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

  They sat together on the window seat, clasped in each other arms. Never had she felt such happiness, such contentment. If the sky fell down on her that very instant, killing her where she sat entwined with her lover, she would die a happy woman. She had tasted the blessing of true love and it was even sweeter than she had imagined it would be.

  His moustache tickled her neck as he nuzzled into her. “Ah, Courtney, my wife, how I do desire you.”

  His hands moved lower until they rested on her breasts. Her nipples tingled with excitement as he moved his hands over them, tormenting her with exquisite slowness.

  She arched her breasts into his hands and moaned with pleasure. “Oh, god, Pierre, my love, you should not be doing that.”

  He pinched her nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you not like it?”

  She moaned again as shivers of pleasure ran up and down her spine, making her tingle with the need to feel his hands on her, all over her. “I like it far too much to let you continue. You must stop now, or I shall have no will to stop you later.”

  “You have sworn to become my wife,” he said, continuing to caress her breast until she moaned with the strength of the feelings he awoke in her. “There is no sin in what we do. In God’s eyes our embraces are no sin.”

  She had to gasp for enough breath to speak. “I am not yet your wife.”

  “You will be, my love, I swear it.”

  She believed him with all her heart. He would not lie to her. Not in such a moment as this.

  “I have longed for you the moment I first met you. Will you agree to consummate our union, here and now?”

  “I…I do not know what to say.”

  “Your father does not care for me. He has forbidden me the house, or we would not be as we are now – talking in whispers in the dark of your chamber. What if he betroths you to someone in my absence and forces you to wed without your consent? This way at least I have some claim over you. He would not force you to marry another if you had given yourself to me.”

  Her father wished her to marry with all due haste. Surely he would not condemn her for wanting to marry the man she loved so much? After all, he had loved her mother so dearly that he had never even considered marrying again after her death. “Should we not wait until we are married in the eyes of man as well as the eyes of God?”

  He guided her hand to his breeches, where his manhood stood proud and strong, straining to escape the confinement of his clothes. “Truly, my love, I cannot wait that long.”

  Still she hesitated. Her virginity was her most priceless possession. Once gone, it was gone for good. She would never get it back. If anything should happen to Pierre to prevent him from keeping his vow, she would be lost indeed. “We will not have to wait long, will we? Your journey to Paris once done, you will be free to come back for me immediately?”

  “Within the week, if I am able. Within the month for certain.”

  Within the week he could be her husband, to have and to hold as long as they both did live. “Time will pass as slowly as if it rode on the back of a tortoise until you return to me.”

  “I cannot wait another week for you. I will die if I have to wait another week for you.”

  She leaned back into the arms of her lover, her betrothed, her soon-to-husband and gave in to the inevitable. If he could not return to keep his promise to wed her, she would be lost anyway, whether she gave him her virginity tonight or no. She would not want to live without him by her side. She may as well take her pleasure while she might and bind him to her side. “I do not want to wait longer for you, either, my beloved.”

  Pierre tiptoed out of the room where Courtney lay, sound asleep and snuggled under her bedcovers. On his slippered feet he moved noiselessly down the staircase, feeling his way by touch in the blackness of the night.

  He had spoken part of the truth at least that evening. He did love Courtney – with all his heart – but he was not worthy for her to love him in return. Did she but know the real reason for his visit to her house that night, his adroit prompting of her to have him a key to the house made, she would rightly revile him.

  She loved him in all her youth and innocence, and he was about to betray her love in the worst possible way. He would use her love for him to destroy the father she loved as dearly, if not more dearly, than she loved him.

  He had made love to her not as a lover should do – in innocence and passion – but as a coldly calculated act of blackmail. Should her father refuse to do as was demanded of him, should he prove stubborn in revealing where his ill-gotten gains were hid, they would threaten to ruin the reputation of his beloved daughter. Courtney’s seduction was but an piece of the whole evil plan.

  Monsieur de Charent had studied his enemy well. Courtney, his sweet love, was the Achilles heel who would bring her father to his knees. He, false lover and knave that he was, was the tool used to ruin them both.

  He felt his way blindly into a pitch black room on the lower floor. Courtney had let slip that her father’s most private study was not attached to his bedchamber as was common, but that instead he used one of the ground floor chambers to do his business. The door once safely shut behind him, he made haste to strike a small light.

  He was in luck. Judging by the large mahogany desk in the middle of the room and the shelves of journals on the walls, he had found the study on his first attempt.

  He lit a candle from a sconce on the wall and held it before him to illuminate his search. The papers he sought would be well hidden, he was sure of that. He knew his target well enough to know that he had no easy task ahead of him to find what was concealed.

  He took the ring of keys from his pocket – identical to the ring of keys that his Courtney had given him the day before. In the few minutes he had left her alone, he had taken impressions of each and every one if them in balls of softened wax and had them made up in haste by a blacksmith who had been paid well to keep his mouth shut. There was no secret in this house to which he did not have access. He felt a cramp of guilt assail his gut with a vicious pang. Sweet, innocent Courtney had delivered her father’s head to him on a platter, without even suspecting for a moment what she had done.

