Leonie (35 page)

“He drowned at Deauville a month ago.”

“But I was there … I was in Deauville, Caro. I saw his name in the list of competitors for the races, he was to sail the
Isabelle
—the same boat he had the night of the storm.”

Caro gripped her arm. “You were there? With Monsieur?”

“Yes, I told you.… He wanted to take me away for a few days. Caro, Charles couldn’t just drown … I saw him handle that boat in a storm—he was an expert sailor.”

“Alphonse found out what happened. The story is that Charles’s crewman got sick just before the race and he picked up a new man at the harbor. He wasn’t a local man and no one seemed to know him. The
Isabelle
went out with the other boats and at one point almost capsized. The crewman came back alone. He said that Charles had been caught by a sudden shift of wind and had fallen overboard. He’d thrown him a line, but he seemed stunned and was going under. He went in after him and tried to get him back, but the sea was too rough, he slipped from his hands. The body was washed up the next day on a beach five miles away. The skull was fractured as if from a strong blow on the back of the head. The coroner said that Charles probably struck it as he fell and therefore was unable to save himself.”

Léonie and Maroc stared at her, horror-struck.

“Alphonse found out more, Léonie. The inquest took place the same day—normally these matters take a week or more—and afterward the body was sent back to his family in a sealed coffin. Charles was popular, he had many friends, and there were rumors among the yachtsmen, murmurs of suspicion against the stranger, the crewman who had disappeared as quickly as he came.”

Their eyes met. “You don’t think Monsieur …” Léonie couldn’t say it.

“Do
you
think Monsieur had anything to do with it, Léonie?”

She thought of Charles, beautiful young Charles, alive and loving, giving her his warm body and his magical world, just one simple loving night—and now he was dead. The enormity of Monsieur’s obsession struck her like a blow. It had gone beyond game-playing; he was capable of anything—even killing. And if he killed Charles, then he would kill Amélie, too; he wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of there being another man’s child around. “Yes,” she answered. “Monsieur killed him. I’m sure of it.”

Caro felt faint; she knew it was true—she’d known it as soon as Alphonse had told her. Dear God, what now? Was he going to kill Léonie, too?

Tears of sorrow and anger ran down Léonie’s face and the bitterness caught in her throat.

“We must get Amélie, Caro, for you can be sure that once he finds her he’ll kill her, too.”

“I’ll go,” said Maroc. “I’ll get your baby. You can’t do it yourself; Monsieur’s spy is right outside waiting for you.”

“And then what?” asked Caro. “Where shall we take her? Remember, Léonie, she’s been with this family for five months—the woman is her mother. Must we take her away?”

Léonie was bewildered. What should she do? Where could she hide the child? Where would Amélie be safe from Monsieur? Oh, Charles, dear sweet Charles, what should we do? She remembered the stories of his childhood, the lovely uninhibited sunny days at the château and his wonderful elder brother. What was it he’d said about him? Edouard has this quality of tenderness—unusual in a man—you can tell him anything. Edouard, the brother who had loved him; surely he would love his child, too? Of course, that was the answer. She would send Amélie to Edouard d’Aureville in Brazil—there was no way Monsieur would be able to find her there. She would be with her father’s family, where she belonged.

Caro and Maroc stared at her in amazement. She must be crazy. “But how, Léonie? They don’t even know she exists.”

“I’ll tell them. I’ll go there now, to the Château d’Aureville, and I shall speak with Charles’s mother, Amélie’s grandmother. I’ll tell her the truth and I’ll beg her to take the baby to Edouard in Brazil.” Her brain was working fast, spurred on by the adrenaline of fear and the need to protect her child. “Maroc, I want you to go to the inn and explain the situation to Monsieur Frenard. He will take you to Menton where you will collect Amélie. I will leave right away for Tours and wait for you there. Caro, you will
have to divert the spy somehow, so I can escape without being followed. But we must act fast … who knows what plans Monsieur has made, Verronet may be there before us. Oh, Caro, we must
hurry!
”

“Alphonse will go with you, you’ll need some support with the d’Aureville family. But Léonie, have you considered the fact that they might not believe you, that they might not believe it’s Charles’s child, and might not want to take her?”

