herself sternly, she had not yet accomplished what she had set out to do – she must put this silly incident out of her mind, for all her courage would be required for the task ahead.
* * * *
When Julian Poyntz and the Duc du Bellay arrived at the Charrière residence, the promised masquerade was in full swing. Du Bellay had provided his guest with a grey domino and mask, and both gentlemen donned their disguises before entering the ballroom. Mr Poyntz, already mellowed by the duc’s generous dinner, found the noise and excitement intoxicating and was soon swept up in the dancing from which he emerged some time later feeling very hot and not a little thirsty. There was no sign of du Bellay, so Poyntz set off alone in search of some refreshment, making his way to an adjoining salon where a magnificent supper had been laid out. The main passion of Mr Poyntz’s life was food and he gazed rapturously upon the feast.
It was some time later that he reappeared in the ballroom, having sampled almost every dish and refilled his glass with more of his host’s excellent wine. He stood gazing with a detached interest at the dancers until he became aware of a tall figure in a black domino standing but a short distance away. Poyntz recognized the gentleman, despite his disguise and, tossing off his wine, he bestirred himself to speak.
‘Lord Davenham – servant, sir.’ He sketched a small bow. ‘Thought I’d see you here. Dashed glad to be able to converse in English, too!’
‘It was always my expressed intention to attend tonight.’
Hearing the cold tone, Mr Poyntz wondered who could be responsible for putting the viscount into such a black mood. He tried to dismiss Lord Davenham’s obvious ill-humour with a nervous little laugh.
‘Yes well, I’ve been thinking over the little matter we were talking of –’
‘Have you, perhaps, some information for me?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ murmured Poyntz warily, ‘but it has occurred to me that it might be safer to take up residence here in Paris and to say nothing.’
The viscount bowed, apparently unmoved.
‘As you wish, sir, although I am informed that His Majesty’s government would not be – ah – ungenerous to one who helped them in this matter. Also, one must remember,’ - he paused to brush a speck of dust from one velvet sleeve - ‘when a traitor falls, his accomplices are liable to fall with him.’
‘Wait! I own I would be pleased to be out of it, after all these years,’ muttered Poyntz, almost to himself. ‘Oh very well!’ he added decidedly. ‘I will call upon you here tomorrow, my lord, with your permission?’
‘Certainly, sir. I shall look forward to it.’
The viscount moved off and Mr Poyntz returned his attention to the dancing, where the excitement was now much more intense. A figure suddenly appeared beside him, a lady swathed in a large cloak of green and gold, with a gilded head-dress that concealed all of her hair and half her face, save for a dainty chin and a pair of cherry-red lips that now smiled invitingly. She pulled him into the whirl of dancers and Poyntz entered into the spirit of the occasion, gallantly leading his partner around the floor and performing the rigaudon as energetically as was possible for a man of his stature, but after a few minutes he drew her to one side, wheezing and panting from the exertion.
‘A- a thousand – apologies, madam, but – I must rest – not as young as I was!’
‘It matters not, monsieur . Let us take a glass of wine together.’
He stared as the masked face, frowning. The lady’s English was perfect, with scarcely a trace of accent.
‘Have we not met before? I would swear I know your voice.’
‘Oh, ‘tis quite possible, m’sieur. ’ The lady’s eyes glittered through the slits of her mask, a warm smile curving her red lips.
‘Come then. Let us sit here while I try to discover your identity!’ cried the gentleman gaily. He led
* * * *
When Julian Poyntz and the Duc du Bellay arrived at the Charrière residence, the promised masquerade was in full swing. Du Bellay had provided his guest with a grey domino and mask, and both gentlemen donned their disguises before entering the ballroom. Mr Poyntz, already mellowed by the duc’s generous dinner, found the noise and excitement intoxicating and was soon swept up in the dancing from which he emerged some time later feeling very hot and not a little thirsty. There was no sign of du Bellay, so Poyntz set off alone in search of some refreshment, making his way to an adjoining salon where a magnificent supper had been laid out. The main passion of Mr Poyntz’s life was food and he gazed rapturously upon the feast.
It was some time later that he reappeared in the ballroom, having sampled almost every dish and refilled his glass with more of his host’s excellent wine. He stood gazing with a detached interest at the dancers until he became aware of a tall figure in a black domino standing but a short distance away. Poyntz recognized the gentleman, despite his disguise and, tossing off his wine, he bestirred himself to speak.
‘Lord Davenham – servant, sir.’ He sketched a small bow. ‘Thought I’d see you here. Dashed glad to be able to converse in English, too!’
‘It was always my expressed intention to attend tonight.’
Hearing the cold tone, Mr Poyntz wondered who could be responsible for putting the viscount into such a black mood. He tried to dismiss Lord Davenham’s obvious ill-humour with a nervous little laugh.
‘Yes well, I’ve been thinking over the little matter we were talking of –’
‘Have you, perhaps, some information for me?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ murmured Poyntz warily, ‘but it has occurred to me that it might be safer to take up residence here in Paris and to say nothing.’
The viscount bowed, apparently unmoved.
‘As you wish, sir, although I am informed that His Majesty’s government would not be – ah – ungenerous to one who helped them in this matter. Also, one must remember,’ - he paused to brush a speck of dust from one velvet sleeve - ‘when a traitor falls, his accomplices are liable to fall with him.’
‘Wait! I own I would be pleased to be out of it, after all these years,’ muttered Poyntz, almost to himself. ‘Oh very well!’ he added decidedly. ‘I will call upon you here tomorrow, my lord, with your permission?’
‘Certainly, sir. I shall look forward to it.’
The viscount moved off and Mr Poyntz returned his attention to the dancing, where the excitement was now much more intense. A figure suddenly appeared beside him, a lady swathed in a large cloak of green and gold, with a gilded head-dress that concealed all of her hair and half her face, save for a dainty chin and a pair of cherry-red lips that now smiled invitingly. She pulled him into the whirl of dancers and Poyntz entered into the spirit of the occasion, gallantly leading his partner around the floor and performing the rigaudon as energetically as was possible for a man of his stature, but after a few minutes he drew her to one side, wheezing and panting from the exertion.
‘A- a thousand – apologies, madam, but – I must rest – not as young as I was!’
‘It matters not, monsieur . Let us take a glass of wine together.’
He stared as the masked face, frowning. The lady’s English was perfect, with scarcely a trace of accent.
‘Have we not met before? I would swear I know your voice.’
‘Oh, ‘tis quite possible, m’sieur. ’ The lady’s eyes glittered through the slits of her mask, a warm smile curving her red lips.
‘Come then. Let us sit here while I try to discover your identity!’ cried the gentleman gaily. He led
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