“Me?” Luc was stunned. “A tendre?” He turned to Sabine. “How is that possible? I’ve never met this woman.”
“She saw you many times at her father’s theater,” Jules answered for her.
Eager to continue her questioning, Sabine asked Ninette, “You said you thought the reason Isabelle wept in the library was because Monsieur Luc de Moutier didn’t attend the gathering. Do you now believe differently?”
“I don’t know what to believe. She was more upset than usual. Even more than when she couldn’t find her writings. Something was terribly wrong. I don’t know what.”
“Did something happen at the gathering that would have upset Isabelle?” Sabine knew she was grasping.
“I don’t think so, mademoiselle. I know of no such occurrence.”
“Who was in attendance?” Jules asked.
“I don’t remember. It was years ago, monsieur.”
Frustrated, Jules rubbed his neck. “What about the Archbishop of Divonne? Was he there?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Did he visit often?” Jules’s patience was quickly leaking out of his tone.
Ninette shifted in her chair, looking uncomfortable with Jules’s changing disposition. “I—I don’t know. I don’t mind such things. It isn’t my place to notice.”
“Do you recall my father being at odds with anyone?” Clearly, it was Jules’s turn to grasp. “Do you remember any arguments . . . ? Ever?”
Her brows drew together. “Arguments?” She thought for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Yes! There was an argument—of sorts—at that gathering, actually. The Marquis de la Rocque arrived late and was well into his cups. There was some commotion. Your father immediately took him into his study. Sometime later, Yves was summoned to escort the Marquis de la Rocque back to his carriage.”
Luc snorted. “That’s hardly an odd occurrence. The Marquis de la Rocque is always well into his cups and causing a disturbance.”
Eyes downcast, Ninette twisted her apron again. “I’m sorry. That’s all I remember.”
“What about the events leading to the fire?” Sabine spoke up. “What transpired the day of the fire?” she asked, needing to know the details of that horrible day.
“Isabelle finished her chores early, as usual, and returned to the servants’ outbuildings. A fire started. She perished.”
Sabine blinked. “That’s it? You have no other details?”
“No, mademoiselle. That’s all I know.”
“Was she alone?” Sabine could feel her heart racing, terrified that her feeling about her sister still being alive would evaporate like the morning mist if she didn’t hear something, anything, that gave her a bit of hope to hold on to—something more than just a feeling.
“She was alone. We rushed outside and tried to douse the flames. By the time the fire was extinguished, it was too late. I’m sorry,” Ninette said sadly. “I wish I knew more.”
Sabine choked back a sob, trying to contain the tide of emotions welling inside her. Nothing. She’d learned nothing to help her find her sister. And what little she’d learned only distressed her more.
She felt a masculine arm around her waist. Looking up, she found Jules staring back at her. She buried her face in his chest, laced her arms around him, and held on, battling the anguish shredding her heart.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get the answers you wanted,” he said softly near her ear.
So was she.
And yet, despite the emotional pain, she realized that the feeling, that incessant tormenting feeling, hadn’t died. She still felt Isabelle was alive. That somehow she hadn’t perished in that fire. That the badly burned body found in the aftermath wasn’t her sister.
“Mademoiselle Laurent?”
Sabine turned, the beautiful courtesan’s face blurred by her unshed tears. She felt weary. Her limbs leaden.
“Why don’t you lie down for a while?” Marie said. “Ninette, show the mademoiselle to one of the rooms upstairs so that she may rest.”
Sabine shook her head and was about to decline when Agnes and Louise pulled her away from Jules and urged her to follow Ninette. The servant was already halfway to the doors.
Mutely, she let them escort her across the room. Just as she reached the doors, she glanced back at Jules.
The look in his eyes told her he understood how she felt. Her kindred spirit. His touching compassion swirled around her heart.
The doors closed. He disappeared from sight.
Jésus-Christ. It killed Jules to see the pain and sorrow in Sabine’s beautiful eyes.
“Well, Brother, what do you think now?” Luc asked before the small group remaining in the Room of Inspiration.
