A Lady Betrayed (Secrets of the Musketeers Book 2) Read online

  She had to banish every feminine thought from her head. She could not notice how Pierre’s forehead was wrinkled in a frown or how smooth was the skin on the back of his hands. She could not notice that he was still the darkest and most dangerous looking man she had ever known. She could not notice how the last fifteen months had put new lines in his face and a new look of cynicism in his eye that perversely made him only more attractive.

  She closed her eyes for a moment to draw on every morsel of inner strength she could find. She was a man now. She had to forget that she ever had been a woman.

  Pierre sat down on a sofa and Courtney threw herself down on the furthest away chair. She could not trust herself too close to him. Being in her own private chamber was torment enough. She recalled only too vividly what had happened last time she had invited him into her bedchamber. She recalled as if it had only been yesterday the rasp of his moustache against her cheek, the way her body had moved to meet his in the darkness, their muted cries of passion as they came together in the night...

  Then he had risen from her bed, stolen her father’s papers and betrayed them both. She had to concentrate on remembering that if she were to get through the evening without committing an act of serious folly.

  Her landlady brought them food – roast beef, boiled chickens, and plenty of vegetable dressings. They heaped their plates with food, Courtney poured them both a glass of good Rhenish wine, and they began to eat. For some moments there was no noise in the room but the clatter of knives on the plates and the sound of chewing.

  “So,” Courtney began, when her hunger for food was well on the way to being appeased for the moment, if not yet sated. “What have I missed while I have been laid up with a broken arm?” She tried to block her mind to thoughts of another, more insistent hunger.

  “A death in the royal family for starters,” Pierre replied, waving his knife in the air for emphasis. “The wife of the Duc of Orleans is dead and buried. Some say the death of the English princess was an accident. In other places it is whispered that she was murdered – and on the orders of the King of France himself.”

  How quickly the news had flown through Paris, like an ill wind of doom. She hoped that Sophie’s name would not be bandied about as the one who had caused the King so much grief by alerting the English to the evil he had plotted against one of their own. She may have fled to safety, but a King’s arm was long and his memory longer. “I have heard as much. I did not know what to think of it.”

  Pierre carefully soaked up the gravy from his plate with a hunk of bread before he answered. “The people of France wish to believe that the death was a tragedy – that God had decided to call her home to him while she was yet young and beautiful. They do not wish to believe evil of their King – fools that they are. They would rather shut their eyes and pretend that all is well with the world than face the truth.”

  She shrugged. “The truth? Is there any such thing? Whom among us know what the truth is?”

  He laid his plate aside, all thoughts of eating fled for the moment. “The truth is that the King is but a man, and as a man he is plagued by the same greeds and jealousies that torment lesser men. Indeed, being the greater man, he has that many more of them to plague him, and less resistance against giving into them. When a man’s word may be taken as law, what is to stop him from justifying his greed and his lust in his own eyes and calling them policies? Our King has too few checks and balances on his power, and too many corrupt men who will carry out his orders for good or evil, to the peril of their own souls.”

  “You do not think that King Louis is a descendant of the sun, then, as he would have us think? Closer to a God than to a man?”

  He spat on the floor by his feet in derision. “A descendant of the sun? A veritable God? Do not make me laugh.”

  She did not need to work hard to bring him around to her way of thinking – indeed, she suspected that he had already surpassed her in his hatred of their monarch. “You are not happy in your King?”

  He pushed his plate to one side, held up his glass to the light of the candles and took a large swallow. “The King of France, damn his eyes, caused me to lose the one and only woman I have ever loved. Were I to murder him while he is committing an act of sin and so send his soul straight to Hell, he would still get less than he deserves.”

  She was surprised at the depth of the hatred she found in him. She had not thought he was so desperate. “You would dare to join a rebellion against your King?”

  His face was determined. “Were God but to give me the opportunity, I would dare more than join it. I would dare to lead it.”

  Chapter 7

  Courtney felt the hand on her shoulder tug her backwards and a low whisper in her ear that told her to stop. The message was reinforced with the point of a dagger pressed gently, but with a serious warning, into her side. She didn’t need telling a second time. She stopped at once.

  She tried to itch the blindfold that covered her eyes with the edge of her shoulder, but it wouldn’t quite reach. “Can you unbind my eyes now?” she asked, her politeness ready to veer into incivility if she were refused. She had been patient so far and complied readily with every request made of her, but her patience was readily evaporating under the discomfort of being unable to see.

  “Be patient. Just a moment more,” the low whisper came in her ear again.

  She heard the sound of a door being unlocked and the creak of the hinges as it opened. The hand on her shoulder propelled her forward a few steps. “Mind the uneven floor,” it warned her, as she stumbled slightly on the carpet beneath her feet.

  She heard the door shut behind her and the creak of a key as it turned in the lock. She knew a moment of blinding fear at the sound. Had she been misled? Had she been taken to a prison and locked in?

