Everyone acted splendidly, despite Lord Vitor’s earlier humility and Sir Henry’s tendency to shout his lines. Juliana’s uncle, the bishop, teetered onto the stage to deliver the prince’s lines. Lord Whitebarrow made a suitably self-important Lord Montague, while Lady Whitebarrow, playing the part of Lady Montague, glowed in speaking of Romeo as her son. The prince’s rhapsodizing over first fair Rosaline then Juliet’s beauty won chuckles then sighs from the audience. The true astonishment, however, was Martin Anders. As Mercutio, his monologue on the way to the Capulets’ party mesmerized.
“I’ve niver seen a better Mercutio,” Iona whispered.
Full of mad emotion and violent agitation, he seemed not to act but to live the part. Ravenna knew he could not possibly be the murderer. No man who wore his dramatic soul like a brilliant red cloak, openly and with such ardor, could kill without afterward swiftly declaring his guilt to the world.
Her certainty did not, however, swallow the bees battling in her stomach when he shouted, “Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?” and drew his sword on Lord Vitor.
“They’ve blunted the blades, lass,” Iona whispered. “Dinna fear.” But her hands were clenched in her lap too.
“What wouldst thou have with me?” Lord Vitor said to the fool.
“Good king of cats,” Mr. Anders scowled and advanced upon him. “Nothing but one of your nine lives.”
The audience now included members of the cast not on stage. Drawn into mad Mercutio’s furor, they stared, entranced. Apparently alone in being unmoved, Monsieur Brazil stood up with customary formality and walked to the foyer. A man stood just within the castle’s front door, cloaked in homespun. A hood concealed his head and his brown skirts scraped the floor.
At the head of the stairs Lord Vitor declared, “I am for you.”
Ravenna’s attention snapped back to the stage.
“Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up,” Prince Sebastiao pleaded with Mr. Anders.
Mr. Anders shrugged him off. “Come sir,” he urged Lord Vitor. “Your passado.”
Metal clashed. Behind Ravenna, Juliana Abraccia gasped. Sir Henry clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Good show, gentlemen!”
But it didn’t look like they were mock fighting. Ravenna knew little of gentlemanly sport, but this looked real.
Iona reached over and clasped her hand tight.
“Draw, Benvolio!” the prince called frantically to Lord Case. “Beat down their weapons.” Sleeves billowing, he leaped toward Mr. Anders and Lord Vitor. “Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage!”
Mr. Anders cast a swift glance toward the door where Mr. Brazil and the stranger stood. Turning eyes filled with desperation again upon Lord Vitor, he shouted, “He shall not escape my pain!” and thrust his sword forward.
“Shakespeare didna write that line,” the duchess muttered with disapproval.
Ravenna’s heart stumbled. She pushed up from her chair. Iona followed.
Arielle leaped to her feet. “Ma petite,” she exclaimed, and ran toward the door.
Steel clanged upon stone. A sword tumbled down the stairs to come to rest at Ravenna’s feet. Amidst velvet and gold on the stage, she made out Mr. Anders’s two empty hands and she choked upon a swell of relief.
Mr. Anders dropped to his knees, threw his arm over his face, and cried, “Oh, I am fortune’s fool!”
“An’ that be Romeo’s line, no Mercutio’s,” the duchess said.
Lord Vitor moved toward Mr. Anders and stood above him. His brother descended the stairs and followed General Dijon to the doorway where Arielle clutched the tiny white dog to her bosom.
“Merci, monsieur. Merci,” she said to the hooded man, her face brilliant. The dog wiggled with joy in its mistress’s embrace.
Prince Sebastiao called across the hall, “Father Denis. What brings you down to Chevriot from your mountain peak?”
“Your highness.” The hermit bowed. His voice sounded rough and unused. “This morning I smelled smoke in the shed in which I store my gardening tools. When I entered, I discovered a fire that had been doused, and this miserable creature. I guessed that it must belong to the chateau. It seems I was correct.”
The general shook the hermit’s hand. “Merci, mon père.”
“But how did the little dog come to be there?” Juliana Abraccia asked, wide-eyed.
“I did it!” Anguish rang through Mr. Anders’s words. “I abducted the dog and put it in the hermit’s shed. It was me! I am at fault!” He lifted his face fraught with misery to the general’s daughter. “Mademoiselle, will you ever forgive me? Can you?”
“How singular,” Lady Whitebarrow said with a pinched nose. “Whatever did you want with the animal?”
He turned a dark glare upon his father. “He made me do it.”
Everyone stared at Lord Prunesly.
“What could you have wanted, sir, with my daughter’s dog?” General Dijon demanded.
Cecilia Anders stood up. “He wished to study its tongue.”
“Study a dog’s tongue?” Sir Henry demanded. “In the name of Zeus, that is preposterous, Prunesly.”
“You are mistaken,” Lord Prunesly stated. “As always, my children understand nothing.” He peered through his spectacles as though he were noticing everybody for the first time. “The dog is a rare find. I do not wish to study it,” he said with a scowl at his daughter. “I have all the information I need about it already. It is the sole living specimen of its breed to bear a black spotted tongue. A breeding bitch, no less. It is a remarkable find. Exceptional.”
“If you did not wish to study her, why did you hide her in that shed?” Ravenna asked.
“To freeze.” Arielle shivered and hugged her dog close. “Ma pauvre petite.”
“She would have been no use to me frozen, mademoiselle,” the baron said shortly.
“Papa planned to take her to a scientific meeting of the Linnaeus Society,” Cecilia said. “He intended to show her to his colleagues and win renown. Isn’t that right, Papa?”
“That dog is the proof I have searched for these past twenty years that recessive traits are carried through the fourth generation of females,” Lord Prunesly said. “I would have been awarded the Medal of Linnaeus for proving my theory. My findings would have been celebrated throughout Europe. And you, daughter, would have benefitted from it.”
Cecilia laughed, but sadly. “How, Papa? If you mean by marriage to one of your ivory tower acolytes, I am even less interested in that than marriage to a prince.” She moved toward Arielle and her father. “Miss Dijon, I cannot tell you how dreadfully sorry I am that my father has done this. I begged him not to steal your dog. I did not entirely believe he would do it until he actually did. And Sir Henry.” She turned to the horse breeder. “It was a mistake. Poor judgment on my father’s part—exceedingly poor. Can you forgive his vanity? Think only of the successes your stables could see if we joined forces.”
“Well, miss,” Sir Henry said, his doublet stretching beneath a heavy sigh. “I am an honest man and it seems that your father isn’t the sort I like to do business with after all. I should have liked to hear more of your ideas, but we’ll have to put that aside now.” He shook his head regretfully.
“Your highness,” said General Dijon, “will you chastise Lord Prunesly?”