Jules had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Isabelle Laurent is dead.” He’d never met the woman and yet the words were piercing his heart. He’d so wanted a better outcome for Sabine.
Vincent hung his head.
“Do you think she is guilty of wrongdoings against your father?” Marie asked.
That brought him back to his initial gut suspicion. “I think Isabelle had been used as a pawn. She’d stumbled into something that led to her demise.” He didn’t believe the fire was an accident.
But the all-too-elusive “who” remained disturbingly, infuriatingly unanswered.
When he found this “who” who’d leveled his life, and the lives of so many others, how dearly he would pay.
He reached into his shirt and pulled out from the inner pocket the Archbishop’s letter.
Opening it, he studied it. He’d read it so many times, its contents were branded into his mind. Every taut muscle in his body screamed for action, yet what action could he take?
Marie drew closer. Glancing down at the parchment in his hands, she said, “Darling, is that Bailloux’s letter? The one you said you found near his body?”
“Yes.”
“May I?” She held out her hand and he placed the letter on her palm. She immediately engrossed herself in it.
“Marie, men confide in you,” Luc said. “You’re privy to information others are not. Have you heard anything that can help us?”
Marie’s delicate brows drew together as she slowly pulled her gaze off the page in her hand. “Men confide in me because I never betray their confidence.”
“What about—” Luc began when Jules interrupted him.
“Luc, I have already asked her every question conceivable. She doesn’t have any information that will shed light on the situation.”
“I want to help. Truly I do. But I honestly have no information to offer.” She looked at Luc. “After the arrest of the Frondeurs, everyone connected to them was under intense scrutiny. Our letters were read. We were often followed. No one talked. No one dared. Everyone was afraid they’d suffer what your father and your family suffered. I couldn’t help you as I would have wanted.”
“I understand,” Jules said, though he did not. He knew with every fiber of his being that Sabine would have done more, risked more, to help a friend. A lover.
Her eyes returned to the letter. “This is odd.”
“What is?” Jules asked, looking down at the parchment.
“Look at the signature. It’s signed, Barthélemy L. Bailloux.”
“So?”
“The Archbishop’s name was Barthélemy Thomas Bailloux. Why did he place an ‘L’ in his name?”
Jules snatched the letter out of her hand and looked closely. Bailloux had definitely, distinctly, written an “L.”
Luc drew closer and peered over Jules’s shoulder at the letter. “His personal secretary assured us that this was the Archbishop’s handwriting. Are you certain about his name?”
“Absolutely,” she said with utmost confidence. “I’m surprised his secretary missed it.”
“Gaubert was distraught. Wept heavily,” Jules reasoned. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. It was a small clue but it was something tangible to hold on to. Hope shot through him like an invigo
rating jolt. “Perhaps the Archbishop was trying to give us a clue as to who his murderer was.”
“I have pleased you then? Helped in some way?” Marie returned his smile.
“You have.”
“Good. It’s the least I can offer—especially after you saved me this evening from my guests.”
“You have guests? Here and now?” Jules asked.
Marie nodded. “I’m quite annoyed with them and left them to amuse themselves. They thought it humorous to bring along an uninvited guest. I was getting ready to have the individual, in fact the lot of them for their annoying prank, removed from my home when I was notified that you were here.”
“Who is this guest?” Jules couldn’t help but ask.
“Claude Cyr,” she said. “A repulsive man and social climber of the worst order.”
“Cyr? The tax collector?”
“Yes, Cyr. The tax collector. His fat derrière is on one of my silk settees at this very moment.” She crossed her arms, vexed.
Jules smiled and glanced at Raymond. His loyal servant smirked. He knew him well enough to know what he was thinking.
“There’s a small matter between Cyr and I that remains unsettled. Send him in, Marie, and don’t tell him I’m here.”
Marie smiled. “With pleasure.”
Minutes later, spotting Marie elegantly seated on a chair in the middle of the Room of Inspiration, the rat scurried in. Yet what he got was a rude welcome as the door was slammed behind him and his body slammed against it.
