by Nora Roberts
“He got her—and twenty or thirty other people. He didn’t have anything against them, you understand. They just happened to be there at the time.”
“Revenge, amusement, or gain,” she murmured, remembering her earlier thoughts on killing.
“That about sums it up. If there’s such a thing as a soul, Whitney, Dimitri’s is black with boils running on it.”
“If there’s such a thing as a soul,” she repeated, “we’re going to help his into hell.”
He didn’t laugh. She’d said it too quietly. He studied her face, pale and tired in the bright moonlight. She meant what she said. He was already indirectly responsible for the death of two innocents. In that moment, he took responsibility for Whitney. Another first for Doug Lord.
“Sugar.” He shifted so that he sat next to her. “The first thing we have to do is stay alive. The second is to get to the treasure. That’s all we have to do to make Dimitri pay.”
“It’s not enough.”
“You’re new at this. Listen, you get in a kick when you can, then you back off. That’s the way to stay in business.” She wasn’t listening. Uncomfortable, Doug came to a decision. “Maybe it’s time you got a look at the papers.” He didn’t have to see her face to know she was surprised. He could feel it in the way her shoulder moved against him.
“Well, well,” she said softly. “Break out the champagne.”
“Get smart and I might change my mind.” Relieved by her grin, he reached in his pocket. Reverently he held the envelope. “This is the key,” he said. “The goddamn key. And I’m using it to get through the lock I’ve never been able to pick.” Drawing out papers, one by one, Doug smoothed them.
“Mostly in French like the letter,” he murmured. “But someone already translated a good bit.” He hesitated another moment, then handed her a yellowed sheet enclosed in clear plastic. “Look at the signature.”
Whitney took it, skimming down the text. “My God.”
“Yeah. Let ’em eat cake. Looks like she sent this message a few days before she was taken prisoner. The translation’s here.”
But Whitney was already reading the leader written in the tragic queen’s own hand. “Leopold has failed me,” she murmured.
“Leopold II, Holy Roman emperor and Marie’s brother.”
She lifted her gaze to Doug’s. “You’ve done your homework.”
“I like to know the facts on any job. I’ve been boning up on the French Revolution. Marie was playing politics and struggling to secure her position. She didn’t pull it off. By the time she wrote that, she knew she was almost finished.”
With only a nod, Whitney went back to the letter. “He is more emperor than brother. Without his help, I have few to turn to. I cannot tell you, my dear valet, of the humiliation of our forced return from Varennes. My husband, the king, disguised as a common servant and myself—it is too shameful. To be arrested, arrested, and returned to Paris like criminals with armed soldiers. The silence was like death. Even though we breathed, it was a funeral procession. The Assembly has said that the king had been kidnapped and has already revised the constitution. This ploy was the beginning of the end.
“The king has believed that Leopold and the Prussian king would intervene. He communicated to his agent, Le Tonnelier, that things would be the better for it. A foreign war, Gerald, should have extinguished the fires of this civil unrest. The Girondist bourgeoisie has proved incapable, and they fear the people who follow Robespierre, the devil. You understand that though war was declared on Austria, our expectations were not met. The military defeats of the past spring have demonstrated the Girondins do not comprehend how it is to conduct a war.
“Now there is talk of a trial—your king on trial, and I fear for his life. I fear, my trusted Gerald, for all our lives.
“Now I must beg your help, depend on your loyalty and friendship. I am not able to flee, so I must wait and trust. I beg you, Gerald, to receive that which my messenger brings you. Guard it. Your love and loyalty I must depend upon now that everything is crumbling around me. I have been betrayed, time and time again, but it is sometimes possible to turn the betrayal into advantage.
“This small portion of what is mine as queen, I entrust to you. It perhaps will be needed to pay for the lives of my children. Even if the bourgeois are successful, they too will fall. Take what is mine, Gerald Lebrun, and guard it for my children, and theirs. The time will come when we again take our rightful place. You must wait for it.”