  The papers on the desk were innocuous enough. He riffled through them with unhurried fingers, doubting they were what he sought, but not wanting to overlook the obvious. He needed to find what he sought and find it fast so he could leave this place which was nothing but a torment to him.

  The drawers of the desk were locked. A small iron key on his ring fitted the locks and he opened them all with a soft click.

  With a growing sense of impatience, he riffled through the contents of the drawers one after the other. The papers he sought were not there. He had to find what he needed. If he returned empty-handed, the chase would only be prolonged, not stopped and Charent, damn his black heart, would be sure to make Courtney suffer for it one way or another.

  With a sudden chill, he turned his gaze to the fireplace. The grate was choked with a fine, powdery, gray ash – the ash that comes from burning papers. He stifled a groan. Had he come too late? Had Monsieur Ruthgard been forewarned, or had he suspected that he was being watched and destroyed the evidence they needed to condemn him? Had all his effort, his wrestling with his conscience, been in vain?

  He would not given in that easily. He owed a duty to his King that went beyond any duty he owed to any woman. He would do his duty to his monarch – however painful he found it. There must be other hiding places where a frightened man would hide the secrets that could hang him were they ever discovered.

  Softly he lifted the rich Oriental rug on the floor and tested the floorboards with the palm of his hands. There was no giveaway squeak that signaled a hiding place underneath. He pulled each heavy volume out of the bookcase, inspecting it to be sure it was not a false front that hid a cunningly disguised cavity for secreting papers.

  He found nothing. Nothing at all.

  His heart began to lift. He had done his best
to betray Courtney, but God had seen fit to take that burden of guilt away from him. He could not find the evidence he needed. He would return to Charent and take the stinging insults that would be delivered to him for his failure without a word. As far as he could, he would try to protect Courtney from the consequences of his failure.

  He would make one last effort, he decided, and then report back to his superior officer on his lack of success. Monsieur de Charent would no doubt be furious, but he would not be able to do anything about it directly. He had done his best. He could not help it that his best had not been good enough.

  He looked around the room, searching for other possible hiding places. A collection of family portraits hung on the walls. One by one, he looked behind them, searching for a secret safe in the walls. He hesitated in front of the portrait of Courtney, unwilling to disturb her serenity. She looked out at him through the eyes of the portrait, her face sad, as if she could see his efforts to betray her. With trembling fingers, he unhooked the latch that hung her portrait on the wall.

  As soon as he lifted the picture, he knew he had succeeded in his quest. He had it. He had discovered the hiding place he had been seeking.

  He felt no triumph as he looked at the tiny silver lock. There was only the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth as he found the matching golden key from the ring of keys he carried and matched it to the lock.

  The safe swung open, revealing its contents.

  With leaden fingers he picked up the heavy ledgers he found inside and stowed them away in a burlap bag. He had betrayed his lover. In serving his King, he had committed an unforgivable sin. Not even the Pope himself could absolve him.

  Feeling like the worst sort of thief, he closed and re-locked the safe. He could hardly bring himself to look at the portrait of Courtney as he hung it back on the wall again. It seemed to him that her blue painted eyes were filled with tears.

  Boots in one hand and the bag of stolen books in the other, he crept out of the room and into the hallway on his slippered feet. No one challenged him. No one stopped him. The household were all peacefully asleep in their beds, their hearts light. No one suspected the terrible act of treachery he had just committed.

  Once out on the street, he turned to look for one last time at the house where his heart lay. He would not return in a week to claim his beloved Courtney as he had promised. He would not return in a month. He would not return even were she to wait a year for him.

  He had betrayed her so deeply that she would never forgive him. He could not forgive himself. He could not bear to look upon her face again.

  Courtney woke from a deep sleep to the sound of heavy knocking on the front door. Her eyes bleary from lack of sleep, she hurried to the window, wondering at the noise so early in the morning.

  A contingent of soldiers was waiting in the street outside, the leader of them banging in the door with a heavy, gloved fist. “Open up in the name of the King.”

  She knew instantly that what her father feared had come about at last. He had warned her only just in time. His enemies had wasted no time in coming for him. They would not be merciful.

  With wings on her heels she flew into her father’s bedchamber. She had only a few precious moments with him left to her. She would sustain him as best she could with the strength of her love.

  Her father was sitting motionless in his chair by the fire wrapped in a rich purple dressing gown. His shoulders were hunched in defeat and his face tinged gray with knowledge of his certain death. “It is over, Courtney,” he said, his eyes devoid of all hope. “They have come for me and it is all over. Remember what I have told you. Say nothing to anyone, I beg of you. Saying nothing is your best defense.”

  She held out her arms to him and hugged him tightly to her. “Papa? What will they do to you?”

  He gave a grim smile. “Marry me to the ropemaker’s daughter, I fear.”

  The world swam before her eyes and she grabbed at her father’s chair to stop herself from falling. “They will hang you?”

  “If I am lucky.”

