This Duke is Mine (35 page)

But it smelled like a kitchen: chickens were going on spits, and an aroma of yeast and flour was in the air. Four or five very young men, wearing uniforms in various states of disrepair, were turning spits, sharpening knives, or washing potatoes. In the very center of the room was a long table, at which a woman was kneading a lump of dough with ferocious energy.

For the first time since she’d been abducted, Olivia stopped twisting her wrists in a vain attempt to loosen the twine holding them together, and just took in the sight. Madame Fantomas—for it must be she—was like a circus embodied in one person: a big, bold pirate of a woman. Her black hair was tied up so that it rose above her head in a towering fountain, above arched eyebrows and a mouth painted crimson. She wore a low-cut gown, and over that a gore-splattered apron, the entirety lightly dusted with flour. And dangling over the gown and apron, almost to her waist, were ropes of beads: great chunks of turquoise, gold chains, even a cross. They weren’t necklaces of a sort Olivia had seen before.

Madame was kneading a huge glop of dough, powerful muscles flexing as she shoved forward, wrapped, and turned. After a moment she pushed it away and reached for a glass of red wine beside her, clinking her thumb rings against it. Rings adorned all her fingers, enough rings to hang a full set of bed curtains. She had the eyes of a goose Olivia had once seen run wild and peck a baker. Mad eyes.

“I brought you a
putain
,” Monsieur Bessette offered, from behind Olivia’s shoulder. “Found her in Père Blanchard’s hut, waiting for her man.”

“
Putain
, my ass,” Madame said with a snort. “Take that thing off her mouth, you fool. You’ve got yourself a high-flier there . . . nationality to be determined. Could be for sale, but chances are she’s a
très-coquette
, having a bit on the side.”

Without taking her eyes off Olivia, she pinched off some raw dough and ate it.

Bessette didn’t bother trying to untie the scarf; he just pulled it straight off Olivia’s head.

There was a second of silence, then two things happened at once: Olivia burst into a violent stream of French—a commentary on Bessette, together with the illegality of kidnapping in general—while Madame Fantomas swiveled and bawled, “This tastes about as good as pig’s slop.” With that, she picked up the huge, squashy pile of kneaded dough and threw it squarely across the kitchen.

Olivia broke off her tirade.

The dough hit the wall and slid down, landing on the unevenly bricked floor.

“Feed the
putain
!” Madame barked. They all stared. “
Now
!”

“I am not a
putain
,” Olivia shouted, deciding that she had to make as much noise as Madame if she wanted to be noticed. “I was merely waiting for the return of my fiancé. And I don’t want anything to eat.”

“You may not be a
putain
, but you’re a fool with an English accent,” Madame said with another swig. “What the devil is an Englishwoman doing at Père Blanchard’s hut? Are you a spy, then?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Good. Because there’s nothing here to spy on but a groggified captain and a bunch of French boys whose balls are too small to hold up their breeches.” She waved her hand at the young men turning the spits.

“I am no spy,” Olivia stated. “I demand to be released. My fiancé will be wondering where I am.”

“The
putain
!” Madame bellowed, turning her head and glaring at a boy at the side of the kitchen. Then she looked back at Olivia. “Spy or not, what are you doing here? Because we don’t get many female smugglers over here, not that you look the type anyway.”

The boy got to his feet, trotted over to the side of the kitchen, and plucked the top off a large earthenware container. It was oozing, bubbling . . . the source of the vinegary sharp smell of growing yeast. He poured it into a shallow bowl on the far end of the table. Presumably that was the
putain
.

“I am in this country on an errand of mercy,” Olivia said, keeping her head high. “I am betrothed to a duke, and I demand to know on what authority this miscreant captured me and brought me here. And I want my hands freed!”

“Sakes alive, a virgin,” Madame said with a twist in her smile. “Isn’t this my lucky day?”

Olivia spun to face Bessette. He turned out to be a burly man with a large head and ears that stuck out like pink flower petals. “You!” she said furiously. “Monsieur Bessette, you must undo these ropes from my hands
at once
!” Then she turned her back to him and waggled her fingers in his direction.

