Free Mademoiselle At Arms by Elizabeth Bailey

of
following through on the seductive promise in his conduct. But if not himself,
there would be another soon enough. Madame Valade was that kind of woman.
    ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her
fingers to his lips. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little,
appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. She waited expectantly.
    ‘Let’s see now. Would it be Thérèse?’
    She shook her head. ‘Quite wrong, monsieur.’
    ‘Alas. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’
    ‘Oh la la! That is not me at all.’
    ‘No, perhaps not,’ Gerald agreed with a smile. ‘Léonore, then?’
She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. ‘Then it must certainly
be Eugénie.’
    ‘But, no,’ She dimpled. ‘You cannot read my mind at all,
monsieur.’
    ‘I’m afraid you are right. Very well, I give up. You will
have to tell me.’
    ‘I could have done so at the first and saved you the pain,’
she told him merrily. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing
into an expression of acute consternation.
    Gerald was instantly on the alert. ‘Something wrong, madame?’
    Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. She
fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could
hear her uneven breath behind it.
    ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. ‘I thought—I thought
I saw my—my husband.’
    Gerald cast a swift look up the corridor, but there was no
one there, not even a shadow. His frowning gaze came back to her. She was
making it up. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a
slip. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly
withdrawn it. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had
heard her speak: “I was not born to this.” Lord, he was right! But softly now. Let
him be sure.
    ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat
her free hand. ‘I will make certain that we are unobserved.’
    He made a pretence of rising and making a sortie to the
corner to see if anyone was there. She seemed to have recovered herself as he
returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon.
    ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and
infusing it with all the promise he could command. ‘Not yet, madame. You will
leave me utterly distraught.’
    Madame Valade reseated herself, and Gerald set himself to
flatter her into relaxation again. He succeeded so well that by the time he
asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever.
    ‘You will not guess again?’
    ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas. And you promised to tell me.
Quick, now. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame .’
    ‘Then you shall no longer do so. I am called Melusine.’
    Gerald let out a sigh both relieved and satisfied and
repeated the name.
    ‘Melusine. How perfectly charming.’
    He sat looking her over in silence for a moment or two, his
thoughts revolving around the name and the way it fitted so exquisitely on
quite another set of features. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and
recollected himself, turning on the charm again.
    ‘Now, madame, tell me all about your life in France. Did you
grow up at the Valade estates? You were born a Valade, I take it, even though
your father is English.’
    ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm.
    Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level
again, and leaned towards her. ‘Come, I told you I wish to know everything
about you. That is my way, my dear. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word
with a deep look ‘—with one I feel to be a stranger.’
    The breathy laugh came, and Madame Valade abandoned her fan. ‘You
would have a history of my life? Very well. I was born of one Suzanne Valade
and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill.’
    She pronounced it with a French inflexion, but Gerald
understood her to mean the English name he