Marrying the Musketeer (26 page)

She tried to itch the blindfold that covered her eyes with the edge of her shoulder, but it wouldn’t quite reach.
 
“Can you unbind my eyes now?” she asked, her politeness ready to veer into incivility if she were refused.
 
She had been patient so far and complied readily with every request made of her, but her patience was readily evaporating under the discomfort of being unable to see.

“Be patient.
 
Just a moment more,” the low whisper came in her ear again.

She heard the sound of a door being unlocked and the creak of the hinges as it opened.
 
The hand on her shoulder propelled her forward a few steps.
 
“Mind the uneven floor,” it warned her, as she stumbled slightly on the carpet beneath her feet.

She heard the door shut behind her and the creak of a key as it turned in the lock.
 
She knew a moment of blinding fear at the sound.
 
Had she been misled?
 
Had she been taken to a prison and locked in?

No, that was impossible.
 
The softness of her footsteps meant that there was a rug under her feet.
 
Dungeons did not usually boast of rugs.
 
Through the blindfold she could see the chamber she was in was brightly lit with many candles.
 
All the dungeons she knew of were badly lacking in candles as well, especially the fine wax ones she could smell here.
 
A thick, soft rug and plenty of fine wax candles.
 
Whoever had brought her here was not lacking in material comforts.

“Hold still,” the low voice instructed her again, “and I will unbind your eyes now.”

The covering over her eyes fell away.
 
Unused to the light, she blinked several times before she adjusted to the glittering brightness in front of her.

The chamber was lined with so many wax candles that it almost seemed as though it were on fire.
 
The light from them glittered and sparkled, setting the crystal chandeliers ablaze with a riot of shimmering rainbows and reflecting off the polished surfaces of the precious gold and silver objects scattered throughout the chamber.

The man with the low voice, dressed in black and his face covered with a mask that disguised his features, melted away into the shadows in the far side of the room.

On a chair in front of her sat a young man – at least she thought it was a man, but the figure was so painted and beribboned that she could not be quite sure.
 
Whoever he was, she was sure he was important, so she took her hat off her head and swept him a low bow.

“You are William Ruthgard?” the figure asked when she was upright again.

“Yes, Monsieur,” she replied, hazarding a guess that the figure was indeed a man by the pitch of his voice.
 
“William Ruthgard of the King’s Musketeers at your service.”

The man nodded.
 
“I have heard of you.”

Good things, she hoped, looking sidelong at his face.
 
She was not sure she would like him as an enemy.
 
His face was not strong, but it had the hard lines that petty selfishness and cruelty can give to an otherwise weak countenance.

“Gerard Delamanse told me that you were to be trusted.”

She nodded.
 
Gerard was Sophie’s nom de plume.
 
She would trust Sophie not to have landed her in trouble, more than she would trust any man.
 
“He speaks rightly.”

Her inquisitor took a pinch of snuff from a delicate jeweled box, sniffed it elegantly up his nose, and gave a weak sneeze into a lacy handkerchief.
 
“He told me you would be more concerned with righting a wrong done to an innocent woman than most other men would be.”

Sophie knew her better than she had realized.
 
“He speaks truly.”

He tucked the handkerchief away again with a flourish.
 
“Even if the man who had wronged this woman was in a high place.”

She wondered where this was all leading her, but she answered honestly enough.
 
“Even so.”

His eyes were glittering in the light of the many candles.
 
“Even if the man who wronged this woman was the King of France.”

She gazed steadily at him.
 
“Who would you be that you would ask me this?”

He gave a little laugh.
 
“How arrogant of me.
 
I assumed you would know me, by reputation if by nothing else.
 
My name is Philippe, Duc of Orleans, and brother to King Louis of France, the devil take his soul.”

Not to mention the former husband of Henrietta Anne, the English princess now rotting in her grave thanks to the jealousy and malice of the King.
 
The puzzle was becoming clearer.
 
“In that case I may be honest with you, Monsieur, without fear of reprisal.
 
I have no particular love for my fellow man, though he be King of France, but I will not see so much as an old beggar woman mistreated for all the gold in the world.”

“Then I will be honest with you in my turn, Monsieur Musketeer,” the Duc said, choosing his words with evident care.
 
“The King wronged my wife most grievously – though I have not the means to prove it directly.
 
I want to find those means.
 
I want you to help me find them.”

She had no problem with this, but she wondered where it would lead.
 
“Once you have found them, what then?”

He flapped his lace cuffs at her with irritation at her words.
 
He was evidently more used to being obeyed than questioned.
 
“I will take the proof I seek to the King of England and show him without a doubt that my brother killed his sister.
 
He will not be able to ignore such an insult to the royal house of England.
 
He will have to raise an army to avenge her.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, hardly believing what he was suggesting.
 
“You would have England make war on all France to avenge your wife?”
 
She knew few husbands who would dream of such a thing.