Whitney looked down at the words written by a stubborn woman who had plotted and maneuvered herself to her own death. But still, she’d been a woman, a mother, a queen. “She had only a few months to live,” Whitney murmured. “I wonder if she knew.” And it occurred to her that the letter itself belonged safely behind glass in some tidy corner of the Smithsonian. That’s what Lady Smythe-Wright would have felt. That’s why she’d been foolish enough to give it and the rest to Whitaker. Now they were both dead.
“Doug, do you have any idea just how valuable this is?”
“That’s just what we’re going to find out, sugar,” he muttered.
“Stop thinking in dollar signs. I mean culturally, historically.”
“Yeah, I’m going to buy a boatload of culture.”
“Contrary to popular belief, one can’t buy culture. Doug, this belongs in a museum.”
“After I’ve got the treasure, I’ll donate every sheet. I’m going to be needing some tax write-offs.”
Whitney shook her head and shrugged. First things first, she decided. “What else is there?”
“Pages from a journal, looks like it was written by this Gerald’s daughter.” He’d read the translated parts, and they were grim. Without a word he handed a page to Whitney. It was dated October 17, 1793 and in the young hand and simple words were a black fear and a confusion that was ageless. The writer had seen her queen executed.
“She appeared pale and plain, and so old. They brought her in a cart through the streets, like a drab. She revealed no fear as she mounted the steps. Maman has said she was a queen to the end. People crowded around and merchants sold wares as though at a fair. It smelled like animals and flies came in clouds. I have seen other people pulled in carts through the streets, like sheep. Mademoiselle Fontainebleu was among them. Last winter she ate cakes with Maman in the salon.
“When the blade descended on the queen’s neck, people cheered. Papa wept. Never have I seen him weep before and I could only stand, holding his hand. Seeing his tears I was afraid, more afraid than when I saw the carts or watched the queen. If Papa wept, what would happen to us? That same night we left Paris. I think perhaps I will never see it again, or my pretty room that looks over the garden. Maman’s beautiful necklace of gold and sapphire has been sold. Papa tells us we will go on a long journey and must be brave.”
Whitney turned to another sheet, dated three months later. “I have been sick unto death. The boat sways and rocks and stinks from the filth of the wretched below-decks. Papa also has been ill. For a time we feared he would die and we would be alone. Maman prays and sometimes, when he is feverish, I remain and hold his hand. It seems so long ago that we were happy. Maman grows thin and Papa’s beautiful hair more gray every day.
“While he lay in his bed, he had me bring to him a little wooden chest. It appeared plain, as one in which a peasant girl might hide her trinkets. He told us that the queen had sent it to him, enlisting his trust. One day, we would return to France and release the contents to the new king in her name. I was tired and ill and wished to lie down, but Papa made both Maman and me swear we would bide by his oath. When we had sworn, he opened the box.
“I have seen the queen wear such things, with her hair piled high and her face glowing with laughter. In the simple box, the emerald necklace I had seen once upon her breasts seemed to catch the light of the candles and throw it upon the other jewels. There was a ruby ring with diamonds like a starburst and a bracelet of emeralds to match the necklace. There
were stones yet to be set.
“But as I looked, my eyes were dazzled. I saw a diamond necklace more beautiful than all the rest. It was set in tiers, but each stone, some bigger than I have ever seen, seemed alive of its own. I remembered Maman speaking of the scandal of Cardinal de Rohan and the necklace of diamonds. Papa had told me the cardinal had been tricked, the queen used, and that the necklace itself had disappeared. Still I wondered as I looked into the box if the queen had contrived to find it.”
Whitney set the paper down but her hands weren’t steady. “The diamond necklace was supposed to have been broken up and sold.”
“Supposed,” Doug repeated. “But the cardinal was banished, and the Comtesse de La Motte was caught, tried, and sentenced. She escaped to England, but I’ve never read anything that proved she had the necklace.”
“No.” Whitney studied the page of the journal. The paper itself would’ve made any museum curator worth his salt drool. As for the treasure, “That necklace was one of the catalysts for the Revolution.”
