The Bride Wore Scarlet (3 page)

“Good God, the Queen of the Belgians?”

“Aye, and that was Louis-Philippe's doing, too, 'tis whispered,” DuPont continued. “He wished his daughter to be made Leopold's queen in exchange for France's acceptance of Belgian independence.”

“I thought that was just a rumor,” Ruthveyn remarked.

“Eh, perhaps.” The Frenchman opened both hands expressively. “But the French army stood down, Leopold's morganatic wife was cast aside, and Louise-Marie was ensconced on Belgium's throne. But now 'tis said the Queen grows weaker by the day.”

“So the child's prediction is again coming true,” Bessett murmured.

“Consumption, it is whispered,” said DuPont. “The Queen will not likely last the year, and already the King's mistress is wielding some influence.”

But a sense of ice-cold dread was already creeping over Bessett. This was the very thing Guardians of the
Fraternitas
most feared: the exploitation of the weakest amongst the Vateis—their ancient sect of seers—most of whom were women and children.

Throughout history, evil men had sought to control the Gift for all manner of selfish gain. Indeed, it was the very reason for the organization's continued existence. Whatever the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis
had been at its shadowy, Druidic inception, over the centuries it had evolved into an almost monastic militia, devoted to guarding their own. But modernity had worn away their edges—and their structure. This child—this
Gift
—was at great risk.

It was as though DuPont read his mind. “There are a thousand dangerous things Lezennes could do,
mon frères
, to gain power and influence for himself,” he said, his voice pitched lower still. “Conspire with the old Bourbons, fan the flames of further revolution on the Continent, perhaps even drive a wedge between England and Leopold—ah, the mind boggles! And it will be all the easier if he can divine the future—or have it done for him by some unsuspecting innocent.”

“You think he killed his nephew.” The ice-cold dread hardened in the pit of Bessett's stomach until it felt more like an icy rage.

“I know he did,” said the Frenchman grimly. “He wanted possession of Giselle. Now she lives beneath his roof, subsisting on his charity. Our man in Rotterdam has sent his spies about, of course, but no one inside as yet. Still, Lezennes is grooming the child, depend upon it.”

“You are working with van de Velde?” asked Sutherland. “He's an old hand.”

“Most dependable,” the Frenchman agreed. “And, according to his spies, it looks as if Lezennes is courting his nephew's wife.”

“Good Lord, he thinks to marry the English widow?” said Ruthveyn. “But . . . what of affinity and canon law? What does your Church say?”

Again, the Gallic shrug. “Lezennes will care little for the Church's opinion,” he returned. “Besides, Moreau was illegitimate. What papers exist that cannot be burnt or forged? Who really knows the truth of his birth? Perhaps not even his wife.”

“Worse and worse,” said Sutherland. The Preost sighed deeply and looked about the table. “Gentlemen? What do you propose?”

“Kidnap the bairn, and be done with it,” Lord Lazonby suggested, his eye following the swaying hips of a nearby barmaid. “Bring her to England—with the Queen's permission, of course.”

“Expedient—but extremely foolish,” said Ruthveyn. “Moreover, the Queen cannot sanction such a blatant breach of diplomacy. Not even for one of the Vateis.”

“It won't matter if we aren't caught, will it, old chap?” But Lazonby's voice was distant, his gaze fixed somewhere near the front door. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair. “Your pardon, gentlemen. I fear I must leave you.”

“Good God, man.” Bessett cut his friend a dark look. “This child matters rather more than the sway of some barmaid's arse—fine though it admittedly is.”

Seated at the end of the table, Lazonby set a hand on Bessett's shoulder and leaned nearer. “Actually, it now appears I was followed here,” he said quietly, “and not by a willing wench. You have my proxy. I'd best go lead the hound from our scent.”

With that, Lazonby skulked from the room, and melted into the sea of crowded tables.

“What the devil?” Bessett looked across the table at Ruthveyn.

“Bloody hell.” Ruthveyn watched only from one corner of his eye. “Don't turn around. It's that infernal newspaper chap.”

Even Mr. Sutherland cursed beneath his breath.

“From the
Chronicle
?” Bessett's voice was low and incredulous. “How can he have learned about DuPont?”

