Louisa Rawlings (46 page)

“And you screamed.”

“It was the blood. That always frightens children. I remember the little ones, at the Givets’…” She sighed.

“What did you do?”

“We were close to the village. I went looking for Madame Benoîte. I can’t remember much about that, even now. I must have been in a daze. I know she took me away from there as fast as she could. People in the theater, she used to say, always suffer when there’s trouble. And with the vicomte dead, and his family thinking us evil, who knows what revenge might have followed?”

“But, at that point, had you forgotten what had happened?”

“I don’t think so. I remember crying a great deal at first. But then, when the baby started to grow in me…” She shuddered. “Madame Benoîte knew an old crone. I nearly died. And then the fevers came. That whole fall and winter. I think that bits and pieces of my memory began to slip away then. And, of course, after Madame Benoîte took ill…the long agony of watching her die…I suppose, in the course of those terrible months, I simply…forgot.”

“But she never told you of the past?”

“I suppose she tried. But my mind refused to understand or accept such horror. I suppose—in the end—she thought it was easier for me to accept that
she
was my mother.”

There was a tap at the door and a maid appeared. “Mademoiselle Véronique, will you have more chocolate?”

“No, thank you. You may take the things away.” She waited, frowning, as the dishes were cleared, then she turned to Lucien. “Don’t they know I’m not Véronique?”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Why should they?”

“But…Hubert, at the mill… Surely Bonnefous heard.”

“Heard what? Hubert called you Véronique. And then spoke of his desire to kill you, and poison Adelaïde. That’s all we heard. Lord, even
I
thought you were Véronique until your outburst. Why should Hubert have known you weren’t?”

“Because Léonard killed Véronique by accident, all those years ago. And Hubert buried the girl to keep it a secret. Then he killed Narcisse Galande. Deliberately. To provide an excuse for Véronique’s disappearance, among other things.”

He whistled. “What a villain. Poor Véronique.”

“What shall we do now?”

“Do?” He grinned. “It seems to me, Cousin Véronique, that the secret is safe with us. There’s no danger of our scheme ever being found out now. You’ll live here happily ever after. Marry your Denis de Rocher.” He bowed low. “Madame la Marquise, Véronique de Chalotais de Rocher. I think it will suit you.”

She gaped at him. “Marry Denis? But, Lucien…what about you?”

He laughed. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m returning to Guadeloupe. There’s work to be done. Martin must be cursing my idleness by now. We have a plantation, have you forgotten?”

“But…the Marcigny money…and our marriage…”

“Lord, ninety-three thousand livres is enough for me! And now that Aunt Adelaïde is safe from Hubert’s poison, it could be years before I see a sou of the Marcigny inheritance. By Lucifer, I can’t wait around for that to happen. My life is waiting for me. Adriane de Ronceray is waiting for me.”

Her heart had turned to ice.
Ave Maria, let him never know my pain.
She smiled, laughed brightly. “And what of me?”

“You, my little pickpurse? Isn’t this what you always wanted?”

“Well, it’s certainly a softer life than roaming the streets of Bordeaux.”

“Indeed. You’ll never be in a better situation than you are now. Adelaïde loves you, accepts you. All the world—and Père François—has forgiven your childhood peccadillos, and you can have half a dozen suitors with one blink of your pretty golden eyes. You don’t need me.”

“And you’ll go? Without so much as a look backward?”

“I’ll have fond memories, of course.”

“Of course. I’m sure we both will. Though I fear mine will fade rather quickly. Moonlight is so impermanent.” She’d danced in the fairy ring to bewitch him. What a fool she’d been.

He seemed to be thinking of that night, too. He took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll not insult you by pretending that sweet night meant nothing to me. It was an enchanted night. And you’re an enchanting creature.”

Was this more of the false Chalotais charm? She no longer believed him. With the mention of one name—Adriane de Ronceray—the warm memory of her moon-touched lover had turned cold. That night had been as ephemeral as the silvery orb in the sky. He’d only wooed her for the advantageous marriage. And now he had no interest even in that. Not when Adriane de Ronceray waited. She pulled her hand from his grasp. “Damn you,” she muttered.

