Louisa Rawlings (64 page)

She slept soundly in the large bed, its draperies shut to the cool night. If, tomorrow, she might be in peril, tonight—with the doors locked and the keys on a ribbon about her neck—tonight, at least, she was safe.
 

In the morning she was invited to take breakfast with the other guests on the lawn of Rochenard. It was a sunny day, crisp and invigorating, and perfect for an alfresco breakfast. Rochenard was a beautiful château, as she knew it would be. But it only made her long for Choisy. And Pierre. The guests were an interesting lot: a dozen or so men and women—young, attractive, clearly wealthy. And not a one married to another, though every woman was introduced to her as “madame,” and several men—familiar from her days at Versailles—were known by her to have wives. They were very playful, even this early in the morning; one of the women had snatched a wig from a comte’s head and stuffed it down her bodice. She was now teasing him, and challenging him to recover it.
 

Arsène was at Rouge’s side, leaning over and nibbling at her ear from time to time. “You see what I mean about
Val d’Amour
?”
he said. “No pleasure is denied to you. You’ll soon find yourself enjoying the sport. Ah, but here comes our unhappy Gourgon, who lost his mistress, his
tapette
,
and—from the look of his green complexion—his supper, all in the same night!” He motioned to a somewhat effeminate-looking man who had come staggering out of the château, blinking against the morning sunlight. “Here, Gourgon. Come and meet my
amoureuse
.”
 

Gourgon bowed and acknowledged Rouge in silence, then smiled in gratitude and relief as a servant brought him a draught of wine.
 

Arsène laughed. “I hear you lost your little boy last night. And you owe me a set of dishes.”
 

“Don’t remind me of it,” said Gourgon, taking a deep swallow of his wine. “The little monster rimmed a satin waistcoat from me as well!”
 

Rouge sucked in her breath, staring in shocked surprise at Gourgon. He spoke with a distinctive, high-pitched lisp. A lisp she’d heard from behind the velvet hangings in Chartres’s bedchamber! One of the plotters.
 

He laughed at the look on her face. “Does my traffic with the little boy astonish you, madame? But everybody’s doing it now—it’s so amusing! Don’t you know what they say? In Spain, the monks; in France, the nobility; in Italy,” he laughed wickedly, “everyone!”
 

She smiled tightly, feeling sick. “How clever, Monsieur de Gourgon.”
 

Gourgon turned to Arsène. “She’s a beauty, your lady. If you ever tire of her…” He took another gulp of wine and looked about the gardens. “Has Louis come down yet?”
 

“I think so,” said Arsène.
 

“Louis?” asked Rouge casually. “Have I met him?”
Louis!
Who “had the men to do it,” she thought.
 

“Yes. The Marquis de Trivelin. Over there.”
 

“Yes, of course.”
 

“I want to talk with you and Louis,” said Gourgon. “I’m not sure…”
 

Arsène’s face darkened. “Not here,
nom de Dieu
!
In my study.”
 

Gourgon put his hand to his forehead and groaned. “Perhaps you’d better give me an hour or so. To sober up.”
 

“I’ll tell Trivelin.” Arsène turned to Rouge as Gourgon moved off. “Forgive me. I’ll have to leave you in a while. Business, you understand.”
 

She giggled. “In this place of pleasure? This Valley of Love? Don’t be concerned,” she added more seriously. “I found an interesting book. I’ll seek out a hidden corner of the garden and read to my heart’s content. No one will find me or disturb me.” And it would give her the opportunity, God willing, to listen at the door of his study!
 

His finger traced the top of her chemise, the first swell of her bosom. “I’ll find you.”
 

Ciel!
That wouldn’t do! She waggled a finger at him. “No, you mustn’t. That would be naughty. How could I read in peace, knowing you might sneak up on me at any moment?”
 

He laughed. “What will bring you back to me, then?”
 

“You know how I like to eat! Dinner will bring me back. Where shall we dine?”
 

“We’ll dine alone. Only the two of us. In my
appartement
.”
 

She shook her head. “Don’t be so eager. We’ll dine in mine.”
 

