The Wolfe's Mate. Paula Marshall

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      She was not far wrong about Ben. Once out of the sound of Susanna’s mocking voice, constantly reminding him of what a cake he had made of himself, he had recovered the cold-blooded and cold-hearted equanimity which had taken him from poverty to immense riches.

      ‘Don’t say anything, Jess,’ he had commanded, his right hand raised, when they reached his study, a comfortable room that was all oak, leather and bookshelves. ‘I freely acknowledge my error. I am entirely to blame, and conceit has been my undoing. You carried out my orders to the letter and the only thing I can fault you for is not reporting to me the lady’s reaction when you kidnapped her. What I have to do now is save the situation from becoming even worse than it already is.

      ‘I cannot allow this innocent young woman to suffer as a consequence of my folly, but how to rescue her poses a number of difficulties. If you have any suggestions to offer, pray make them now.’

      He flung himself into a high-backed chair which stood before a large oak desk on which pens, papers, sand, sealing wax, rulers and a large ledger were carefully arranged. As elsewhere in the house the room was meticulously ordered, a monument to the care with which Ben Wolfe normally arranged his life and that of those around him.

      Jess looked down at him, a rueful smile on his face. ‘If I had a magic sentence which, once uttered, put all to rights again, then I would offer it to you,’ he said. ‘But for the life of me I cannot think what would mend matters—or, indeed, if they could be mended. The young woman is here, will be missed by her employers and will have no tale to offer them which would not end in ruining us all—including her.’

      ‘Job,’ said Ben bitterly. ‘I might have known that you would be Job’s comforter. One thing, she cannot stay here long, in a house of men, with no duenna for herself, so that must be the first remedy—but how?’

      He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyes closed. Jess had seen him do this many times before when he was concentrating, so he remained as still and silent as he could.

      Ben began by reproaching himself for his carelessness. The young woman, Susanna, had the right of it. But enough of that. He needed a duenna for the duenna. But who? And how? How much time passed as he cleared his mind of thought and waited for inspiration to strike he never knew.

      He lifted his head, looked at Jess, and said, ‘I have it. Celeste. I wonder that I did not think of her before.’

      ‘Celeste?’ asked Jess, puzzled.

      ‘Yes. Celeste. Madame la Comtesse de Saulx who is living not two miles away and whose reputation is beyond reproach.’

      ‘You mean the Frenchwoman who has rented the Hall outside Lavendon. She is the epitome of all that is proper,’ returned Jess. ‘I had no notion that you knew her.’

      ‘I know her, and she is not French—although she sounds as though she is.’

      ‘And you think that she would agree to help us?’

      Ben smiled. He had never looked so wolfish. ‘Oh, I think she might be persuaded.’

      He did not say, I know that she will and for reasons which I cannot discuss with you—or anyone else. All that remained was for him to ride over to her home, Primrose Hall, and ask her to help him—and immediately.

      Jess watched him as he rose, saying, ‘Ask Nicholson to have my curricle and my best pair of chestnuts ready as soon as possible. I’ll drive over immediately. It’s only a short run and she can come back with me straight away. Tell the housekeeper to prepare another suite of rooms for her and for her maid—and possibly an attendant if she wishes to stay overnight. I doubt that she will, but one never knows.

      ‘In her hands, Miss Beverly’s reputation should be quite safe.’

      He bounded out of the room, all his usual violent energy restored.

      Jess called after him, ‘And I am to tell Miss Beverly of what you are planning?’

      ‘You are to tell Miss Beverly nothing of that. Tell Mrs Ashton to attend on her and suggest that she goes to her room, change into the clothing provided for her, and be ready to eat an early supper with you, myself, and at least one other guest. That is all.’

      Jess watched him go. Now, how in the world had he come to know Madame de Saulx? And know her well enough to demand such a favour of her? She was too old, surely, to be, or have been, his mistress; in any case, she was widely known for her virtue as well as her strong sense of propriety.

      He shook his head. He had known and worked for Ben Wolfe for many years—but he still had no real notion of the true man he was, or of the many secret affairs which his employer chose to keep to himself.

      Ben himself, cursing his folly, made short work of his visit to Madame de Saulx. He drove at a pace which, although it could not exactly be described as ventre à terre, was near to it. He knew that Madame would receive him immediately, not keep him waiting, at whatever hour he chose to arrive.

      He was shown into a drawing room which already bore the marks of Madame’s impeccable taste, and it was not long before she appeared. She was in her middle fifties, was tall beyond the common height of women, and bore the remains of a great beauty. She was dressed modestly, although her turnout had that air of je ne sais quoi which most Frenchwomen of noble birth possessed.

      Her shrewdness was demonstrated immediately when, after Ben had performed the common courtesies which a gentleman owed to the lady whom he was visiting, she said gently, ‘Pray, sit down. I know by your face that you must have come on some matter of great moment, but we can still discuss it in comfort. I have no mind to have you pacing my drawing room like a caged tiger!’

      Ben gave a short laugh and did as he was bid. ‘How well you know me! I have come, as you have doubtless guessed, to ask a great favour of you.’

      ‘You may ask as many favours of me as you please, great or small. Nothing I can do for you could equal the one great favour you did for me.’

      ‘You exaggerate, but let me come to the meat of my problem as soon as may be,’ and he immediately began to tell her the sad tale of how he had, by chance, come to kidnap the wrong woman, and how urgently he needed her assistance to save three reputations.

      ‘Bien sûr,’ she said, her voice and manner grave, ‘that I shall certainly not ask you why you chose to do such a thing—but I can guess. What do you propose that will mend matters?’

      ‘That you will come immediately to The Den to be introduced to Miss Susanna Beverly as a French noblewoman of impeccable birth, who is ready to assist her in every way after hearing of the sad mischance which I have so carelessly brought about. I have concocted an explanation which I believe will do the trick of allowing her to retain her reputation and which will also disassociate her completely from any connection with me—that is, if you agree to it.

      ‘It goes as follows. You were being driven along Oxford Street when you saw this young gentlewoman overcome by faintness. Of your infinite compassion you stopped, assisted her into your chaise and took care of her. She did not recover for some time and, when she did, she was temporarily afflicted with a distressing loss of memory. Again, of your compassion, you drove her to your pied à terre in Stanhope Street near Regent’s Park, where you cared for her until her memory returned. After which you immediately arranged to restore her to the family by whom she is at present employed.’

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