leave, saying he would carry the news to Monseigneur de Talleyrand-Perigord, who had accompanied his friend d'Avaray to the port but was at that moment visiting some emigres settled in the town. The room had gradually emptied of company and now the duke was alone. Marianne judged that the moment had come. She rose to her feet.
As she stood before him, the old gentleman was seized by another fit of coughing.
'Your Grace – with your permission. It is imperative I speak with you—'
Watery eyes gazed up from a congested face.
'What – d'ye want?' he gasped. 'Go away!'
For answer, she slipped into the seat vacated by Bishop and, pouring some water into a glass, offered it to the duke.
'Drink slowly, it will soothe you. Afterwards, we will talk—'
Mechanically he obeyed. He emptied the glass and, by degrees, recovered his normal complexion. Taking out a large handkerchief, he mopped the sweat from his yellowed brow.
'I thank you,' he said unsteadily. 'What may I do for you?'
Marianne leaned forward so that the firelight fell directly onto her face.
'Look at me, my Lord Duke. Yesterday at Selton Hall, you were present at my wedding. Today, I am lost without your aid.'
Marianne's voice was hoarse with emotion and she almost choked over the last words while the duke's lack-lustre eyes grew round with astonishment.
'Mademoiselle d'Asselnat! Lady Cranmere, I mean. What are you doing here? What has happened?'
'Something very terrible. Yesterday I had a house, wealth, a husband and a name. It is all gone, nothing remains.'
'Nothing? How is this possible?'
'The house is burned down, the fortune lost, the husband dead and the name such as I shrink from—'
Swiftly, righting down her grief, Marianne described for the duke the events of that terrible night. As she spoke, she felt the horror and misery sweep over her again. She was still little more than a child and a child oppressed by burdens too heavy for her to bear. It was a relief to confide in someone even this stranger who did not, however, appear to be greatly struck with compassion. On the contrary, as the tale advanced, Marianne saw to her dismay the gentleman's weary face assume a closed expression while his eyes hardened with suspicion. Clearly, he did not believe her. She tried to add more urgency to her appeal for help but, when she had finished, the duke merely observed shortly:
'A strange tale, to be sure! So you killed your husband in a duel? Who do you think will believe that?'
'Why, you, since it is the truth! He did me a great wrong. I called him out and killed him.'
D'Avaray gave a weary shrug.
'My child, you will have to think of something else. No man worthy of the name would ever cross swords with a woman. Besides, who ever heard of a woman whose sword play was good enough to kill a man in the prime of life? Not since Joan of Arc and you are no Joan of Arc, I presume?'
Stung by the sarcasm, Marianne said bitterly:
'Your mockery is misplaced, my Lord Duke. As God hears me, I swear I have spoken only the truth—'
'Do not swear! I am no believer in oaths. You women use them as you like—'
'Very well, if I am lying, what do you think happened?'
'I will tell you. Your husband staked your fortune and lost it. I have heard sufficient of Lord Cranmere's reputation to accept that that may well be true. But, rather than confessing it to you, he went instead to his cousin. All the world knows he was her lover. You surprised them and, in a frenzy of rage and jealousy you stabbed your husband, struck down his companion and to make doubly sure they would not escape, set fire to the house. After all, it no longer belonged to you—'
'You forget Jason Beaufort – and Lord Cranmere's shameful bargain with him—'
' – A bargain which exists only in your imagination. You needed some justification for your murderous act.'
'He can bear me out. He knows I have spoken the truth.'
'If that is so, you may confidently place yourself in the hands of the law. You have only to send for him. With him as your witness, you may well prove your case—'
'But where is he to be found?' Marianne cried desperately. 'He is a sea captain – a pirate, I daresay – and the sea is very large.'
'If I have understood your story correctly, he is a sea captain without a ship. He must either get another or have one built. Search the English ports and you will find him soon enough.'
'Do you expect me to run after a man I hate, who has taken everything from me and would have taken even my honour? Do you expect me to beg his help, his evidence to clear me of a crime I have not committed?'
The duke rose with an effort and nicked a speck of dust off his old fashioned lace cravat.
'I have no expectations at all in the matter, my child. It is, quite simply your only chance—'
A heavy silence followed. Marianne saw her best hopes disappearing.
'You mean, you will not take me?'
D'Avaray spread his wasted arms helplessly before replying.
'You cannot think it! It is true, I am going for the sake of my health but I am still high in the confidence of his majesty King Louis XVIII. The King's position is such that no breath of a scandal must come near him. And yet you ask me, his friend, me, Antoine de Besiade duc d'Avaray to give protection to a murderess fleeing from the English justice? It is madness!'
'My parents gave their lives for their sovereign and yet when I, their daughter, ask for help it is denied me. The King is my King as well as yours. I, Marianne d'Asselnat, have a right to claim aid and comfort from him.' There was pride in the girl's voice.
'By your marriage, you are English. The King of France can do nothing for you. What little power he has, he owes to those who are worthy of it!'
Stunned by the old duke's harshness, Marianne felt suddenly very tired, tired to death of this exhausting battle with a man who refused to understand. Determined to make one last, desperate effort, she said hopelessly:
'But if you help me, would he ever know? I do not ask you to take me to Madeira. Only, set me ashore anywhere, even France. What does it matter?'
'It may not matter to you but you forget the hounds of Bonaparte. In France, Madame, I am a proscribed emigre. Merely to approach my country is to risk my head. But if it is your desire to go there, you may easily find some fisherman who deals in contraband, here in this very town, who for a consideration will certainly put you ashore somewhere on the coast of Normandy or Brittany.'
Marianne gave a little shrug.
'What could I do in France? I have no family there any more. But then, nor have I anywhere.'
A sardonic gleam came into the gentleman's red-rimmed eyes. He gave a dry cackle of laughter.
'No family? Oh but you have. I know of two persons at least connected to you by blood.'
'Two? How can this be? No one has ever spoken of them to me.'
'They are little enough to boast of. I should think Lady Selton preferred to forget that part of the family but the fact remains that you have two cousins, one closer than the other, to be sure, but the second a person of some standing!'
'Who are they? Tell me quickly,' Marianne said eagerly, her dislike of the old duke momentarily forgotten.
'Ah, you would like to know. It does not surprise me and, from what I have just learned of you, you should deal very well with both these ladies. One is a poor demented creature, your poor father's cousin. Her name is Adelaide d'Asselnat. She never married and long ago severed all connections with her family on account of her disgraceful opinions. La Fayette, Bailly and Mirabeau were among her friends and there was always a welcome at her house in the Marais for all those wretches responsible for overthrowing the throne of France. She must, I believe, have gone into hiding during the Terror to have escaped the guillotine which devoured the first masters of the revolution as well as its nobler victims. But I presume she must have reappeared and should not be surprised