“He didn't, I daresay.” Eyes flashing with irritation, Ruthveyn turned his face deliberately away. “But he has become entirely too curious about the St. James Society for my liking.”

“And too curious about Rance by half,” Bessett complained. “For Rance's part, I often wonder he hasn't begun to enjoy this game a little too well. What must we do?”

“Nothing, for the nonce,” said Ruthveyn. “Rance has insinuated himself into a game of dice by the fire, and dragged one of the wenches onto his knee. Coldwater is still quizzing the tapster. He has not seen any of us.”

“Let Rance lead him a merry chase, and ensure he does not,” Sutherland suggested. “Back to the crisis at hand—DuPont, tell us what, precisely, you would have us do?”

The Frenchman's eyes narrowed. “Send a Guardian to Brussels to fetch the girl,” he said. “None of you are known to Lezennes. We have taken the liberty of leasing a house not far from the Royal Palace—very near Lezennes—and put it about that an English family is soon to take up residence. Servants have been put in place—trusted servants from our own households in Rotterdam and Paris.”

“And then what?” demanded Bessett. “Lazonby's suggestion aside, we cannot very well snatch a child from its mother. Even we are not so heartless as that.”

“
Non, non
, persuade the mother.” The Frenchman's voice was suddenly smooth as silk. “Befriend her. Remind her of England, and of the happy life she might live here. Suggest a reconciliation with her family is possible. Then, if all else fails—if she is already too far under Lezennes' thumb—kidnap them both.”

“
Kidnap
them?” Sutherland echoed.

DuPont leaned across the table. “Already my private clipper goes to anchor at Ramsgate, armed with a crew of good, strong men. It will take you to Ostend in utter secrecy, and await your escape.”

“This is madness,” said Bessett. “Besides, if Lezennes means to marry the woman—and if he is as conniving as you suggest—then he won't let one of us befriend her.”

“Not one of
you
,” the Frenchman said wearily. “Your wife, perhaps? Someone who can—”

“But none of us is married,” Bessett protested. “That is to say, Ruthveyn here will be shortly, but he is leaving.”

“A sister, then. A mother.” DuPont waved his hand with dismissive impatience. “
Mon Dieu
, what does it matter? A female to gain her trust, that is all we need.”

“Out of the question,” said Ruthveyn. “Bessett's sister is little more than a child. Mine scarcely passes for English and has two small children. Lazonby is a soldier, and hasn't the subtlety for such a mission. We only use him when someone needs to be beaten into submission.”

“What about hiring an actress?” Mr. Sutherland interjected. “Or perhaps Maggie Sloane? She's a bit of a—well, a
businesswoman
, isn't she?”

Bessett and Ruthveyn exchanged glances. “Trust a padre to suggest hiring a high-flyer,” Bessett said dryly. “But it's true Maggie sometimes does a spot of acting.”

“Yes, every time Quartermaine beds her, I don't doubt,” said Ruthveyn sardonically.

“Damn, Adrian, that's cold.” Bessett flashed a grin. “Even Ned Quartermaine doesn't deserve that, even if he does run a gaming hell at our front doorstep. And he won't loan us Maggie. But yes, someone
like
Maggie . . . how hard can it be?”

“Ah,
tant mieux
!” DuPont, looking relieved, thrust one of his big paws to an inside coat pocket, then withdrew a thick fold of papers. “Here is all the information you will require,
mon frères
. The address of the house. The list of servants. Details of the story we have put about. Complete dossiers on both Lezennes and Madame Moreau. Even sketches.”

Bessett took the fold and shuffled through the papers, Ruthveyn and Sutherland looking over his shoulder. It was thoroughly done, he would give the Guardians of Paris that much.

“
The art and architecture of Belgium
?” he muttered, reading aloud. “That, ostensibly, is your Englishman's purpose in going to Brussels?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “Are not many of the English dilettantes?” he said. “Politics would have been too complicated—and too threatening. A man of business? Bah, too bourgeois for Lezennes.
Alors
, what could seem more harmless than a rich, bored aristocrat who comes to look about and make a few pretty sketches, eh?”