To her satisfaction and relief, she felt him fumbling at the twine.

“The mushroom,” Madame commanded. The boy poured a thin stream of foul-smelling, cloudy black liquid onto the bubbling yeast and began mixing it.

“Treat her gently!” Madame barked, apparently referring to the yeast, not to Olivia.

When Olivia’s hands were free, she shook them for a moment, trying to restore their circulation, then folded her arms over her chest and turned back to Madame. “Am I to suppose that you make a habit of kidnapping women at your whim?”

“Not unless they are worth some money.”

“How much money do you want?” Olivia demanded.

“For what?”

“I assume I am to pay for my freedom.”

“Your French is too good for a mere English maiden,” Madame stated, narrowing her eyes and ignoring Olivia’s comment. “You’re a spy.”

“You said it yourself: there’s nothing here to spy on.”

“True. Then . . . you’re spying on
me
.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Believe me, Madame, no one I know would have the faintest interest in you and your kitchen, though it would serve nicely in an exhibit of primitive cooking amongst savages.”

“Not so!” Madame said, slapping her hand down on the floury board so that a cloud rose in the air. “All the great bakers of Paris and London want my recipe for bread. And you—you have come here, straight to the place where I am, because you know of my great talent.”

“I know nothing about bread,” Olivia stated.

“Then
you
are the savage! The great Napoleon himself said my bread was blessed by the gods. And I share the secrets of my
putain
with no one. No one!” Her voice rose to a shriek.

Olivia stood her ground. Although it might seem rather paradoxical, she was feeling quite calm now. Marauding gangs of lustful soldiers were terrifying, but battles with a lunatic cook were a routine part of running a large household. “If you think anyone would try to steal the recipe for that disgusting concoction, you are quite mistaken.”

“She is a spy,” Madame announced. “A cookery spy. And a terrible liar, which is true of all the English.”

“I am not,” Olivia snapped.

Madame ticked off the presumed lies. “A virgin? I don’t think so.”

Olivia opened her mouth and shut it.

“Betrothed to a duke? Also unlikely. You’re well enough, but you’re no beauty. Betrothed to a draper rather than a duke, I’d guess.” She turned and hauled on a bell cord hanging at the wall. “She’ll have to go into the catacombs until
Le Capitaine
wakes up. How much did he drink last night?”

One of the boys turning a spit looked up. “Two bottles, Madame.”

She snorted. “He’ll not wake before evening, then.” She pulled out a ring of keys. “Put her in the far end, Petit.”

Olivia gave the boy a look.

“She’s a lady,” he protested. “Ladies don’t belong in the cells.”

“She’s damned lucky they’ve put the Guillotine to rest,” Madame replied, finishing her wine. “They used to do it properly in Paris. People made a living, just whacking the heads of aristos like I might a bean row. Bessette, go along with them.”

“I
demand
to speak to whoever is in charge of this establishment!” Olivia said furiously.

“I am,” Madame stated.

“You! You’re a servant, not the commander of a garrison.”

“Wine!” Madame bellowed. One of the boys trotted over and poured her more red wine. “It’s me whenever
Le Capitaine
is drunk or asleep, which gives him about one hour to my twenty-three.”

Olivia eyed her red wine.

“Strengthens my blood,” Madame said, grinning. She reached into a sack of flour and sprinkled some on the table. “Give me a bit of that
putain
. I’m starting over.”

Bessette grabbed Olivia’s arm, holding it hard. “It’s in the back with you. Do I have to tie you up again?”

Olivia shook her head, glaring into his pale blue eyes. “My fiancé will likely kill you when he finds how you have treated me.”

Bessette grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Won’t be the first who tried. I hope you don’t mind if I keep your cloak. I can sell this for ten sous.”

“There’s no need to wrench her arm,” the young soldier said, stepping forward.

Madame didn’t look up from the flour she was delicately sifting over a small pile of frothing yeast. “English
putain
, don’t think you can seduce the poor lad into giving you the key to your chamber. The only way out is through my kitchen, and I don’t leave my bread. Ever.”