“It was worth a pretty penny then.” Doug handed her another page. “Care to estimate what it might be worth today?”
Priceless, Whitney thought, but knew he wouldn’t understand her meaning. The sheet he’d given her listed in detailed inventory what the queen had entrusted to Gerald. Jewels were described and valued. As with the pictures in the book, Whitney found them unexciting. Still, one shone out among the rest. A diamond necklace valued at more than a million lives. Doug would understand that, Whitney mused, then set the paper aside and took up the journal again.
More months had passed and Gerald and his family were settled on the northeast coast of Madagascar. The young girl wrote of long, harsh days.
“I yearn for France, for Paris, for my room and the gardens. Maman says we must not complain and sometimes goes with me for walks along the shore. Those are the best times, with the birds flying and shells to find. Maman looks happy then, but sometimes she looks out to sea and I know she too longs for Paris.
“Winds blow in from the sea and ships come. News from home is of death. The Terror rules. The merchants say that there are thousands of prisoners and many have faced the guillotine. Others have been hung, even burned. They talk of the Committee of Public Safety. Papa says that Paris is unsafe because of them. If one mentions the name of Robespierre, he will not speak at all. So while I long for France, I begin to understand that the home I knew is gone forever.
“Papa works hard. He has opened a store and trades with other settlers. Maman and I have a garden, but we grow only vegetables. Flies plague us. We have no servants and must fend for ourselves. I regard it as an adventure, but Maman tires easily now she is with child. I look forward to the baby coming and wonder when I will have my own. At night we sew, though we have few coins for extra candles. Papa is constructing a cradle. We do not speak of the little box hidden under the floor in the kitchen.”
Whitney set the page aside. “How old was she, I wonder.”
“Fifteen.” He touched another paper sealed in plastic. “Her record of birth, her parents’ marriage lines.” He handed it to Whitney. “And death certificates. She died when she was sixteen.” He picked up a last page. “This gives us the rest of it.”
“To my son,” Whitney began and glanced up at Doug. “You sleep in the cradle I made you, wearing the little blue gown your mother and sister sewed. They are departed now, your mother giving you life, your sister from a fever striking so quickly there was no time for a doctor. I have discovered your sister’s journal and read it, wept over it. One day, when you are older, it too will be yours. I have done what I thought I must, for my country, my queen, my family. I have saved them from the Terror only to lose them in this strange, foreign place.
“I have not the will to continue. The sisters will care for you as I cannot. I can give to you only these pieces of your family, the words of your sister, your mother’s love. With them, I add the responsibility I took for our queen. A letter will be left with the sisters, instructions for passing you this package when you are of age. You inherit my responsibility and my oath to the queen. Though it will be buried with me, you will again take it up and fight for the cause. When the time is right, come to where I rest and find Marie. I pray you do not fail as I have done.”
“He killed himself.” Whitney set the letter down with a sigh. “He’d lost his home, his family, and his heart.” She could see them, French aristocrats displaced by politics and social unrest, floundering in a strange country, struggling to adjust to a new life. And Gerald, living and dying by his promise to a queen. “What happened?”
“As best I can make out, the baby was taken into a convent.” He shifted through more papers. “He was adopted and immigrated with his family to England. It looks like the papers were stored away and just forgotten until Lady Smythe-Wright unearthed them.”
“And the queen’s box?”
“Buried,” Doug said with a faraway look in his eye. “In a cemetery in Diégo-Suarez. All we have to do is find it.”
“And then?”
“Then we take a stroll on easy street.”
Whitney looked down at the papers in her lap. There were lives scattered there, dreams, hopes, and loyalty. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“This man made a promise to his queen.”
“And she’s dead,” Doug pointed out. “France is a democracy. I don’t think anyone would back us up if we decided to use the treasure to restore the crown.”
