Louisa Rawlings (4 page)

Lucien laughed, though Topaze wasn’t sure he was amused.

“
You
have the smell of fish,” he said. “And a saucy tongue. I’ll box your ears if I have to tell you to mind it again.”

She sputtered, a sharp retort forming in her brain. But the barmaid had brought her food: a plate of thick ragout and a crusty loaf. She broke off a large chunk of the bread, picked up her spoon. She had no interest in cursing the man; indeed, she had no interest in anything except her food. Which was probably just as well, she thought, shoveling the hot stew into her mouth. For the men continued to converse as though she weren’t sitting at table with them. As though she were invisible.

Lucien took a swallow of wine. “Her hair is darker than I would have wished. Perhaps it’s grime that makes it so, but still… Véronique was not so dark a blond.”

Martin smoothed his mane of yellow hair. It was swept neatly into a black silk bag at his nape. “
My
hair was the color of straw ten years ago. Time darkened it. So long as her hair isn’t lighter than Véronique’s.” He sighed. “I just wish I had your faith in the whole scheme.”

“I tell you, it was meant to be. It was Satan’s own luck that I met Pachot, bursting with gossip. Another few months, and it would have been too late.” He shook his head. “And of all the street urchins in Bordeaux, to be bowled over by
this
one…it was Fate, or I’m damned.”

“Or the Devil, hoping to tempt us.”

“Pah! Think of it, Martin. We’ll have more money than we dared hope for!” His attention was caught by Topaze, who had scarcely stopped to take breath. “By Lucifer, but the girl can eat.”

Martin put a gentle hand on Topaze’s arm. “The draper said your father is a sailor. I thought seamen made a good living. Yet you’re starving, girl.
N’est-ce pas?
”

Reluctantly she put down her spoon. It seemed the civil thing to do. “There are many mouths to feed at home. And he’s…away at sea.”

Lucien’s mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “Does he know you steal?”

She made a face at him. “Does
yours
know you’re a rogue?”

The smile froze on his face. He turned to Martin, ignoring Topaze once again. “She has a sharp tongue, my friend. But a quick wit. That’s a good sign.”

Martin’s hand was still on Topaze’s arm. “What
does
your father say about your thieving?” His voice was kind.

She looked at him. He seemed somewhat younger than Lucien, perhaps only a few years her senior, with fine features, a well-formed head, understanding eyes. Far and away the handsomest man she’d ever seen. A gentle man. A man she could trust. “He doesn’t know I steal.” She jerked her chin in Lucien’s direction. “I don’t give a damn what that rascal thinks, but I didn’t steal before I had to. Before they told us that Papa’s ship…might never come home.” She picked up her spoon and returned to her ragout.

Martin swore softly and shook his head. “
Morbleu
, Lucien, let’s give it up. The poor girl has enough burdens.”

“No. It’s a perfect scheme. She’s the right age, the right size. The right color eyes, if my memory serves. She’s perfect, I tell you. If you’re worried, you can still see to the bank loan before you return to Guadeloupe.”

Topaze finished her ragout and mopped the dish with the last crust of bread, chewing slowly to savor the final bit of flavor. She took a large gulp of wine, and smacked her lips. “By Saint Giles, that were finer than anything I’ve had in months. Damned if I aren’t grateful to you, rogues though you may be.”

Lucien studied her intently, but his words were directed at the other man. “We’ll have to work on her speaking, of course, and…oh, Lord, Martin! What if she can’t read?”

“I never thought of that.”

Damnation! She was really getting tired of their talking over her head, speaking
of
her, not
to
her; calling her “girl” as though she hadn’t a name! Martin, at least, seemed to care a little about her feelings. But the other one… “I can read good as you, you grave-robbing whoreson!” she snapped at Lucien.

Martin’s face showed concern. “Has she got the word right, Lucien?”

His companion laughed sardonically. “‘
Whoreson
’?”

Martin reddened. “No,” he stammered. “I meant ‘graverobbing’. Are we?”