Cyr gasped in fright the moment he recognized the man pinning him against the wooden portal by the throat.
“M-My lord! How—How good to see you.” His breath gave off a horrid stench.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re thrilled we’ve crossed paths again.”
“Oh—Oh, definitely. I’m always delighted to see you, my lord.” He gave him a miserable smile.
“You do recall I told you to make yourself available to me, don’t you? And that I would pay you a visit shortly to settle the score?”
“I believe I remember you saying something like that.”
“I sent a man to your home, Cyr. He was informed you weren’t there. In fact, you’ve made yourself quite scarce. You wouldn’t be hiding from me, now would you? You aren’t trying to avoid paying your debt, are you?”
“N-No!” Cyr squeaked. “Absolutely not!”
“Then what are you doing in Paris? The place, you well know, I’m not permitted to enter. Did you think you’d be safe from me here?”
“No, no. It—It isn’t like that. I—I have important business. The King’s business,” he stammered.
“Really? The King’s business is conducted in Marie de Perron’s home?” Jules squeezed Cyr’s sweaty neck a little tighter. A strangled sound instantly emitted from the vermin’s throat. “You’re here for self-promotion. Hoping to elevate your social worth. But you see, the lady isn’t interested.”
“I most certainly am not,” Marie confirmed.
“I should kill you here and now for your lies,” Jules growled at Cyr.
“Please, my lord, I—I have a proposition for you! I give you something you want and you—you reduce the debt I owe you. Th-That sounds fair, no?”
“What could you have that I would possibly want?”
“Information. Perhaps it may help remove the stain that has tarnished your family’s name.”
That grabbed his curiosity. Cyr was a serpent. Completely untrustworthy. Yet still, Jules couldn’t help asking, “What information?”
“F-First the debt. I tell you the information and you cut it by half.”
“You tell me the information and I may let you live to see tomorrow. But I’ll not take a coin”—he pulled him from the door and slammed him against it again—“off the debt you owe my family. Is that clear?”
Wide-eyed, Cyr shook. “V-Very clear. I—I see your point, my lord. I truly do . . .”
“Out with it,” Jules demanded.
Cyr swallowed hard. “L-Last week I heard while playing dice with some fine gentlemen, like yourself, my lord, the Marquis de la Rocque, say—mind you, he was quite drunk at the time—that he’d lost his entire fortune to your father in a game of Basset. He said, ‘The problem’—by problem, I believe he meant your father—‘was taken care of.’ Then he fell facedown, senseless.”
Marquis de la Rocque. Why did this man’s name keep resurfacing? Hadn’t Ninette mentioned him as being at his father’s last gathering? Didn’t the Archbishop’s secretary, Gaubert, say that Rocque was one of the last visitors Bailloux had before his death?
Rocque’s name was . . . Leopold. Jésus-Christ.
“I’ve made a decision, Cyr. I’ll reduce your debt to me.”
“Really? How much?”
“The amount will depend on how well you serve me. From now on, you’re in my employ.”
“What? But—But, my lord, I cannot. I have responsibilities. You cannot force me to—” Tightening his fingers around Cyr’s neck choked off his words.
Jules eased his grip on the man’s throat to allow him to breathe. “I’ll allow you to choose. Should you decide to accept my offer, you’ll be under guard day and night, your every move watched. Your freedom restricted. Or die here and now.” Jules squeezed Cyr’s throat a fraction. “Which is your choice?”
Beads of sweat rolled down Cyr’s read face. He lifted the corners of his mouth in what was a semblance of a smile. “I’m delighted to be back in your employ, my lord.”
24
Leon strutted into the antechamber. “You wished to see me?” His comment was purposely flippant, annoyed that he’d only just arrived in the city, and barely settled into his townhouse, when he was summoned.
How he hated being ordered about. Loathed it with every fiber of his being.
He was immediately taken aback by the haggard appearance of the Aristo before him.
Dark circles below his eyes, his complexion gray, he looked older than his fifty-six years. True, Leon hadn’t seen his friend the Marquis for many months, but even at his worst, he hadn’t looked like this.
