn-servants created a welcome diversion. The discreet-looking man began to serve them, and surprised Miss Challoner by addressing her in her own tongue.
‘I always travel with my own servants,’ explained the Marquis, observing her surprise.
‘An agreeable luxury, sir,’ commented Miss Challoner.
She made an excellent dinner, and maintained a flow of easy conversation for the benefit of his lordship’s servant. The Marquis emptied his bottle of burgundy, and sent for a second. Miss Challoner’s heart sank, but the wine only seemed to make his lordship readier of tongue. There was a certain air of recklessness about him, but he was far from being drunk.
Miss Challoner, dreading the inevitable tête-à-tête, lingered over the sweetmeats. When she at last ended her repast, the Marquis signed to his servant, who, in his turn, directed the French hireling to clear away the covers. Vidal got up and lounged over to the fire again. Miss Challoner stayed where she was, only pushing her chair back a little way from the table.
‘Will your lordship require anything further tonight?’ asked the servant.
‘Nothing,’ Vidal answered.