Little Red Writing (11 page)

“We need something more conclusive than some old journal entries,” Nicolas was constrained to add. “It isn’t enough proof.”

“I didn’t find anything else. What about Anne? Have you searched her rooms and desk?”

His body turned rigid. “No. You had the key, remember?”

Thomas walked over to the table, picked up the key, and returning with it, placed it on his palm. “Well, you have it back. Now there is nothing to stop you from examining the contents of her desk.”

Nicolas looked at the small gold key.

Burdened with what he had to do, it felt heavy in his hand.

It burned his palm.

“I’ve been cast aside!” Madame de Boutette sniffled, wiping her tears with a lace handkerchief. “I’ve been completely and utterly replaced by that whore, Pauline Pradeau. She’s bewitched him, I tell you.”

Anne fought back a second yawn. For the last few glorious nights, Nicolas had given her little rest—and more bliss than any heart could hold.

“I have been with him for years,” Madame de Boutette continued, her tone getting increasingly angrier. “I was his favorite mistress. Now he favors another. After I’ve endured all of his disgusting habits, and amorous encounters of the blandest sort! Do you have any idea how dull and distasteful it is to bed the Marquis de Ranvier?”

“No, madame. I don’t.” Anne dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote, “
Ranvier has disgusting habits
.
Is dull and distasteful to bed
.”

“Well, then allow me to tell you that I’ve had to moan and carry on as if . . .”

Madame’s words drifted away as images of Nicolas and memories of her moaning and carryings-on in his arms ran through her mind and quickened her pulse. Every reaction he drew from her was real and sublime. She loved how insatiable he was around her. How wonderful it felt to be so desired.

How wonderful it was just to be with him.

During their short time together she’d transformed. For the better. Her heart and soul felt light, and she had Nicolas to thank. What was just as incredible, she’d begun to do something she’d completely abandoned and had lost all desire for after Roland; she’d started writing poetry again.

She’d forgotten how much pleasure it brought her. Wanting his reaction, last eve she’d worked up the courage to show Nicolas her new poems. Poems she hadn’t even told her sisters about.

By his expression, his eyes, and his words, he adored them; his praise of her work filled her with as much joy as his kisses and touch. Everything was so perfect between them, except . . . something was bothering him. If only she knew what.

He denied it. Hid it. In fact, he hid it quite well. Yet she was attuned to it. She sensed it. Saw fleeting flashes of it in his eyes. And she didn’t believe it had to do with his grandmother.

“He rarely bathes. It’s like bedding a barnyard animal. And his rounded belly keeps getting in the way,” Madame finished with a huff.

Anne sighed and put down her quill. “Madame, may I be frank?”

The woman who was only a few years older than Anne raised her brows. “Well . . . I suppose . . .”

“If the Marquis de Ranvier is so unappealing, why bemoan the end of the affair?”

“Well, because I love him! And he loves another. He’s tossed me aside like a pair of old shoes.”

“Love? You’ve described your
love
as a barnyard animal.”

“That’s because he smells like one.”

“And his touch is unpleasant to you, correct?”

“Well, yes.” Madame de Boutette smoothed her skirts. “It is.”

“Madame, with all due respect, it’s rather clear that it is your pride that’s wounded, not your heart.”

The woman’s mouth fell agape.

Undaunted, Anne continued, “If you loved Ranvier, you wouldn’t be repelled. In fact, you’d find him highly appealing. You’d crave to be with him. As much as possible. The thought of him would make you happy, not sick. You’d want his touch. Enjoy his company, and cherish it.”

Anne knew her speech was about more than the Marquis de Ranvier. It was about her feelings for Nicolas. She was in love with him. How could she not be?

Why shouldn’t she allow herself to be?

She’d denied herself happiness long enough. Why shouldn’t she take another chance on love? Love was worth the risk. As was Nicolas.

After what she’d been through with Roland, after witnessing Henriette’s suffering, after hearing countless stories of other women’s heartbreaks, Anne had become convinced that there wasn’t an honorable man left in the realm.

But she’d had a change of heart. And she had Nicolas to thank for that as well.

