Manu sat down again, his mind stuck on the idea he could be like d’Oronte. He thought about the sneering, manipulative seducer who was pursuing Catherine. “I could have been like him, it’s true.” If he had stayed with his mother, he might have been like him. He liked to think he would have been kinder. Within his mother’s circle, the Comte d’Yquelon was steadfastly, ostentatiously pious, though his son pretended to be holy and lived a wild life and had a cruel streak. Manu knew he had cruelty within him, but nothing like d’Yquelon’s son. But d’Yquelon’s godson, Lucas, had always been his friend. Manu wondered if he would have been holier if he had spent more time with Lucas.
Another tear leaked from his mother’s eye. “I’m very glad you’re not like d’Oronte.”
He nodded and rose. He had to think. He glanced out the window again, wishing he could go on a long ride. Maybe he would run down to the stable to brush Vainqueur.
He turned and looked his mother over: her bony figure outlined by her blankets and her wrinkled face gray and fatigued. “Merci, Maman.”
“For what?” Her expression turned stormy again.
“For not making me like d’Oronte. For not pulling me back to court when I was finally on my own. For letting me raise horses. I don’t know.”
She waved her hand dismissively, her usual haughty look on her face. “It was too late to take you back. What I loved best about your father was how manly he was. How accomplished at sporting things. But I also loved how he made me laugh.”
Manu frowned. “You loved him? Even though it was an arranged marriage?”
She shrugged stiffly. “Of course. Who could not love your father? And then I hated him because he loved the children and didn’t love me. He loved the countryside better than court. He loved campaigning with the army, alongside de Bures in the thick of the action rather than strutting around in the background along whichever border the court was dragged to for whichever war we were fighting at the time. And he loved making friends, while I only wanted powerful allies. I have so many regrets, Emmanuel.”
“We will find your poisoner and have him arrested. You will still live for a long time, you know.”
She waved him away. “Call in the guard, please. He is very amusing.”
But before Manu got to the door, Jean-Louis was framed in it, Henri right behind him.
“Oh, no. I am done confessing.” The baronesse sank back in her bed. “I want to sleep now.”
Jean-Louis’ stiff expression got stiffer. Henri blinked once, then sneered.
Manu smiled at his brothers. “She apologizes for being brusque. She is still quite ill, though recovering quickly. She has just bared her heart to prove she has one. She apologizes for not being a good mother to any of us. And I have realized exactly where Henri and I inherited our hard shell and Jean-Louis his stoic outlook. Now she wishes for you to come in and kiss her hello before letting her sleep. She will speak with you later today.”
“Ah, non, Manu. We heard it all from just outside the door,” said Henri, smoothing the wool of his riding habit. “We came to accept her apologies in person.”
Jean-Louis glared at him. “We are here because we will do everything in our power to save our mother’s life.”
The baronesse glared at them all, before her face softened just slightly. “You are right, Emmanuel. They do take after me, especially Henri. Maybe I should have raised him at court.”
“At least I wouldn’t have been trying to seduce innocent girls.” Henri chuckled. “Not like Manu.”
“I have never…” Manu’s defensiveness rose up like a snake, but he tamped it down. He took a deep breath. “Disrupt Maman for a few minutes, but leave the guard to watch over her.”
He bowed to them all, but on the way out the door, Jean-Louis stopped him and kissed his cheeks. Henri did the same, though with his sneer still in place.
Manu sat in a wobbly chair against the wall and put his head in his hands, listening to the murmur of voices. He heard someone come in and sat up.
“Marie,” he said.
The girl startled, then curtsied. “Monsieur.”
“Could you knock on Mademoiselle de Fouet’s door for me? See if I could have a word with her?”
Marie curtsied again and glanced at him with trepidation as she went and knocked.
No answer.
“Go in and see if she’s all right.” Manu felt a little knot of dread in his chest. More poison?
Marie glanced in. “She’s not here, Monsieur.”
He surged to his feet and glanced at his mother’s room, where his brothers’ and mother’s voices were still murmuring. There was no shouting, and he even heard his mother laugh.
He sighed and left, not sure where he wanted to go. When in doubt, he always headed for the stables.
Emmanuel slipped through a hidden panel and down a servants’ staircase. It was empty; the nobles were having their sieste—or their affaires—and servants were resting or laundering or cooking, but it was among the quietest times of day at court.
He rattled down the poorly lit stairs, jumping the last few at the first turn and holding the center post to swing to the next, as eager as a little boy. As he swung around at the second turning to take the next flight, he thought there was a motion in the shadows by the door. He was moving too quickly to see who it was. He had started down when he felt a hard shove in the middle of his back.