“Edouard d’Aureville will believe,” she said simply. “He will believe it when I tell him that Charles said that he would understand anything, even your darkest secrets … he’s a man of compassion.”

The nondescript man caught a flash of blond hair as the woman ran across the courtyard and jumped into the waiting cab. He lumbered to his feet, cursing as he raced across the square to follow her. He hadn’t expected her to rush out like that, almost as if she were making a dash for it; she must be up to something.

Maroc watched him go and then hurried back into the house. He grabbed the hastily packed bags waiting in the hall and carried them to the tradesman’s entrance at the back, looking impatiently for the cab. Léonie, discreetly dressed in a dark coat with her blond hair swathed in a scarf, stepped in and he closed the door behind her. “Don’t worry,” he murmured as she bent to kiss him. “I’ll get her, all right. You’ll have your baby back, Léonie.”

“Oh, Maroc, why was I fool enough not to realize that he would go this far? It’s all my fault. Charles is dead because of me … and Amélie is in danger.”

“It’s
his
madness, Léonie, not yours. He’s tried to control your life for years now, and I’ve watched him do it, maneuvering and playing games with you, spying on you … his infatuation became an obsession—and now madness and murder.”

She leaned back against the seat, shaking. “I’ll never let him get Amélie,” she whispered. “Never! I’ll kill him first.” Bébé leapt in beside her with a piercing yowl, shocking Léonie. “Oh, Bébé, this is the first time I ever forgot you,” she said as her tears fell on the soft fur.

Maroc watched anxiously as the cab drove off through the mews at the back of the house on a roundabout route to the small hotel south of the river where Alphonse would meet her, then he climbed into the second cab that was to take him to the station to
catch the train to Nice. He prayed that he would get there before Verronet—if he didn’t, he would never be able to face Léonie again.

The man stomped the pavement outside Caro’s house impatiently. His feet were cold, he’d been waiting for more than four hours and she was still inside waiting for that friend of hers. She hadn’t left yet, he was sure of it, just the man had left, and he hadn’t looked as though he were going anywhere important; he had just sort of strolled away down the street. He blew on his hands, he wanted some supper, but he supposed he’d better wait and see what happened. Still, it wouldn’t harm to go to the café across the street. It looked cozy in there, and a brandy would warm him up.

Caro peered out of the window. Thank God, it had worked, now they had at least three hours’ start. The man was going into the café—good, that meant he thought Léonie was still here; no doubt he’d have some supper and then hang around a bit longer and assume that he’d missed her. He’ll probably go back to the place Saint-Georges and wait there. It might be a day before he realizes that she’s given him the slip.

Léonie waited restlessly for eleven o’clock to come. She’d sent the note round to the Comtesse d’Aureville as soon as they had arrived last night, asking if she would see her, saying that she had something important that she must discuss with her personally, and she had received a note back asking her to come to the château at eleven the next morning.

She didn’t know what she would have done without Alphonse. He was like a rock, thinking logically and sensibly where she inevitably was acting only on her emotions. Surprisingly, he hadn’t discouraged her from going to see the countess. “If that’s what you feel is right for Amélie, then you must do it,” he’d said. “But remember, she might not believe that this is her grandchild. She’s just lost her son, Léonie, she may think it all a fraud.”

“But why? Why should she? I’m not asking for money. I’ll give her as much money as she needs. I just want her to take her grandchild to Brazil for me … to save her from a man’s madness.”

They had agreed that there should be no mention of Monsieur, or his part in Charles’s death—“We have no proof,” Alphonse
had said, “and it would only cause her more grief. For now, things must stay as they are.”

Léonie glanced at the clock. Only seven. It had been a long and sleepless night, one of the blackest of her life. She had lain on the bed with Bébé beside her wondering where Maroc was, whether he was already on his way to Menton, praying that Verronet was not yet on the trail. And she had lived and relived the day in Deauville, remembering herself on the terrace watching the boats skimming gaily across the bay, wondering which one was Charles’s. And then later, Monsieur had stormed into the suite, carrying her off to bed and making love to her with the same ferocious passion of their early days together. Oh, God, she’d wailed into the night. The monster, the monster. Oh, Charles d’Aureville, it’s my life he should have taken, not yours!