  “And if you are not hanged? What then? Thank God you are too old for the galleys.” Her father would not survive being a galley slave for long. No man did – not even young men in the best of health and her father was too old for such a heavy burden. She was thankful that no one would want the strength of his arms to row for him, or his life would be short and miserable indeed. Better to be hanged at once, than be tormented to death with no hope of rescue like that.

  He shuddered. “Then they will lock me up for life in some dank, rotten prison where I shall slowly go mad.” A spasm of pain crossed his face. “I could not bear such a fate. I would far rather die and join your blessed mother the sooner. The best I can hope for is that they will hang me speedily and have done with it.”

  The tread of the soldiers’ feet was loud upon the stairs. She sank to the floor at her papa’s feet and hugged his legs to her with all the desperation she dared not show him. She could not bear to let him go, to see the soldiers take him away forever. “What will I do without you?” she wailed. “What will I do without you?”

  He patted her head, but there was no comfort in his touch. “Be brave. Marry an honest Flemish merchant as soon as you can. Above all - keep silent.”

  He was not hanged as she feared he would be. Not immediately, anyway.

  The charges laid against him were theft from his majesty, the King of France. She did not believe them for a moment. Her father was an honest merchant, not a thief. The King of France was a fool to think that her father was fool enough to try to rob him.

  For three days she visited him in his cell in the prison, bringing him food to eat and clean linen to wear. He shared the food with his fellow cellmates, dirty, drunken rascals who taunted Courtney with ribald gestures and obscene words whenever she came to see her father. She shuddered at the sight of them and took pains to keep her skirts out of reach of their greedy, clutching fingers. How her gentle-mannered father survived in such a hellhole of sin and depravity she did not know.

  “You should eat more, papa,” she remonstrated with him. “You are fading away to a mere shadow of yourself. You should not give away your dinner. Your cellmates need it less than you do.”

  “Why waste good food on a condemned man?” her father said, with a weary smile. “I may as well give to the needy while I still can, and hope to reach Heaven after all, despite my sins.”

  On the fourth day, he was no longer sitting in his usual corner, his silent face patient as a tomb. His cellmates greedily devoured the food she had brought for him, but could not tell her where he had gone.

  “Taken off by soldiers,” one said with a shrug, her father’s best port wine dribbling down his chin.

  “Gone to Heaven by now, I’ll warrant,” said another as he stuffed his mouth full of the sweetmeats she had packed with such love and tenderness for her dear papa.

  “Hell, more likely,” said a third, speaking through a huge mouthful of the roasted chicken she had brought with her, and there was a burst of ribald laughter as if he had made the funniest jest imaginable.

  She turned her back on them with disgust. They gave thanks for their dinner by mocking her distress.

  The soldier guarding the prison were more helpful, once his memory had been jogged with a handful of gold coins. “He’s been taken to Paris – to the Bastille – by order of the King.”

  She felt all the blood drain out of her face. She had almost rather have heard that he had been hanged. He had not feared a swift death half as much as he had feared an unending incarceration in a prison that would slowly drive him mad. “Why?”

  The soldier shrugged, but he could not, or would not, answer. Not even the offering of another handful of gold would unlock his tongue.

  She walked slowly home again, her basket light but her feet heavier than ever. Four days had gone by. She counted them off on her fingers as if by wishing she could make them five or even six. Four days.

  In three m
ore days, her beloved Pierre would return from Paris as he had promised. Together, they would rescue her father from the Bastille. Pierre had the King’s favor. Surely the King would pardon an old man if one of his brave and daring Musketeers begged him on bended knee for clemency. The King would be merciful. He must be merciful. Her father would not survive long else.

  Pierre would be here in three more days. She could bear her burden for another three days, knowing that he would be there to share it with her soon.

  The open ledgers sat on the table in silent accusation. Pierre de Tournay crossed his legs in front of him and said nothing, waiting in tortured patience.

  At last the Monsieur Ruthgard spoke, his voice devoid of all emotion. “Where did you get those?”

  Pierre looked with pity on the man he had destroyed. His soul revolted from the duty his King had forced upon him. “From the safe in your study, Monsieur.”

  The old man’s face was sallow in the candlelight. “How did you get in?”

  Pierre held up the bunch of keys that he had had cut – copies of those that Courtney had delivered to him with such faith and love. His heart twisted as he drove this dagger into the old man’s heart. He had not the heart to say more, to drive home the treachery he had been a part of.

  “Which one of my servants betrayed me?” The old man’s voice shook a little, as if he could not bear the thought of having nourished a viper in the bosom of his family. “Which of them sold their soul to the devil for thirty bloodstained pieces of silver?”

  Georges Charent gave an evil laugh. “The Judas you seek was your own daughter. Though she is your own flesh and blood, she came far cheaper than you imagine.”

  The old man’s face was white with pain. “Courtney?” His voice was a mere whisper but it carried a world of anguish in one breath.

  Charent raised one mocking eyebrow in a look of disdain. “Have you any other?”

  The old man could barely speak for grief. “What have you done to Courtney?”

  Charent laughed again, the harsh noise echoing around the walls of the cells like the discordant shriek of a damned soul in torment. “Me? Nothing. That is a question you had far better ask Pierre.”