With the speed he was going, the push launched him out over the stairs and he stumbled to land about ten steps down, his feet slipping from under him and his knees buckling. He grabbed the banister with his left hand and swung toward it hard, bashing his left cheekbone against the railings. His legs continued without the rest of him until he came to a rest, sprawled inelegantly down the narrow stairwell, his left hand still clutching the rail and hard stairs digging into his body. He groaned and let go, forcing himself up, testing his limbs. He would have bruises all up and down his left side, and his left shoulder would ache, but nothing was broken or bleeding.
He heard a door click and called, “Could you give me a little help?” But there wasn’t anyone there. His mind spun and his heart raced from the rush of panic. Perhaps he had imagined the push.
He limped up and opened the door, hand on his hidden dagger, ready to face his attacker. There were a few fluttering fans and glimmering waistcoats at the other end of the room he found, but no one glanced at him, and no one moved furtively or ran away.
“Have you seen someone come through here in the last minute?” he demanded of a footman, who answered in the negative.
“Not even a servant?”
“Non, Monsieur.”
“Someone pushed me in the stairwell.”
The footman raised his eyebrows and looked him over. “Have you been drinking, Monsieur?”
It was a legitimate question. The footman was elegant in his livery, and Manu had been scruffy before falling down the stairs. He decided not to breathe in the footman’s face and turned sharply back to the stairwell, ignoring the twinges. He went up half a flight and checked through another door, then another, all the way to the top, but of course by that time the culprit would have had plenty of time to get away. He limped back down, his thoughts black.
At the bottom, he found his hat and shoved it onto his head and went into the service hallway, where gossiping maids glanced at him as he passed.
Then outdoors. He breathed deeply of the chilly, wet air.
Freedom.
He pressed the bruise on his cheek and realized it went in a stripe up his temple. He pressed harder with his whole hand, hoping to minimize the swelling. He figured he’d find leeches later, if it continued to swell. He rotated his shoulder and flexed his arm. He’d have to be gentle with it for a few days. He was glad it was his left arm, not his right. He pulled his court sword out and found he had managed to not land on it, so it was still straight. His ankle throbbed, but his boot had protected it in a way his high-heeled court shoes would not have.
&n
bsp; He limped only slightly, despite the cobblestones and rutted dirt, all the way down the huge Cours d’Honneur and the Place d’Armes to the main stable.
He stepped into the stables and let the smell and heat and noise of horses and hay heal him.
He strode under pale yellow vaulted stone ceilings, marred here and there by smoke, past the metal gates holding in some of the finest horses in the country. Down one row and turn left, straight to Vainqueur’s stall. His horse grunted and thrust his head against Manu’s chest in welcome.
Home.
Chapter Nine
Catherine glanced up as Monsieur Emmanuel strode by Flamme’s stall. The set of his shoulders proclaimed anger. She sighed—he had probably argued with his mother again.
Flamme was still wary of her. She wasn’t sure how to train a horse but was doing her best to make friends.
Emmanuel will know what to do. She had barely thought it before she remembered his jealousy when his mother gave her Flamme. He had been so kind when he comforted her after her disastrous ride with d’Oronte, when he and his family had surrounded her after she escaped from the vicomte in the garden. But if he was arguing with his mother again, she would have to tell him to let the poor woman heal.
She patted Flamme’s nose one more time and let herself out of the stall. The baron’s horses were stabled a short way away, close to a side door. She hoped Emmanuel hadn’t left on a ride or she was going to look silly wandering in this section of the stables. She could claim she was lost. Her imagination leapt to wandering forever in a maze of horse stalls, and she smiled at herself. The fine, glossy horses snuffled at her, waiting for their dinner.
A groom she recognized from their journey from Paris bowed to her. “May I help you, Mademoiselle de Fouet?”
She hesitated before asking if Monsieur Emmanuel was there. The groom pointed her to a stall at the end of the row.
Inside, she saw Emmanuel, hat, coat, and waistcoat off, cream-colored shirt straining against his broad back. His blond ponytail glinted yellow in the lantern light. He was brushing his huge charger, talking softly. The big horse had his eyes half closed and legs spread as if he were falling asleep. The horse spotted her, snorted, and tossed his head, stamping one foot in alarm. Emmanuel turned, and she immediately looked down in a small curtsy.
“May I help you, Mademoiselle?” His voice was soft and low, vibrating pleasantly in her belly.
She lifted her head and saw a red welt on his cheek. “Oh! What happened to your face?”
He covered the angry red bruise with his hand. “I slipped in the stairwell on the way down just now.”
“Oh?” She frowned. He was normally so sure-footed.
He walked to the half door, making her step back slightly as he towered over her, then glanced up and down the aisle. She did the same, but there were only grooms several stalls over, putting away some large grays.
“Someone pushed me. I was in the servants’ stairs, and it was dark. I felt a shove. I caught myself and only have a few bruises, but if I hadn’t caught the railing, I would have gone head over heels.” He rolled his left shoulder, grimacing. “I heard a door close above me, but there was no one in sight. A footman I questioned asked if I had been drinking.”