  No, that was impossible. The softness of her footsteps meant that there was a rug under her feet. Dungeons did not usually boast of rugs. Through the blindfold she could see the chamber she was in was brightly lit with many candles. All the dungeons she knew of were badly lacking in candles as well, especially the fine wax ones she could smell here. A thick, soft rug and plenty of fine wax candles. Whoever had brought her here was not lacking in material comforts.

  “Hold still,” the low voice instructed her again, “and I will unbind your eyes now.”

  The covering over her eyes fell away. Unused to the light, she blinked several times before she adjusted to the glittering brightness in front of her.

  The chamber was lined with so many wax candles that it almost seemed as though it were on fire. The light from them glittered and sparkled, setting the crystal chandeliers ablaze with a riot of shimmering rainbows and reflecting off the polished surfaces of the precious gold and silver objects scattered throughout the chamber.

  The man with the low voice, dressed in black and his face covered with a mask that disguised his features, melted away into the shadows in the far side of the room.

  On a chair in front of her sat a young man – at least she thought it was a man, but the figure was so painted and beribboned that she could not be quite sure. Whoever he was, she was sure he was important, so she took her hat off her head and swept him a low bow.

  “You are William Ruthgard?” the figure asked when she was upright again.

  “Yes, Monsieur,” she replied, hazarding a guess that the figure was indeed a man by the pitch of his voice. “William Ruthgard of the King’s Musketeers at your service.”

  The man nodded. “I have heard of you.”

  Good things, she hoped, looking sidelong at his face. She was not sure she would like him as an enemy. His face was not strong, but it had the hard lines that petty selfishness and cruelty can give to an otherwise weak countenance.

  “Gerard Delamanse told me that you were to be trusted.”

  She nodded. Gerard was Sophie’s nom de plume. She would trust Sophie not to have landed her in trouble, more than she would trust any man. “He speaks rightly.”

 
Her inquisitor took a pinch of snuff from a delicate jeweled box, sniffed it elegantly up his nose, and gave a weak sneeze into a lacy handkerchief. “He told me you would be more concerned with righting a wrong done to an innocent woman than most other men would be.”

  Sophie knew her better than she had realized. “He speaks truly.”

  He tucked the handkerchief away again with a flourish. “Even if the man who had wronged this woman was in a high place.”

  She wondered where this was all leading her, but she answered honestly enough. “Even so.”

  His eyes were glittering in the light of the many candles. “Even if the man who wronged this woman was the King of France.”

  She gazed steadily at him. “Who would you be that you would ask me this?”

  He gave a little laugh. “How arrogant of me. I assumed you would know me, by reputation if by nothing else. My name is Philippe, Duc of Orleans, and brother to King Louis of France, the devil take his soul.”

  Not to mention the former husband of Henrietta Anne, the English princess now rotting in her grave thanks to the jealousy and malice of the King. The puzzle was becoming clearer. “In that case I may be honest with you, Monsieur, without fear of reprisal. I have no particular love for my fellow man, though he be King of France, but I will not see so much as an old beggar woman mistreated for all the gold in the world.”

  “Then I will be honest with you in my turn, Monsieur Musketeer,” the Duc said, choosing his words with evident care. “The King wronged my wife most grievously – though I have not the means to prove it directly. I want to find those means. I want you to help me find them.”

  She had no problem with this, but she wondered where it would lead. “Once you have found them, what then?”

  He flapped his lace cuffs at her with irritation at her words. He was evidently more used to being obeyed than questioned. “I will take the proof I seek to the King of England and show him without a doubt that my brother killed his sister. He will not be able to ignore such an insult to the royal house of England. He will have to raise an army to avenge her.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him, hardly believing what he was suggesting. “You would have England make war on all France to avenge your wife?” She knew few husbands who would dream of such a thing.

  “Not on all France. I have many supporters in the troops – more than you might suppose, and certainly more than my dear brother suspects. When the English soldiers arrive on French soil, I will join them with my men. Together we will march on Saint-Germain de Laye. Against the massed might of England and the half of France that owes its loyalty to me, my brother will find it difficult to fight. In one stroke I will both avenge my wife and claim for myself the greatest throne in Christendom.”

  She did not know whether to laugh or cry at his vision for the future. He was no angel of loyalty after all, just a man who would use the excuse of his wife’s death to grasp a modicum of power if he could. “You want my help to raise you an army?”

  He shook his head, sending clouds of white powder from his wig through the air of the chamber. “No, no, nothing like that. I have plenty of generals who have been meeting with me in secret and they will bring me far more men than the few that you could command. No, I have another job for you to do. Gerard Delamanse tells me that you have access to what I need most of all right now.”

  She could not imagine anything he needed more than an army, but she forbore to comment. “And that is?”

  “A thief.”

  She thought of Miriame’s light fingers with the onions and smiled. Sophie was wise not to let Miriame’s proclivities become too widely known. Men in power were fickle – and did not like their ordered views of the world questioned. A thief was tolerable only if he looked like a thief, dressed like a thief and could not be mistaken for anything but a thief, and whose services could be bought when needed. Then one knew exactly what one was dealing with. Did the Duc ever discover that one of the King’s Musketeers – a gentleman sworn to uphold the law of the land - was a notable thief, he may well have her hanged in a sudden fit of morality instead of using her services as he intended. “Indeed, I may know one, though I dare swear his services will not come cheap.”