With love inside her heart, there was no more room for the bitterness she’d harbored there. For the first time, the thought of writing a Gilbert Leduc tale—the particular kind of tale Madame de Boutette wanted her to write—left a sour taste in her mouth.

Anne rose. “Madame, go home, and find yourself someone worthy of your love. Do not despair over the loss of a man who causes you such distress. Consider yourself fortunate to be rid of him.” It was the attitude she should have taken long ago with Roland. She’d been a colossal fool to allow Roland to make her miserable long after his departure. It was clear to her now that by clinging to her heartbreak, she’d actually held on to Roland, making him a part of her life when he didn’t deserve to be.

Madame de Boutette stood up, looking aghast. “But—But what about my story? Monsieur Leduc?”

“Monsieur Leduc is quite fatigued.” Anne ushered the woman to the main door of her apartments, knowing Vincent would show her out of the Comtesse’s home.

“He is?”

“He’s long overdue for a respite.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I can’t say when or if he’ll be ready to write again.” At least not stories for embittered hearts. She wouldn’t do it. She’d talk to her sisters and the Comtesse. Leduc was going to be much more selective. If Leduc’s stories were to continue, they’d have to be fewer and only in instances where a woman found herself in truly dire circumstances—like poor Eléonore, Duchesse de Falloux, who was still unjustly confined to a convent.

The moment Madame de Boutette left, Anne moved toward her desk. She wanted to seek out Nicolas, perhaps spend the day with him, but couldn’t. Leduc’s book was due at the printer’s soon and she needed to finish Eléonore’s story.

Sitting down at her desk, Anne pulled out the draft of her work in progress and dipped her quill in the inkwell. When the Comtesse returned, Anne intended to talk to her about her grandson, and then tell Nicolas everything about Leduc.

She wanted no secrets between them.

She felt a smile tug at her lips. Nicolas would likely praise her for her stories as he had her poetry. He’d be completely understanding and utterly supportive of her efforts.

*****

Nicolas was smiling as his eyes tracked Anne in the crowded Salon. Another of his grandmother’s Saturday Salons was under way. This one was just as crowded as the last.

He knew he should be mingling with his grandmother’s friends. He was, after all, supposed to be interested in learning about the Comtesse and getting to know the people in her life. But he had no desire to make polite conversation. He was content to simply watch Anne as she moved from guest to guest, charming them all.

As with last week, Nicolas noted how the men looked at her. Their interest keen. Many made no attempt to hide their desire. But as they watched her, gaped at her, her attention, when she was not engaged in conversation, was directed at
him
.

Repeatedly, she’d turn, seek him out in the crowd, and smile when she met his gaze.

It sent a jolt of joy to his heart each time.

“Nicolas.” He heard Thomas’s voice.

Nicolas pulled his attention from Anne and found his friend standing beside him. “Where have you been?” he asked. Thomas had been missing all day. He’d learned from Vincent that he’d left the hôtel.

“I need to speak to you. Privately,” Thomas said.

Nicolas didn’t like the look on Thomas’s face.

He led Thomas out of the Grand Salon, across the vestibule, and into the servants’ stairwell. It was dark and quiet once he’d closed the door.

“What is it?” Nicolas hated the uneasy feeling building inside him.

Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. “I couldn’t take it anymore, Nicolas. All this deceit with Camille is getting to me. I left to clear my head. Before I knew it, I found myself at the Arsenal. Tiersonnier was there. He demanded to know about the mission.”

Nicolas tensed. “What did you tell him?”

“That you had things well in hand, but . . . that didn’t satisfy him. He pressed for more information. He wants this matter done.”

“Go on,” Nicolas prompted, seeing there was more that Thomas wasn’t saying.

Thomas looked away. That wasn’t a good sign. Nicolas’s stomach tightened.

“He demanded details,” Thomas said, not meeting his gaze.

“
And?
”

“And I told him . . .where you were. Who—Who we suspected was Leduc.”

Nicolas grabbed his lapels and shoved him against the wall. “You did
what?
”

Thomas’s eyes widened. “We have sworn an oath. Did you want me to lie to the commander of the Guard?”

