Louisa Rawlings (31 page)

“
Merde
,” he swore. “But you’re going to vanish. Kill yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter. By the time of my ‘suicide’, she’ll have changed her will. Unless she can be persuaded to name you her inheritor
again
, my holdings will revert to Fleur’s estate. And Hubert will enjoy the money that should have been yours. And all because you see the world with such hate-filled eyes.”

“I forget, my little ray of sunshine,” he sneered. “My cheerful star of hope, who sees only the good.”

She stamped her foot. “Oh, you vex me so!”

“Spoken like Véronique herself. Just the right amount of temper. You
have
learned your lessons.” He reached for her and pulled her into his arms. “But I want a kiss. And perhaps a little more.”

“No.” She struggled to free herself. “No, you’re hateful.”

“
Yes.
” His mouth captured hers in a searing kiss. His lips burned hers, draining her of all will. Her body bloomed with warmth, a molten fire that raced through her blood. She slid her arms around his neck, pressed her bosom against the hardness of his chest. Her lips parted. His tongue sought the moist recess of her mouth, stroking sensuously until she thought she’d die of longing for him. At last he pulled away, buried his face in her silken curls. “Has your bed been lonely without me?” he murmured.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“I watched you, the night of the ball. I wanted to kill the men you were dancing with.”

Because you love me?
she thought, her heart aching. “Because you’re jealous?” she said.

He laughed. “Lord, no. Because it’s been a month since I’ve had a woman in my arms. And you’re my wife.”

Damn him! She wrenched herself from his embrace. “A wife in name only, you once promised. We made a mistake at Madame Le Sage’s. Shall we forget it, and concentrate on what must be done? You never told me how to get to the tunnel from this grotto. Perhaps you should show me now.”

He smiled, his mouth twisted in mockery. “The little chit is getting a mind of her own, is she? Very well. There’ll be other times to persuade you. Come and look at the grotto door.”

He showed her a place among the rough-hewn stones, the merest hairline, that indicated the presence of a door. Then he reached up and turned one of the low-hanging stalactites; the door swung open to the creaking and scraping of stones. The tunnel was as black as night. Lucien reached inside to a shelf. He pulled out a small lantern and a tinderbox, set flint to steel, and lit the lantern. “Come in,” he said. He pointed to a lever on the wall just inside the door. “This is how you close it from within. Push on the handle. You’ll see how easily it gives.”

Topaze did as she was bidden; the door closed. As they started down the tunnel, she looked about her. It was narrow, and quite low; she noticed that Lucien had to duck his head from time to time. “How long is it?”

“From here to the tower? Probably a quarter of a league.”

Topaze followed him, watching the light of the lantern glint off the walls. In places the walls were damp and irregular, particularly where the original plaster had begun to crack, but the floor was smooth and dry. The air was close; the lantern flickered fitfully. The tunnel had dipped down at the start; they must be far beneath the earth. And if the lantern should go out on this long and perilous way… She shivered. “Do you keep spare lanterns here?” she asked. Her voice reverberated off the thick walls.

“Only at each end. And near the tower.” He laughed. “It’s a little difficult to get lost! Even in the dark.”

At last they came to a door. There was no attempt to disguise it; it was a door, thick and iron-bound. “Have we reached Grismoulins?” she asked.

“No. We’re only at the tower. I don’t know why they put a door here. Perhaps this was used for smuggling in the past. Or to escape, during the Wars of the Fronde. This door seems to have been used to slow the pursuing enemy. There are bolts on either side. You see?” He pointed to a large hasp and pin. “Unused, and probably crumbling into rust by now.” He opened the door and went through.

Just beyond the door was a stone staircase at the side of the tunnel—perhaps half a dozen steps leading upward. Lucien pointed to the ceiling. “There’s a trapdoor there. It comes up into the cellar of the tower. Do you want to see it?”

“Is it difficult to open the trapdoor?”

“No.”

“Then I’d rather explore the rest of the tunnel.” She lowered her voice, struck by a sudden thought. “Can we be heard above?”