–
• 33 •

The Comtesse Isabelle d’Aureville walked along the terrace on the southern front of the château, enjoying the unexpected warmth of the October sunshine, stopping here and there to inspect a plant or to snip off the last of the withered roses. She was still a lovely woman, although the events of the past few years—the death of her husband and now her son—had combined to leave their mark on her. Her thick russet hair was clouded with strands of gray and there were lines around the fine eyes. And she smiled less often.

The mellow stone walls of the château behind her had been standing for over three hundred years and the ancient building had the kind of weathered charm that had lent itself to expansion, over many years of d’Aureville family life, to become the lovely, rambling home that it now was. She had loved it since she had first come there as a bride of eighteen.

Putting her garden basket on the terrace beside her, she sat on the carved wooden bench looking out across the lawns to the parkland beyond. The sun glinted off the waters of the moat and she could see the swans and the mallard ducks drifting effortlessly; it was all so peaceful. Charles had always liked the autumn, the smell of woodsmoke and the crisp mornings, but she must stop thinking like that. It did no good. It was just too painful to remember. He had been so alive, so vital, and now, quite suddenly, there was nothing.

Edouard strode along the terrace toward her, waving. Thank God, there was still Edouard. Yes, she still had him, although not for very long. He’d go back to Brazil soon, now that he’d seen where Charles was buried. He had his own life to lead. And then she’d be here in this big house, all alone. She remembered with a pang how it had always been filled with Charles’s friends.

“Good morning, Maman.” Isabelle looked at her elder son affectionately as he kissed her. His tanned skin made his gray eyes look even lighter, almost transparent in the sun, and his hair was like hers, russet color, waving thickly from a broad brow. She recalled the attractive sixteen-year-old boy who had left on his first “adventure” and smiled now at the handsome man. Only she knew how much he had loved Charles, and how shattered he was by his death, only she had seen his tears.

“What are you thinking about now?” he asked, putting his arm around her.

“I was wondering what I’ll do here all alone. Perhaps I should buy a little villa somewhere, in the south maybe, or an apartment in Paris. I don’t think I can bear to be here without either of you.”

He looked at her worriedly. “Why not come back to Brazil with me … not to Manaus, but to Rio? Luiza and Francisco would be happy to have you. Francisco do Santos has never forgotten you—though I suppose he still thinks of you as the beautiful seventeen-year-old girl he met all those years ago.”

She laughed. “I don’t know, Edouard. I don’t know what I want to do.”

“There’s no hurry, I intend to stay here just as long as you need me. Now, who is this mysterious woman who wants to see you so urgently?”

“I’ve no idea. Her name is Léonie Bahri and she is with a Monsieur Alphonse de Bergerac.”

Edouard frowned. “I wonder what they want?”

“We shall soon see,” she said, picking up her basket and walking back along the terrace. “They’ll be here at any moment.”

“Alphonse”—Léonie gripped his hand nervously—“this isn’t going to be easy.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Oh, no … I must see her.”

“Then let’s go in. Don’t worry, I’ll help you. I’m here to corroborate your story. She’ll believe you.”

Isabelle d’Aureville came toward them with a smile. “Do sit down,” she said pleasantly, as they introduced themselves, “I’m most intrigued to hear what it is that you have to tell me.”

“It’s about your son, Comtesse, about Charles.… I’m so sorry, I can’t tell you how very sorry I am.”

“Of course, my dear.” What could she want, this lovely girl?

She was obviously upset. She glanced questioningly at the man beside her, but he said nothing.

Edouard closed the door quietly behind him as he came into the room. The woman was sitting near his mother, with her back to him. She had the most marvelous hair and he glimpsed the velvet skin of her neck, and her long slender back.

“You see, I knew Charles,” she was saying, “not for very long but … well … we were lovers, madame.” The words came out in a rush.

Edouard leaned against the door, listening. His mother looked surprised but not shocked. Why should she be; Charles was an attractive young man, of course he had lovers, but what did she want? She didn’t look as though she had come here to ask for money, and the man with her looked the pillar of respectability. Was he her lover now? Somehow Edouard didn’t think so.