They chatted with the other guests for a while. Rouge determined that Trivelin was indeed the deep-voiced “Louis” she’d overheard. At last Arsène begged Rouge to forgive him, and took his leave. They parted with a kiss. She was finding it increasingly difficult to pretend ardor for him. It wasn’t only his villainy that was becoming more apparent; it was his touch, his mouth, everything about him that repelled her after Pierre. She thanked God she hadn’t married him in the spring the first time he’d asked her!
 

She slipped quietly into her suite, avoiding a knot of chambermaids who stood giggling at the end of the passageway, their starched fontanges bobbing with every peal of laughter. Arsène hadn’t yet come upstairs to his
appartement
;
she’d have time to hide herself before he did. She crossed to the mantel and retrieved the two keys on her ribbon, then let herself into Arsène’s bedchamber. She opened the door to his study, so that she might hear better, then crept back to his bed. She hid herself behind the closed bed curtains, sitting in the middle of the bed, and waited for Arsène to arrive with Gourgon and Trivelin.
 

Gourgon began to complain almost as soon as they entered the room. “I don’t like it. I never have. To kill him that way.”
 

Arsène’s voice was sharp and controlled. “It’s too late to back out. Stiffen your spine, you fool. There’s nothing for us to do now but wait until it’s done.”
 

“I’m not a coward. I just don’t like it. We can still change our minds and cancel the plans!” The lisp was squeaky with indignation.
 

Trivelin’s voice was conciliatory. “Now, now, Henri. You’ll be Chartres’s right-hand man.”
 

“I thought he didn’t want to go through with it,” said Gourgon sulkily.
 

“I had a letter from him only the other day,” said Arsène, “urging us to see it through.”
 

“By my faith,” said Trivelin, “why shouldn’t he want it? Hasn’t the king humiliated him often enough? Chartres is a Prince of the Blood, and more. By his relation to the late king, he’s a Grandson of France as well. And how does King Louis treat him? He forces him into the shame and disgrace of a marriage to his bastard daughter, with promises of honors to follow. Then he forgets him, and casts him aside in favor of his illegitimate sons! My God, I’ve seen Chartres many a time pacing the floor and cursing his fate. Or begging his father, Monsieur, to petition the king for employment, a governorship. Anything to keep his talents from withering.”
 

“Well,” said Arsène, “he’ll have power aplenty if our plan succeeds.”
 

“And England?”
 

“Chartres has had secret correspondence with William. England will stay out of it, if Chartres doesn’t use his power to threaten her.”
 

“What do you get out of it, Falconet?” said Gourgon. “The others will expect money, or an envoy’s post in the court of Spain. But you don’t need the money.”
 

Arsène’s voice was cold. “I want Pornichet returned to me.”
 

Hidden in the bed curtains, Rouge stifled a gasp. She’d forgotten that Arsène had spoken of Pornichet, the Falconet seaport that had been forfeited to the crown after the uprising of the nobles.
 

“It’s a long time to hold a grudge,” said Trivelin.
 

Arsène laughed, an unpleasant sound. “We Falconets are dogged. I want to see the dauphin’s face—that pig who tormented my father!—when the Duc de Berry’s banner is replaced by the de Falconets’ over the harbor!”
 

Sweet heaven, thought Rouge. They don’t mean to kill the Duc de Berry, surely! Louis’s third grandson—that carefree, silly little fourteen-year-old! What purpose could it serve Chartres?
 

“Are you certain you’ll get Pornichet?” lisped Gourgon.
 

“Chartres has promised it to me the moment our man is on the throne of Spain.”
 

The throne of Spain.
Mon Dieu!
Rouge cursed her own stupidity. Why, oh why hadn’t she told Torcy? She could only pray that other of his agents had heard whisperings of this, that letters had been intercepted by his spies in the postal service.
 

The conversation proved unenlightening after that. Gourgon bleated in protest a few more times, until Trivelin promised to speak to Chartres about a larger pension for him; and Arsène cursed softly and swore he’d cut out Gourgon’s craven heart if he didn’t stop whining.
 