“Not at all. Even in the library there’s little sound, unless the tunnel door is opened a few inches. The walls are quite thick.”

As they progressed, Topaze noticed that the plaster work had become quite fine, and the roof of the tunnel grew higher, well over Lucien’s head. “Are we under the château now?” she asked.

He nodded. “Look.” Before them was another door. When he opened it, Topaze saw a circular staircase that climbed up out of her sight. “It’s narrow and dark,” he said, “and I usually leave the lantern down here for safety. But you can feel your way on the walls as we go up.”

He led the way. The stone steps went round and round; Topaze used the walls to guide her. There seemed to be some light above; the gloom lessened as they climbed. At the top was a platform, a little room a few feet square. The light was coming from beneath the door that led to the library. Sunlight. Topaze smiled to herself. She’d almost forgotten—moving through the dark cavern—that it was still afternoon! “How do you know the library is empty?” she whispered.

He pointed to a space beside the door. “That’s where the mechanism is, to open the door. On the other side, in the paneled strip I told you about. But look.” He grasped a small knob at eye level and pulled it out. Light flooded the little space where they stood. “The wood in that spot is carved in a lattice pattern,” he said softly. “Impossible to detect unless you’re looking for it. Do you want to see if anyone is in the library?”

Topaze stood on tiptoe and peered through the latticed-opening. From this vantage point she could see almost the whole room, including the door. Delighted, she watched as the redheaded footman, Paul, deposited an armload of wood near the hearth, looked nervously around, scratched his groin thoroughly, and left the room. “He’s gone. And closed the door.”

“Come on, then.” Lucien replaced the plug, showed her how to release the door from the inside, then led her through the bookcase into the library. With his supervision, she worked the cockleshell release several times, to be sure she had it right.

She stiffened, hearing footsteps. Lucien tugged at her sleeve and pointed toward the open bookcase. She felt reckless. She shook her head, enjoying the sense of danger, the pounding of her heart. She’d wait until the last moment, and then…

With a muttered oath, Lucien swept his arm about her waist and dragged her through the door; they could hear the library door opening just as the bookcase snapped shut. He pulled her down the stairs. Only when they were at the bottom did he turn to her. “By Satan’s beard,” he hissed, “are you out of your mind?”

She giggled. “Coward.”

He pulled her roughly into his arms. “You devil. You like to live dangerously? I can oblige.” He kissed her hard; his hands stroked her back and hips and flanks with impatient haste.

“Not here, Lucien,” she gasped. “Not now. Nanine is waiting for me to read to her. I promised I’d go to her at half after four, and I’m certain it must be later than that.”

He grumbled, released her, and picked up the lantern. “Ah, well. No point in ruining everything when we have only a few more weeks to go. Come on, then. Since it’s the way you came, you’ll have to go back to the château by way of the grotto. And it’s a long walk.” They made their way back through the tunnel, parted at the grotto with a long kiss. “I’ll still leave notes at the mill,” he said. “Look for my signal.”

Nanine was sitting in her chair, sipping a cup of tea, when Topaze hurried into the room. She lifted her head. “Is that you, pet?”

“Yes, Nanine.”

“Have you brought me orange comfits?”

“Oh, alas, I’ve forgotten.”

Nanine cackled. “Too busy with your suitors, aren’t you? Oh, don’t deny it. Adelaïde has told me of the young men. And all the presents that have been arriving since the ball. And the letters that make you blush. Have they visited yet? Your cavaliers?”

“No. But I’ve had a note saying that Monsieur de Montalembert and Monsieur le Marquis de Rocher intend to pay a call tomorrow.”

“And which one do you like?”

“I like them both.”

“Have they kissed you?”

She laughed. “Nanine, you’re wicked. I never told you of such things when I was little. Do you expect me to tell you now?”

The old woman frowned. “When you were little, I saw more than you think.”

By all the Saints
, thought Topaze. Did that mean Véronique
was
a
wanton? Or merely an innocent and foolish child, easily swayed into harmless indiscretions? “Shall I take up the Scarron book where we left off the other day?”