  Monsieur shrugged his beribboned shoulders. “I did not expect they would. As you see, I am willing to pay well for what I need.” He emptied a sack of coins onto his lap, letting them run over one another with a pleasant clink and clatter of wealth. “In gold.”

  She was unmoved by the sight. One of her father’s diamonds was worth more than the whole bag of gold in front of her. “My friend the thief loves nothing better than gold. He will be pleased to see such a clear token of your generous intentions.” Maybe such a bag of gold would save Miriame from a dagger in the back when her cheating with false dice was finally discovered. She had her doubts, though. Miriame would probably gamble with false dice just for the love of it, though she were as rich as the king himself.

  He smiled as he shoveled the gold coins back into the pouch, evidently congratulating himself on the success of the bait he had held out as a lure to catch her with. He tossed her the bag of coins. “That is a token of my esteem for your friend the thief. He will receive twice that again if he is successful in his thievery.”

  She caught and tucked the pouch of gold coins into her breast pocket. Miriame would be more than delighted to see such a bagful of loot. Whatever he wanted stolen, she would no doubt offer to steal it for him ten times over, though it were the crown jewels of France itself.

  He smiled at her with his mouth rather than with his eyes. “Then it is settled. When will you bring him to me to make the necessary arrangements?”

  She shook her head at his haste to settle their business. Maybe he was forgetting they had not yet raised the question of her own compensation. “You have paid the thief royally, but you have not as yet secured my services. What do you intend to offer me to make it worth my while to bring him to you?”

  He glowered at her words, thinking she wanted more money. “Do not be greedy, my friend. There is enough gold in there to satisfy the both of you. You will get no more until the task is done.”

  If only she could obtain what she wanted in exchange for mere gold. “I have gold enough and do not wish for more. If you want the services of my thief, you will have to pay me in other coin.”

  He drew his brows together, puzzled. “What do you want if you do not want gold?” Evidently he had never met anyone before who would turn down his bags of money for a more elusive prize.

  “Something that is far more precious than money, but will cost you far less.” She paused for a moment to let her meaning sink in. “The price of my cooperation,” she said in measured tones, “is the life of a man.”

  He sat back in his chair and looked at her in surprise. “You would have someone murdered?” He did not sound astonished at her request, he sounded surprised only that she had asked it of him. “Why do you not do the job yourself in a dark alley? You are a soldier, are you not, and well enough trained to take down whatever opponent stands in your way? Or,” and he gave a snide smile, “are you too precious of your own life to attempt the feat?”

  She permitted herself a brief smile in return. “You do not understand me quite correctly, Monsieur. I do not want a man killed, I want him saved – saved from the justice of the King.”

  He looked intrigued at her words and leaned forward to study her face carefully as if he might read her thoughts. “Who is this man whose life is so precious to you?” He was almost licking his lips as he spoke.

  Just in time she stopped herself from giving her true relationship. “He is my…my uncle.”

  The Duc sat back in his chair again looking slightly disappointed. Family feeling was of no interest to him. There was no delicious scandal in wishing to save the life of a mere uncle. “Where is he now that he needs saving from?”

  “Imprisoned in the Bastille.”

  That caught his interest again. He whistled through
his teeth. “Your uncle is not a popular fellow with my dear brother, I take it. Under sentence of death?”

  She did not want to think about the possibility. “I know not. I know not even whether he yet lives, but if he does, I want his freedom.”

  He looked troubled at her request, his black painted, arched brows almost meeting in the middle of his white painted brow. “I cannot give you his freedom now. The King will not open his prisons on the mere whim of his younger brother.”

  She had expected no more than a promise and would be satisfied with that much. “I will be content with your word and a note in your handwriting that frees him from prison and acquits him of any crime of which he stands accused. I will not attempt to use it until it is safe to do so.”

  He picked up a quill from the writing table at his side and sucked thoughtfully on the end of it for a moment. “You will keep the note safe and well-hidden? If my brother should come to hear of it, he would be greatly displeased.”

  “I will keep it safe. It will be of no use to me, either, if it is confiscated by the King.”

  He took up a piece of paper and scribbled a note on it. “I will not ask the name of your uncle,” he said as he wrote. “Sometimes it is better to know less rather than more. Here is your note, promising free passage from the Bastille to whomever you so choose. Once the English army is on our shores and my signature is worth more than the paper it is written upon, you need only write in the name of your uncle and he will be freed.”

  Courtney took the paper with a bow and tucked it away safely inside her tunic. She would guard it with her life. “Your thief will be with you shortly.”

  He waved her out of his presence with a heavily bejeweled hand. “Take care that he does not dally over long. I will be waiting anxiously, and it would not be wise for him to make me more anxious than he must.”