Lucien stared up at the ceiling beams of the old tavern. “I don’t know,” he said at last. Then he frowned, his blue eyes filled with defiance. “But I don’t give a damn. Pachot says there’s been no word in nearly six years. Does it matter what really happened? I want wealth. Don’t you? Think of what we could do if we owned the old de Ronceray plantation.”

Martin chuckled. “And the young de Ronceray cousin? The fair Adriane?”

“Wait a moment,” interrupted Topaze. “What was all that talk about graverobbing? I don’t…”

Lucien waved his hand at Topaze as though he were brushing away a gnat. “Curse me, Martin. Of course I want Adriane. The most beautiful woman on the island, every man’s desire, an aristocratic family as well…and to make her my wife? What man wouldn’t want as much? But I’m not fool enough to think she could be wooed without gifts and jewels.” He shrugged. “It’s the nature of women like that.”

“
Damnation!
” Topaze slammed her wine tankard onto the table. It made a loud crash. Startled, the two men stared at her. “I aren’t no fool!” she said. “And I aren’t a piece of dung under your feet, to be treated so. If you have aught to say to me, say it. Or let me go my way in peace!”

Much to her surprise, Lucien laughed. “She has pride, too, by God. Good! The scheme would never work if she were a cringing peasant.”

“What scheme, you black-hearted villain? What scheme? I don’t know anything about you, except that you’re a wicked rakehell, with shameless hands. Touching me that way…an innocent girl, that never harmed you.” She was warming to her indignation, conveniently ignoring the fact of his stolen knife. “Blast your liver, I don’t even know your proper names!”

Lucien covered his smile with a tanned hand. He cleared his throat. “True enough. Well, then. You shall have a proper introduction. My name is Lucien Renaudot. My friend here is Martin Ducellier. We have an indigo plantation in Guadeloupe. Would you care to have me describe the production of indigo? Or will it suffice you to know we produce it, and that it’s profitable?”

Damn him! He was clearly making sport of her. She glared at him. “Not so profitable that you can’t hatch a scheme to make more money! To buy a wife, did you say? And…” She stopped and squinted at him. “Hellfire! You have a hole in your earlobe.”

“The girl’s observant, Martin. Better and better.”

Did he intend to offer no crumb of explanation? “Was your ear pierced for a ring?”

The topic seemed to bore him. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He sighed, a man clearly at the edge of his patience. He looked her full in the eye, a sharp look that chilled her to the marrow. “Because I was a pirate.”

Her jaw dropped. “Now may I be hanged if you were!”

“You don’t think so?” he said softly.

She felt her blood run cold. He surely seemed capable of all manner of villainies. Well, she wasn’t about to let the blackguard see her uneasiness. She pointed to the long scar on his cheek. “And did one of your pirate friends give you that?” she asked, putting an edge of sarcasm in her voice.

“No. Nor these.” He stroked the white hairs at his temples. “I made a pact with the Devil. He put his seal on me. Marked me here”—he touched the livid scar—“and here.” Again he fingered the silvery wings.

She snorted her disbelief. “A pact with the Devil? And what powers did he give you in return?”

He smiled, heavy lids half-veiling his piercing eyes. His lips were rounded and full, as soft and sensuous as a woman’s mouth. “Would you really like to know?” His voice was a seductive growl.

Topaze felt her mouth go dry. There was danger about this man. Yet a danger that caught her in its spell, made her heart quicken. She laughed lightly, pushing aside the faint scratchings of alarm. “Well, he surely didn’t give you an agreeable nature,” she retorted.

He grinned. “Perhaps I didn’t ask for one. I…”

Martin sighed. “Name of God, Lucien, be serious. The girl…”

Renaudot smiled, his mouth twisting crookedly. “I find the girl amusing.”

“And no nearer an explanation than she was when we came in.”

“But well fed, Martin. Well fed.”

“By Saint Grégoire,” said Topaze, contriving to look aggrieved, “if I must listen to the two of you prattle on for much longer, I deserve another plate of food. Then you can gossip to your heart’s content.” She’d ask for the roasted mutton this time. It smelled delicious.