“Not on all France.
 
I have many supporters in the troops – more than you might suppose, and certainly more than my dear brother suspects.
 
When the English soldiers arrive on French soil, I will join them with my men.
 
Together we will march on Saint-Germain de Laye.
 
Against the massed might of England and the half of France that owes its loyalty to me, my brother will find it difficult to fight.
 
In one stroke I will both avenge my wife and claim for myself the greatest throne in Christendom.”

She did not know whether to laugh or cry at his vision for the future.
 
He was no angel of loyalty after all, just a man who would use the excuse of his wife’s death to grasp a modicum of power if he could.
 
“You want my help to raise you an army?”

He shook his head, sending clouds of white powder from his wig through the air of the chamber.
 
“No, no, nothing like that.
 
I have plenty of generals who have been meeting with me in secret and they will bring me far more men than the few that you could command.
 
No, I have another job for you to do.
 
Gerard Delamanse tells me that you have access to what I need most of all right now.”

She could not imagine anything he needed more than an army, but she forbore to comment.
 
“And that is?”

“A thief.”

She thought of Miriame’s light fingers with the onions and smiled.
 
Sophie was wise not to let Miriame’s proclivities become too widely known.
 
Men in power were fickle – and did not like their ordered views of the world questioned.
 
A thief was tolerable only if he looked like a thief, dressed like a thief and could not be mistaken for anything but a thief, and whose services could be bought when needed.
 
Then one knew exactly what one was dealing with.
 
Did the Duc ever discover that one of the King’s Musketeers – a gentleman sworn to uphold the law of the land - was a notable thief, he may well have her hanged in a sudden fit of morality instead of using her services as he intended.
 
“Indeed, I may know one, though I dare swear his services will not come cheap.”

Monsieur shrugged his beribboned shoulders.
 
“I did not expect they would.
 
As you see, I am willing to pay well for what I need.”
 
He emptied a sack of coins onto his lap, letting them run over one another with a pleasant clink and clatter of wealth.
 
“In gold.”

She was unmoved by the sight.
 
One of her father’s diamonds was worth more than the whole bag of gold in front of her.
 
“My friend the thief loves nothing better than gold.
 
He will be pleased to see such a clear token of your generous intentions.”
 
Maybe such a bag of gold would save Miriame from a dagger in the back when her cheating with false dice was finally discovered.
 
She had her doubts, though.
 
Miriame would probably gamble with false dice just for the love of it, though she were as rich as the king himself.

He smiled as he shoveled the gold coins back into the pouch, evidently congratulating himself on the success of the bait he had held out as a lure to catch her with.
 
He tossed her the bag of coins.
 
“That is a token of my esteem for your friend the thief.
 
He will receive twice that again if he is successful in his thievery.”

She caught and tucked the pouch of gold coins into her breast pocket.
 
Miriame would be more than delighted to see such a bagful of loot.
 
Whatever he wanted stolen, she would no doubt offer to steal it for him ten times over, though it were the crown jewels of France itself.

He smiled at her with his mouth rather than with his eyes.
 
“Then it is settled.
 
When will you bring him to me to make the necessary arrangements?”

She shook her head at his haste to settle their business.
 
Maybe he was forgetting they had not yet raised the question of her own compensation.
 
“You have paid the thief royally, but you have not as yet secured my services.
 
What do you intend to offer me to make it worth my while to bring him to you?”

He glowered at her words, thinking she wanted more money.
 
“Do not be greedy, my friend.
 
There is enough gold in there to satisfy the both of you.
 
You will get no more until the task is done.”

If only she could obtain what she wanted in exchange for mere gold.
 
“I have gold enough and do not wish for more.
 
If you want the services of my thief, you will have to pay me in other coin.”

He drew his brows together, puzzled.
 
“What do you want if you do not want gold?”
 
Evidently he had never met anyone before who would turn down his bags of money for a more elusive prize.

“Something that is far more precious than money, but will cost you far less.”
 
She paused for a moment to let her meaning sink in.
 
“The price of my cooperation,” she said in measured tones, “is the life of a man.”

He sat back in his chair and looked at her in surprise.
 
“You would have someone murdered?”
 
He did not sound astonished at her request, he sounded surprised only that she had asked it of him.
 
“Why do you not do the job yourself in a dark alley?
 
You are a soldier, are you not, and well enough trained to take down whatever opponent stands in your way?
 
Or,” and he gave a snide smile, “are you too precious of your own life to attempt the feat?”

She permitted herself a brief smile in return.
 
“You do not understand me quite correctly, Monsieur.
 
I do not want a man killed, I want him saved – saved from the justice of the King.”

He looked intrigued at her words and leaned forward to study her face carefully as if he might read her thoughts.
 
“Who is this man whose life is so precious to you?”
 
He was almost licking his lips as he spoke.

Just in time she stopped herself from giving her true relationship.
 
“He is my…my uncle.”