Rouge found it difficult to dine with Arsène in her rooms that afternoon. Until she’d overheard the conversation in his study, she hadn’t really accepted the fact that he was deeply involved in the plot. A plot that was clearly treasonous, evil, murderous. A plot whose leader was the Duc de Chartres, the king’s own nephew, son to his brother. And Arsène had provided the rendezvous for the traitors. And money, no doubt, if assassins were to be hired.
 

She smiled falsely at him across the table, wondering how much longer she could maintain this pretense of loving him, of welcoming his impassioned vows, his kisses. She prayed again for Colinet to arrive.
 

“Will you ride this afternoon?” he asked, putting down his wineglass. “I have a superb horse for you.”
 

“I’d enjoy that,” she said. It might give her the opportunity to explore the land around Rochenard, to plan a route of escape, should it be necessary.
 

“At three,” he said. “I’ll come to fetch you at three.” He stood up and gathered her in his arms, his mouth seeking hers. “’Tis a sweet torment, my love, to long for you!”
 

“Dear Arsène,” she said, scarcely managing to return his kiss. She sent him away, and turned her attention to dressing for their ride. He had said that most of the company planned to ride; it promised to be a delightful afternoon, dashing through the glorious autumn foliage.
 

At the last moment, however, she had a sudden thought. Arsène had said that Chartres had written to him. She was almost sure she’d seen a writing desk in Arsène’s bedchamber. If she could find the letter—any letter—connecting Chartres with the plot, she could go to Torcy with real proof of his treachery. Since most of the company were taking to their horses this afternoon, she’d have several hours, undisturbed, to rummage in Arsène’s rooms. And with the key that led directly to his suite, not even the servants would see her. With the help of her maid, she stripped off her riding habit and donned a loose mantua and petticoat, putting aside her stays; then she dismissed the girl for the afternoon. When Arsène appeared at her door, clad in riding coat, she contrived to look frail and wan.
 

“But you’re in
déshabillé
,” he said. “Why aren’t you dressed for riding?”
 

“Alas,” she said. “I’m overcome with weariness. Would you take it amiss if I don’t ride with you?”
 

He frowned. “I’ll not leave you alone.”
 

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him gently. “Of course you will. I’ll take a nap while you’re gone. You said there’ll be music tonight for dancing. I intend to dance every minuet and gavotte! With you.”
 

“Well…” He looked doubtful.
 

“Go,” she said, and pushed him out of the door. She went into her bedchamber and locked the door to her antechamber, then she waited for what seemed a decent interval before she took the key from the mantel and let herself into his suite.
 

She rummaged among the papers on his desk, finding nothing of any consequence. There was a letter from Gourgon, dated two weeks before; but it only announced his intention to visit Arsène at Rochenard. Rouge cursed to herself. If he’d even used the name
Val d’Amour
, it might have been a useful letter! As it was, it merely responded to Arsène’s invitation. She frowned. Perhaps there was something in his study. She opened the door cautiously and peered into the small room. Empty. A quick search turned up nothing. There were two more small rooms in his suite. In one of them, lying across the cold embers of the fire, was a bit of paper. She pulled out the scrap and examined it. “—ossible, Philippe will bring th—” it said. She sighed. Philippe was the Duc de Chartres’s given name, but this piece of paper was useless. Since Philippe was also the name of King Louis’s brother, those citizens of France who hadn’t been christened Louis in the monarch’s honor were as likely to bear the name Philippe! So how could she be sure that this letter referred to Chartres, even though the circumstances of its burning seemed to indicate it?
 

Disappointed, she returned to Arsène’s bedchamber. She’d hoped to find
something.
She looked at the desk again. There was a locked drawer. She’d been reluctant to force it before, but now… No. Arsène would see it at once. She might as well return to her room. She’d left the connecting door ajar; the key, on its ribbon, was still in the lock. She reached out to the door and froze, hearing a step behind her from the direction of Arsène’s study. A servant. Ah,
Dieu.
She’d have to invent a convincing story for the servant; there was no time to get to her room and lock the door. She pasted an imperious smile on her face, and turned.