Louisa Rawlings (9 page)

“You and your father seem quite adept at insinuating yourselves into the best circles. Continue to do so. Lead your life at Versailles as before. However, I want your father to win or lose, henceforth, on his skills alone. Do you understand? It matters little to me whether you’re both charlatans. But I need you, and I don’t want you disgraced. You’ll be a courier when I need you to be, and you will do certain other things that are required. You will tell
no one
of this conversation; if anyone learns—through you—of your connection to me, I’ll have you flogged and branded as a cheat, and your father as well! You’ll contact me only through Albret. Above all, listen and report to me anything—gossip, rumors—that seems unusual to you. Do you understand?”
 

She nodded, sickened and horrified by his words. A spy! She laughed bitterly. “Gossip?” Her lip curled around the word. She was to sell her soul for
gossip
? “I heard something the other day that sticks in my mind,” she said mockingly. “The Duc de Bleyle denied most heatedly that he had spoken to the Duc de Chartres, though I myself had seen them talking. Is that the sort of
gossip
you want?”
 

“Yes.” His expression was hard, indifferent to her feelings. “It may seem strange to you, but through such bits of gossip great mischief can be nipped in the bud. Bleyle and the king’s nephew, you say? That
is
odd. If you see Bleyle often, pay him close attention.”
 

“Is that all for now?” she said with contempt.
 

“No. You will be in attendance at Monseigneur’s fête, I believe. I am minded that the king chided you for wishing to leave.”
 

“I shall be here. Though I had hoped to go home afterward. Will my…obligation to you make me a prisoner at Versailles?”
 

“No. I told you, you’ll lead a normal life. But when you go, I’ll want you to be a messenger on your way. And if I send for you, I’ll expect you to return to Versailles as soon as you can. Now, the matter of Monseigneur’s fête. You have not forgotten what we spoke about. It is important for us to know what is happening in Spain. Our ambassador in Madrid is at a disadvantage in a foreign land. Much information is kept from him. Have you met Don Lopes de Gongora, the secretary to the Spanish ambassador?”
 

“I think I played billiards with him once.”
 

“Good. He’s away at Saint-Cloud, I believe. But he will return the night of the party. Don Lopes keeps the dispatches from Spain in his apartment. In a locked box. The key never leaves his person. It would be very helpful for us to be able to read those dispatches. We could learn much about Charles’s disposition, as well as the maneuvers of the Austrian ambassador in Madrid.”
 

“Then steal the key,” she said coldly. “Or break open the box.”
 

“Ah, but then, you see, they would find another place for the dispatches. But if we were to have our
own
key, and Don Lopes were not the wiser… Just before the fête, I’ll send you a little box filled with soft wax. You’ll make an impression of the key—both sides—and return it to Don Lopes’s pocket.”
 

“And how am I to get it
out
of his pocket?”
 

“My dear mademoiselle, with that face and those eyes, it should be like child’s play. Woo him, ply him with wine…whatever it takes.”
 

She felt the anger boiling inside her. For her helplessness. For his cold-blooded scheming. “Am I expected to take him to my bed?” she asked with sarcasm.
 

He shrugged. “Only if you wish it.”
 

Damn the villain! Well, it would cost him to have
this
spy! “I can’t go to Monseigneur’s party,” she said.
 

He scowled. “What do you mean?”
 

“I have no other court dress save the one I’m wearing. And no money to pay for a new one. And without a new dress, I’ll earn the king’s disfavor. I’d planned to feign a sudden illness that night that would have kept me in my bed,” she lied.
 

“What’s that to me?”
 

“I need money for a new gown,” she said boldly. “Thirty gold louis at the very least. The tailor will have to work day and night to finish it in two days.”
 

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I think I may have undervalued you, mademoiselle. You’ll do very well. Very well, indeed.”
 

She stood up and crossed to the door. “I’ll see the tailor first thing in the morning. Send the money by Albret as soon as you can. And don’t look so dismayed, Monsieur de Torcy. Thirty louis isn’t much to buy yourself a spy!” Cursing him under her breath, she swept out of Albret’s room.
 

Her proud carriage held until she reached the last dim corridor leading to their attic rooms. She sagged against the wall. Oh, Tintin, she thought. One hundred and twenty-five thousand Iivres! They could never pay it back. She’d be Torcy’s creature forever. But how else could she save Tintin? The threat to have her branded for cheating—perhaps it was only Torcy’s bluff, and couldn’t be proven. On the other hand… She shivered with fear. And it would kill Tintin to be thrown into debtor’s prison. It was too late now to sue the king for a small pension; Torcy would surely block that move. Oh, heaven, she thought, fighting back her tears, what am I to do?
 

“Rouge!”
 

She turned. Chrétien was coming down the passageway toward her, a bright smile on his face. It was only when he neared that she could see his eyes were filled with apprehension because of their recent quarrel.
 

“I haven’t seen you all day,” he said. “I’ve missed my sweet Rouge. But I thought of you. I won at cards today, and I thought of you. ‘Chrétien,’ I said to myself, ‘your pretty little Rouge should have a new fan to wear to Monseigneur’s fête!’ And so I hurried out this very afternoon to find the prettiest fan in the shop!
Voilà!
” He pulled from his pocket an ivory and parchment fan with a picture of cupids and cherubs painted on it, and trimmed with several streamers of pale rose silk.
 

She gulped back her tears. “It’s so pretty. And pink ribbons.”
 

“Of course! I remembered. To go with your new pink petticoat.”
 

“It’s very lovely, Tintin.”
 

He frowned. “How sad your eyes look. Who has made my Rouge so unhappy?”
 

“’Tis nothing, Tintin. A passing cloud.” How could she tell him? Hurt him? And she was sworn to secrecy. Torcy’s horrible threat still rang in her brain.
 