She started to speak, then found herself too tired to argue. She needed time to take it all in, evaluate her own standards. In any case, they’d yet to find it. Doug had said it was the winning. After he’d won, she’d talk to him about morals. “So you think you can find a cemetery, stroll in, and dig up a queen’s treasure.”
“Damn right.” He gave her a quick, dashing smile that made her believe him.
“It might already have been found.”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head and shifted. “One of the pieces the girl described, the ruby ring. There was a whole section on it in the library book. That ring had been passed down through royal succession for a hundred years before it was lost—during the French Revolution. If that or any of the other pieces had turned up, underground or otherwise, I’d’ve heard about it. It’s all there, Whitney. Waiting for us.”
“It’s plausible.”
“The hell with plausible. I’ve got the papers.”
“We’ve got the papers,” Whitney corrected as she leaned back against a tree. “Now all we have to do is find a cemetery that’s been around for two centuries.” She closed her eyes and went instantly to sleep.
It was hunger that woke her, the deep, hollow kind she’d never experienced. On a moan, she rolled over and found herself nose to nose with Doug.
“Morning.”
She ran her tongue around her teeth. “I’d kill for a croissant.”
“A Mexican omelette.” He closed his eyes as he pictured it. “Cooked to a deep gold and just busting with peppers and onions.”
Whitney let that lie in her imagination, but it didn’t fill her stomach. “We have one brown banana.”
“Around here, it’s serve yourself.” Rubbing his hands over his face, Doug sat up. It was well past dawn. The sun had already burned off the mist. The forest was alive with sound and movement and the smells of morning. He glanced up to the treetops where birds hid and sang. “The place is loaded with fruit. I don’t know what lemur meat tastes like, but—”
“No.”
He grinned as he rose. “Just a thought. How about light fare? Fresh fruit salad.”
“Sounds delightful.” When she stretched, the lamba slipped off her shoulder. Fingering it, Whitney realized Doug must have spread it over her the night before. After all that had happened, all they’d seen, he could still manage to surprise her. As if it were the most elegant of silks, Whitney folded and repacked it.
“You get the fruit, I’ll
get the coconuts.”
Whitney reached up into the branches. “These look like stunted bananas.”
“Pawpaws.”
Whitney picked three and grimaced at them. “What I wouldn’t give for one lowly apple, just as a change of pace.”
“Take her out to breakfast and she complains.”
“Least you could do is buy me a Bloody Mary,” she began, then turned to see him halfway up a palm tree. “Douglas,” she said, moving cautiously closer, “do you know what you’re doing?”
“I’m climbing a goddamn tree,” he managed as he shinnied up another foot.
“I hope you’re not planning on falling and breaking your neck. I hate to travel alone.”
“All heart,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s not so different from climbing into a third-story window.”
“A nice brick building isn’t likely to give you splinters in sensitive places.”
Reaching up, he yanked off a coconut. “Stand back, sugar, I might be tempted to aim for you.”
Lips curved, she did so. One, then two, then three coconuts landed at her feet. Taking one up, she smacked it against a tree trunk until it cracked. “Well done,” she told Doug when he dropped to the ground. “I believe I’d like a chance to watch you work.”
He accepted the coconut she offered and, sitting on the ground, pulled out his pocketknife to carve out the meat. It reminded her of Jacques. Whitney touched the shell she still wore, then pushed back the grief.
“You know, most people in your position wouldn’t be so—tolerant,” he decided, “of somebody in my line of work.”
“I’m a firm believer in free enterprise.” Whitney dropped down beside him. “It’s also a matter of checks and balances,” she concluded with her mouth full.
“Checks and balances?”
“Say you steal my emerald earrings.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Let’s keep this hypothetical.” She shook the hair back from her face and gave a fleeting thought to digging out her brush. Food came first. “Well, the insurance company’s stuck with shelling out the cash. I’ve been paying them outrageous premiums for years and I never wear the emeralds because they’re too gaudy. You hock the emeralds, someone else buys them who finds them attractive, and I have the cash to buy something entirely more suitable. In the long run, everyone’s happy. It could almost be considered a public service.”