“Yes. Where Monsieur Destiny tells of his past.”

Topaze seated herself in a comfortable chair and began to read. The late-afternoon sun streamed in at the windows, shimmering on the dust motes in the air. Through the open window came the distant sound of cowbells, as the animals were brought in from pasture. Topaze sighed in contentment. The book was a light romance, and not difficult to read; she found a part of her mind drifting, enjoying the day, this comfortable room, the sweetness of her life.

She glanced up, resting the book on her lap. “This is the old nursery, isn’t it?” Ave Maria, how did she know that? Well, maybe from Lucien’s plans of Grismoulins. But she had such an odd sense of having been here before. Perhaps it just
seemed
familiar. Seemed like the places she and Maman had stayed in, when there were no performances, and Maman had a rich lover. It was strange, though. In those misty pictures of her mind, Maman didn’t seem to be there.

“Yes,” said Nanine. “This is where I taught you, took you around on leading-strings. When you were little, before the tutors came. Adelaïde had the room redone for my comfort when God chose to take my eyes. Now go on with your reading.”

True to her promise, Topaze helped Léonard build cardhouses that night. The following day they made pinwheels, and raced with them on the broad lawns. Léonard was becoming quite comfortable with her: she noticed that he seldom stuttered when they were together now. She couldn’t tell whether Hubert was pleased or not with their friendship. He watched them on the lawn, studying them from the comfort of a chair placed for his ease. Sometimes he smiled warmly to see them laughing and playing. At other times he frowned, as though the sight of them together disturbed him.

The days unfolded as spring blossomed. Denis and Carle-André were frequent visitors at Grismoulins. They vied for Topaze’s smiles, took her on carriage rides, flattered and kissed her. She tried not to encourage them too much, but it was difficult to resist their sweet attentiveness. She’d never expected to be treated so well; now Lucien’s offhand manner, each time they met, disturbed her vaguely.

“I don’t know why you can’t stay this time,” he growled, putting his arms around her. They had met at the woodcutter’s cottage deep in the woods.

“I told you in my note. Carn-André is coming to take me to his château. I’m to visit for three days.”

“And will that other one be there as well?”

“Denis? Of course, He’s the Montalemberts’ guest. Why should that bother you?”

“I watched you in the garden yesterday. From the tower. Do you
always
let him kiss you?”

She laughed and danced away from his arms. “Just think, if I promise him more than kisses, I might be a marquise some day.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Why not? Isn’t your fair Adriane an aristocrat? Now, can we get to the matter at hand? Why did you want to see me? Or
is
there a reason? The last two times we met, I was sure you only wanted a tumble.” Which she’d refused, claiming a pressing engagement, an impatient family member.

It was clear, from the look on his face, that he didn’t quite know what to make of her. “You saucy chit,” he muttered. “Am I to be put off again, with your tricks and excuses? Or shall I remind you of your marital duty?”

Damn the man!
“Shall I remind
you
that you swore the marriage would be unconsummated?”

“I don’t need your permission, you know,” he said coldly.

It sounded like a threat. And more than that. He might desire her, he might even take her by force. He would never allow himself to love her. She scowled. “Is that what you learned as a pirate?” she said, and regretted her words at once. It had been a cruel thing to say. He stared for a moment, then turned away. “Oh, Lucien,” she cried. “I didn’t mean that.”

He turned back to her. His face was a mask. He laughed. “I’m not really tempted by you,” he said. “It’s just that the solitude of these past weeks has begun to play on my mind.” He smirked. “And other parts. Perhaps while you’re away with your besotted suitors, I’ll go to Parthenay. Find me a whore.”

It was her turn to pretend indifference. “Do as you wish. Now, why did you send me a message?”

“My farmer brought me a letter with the supplies. Monsieur Farigoule plans to be in les Herbiers for a week, starting tomorrow. He’ll be in the wine shop there every day from two to four o’clock. Can you arrange ‘accidentally’ to meet him?”