“Lord, Martin, but she’s filled with guile. I told you she has a larcenous soul. We won’t have to deal with faintheartedness, that’s sure.” He turned to Topaze. “As for you, girl, there’ll be food and drink enough in the days ahead. And a sack of coins.
If
you accept our proposal.”

Damn the man. There’d be no mutton after all. Moreover, she found it infuriating that he should think her a willing thief. Although she had to admit that she felt a certain excitement, the thrill of danger each time she filched a purse, her conscience
did
bother her.

Or did it? If she were as God-fearing as she thought herself—as Maman and Papa wished her to be—she’d leave before they made their proposal. Their scheme was neither legal
nor
moral. She had no doubt of that. And yet she stayed.
God forgive me
, she thought. But if there was money in it, the little ones could be cared for. “Tell me your proposal, then. I aren’t got all day.”

“To begin, can you be parted from your family?”

“For how long?”

“At least until the beginning of June.”

She counted on her fingers. “
Merde!
That’s near to four months. How could they live?”

Lucien smirked. “Without your thievery, you mean?”

“Thievery or honest labor, you villain, they depend upon me. There are eight little ones. And Maman hasn’t been well.”

“We’d provide enough money to keep them, until your return,” said Ducellier.

Topaze frowned at Lucien Renaudot. “Are
you
agreed to that, Monsieur Renaudot?”

He laughed, a brief, ironic snort. “By Satan’s beard, what do you think I am? Do you think I’d let children starve?”

She examined him more closely. It was strange. His eyes were a clear blue, as transparent as a summer sky. Yet they might have been veiled by dark clouds, for all they revealed of the man within. She shivered. It was instinct, more than what she saw, that prompted her reply. “No. No, I don’t think so. But”—she shivered again—“I don’t think I should care to be your enemy.”

In some odd way, her answer seemed to please him. He smiled. “So be it. Let them all be damned.” He finished the last of his wine and poured himself a fresh tankard, then leaned back in his chair. “Well, then. To begin, I must tell you that some years ago there was a young girl who lived in Poitou, in a beautiful château to the south of Nantes. Her name was Véronique de Chalotais.”

Topaze boldly refilled her own tankard and took a large swallow of wine, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “An aristocrat?”

Ducellier groaned at the gesture. “It won’t work, Lucien.”

“Yes, it will, if this chit is as clever as I think. Indeed, girl, Véronique was an aristocrat. She led an ordinary life—a little spoiled, a little indulged, perhaps. But she was pleasant enough. And young enough so that neither her strengths nor her weaknesses had begun to reveal themselves. And then, one day, a few months after her fourteenth birthday, she vanished.”

“
Hein?
What do you mean,’vanished’?”

“Simply that. Vanished. No search disclosed a note, a corpse, a suspect, an accomplice. Nothing. Some months later, her distraught nurse remembered that she had admired a young second footman, found him comely. When he was sent for by the family, it was discovered that he had precipitously left their service on the very day that Véronique had disappeared, taking with him a purse of coins that the housekeeper had laid aside for her widowed mother. It was assumed that Véronique had been fool enough to elope with the boy. But since it would have brought shame to the family to noise it about”—his voice was heavy with contempt—“the matter was dropped after another fruitless inquiry.”

“But what a sad story! And they never found her? How they must grieve.”

“The mother is inconsolable, I’m given to understand. Spending her days in lonely grief. She refuses to believe her daughter is gone forever, and celebrates the girl’s birthday every year, with all due festivity, as though her child were still there.”

“Oh, alas. The poor woman. Her only daughter?”

He nodded. “Her only daughter.”

Ducellier put his hand on Topaze’s shoulder. “Name of God, you weep. How can you weep for a stranger?”

Topaze brushed the tears from her eyes. “Is it so difficult to understand another’s pain?”

Renaudot’s mouth twisted in a cynical smile. “Dry your tears. For Madame de Chalotais is about to be reunited with her daughter.”

“But how can that be? Has the girl been found? Has she…”