“Don’t swear.”

“You have no say in my life now,” she said. “I’ll never swear without remembering what a rogue you are.”

His mouth twitched. “We’ve had our amusements. I knew you were a devil from the moment you stole my knife.”

“Do you want it back? The blade is broken, but I think it can be mended.”

“Keep it as a souvenir. In case you’re ever attacked by pirates.”

“I don’t see how I can keep it. Not with a clear conscience. I never confessed
that
bit of thievery to Père François.”

He laughed. “Somehow I think your conscience will live with it.”

She snorted. “I still say I’ll see you on the gallows before you’ll see me!”

“Without a doubt.”

“And you truly mean to go.”

“I think so. Marry Denis de Rocher. He’s really a fine man. He’ll make you happy.” He grinned. “And you’ll do the same for him, so long as he isn’t forced to sleep in the same bed with you. Lord, how my bones ached!”

She smirked. “Fortunately, you don’t bruise easily.”

“Still the saucy chit, I see.”

She could no longer bear it—the careless banter, as though they meant nothing to each other. She turned away to the window. A cloud passed across the sun, darkening the bright green lawn for a moment. “Lucien,” she said quietly, “don’t go. Not until we talk. There are things I must say to you.” It seemed cruel and unfair to force him to stay by telling him of the baby. Not when he yearned for his Adriane. She wondered if she’d have the courage to tell him. And to say that she loved him. But she was desperate to keep him for as long as she could.

“Forgive me, my love. But they said you were receiving visitors this morning.” Topaze turned from the window. Denis de Rocher hurried into the room and took her hands in his.

“My poor Véronique. Such a tragedy. To see them both die, right before your eyes. How you must be suffering.” He looked up. “Oh. Good morning, Renaudot.”

Lucien bowed slightly. “With Rocher here, can Montalembert be far behind? You don’t need me, cousin. I’ll make my
adieux
.” He strode to the door.

“Lucien!” Topaze stopped him at the threshold, her eyes dark with concern. “Will you come and talk to me before supper?”

“Of course.” He ran his finger along the edge of her cheek. “You are beautiful, you know.” He kissed her softly on the mouth and left the room.

Reluctantly she turned to rejoin Denis. Her mind was in a turmoil. How could she force Lucien to stay if he didn’t want to? Well, perhaps she’d think of something before their meeting this afternoon.

“You’re not listening to me.”

“What?”

Denis de Rocher stared at her, a petulant frown on his face. “I’m trying to tell you that I love you. That I hope my love will help to ease the grief you must be suffering. Your stepfather…and Léonard.”

“Yes.”
This will never do
, she thought. She had no idea what story the family was telling to explain away the deaths. It was best to say nothing, until she could talk with Adelaïde or Bonnefous. She closed her eyes, put an expression of pain on her face. “Please, Denis, I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.” It wasn’t entirely false: She still ached when she thought of Moucheron.

“Then let me talk of sweet things: your eyes, your lips of honey. Everything about you that I love. That sends me into transports of delight. And my hope that… Damn!” he exclaimed, as Carle-André de Montalembert burst into the room.

“Really, Denis,” said Carle-André sulkily. “A guest in my own house, and you don’t think to tell me when you plan to sneak over here to lay siege to
my
sweetheart?”

“Don’t be a crass fool, Carle-André. I came to comfort Véronique in her hour of grief, not to gain the advantage over you. If you had any affection for her at all, you wouldn’t have needed my example to bring you here.”

“Affection? You doubt the fire of my passion?” Montalembert dropped to one knee before Topaze. “Dearest heart, say that you’ll be mine. When your mourning is done, it would be my joy to take you as my wife.”

“Now, I protest!” Denis was beside himself. “A marriage proposal? And before my very eyes?”

Carle-André rose to his feet, brushing the knees of his velvet breeches. “Didn’t you as much as propose the same the other day? And who has a better right than I? Véronique and I exchanged certain…signs of affection years ago!” He smiled, a secretive smile. Denis squirmed, uncertainty in his eyes.