“Do you remember when you were a little girl, and filled with some grief, you would come and sit upon my lap? And I’d tell you that nothing could harm my dear Rouge?”
 

She nodded, too overcome to speak. She had lied and cheated for him. And now she would be a spy. Trafficking in a devious, murky underworld so that nothing would harm her dear Tintin.
 

He smiled sheepishly and kissed her on the forehead. “Are we friends again?”
 

She threw her arms about him. “Oh, Tintin,” she cried, “I
do
love you!”
 

Of course she had to lie to him when the tailor came the next morning to fit her new gown. She smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways,” she said. “As you have yours! And the fan will look lovely with this gown.”
 

They spoke of the gown and the coming fête and Nathalie de Chambault. But not of Arsène. Though she had begun to think of him more and more. One hundred and twenty-five thousand livres was not a great deal of money for the wife of Arsène de Falconet. Indeed, no.
 

Married to Arsène, she could pay off Tintin’s debts, hire a lawyer to clear her of the charges of cheating, and tell Torcy to find another fly to trap in his web!
 

Chapter Three

“You have the eyes of a cat, señorita. They tip up in a most enchanting way. Secretive and mysterious. It is very charming when you look upon a man with those eyes!”
 

Rouge laughed softly and fanned herself, smiling seductively up at the moon-shaped face of Don Lopes de Gongora. “They are secretive and mysterious, señor, only for a man who cannot read what they say!” She smiled again.
Mon Dieu!
she thought. Her face was beginning to ache from so much grinning! And still the dolt refused to understand her meaning. She had contrived to have him lead her out for the
branle
, the processional dance that had opened Monseigneur’s birthday party; she had leaned close to him as they watched the play that Louis had arranged for; she had flirted outrageously with him for the last two hours, while they supped. Was he blind as well as stupid? She’d never known a man—and a Spaniard, at that!—to be so dense in affairs of the heart.
 

She looked across the large drawing room. Tintin was frowning at her. He must think I’ve taken leave of my senses, she thought. Throwing myself at Don Lopes this way! Poor Tintin. He was already bewildered by her behavior these past two days. She had steadfastly refused to disclose the source of the money to pay for her beautiful new gown; the more he had pressed her, the more she’d evaded his questions. And the matter of her cheating for him at cards: she’d already refused him twice, with excuses that seemed false even to
her
ears. How could she keep turning him aside? But Torcy had insisted there was to be no more dishonesty. She sighed. The sooner she did what she had to for Torcy—including taking the impression of Don Lopes’s key this evening—the sooner she could turn her attention to marrying Arsène and being quit of this whole sorry business. God knows she wasn’t cut out to be a spy!
 

She half closed her pale gray eyes and looked with fervor at Don Lopes. There was no point in being subtle— she’d be here all night! “I know that you’ve guessed what my eyes say, Don Lopes. That I long to be alone with you. You
did
guess that, did you not? A man as wise as you are…”
 

“Alone with me?” he stammered, then smiled as the realization hit him. “Why, yes. Yes, señorita. I guessed it, of course. Though I never dared to hope…” He stared at her bosom, his corpulent body beginning to quiver in anticipation.
 

On the whole, Rouge thought that she preferred Don Lopes’s blank incomprehension to the lecherous sparkle that now appeared in his eyes. It might be wise to dim his wits a little. She leaned forward and whispered, one conspirator to another, “It’s nearly time for the illuminations. Soon the king will lead all the court out of doors to watch the fireworks. If you and I are a trifle slow in joining the others, well…who knows?” She tapped the corner of her mouth with the tip of her fan, an invitation that Don Lopes clearly understood.
 

“How clever you are,
querida mía
. At least for a few stolen moments, your king will not miss us.”
 

She put a gentle hand on his arm. “Of course you’re right. With all the etiquette of the proper seating, the duchesses on their
tabourets—
their
three-legged stools—the princesses with their armless chairs, and the never-ending battle of who is entitled to an armchair, the king will not miss us for a little while.”
 

It would really work out quite well, she thought, feeling the small case of wax in her pocket. As soon as she had the impression of the key safely recorded, and the key itself returned to Don Lopes, it would be a simple matter to drag him back into the gardens. She could say that she wished to see the rest of the illuminations, or that the king would surely miss one so important as Don Lopes, or even that the Spanish ambassador might come looking for his secretary and disturb their revels.
 

But first, to addle his brains. “While we’re waiting,” she said, “I’m perishing of thirst! And the king, in Monseigneur’s honor, is presenting the finest wine I’ve tasted in many a day.”
 

His eyes shone with a thirst that had nothing to do with the wine. “Ah,
si
, my lovely one. I should be happy to share with you a cup of wine.” By the time the illuminations were announced, they had shared several cups, although each time Rouge had only pretended to take a healthy swallow before passing on the nearly full cup to Don Lopes. As the court moved through the Hall of Mirrors to the terrace beyond, Rouge pulled at Don Lopes’s sleeve, leading him to a small antechamber that adjoined. She was pleased to see that he was no longer quite steady on his feet.
 

He closed the door of the small room and lunged for her.
“Mi amor!”
 

She laughed coquettishly and ducked his embrace. What cursed luck! she thought. He was wearing a heavy, brocaded coat, wrapped with a sash of red silk. And Torcy had told her that he kept the key to the dispatch box in a pocket of his waistcoat. She smiled—a cat’s smile—and put her hand to the decorative bit of lace that veiled the swell of her bosom. “’Tis very warm in here. I intend to make myself more comfortable. Why don’t you do the same?”
 

His eyes had become positively piggish, small black buttons that glittered with lust and guile. “I’ll match you piece for piece, señorita.” He unbuckled his decorative sword and dropped it to the carpet. “Now it’s your turn,
mía dulce flor
.”