“Sounds like a job for you, old chap.” Ruthveyn looked at Bessett with what passed for a smile. “Bessett here is our resident architect, DuPont. Indeed, he has traveled all over Italy, France, and North Africa drawing pretty sketches—then actually building them.”

Sutherland was rubbing his chin. “It does appear this assignment will fall to you, Geoff,” the Preost murmured. “Once we've read through all this, we'll put it to vote.”

“You've an initiation ceremony to prepare for,” Ruthveyn reminded him. “Here, pass it to me. I shall read it tonight.”

With mixed emotions, Bessett shoved back his chair. Though he did not know Brussels well, he wondered if some time away from London mightn't suit him. He had been plagued of late by a burning sense of restlessness—and more than occasionally, by a wistful longing for his old vocation. For his old life, really.

There had been a time not so many years ago—before his brother's death bollixed everything up—when Bessett had been obliged to earn his own living. Nowadays he did little real work, living instead off his land, and the oft-bitter fruit of other men's labor. Though he had known of the
Fraternitas
since boyhood—had learned its purpose and its principles, quite literally, at his grandmother's knee—he had not fully devoted himself to its noble goals until Alvin's tragic passing.

Perhaps
he
had become a rich, bored aristocrat?

Dear God. That was too distasteful to contemplate.

But whatever it was that nagged at him, Sutherland was offering a way to escape it for a time. This assignment in Brussels was, perhaps, a means of doing good for the
Fraternitas
—for society—while escaping the shackling role of Lord Bessett for a time. A chance to be, fleetingly, just plain old Geoff Archard again.

Ruthveyn had extracted his gold watch. “I'm afraid, gentlemen, that I must leave you,” he said. “Lady Anisha is expecting me home for dinner.”

“And we mustn't keep your sister waiting.” Bessett set his hands flat to the table with an air of finality. “Very well, DuPont, we have your direction. Should we have any questions, we'll send a man to Paris using the same pass phrase as tonight.”

“Then I beg you will waste no time in doing it,” DuPont advised. “The
Jolie Marie
will lie at anchor in Ramsgate harbor for a sennight. I encourage you to make swift use of her.”

“Indeed, indeed!” Sutherland managed a benevolent smile. “Well, gentlemen, I fear I must take my leave. We'll be initiating a new acolyte soon, Monsieur DuPont. If you should like to remain a couple of days, I can give you the loan of a robe.”

But the Frenchman shook his head, and rose to go. “
Merci
, but I go at once to St. Katherine's to meet a friend, and thence to Le Havre.” Then he turned, and offered his huge paw to Bessett once again. “
Bon voyage
, Lord Bessett,” he added, “
et bonne chance.
”

“Thank you,” said Geoff quietly. Then, on impulse, he set a hand between the man's broad shoulder blades. “Come, DuPont. The streets hereabouts are not the safest. I'll walk you up to the docks.”

But the Frenchman merely flashed another of his grim, misshapen smiles. “
Très
bien,
mon frère
,” he said evenly, “if you think my looks are not enough to put your English footpads off?”

M
aria Vittorio rumbled into the Docklands well after dark in a monstrous old town coach so heavy half a battalion could have ridden atop it. Alas, she did not have half a battalion for her journey into London's netherworld; merely a footman and a coachman, both nearly as ancient as she. But like old shoes, they had grown worn and comfortable together through the years, and Signora Vittorio was known to be deeply suspicious of change.

Near the foot of Nightingale Lane, the coach rocked to a halt, harnesses jingling. A few shouts were exchanged in the street, then Putnam, the footman, clambered slowly down and threw open the
signora
's door.

“They say the
Sarah Jane
's offloading on the Burr Street side, ma'am,” he said in his creaky voice. “We've got almost down to the King George, but the turn is choked with drays and whatnot.”

Signora Vittorio hefted herself wearily off the banquette. “Circle back to the top of the lane, then, and wait. I'll send a porter through with the baggage.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The footman tugged his forelock. “If you're sure? 'Tis a chilly evening, and a fog coming in.”

“
Sì, sì
, go,” she said, waving a gloved hand. “My knees are not as arthritic as yours.”