Twenty-nine

Lost Treasure

Q
uin had woken Togs and Paisley from a sound slumber, knowing already that they had no idea what had happened to Olivia. There was no point in tearing into the exhausted Englishmen; how could they be blamed for sleeping through her disappearance, after all they’d been through? Now they milled about like sleepwalkers.

Quin’s heart was beating in his throat so violently that he could hardly form words. He dispatched them back to the schooner, with instructions to send Grooper back with the rowboat to wait at the top of the inlet.

He paused to get his bearings and to work out the exact location of the French garrison in relation to the hut. He started off at a steady jog, Lucy trotting at his side. Either the French soldiers had captured Olivia, or he would force them to assist in locating her.

As he ran steadily up the bank and then through a scrub forest, he turned over the various possibilities in his mind. Yes, England was at war with France, but that meant different things to different people—and he wasn’t entirely convinced that a provincial garrison would feel much desire to capture an English lady.

Though the odds of one English duke’s subduing an entire garrison of French soldiers, bristling with everything from pistols to bayonets, were not good. It wouldn’t be helpful to Olivia if he ended up skewered on a bayonet in a valiant but failed rescue attempt.

Just then a hare bounded across his way, and he heard a surprisingly deep bark in response. He looked down to find Lucy still running along beside him, as fast as her stubby little legs would carry her.

Quin paused just long enough to scoop up the dog and took off again. By his reckoning, he should be very close. Indeed, a moment later the scrub gave out at the edge of a raked-gravel yard, on the other side of which, behind walls, stood a brick structure.

The garrison did not give the impression that it was prepared for military action. The gravel had been raked with no regard to a few wildflowers sprouting up here and there, waving gently in the area that appeared to have been designated for formation drills. A sentry sat at the front gate, fast asleep. Quin walked straight past him through the courtyard and ran up the steps to the main entrance, Lucy under his arm.

Inside, he put Lucy down and poked his head into a dusty receiving room, an unused office, and a long mess hall. Toward the back he found a room that showed signs of heavy use. Open crates holding rifles lined the room, suggesting it was an armory, but he’d guess that the worn billiards table in the center received the most attention.

He headed up the staircase without meeting a soul, the click of Lucy’s toenails only making the silence feel more profound. The first bedchamber he looked into, however, was occupied. For a moment Quin stood in the doorway, assessing the situation. A large and rather malodorous man was snoring loudly, facedown on a bed whose sheets had seen better days. A table at the far wall of the room glittered with a row of brandy bottles, the same sort he’d given Rupert in the schooner. Thrown on the chair was a stained captain’s coat.

A small pistol lay on a side table; he removed its bullet and tossed the bag of powder out the open window. Then he put it back where he’d found it, caught up the back of the captain’s shirt, and shook him.

The man snorted and rolled on his back. Quin recoiled as a breathful of rancid brandy reached him.

Half a minute later the captain was awake and the bed was sopping wet; Quin had been forced to empty a water pitcher over his head, and it was only the threat of the chamber pot that actually got the man on his feet.

“Who the devil are you?” he said, his face pale gray in the sunlight, his eyes red-rimmed and dull. He reached out, steadied himself against the wall.

Quin pointed one of his pistols at the man’s head. “I have come for my fiancée. She’s English and was abducted on the shore near here a few hours ago.”

Ignoring the pistol altogether, the captain sat down, shuddering like an ear of corn in the wind. “No Englishwoman would be here. We’re at war with you, if you didn’t notice.”

“Did your men capture her?”

“I doubt it. Most of them are too young to find their own winkles without a map. I need sleep. Get yourself the devil out of here, will you?” He sank back down onto the soggy bed and closed his eyes.

Quin looked around and saw a half-drunk bottle of brandy. He upended this too over the captain’s head, who lurched upright, his face contorted. “What the devil?” he croaked. “You’re a madman.”

“Find my fiancée,” Quin said, keeping his voice even. He raised the pistol and shot the first of the brandy bottles lined up on the far table, causing Lucy to flinch and then bark. Glass shards and brandy rained down onto the floor, and its heady aroma filled the room.

“Stop!” the captain screamed. “You’re insane. All you English are mad as spring hares.”