The Marquis rose unsteadily from his chair. “What have you done?” he asked.
Glancing down at the table that separated him from the older Aristo, Leon cocked a brow. A decanter mostly empty. A crystal goblet mostly full of amber liquid. The Marquis’ most excellent brandy.
Leon smiled. “It’s only ten o’clock in the morning and you’re already into your cups. Tsk, tsk.”
“It is the only thing that calms my frazzled nerves. I haven’t been able to sleep since I heard the news about the Archbishop of Divonne. Rumors about his death are rampant in the city.”
Leon pulled out a chair and sat. “Why, thank you. I would love to sit down. You are most gracious.” Each word was edged with sarcasm. Reaching for the decanter and a clean goblet, Leon poured himself a healthy portion. He swirled the brandy in the glass. “You don’t mind, do you?” He brought the goblet to his lips, not caring a whit if the Aristo objected. Tipping it, he let the fiery liquid flow smoothly down his throat. The sweet burn was a pleasure unto itself.
“Do you know what they are saying about the Archbishop’s death?” the Marquis sputtered, still standing on his unstable feet.
“I believe I heard something along the lines that he had a tendre for his mistress and killed himself because he couldn’t cope with her loss. Most tragic,” he added blandly before enjoying another taste from his goblet. “I suppose some might think it terribly romantic—together in death and all that.”
The Marquis slammed his fist down on the table, practically upsetting his goblet. “Don’t play me for a fool! The rumors range from suicide to murder. Murder, Leon! Anyone who knew the Archbishop longer than an hour knows he wasn’t capable of suicide. It goes against the Church and his personal beliefs.” He raked both hands through his hair. “We were finished with this. Blainville was dead. It was behind us. You did this! You killed Bailloux. And you have stirred
a hornets’ nest. When you kill a man of the Archbishop’s standing, there are questions. There will be inquiries. We’ll be caught for our misdeeds.”
Leon narrowed his eyes. “We will not be caught if you hold your tongue, which would be easier to accomplish if you stayed sober.”
“I thought you restricted your killing to local whores.” His wits dulled by drink, the Marquis prattled on, uncensored. “Why did you do this, Leon? Bailloux helped us. He’d been loyal and silent all this time.”
Rage smoldered in Leon’s gut as he stared at the ingrate before him. The fool would have nothing if it weren’t for him! How dare he have the gall to question him.
Leon placed his goblet down on the table and slowly rose.
The Marquis’ anger dissipated from his eyes, only to be replaced by an emotion much more pleasing.
Fear. He felt an inebriating surge of power flood through his veins.
“I had a loose end that needed attending. Bailloux’s demise couldn’t be helped.” His voice was low. Indicative of his simmering ire.
“Wh-What do you mean, ‘loose end’? Bailloux was not a loose end. He was a man of rank and morals.”
A laugh erupted from Leon. “He was a man who was fucking a married woman and helped most willingly in a conspiracy against an equally despicable character who was hated by just about everyone—the Marquis de Blainville. Or have you forgotten?” Leon stepped closer, his intent intimidation. His intent worked, evident by the blanching of the older man’s visage. “Have you forgotten what Blainville intended to do to you and your family? How he tried to prey on your weakness? Have you forgotten who helped you stop him? Who saved you and your family from ruin? IT WAS I!” he barked in the Marquis’ face, making him jump. “I kept my end of the bargain by ridding you and your friends of Blainville,” he said with a slow and deliberate tone. “And you kept yours, by killing my loathsome brother for me. Do not speak to me about morals. You and your lot have none.”
Leon fisted the Marquis’ shirt and yanked him close, the older man almost butting noses with him—his red-rimmed eyes widened—fumes from the brandy the Aristo had consumed emanating from him. “I saw both you and the scrupulous Archbishop in the crowd during Blainville’s execution. After what he was going to do to you, you liked seeing his feet and hands bound, that noose placed around his neck. The jerk of his body when his neck broke. Don’t bother to lie. I saw the satisfaction in your eyes as well as the Archbishop’s.”
A Midnight Dance Page 28