Topaze felt the color rising in her cheeks for the shame of the child Véronique. It was clear, from what Hubert had said, that the girl had given her favors freely. She must have allowed Carle-André to make love to her. Well, she could at least spare Adelaïde the grief of learning the truth. She fixed Montalembert with a sharp stare. “Whatever the child Véronique did,
I
am not the same person. I wish you to forget the past, and never speak of it again. Do you understand?”

“My love. Of course.” He looked shamefaced.

Denis smiled in triumph. “You have no understanding of a woman’s heart, Carle-André. How can you hope to woo our fair Véronique? Whilst I…”

“Enough!” cried Topaze. She’d endured their bickering long enough. She felt tired, still drained from the events of the past few days. And she was fearful of losing Lucien. He meant to go, unless she could persuade him otherwise. “Go away, gentlemen, and let me rest. Be my friends today and give me peace. You can be my suitors tomorrow.”

When they’d departed, mumbling apologies and protestations of love in equal measure, she threw herself across the bed. She felt exhausted all over again.
What shall I do about Lucien?
she thought, and fell into a troubled sleep.

She was awakened by one of her maids. “Mademoiselle. A note for you.”

She sat up and looked about the room. Twilight was falling. She really ought to dress, and be ready to receive Lucien when he came for their talk. “Who is the note from, Jeanne?”

“Monsieur Renaudot.”

“Ah.” Most likely he wanted to tell her when they could meet. “Let me wear the pale yellow lustrine gown, Jeanne.”

The maid’s mouth was set in a line of disapproval. “With a black apron and lace collar, mademoiselle?”

She’d nearly forgotten. So many things had happened. She had no wish to mourn Hubert, but she grieved for Léonard. “Perhaps I’ll wear the gray dress instead. And the black apron, if you think I ought.”

“Very good, mademoiselle.”

While Jeanne bustled about in her dressing room, laying out her gown and corset and shoes, Topaze broke the plain seal on Lucien’s note and unfolded the large sheet of paper. It was blank. But set within its folds were torn bits of parchment. With trembling hands she lifted them, tried to piece them together. A foolish, needless gesture. She knew what it was. Their marriage contract, signed by the notary in Bordeaux.

A cold dread clutched at her heart. “Jeanne,” she called, “when did Monsieur Renaudot give you this?”

Jeanne stuck her head out of the dressing room door. “This morning, mademoiselle. Just before he went in to see you. He said I was to wait until this evening to give it.”

“And where’s Monsieur Renaudot now?”

“Oh, he’s gone, mademoiselle. He packed up and left while you were still visiting with the two gentlemen. Said goodbye to us all, left a note for madame your mother, and rode away. He’s gone home to Guadeloupe, I expect, from the things he said. A fine gentleman. We shall miss him.”

She sank to the bed, fighting back her tears. “As shall I,” she murmured. “As shall I.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The
rain beat steadily against the window glass. It had blown in at nightfall, with a sharp wind and a chill that had sent the maids scurrying to light fires. Topaze sighed and picked at her food. Surely this was the most melancholy supper she’d ever endured. She thought of the Givets in their cold little room, dining on crusts of bread. She’d give every platter of food on this table to be back with them now, laughing for the sheer joy of being alive. Perhaps she should return to them. She still had three thousand livres waiting for her in the bank at Cholet. She could live quite comfortably on that for a time. She and Lucien’s child.

What was she thinking of? Lucien’s child—to come into the world without a father? There’d always be whispers, always gossip, no matter how often she claimed a proper marriage. She knew how the world would look upon it. The bastard child of a bastard. It didn’t seem fair to wish that burden upon a child, to saddle him with the ugly epithet that had so embittered his father. Perhaps she’d do well to marry one of her suitors instead. Denis de Rocher. There was a kindness in him that Montalembert lacked. But it would have to be soon. Before her body gave her away. Véronique had already caused enough gossip.