Yes
! Nicolas took a long deep breath and let it out slowly. By force of will, he uncurled his hands and released his friend. “No.”

“You’ve had the key for days, Nicolas. Have you searched Anne’s desk yet?”

“I have not had the key for days,” he responded sharply. “I told you the other day that she noticed the key was missing. I had to toss it onto the floor in the library, so she’d think she lost it there. The library was the last place she’d seen it.”

“That was two days ago. The key is back in her locket. You’re fucking her, for God’s sake.”

“And your point is?”

“Surely during the time you’ve spent in her rooms, you’ve had an opportunity or two to take the key and have a glance at the desk?”

Nicolas’s eyes narrowed. “I have not had the opportunity.”
Liar
. He was avoiding the desk. Avoiding the search.

“This mission cannot continue indefinitely.”

“I will get to the desk, when I can. Until then—”

“You have one more day,” Thomas blurted out.

“What do you mean,
one more day
?”

“Tiersonnier said if you don’t make your arrest by then, he’ll send Musketeers here to search for the evidence and to bring in Leduc.”

The look of horror must have been on his face. Thomas’s gaze shot down to his feet. “I’m sorry.” His voice was a whisper. Or maybe it simply sounded faint with the blood roaring in Nicolas’s ears.

Thomas reached into his justacorps and pulled out a gold key. “I managed to get this from Camille.” He handed the key to Nicolas. “Anne, Camille, and Henriette are busy with the guests. I’ll make sure no one goes upstairs. This is an ideal time to search Anne’s rooms and desk.”

Nicolas’s heart plummeted. He knew Thomas was right.

He couldn’t avoid the task any longer.

He had to learn once and for all what was in Anne’s desk.

*****

Nicolas leaned against the doorway in Anne’s antechamber looking at the desk he had to search.

Anne’s rooms were quiet and still. The air, without her there, was thick and hard to breathe. This was the last thing he wanted to do, his every instinct screaming,
“Don’t look!”

Nicolas glanced back at the bed in the bedchamber. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t simply having sex with a woman. There was emotion involved. He was making love. And he’d found the intimate encounters and the time he spent with her far more pleasurable and gratifying than he could have ever imagined.

He didn’t want what he had with Anne to be over. But he knew, as he stood holding the key in his fist, that their time together was running out.

There wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

It sickened him to know that soon her warm looks, her soft words, her kisses, would vanish. In their place, he’d have her disdain. It didn’t matter who Leduc was. No matter whom he arrested, she’d feel betrayed. Deceived. Despise him for his numerous lies.

Thomas was right. Nicolas hadn’t been doing his duty. He’d procrastinated simply to delay the inevitable.

He’d done the unimaginable; he’d allowed feelings to be fostered for a beautiful red-haired poetess who was like no woman he’d ever known.

And a suspect.

He was under the King’s command. If he didn’t do this, it would be done just the same.

Pushing himself toward the desk, Nicolas approached it with dread. Slowly, he sat down, took a deep breath before he inserted the key, and unlocked the first drawer.

Jésus-Christ
, the best he could hope for in this dismal situation was that the author wasn’t Anne.

Sliding open the drawer, he then pulled out the contents: a small stack of parchments. Upon close scrutiny, he realized they were poems. New poetry. Despite the trepidation he felt, a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. She’d been so joyful about her new poems. He’d been moved and honored that she’d wanted to show them to him.

She had a gift for writing poetry, and they were as lovely as she was.

He checked the next drawer, and the next, growing ever more hopeful with each one that yielded no evidence of Leduc.

Turning the key in the final lock of the final drawer, Nicolas opened it and found parchments and a ledger. He pulled them out. The words “Eléonore, Duchesse de Falloux” were across the top of the first parchment.

He scrutinized the writings on the loose parchments, and then the contents of the ledger, his heart sinking lower and lower. Each page that condemned her consumed him with grief and tore him apart.

He closed the ledger.

Closed the drawer.

Closed his eyes, and hung his head.

*****

Anne grinned the moment she spotted Nicolas in her rooms. “There you are!”

Seated near the hearth in her antechamber staring at the fire, he looked up at her and smiled. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

His light gray eyes were rueful.