Catherine nodded. She trailed her fingers next to the bruise, and his eyes went sleepy, just like his horse’s had.
“You didn’t argue with your mother before that, did you?” She had to be sure.
Emmanuel scowled at her, his fine lips curved down so he resembled his mother. She was thankful to her patroness, though still spinning the thought in her mind of the baronesse as her father’s mistress. She didn’t want this vital young man to be anything like his mother. Before she could stop herself, she ran her fingers up his face, smoothing away the frown lines. Through her thin suede gloves, his skin felt cool. She circled the rapidly darkening bruise and noticed his cheeks were pink with a blush.
He lifted his ungloved hand and pressed hers to his face, the heat of his palm burning into her.
“I didn’t argue with my mother. In fact, she apologized for trying to raise me to be a perfect courtier, like—” He frowned again.
“Like?” she prompted.
He shook his head slightly. “Like d’Oronte and his friends.”
She winced. D’Oronte.
His other hand tugged her arm, and she stepped closer, her stomach bumping the stall door which separated them. “She seems relieved I’m not like d’Oronte after all. She has regrets about my father.” He stared at her, his eyes as blue as his mother’s but set in his father’s face. “She regrets how she treated us all.”
Catherine nodded.
Emmanuel leaned forward just slightly, and his linen shirt brushed against the front of her bodice, sending tingling heat into her breasts. His eyes darted to her mouth. He bent his head, and his lips touched hers.
She gasped, and when he lifted his head, she slid her hand to the back of his neck and pulled him back down to brush her lips against his. Fever raged through her face, and her ears hummed as his arm wrapped around her shoulder blades. He pressed his mouth more firmly against hers once, twice, then with a lick. Her mouth dropped open, and he groaned as he thrust his tongue in. She and Laurent had experimented with kissing, but she didn’t remember ever enjoying it this much.
Emmanuel pulled away slightly and tilted his head to the other side before taking her mouth again. She forgot about her late fiancé.
She reached for him with her other hand and hit her wrist on the hard wooden door, bringing her back to their surroundings. She pulled away, and after a moment of hesitation and a fiery look through his half-closed eyes, he let her go and stepped back. His horse snorted and shoved his back with his huge head, making Emmanuel stumble forward half a step again and catch himself on the low door as she jumped back.
He grinned. Joy bubbled up inside of her until she laughed.
****
Her gloved hand burned Manu’s arm, its every slip and flex sending fire through him on the long, slow walk back to the palace. They talked only a little, but the glow of the kiss settled inside him and kept him warm in spite of the chill rain dripping from Catherine’s parasol onto his hat and down the back of his neck.
His first brush with reality was when they slipped back into the palace and noticed some of d’Oronte’s friends watching and smirking. He managed to distract Catherine’s attention from them—at least her mood would not suffer—but climbed the stairs faster than he should. They were both a little out of breath at the top.
“My mother will be missing you.”
Her face changed from its relaxed, happy expression to surprise and then, just as quickly, to the stiff mask of the invisible companion. It hurt him to see it, so when they reached his mother’s door, he paused and glanced around to be sure they were alone. “Will you dine with us tonight?”
She blinked, but the mask didn’t change. “With us?”
“My father is surely planning something for the family, since most of us are here.”
“And your mother?” She watched him warily, which was slightly better than blankly.
“We will come to see her, just not all at once. The Swiss Guards will watch over her. And the maid from my father’s house.”
“Marie.”
“Yes, Marie.”
He stood in front of her, not wanting to let go of the hand he held between both of his own. She caught his eye, her cheeks turned rosy, and she hid her face under the brim of her hat.
He couldn’t help himself; he tilted her chin up and untied the ribbons to remove her hat, her cheeks turning an even hotter pink as he touched her neck. She stepped back and took the hat from him.
“Will you dine with us?”
She glanced away. “Yes, please.” She slipped quickly into his mother’s room.
He wandered back toward his father’s room—down one floor and into a different wing. He was surprised his feet had led him the right way, especially as he wasn�
�t particularly paying attention.
He opened his father’s door and was pushed back by a blast of voices. It appeared everyone in the family was crammed into the sitting room, children on the floor building with blocks, other children standing around a table, holding cards. Since he was the one who had taught the boys to gamble a few days before, he wasn’t too concerned about the cards. There was some good in being a wicked uncle. But there were far too many children, including the de Ligny twins and a few others of about the same age as his nephews.
Jean-Louis loomed in front of him. “We wondered where you had gone. What happened to your face?”
He clasped his brother’s arm—the brother who looked most like him. “To the stables. I had to clear my head.”
Henri strolled up behind Jean-Louis, shaking his head. “Ah, oui. The stench of manure always makes me think clearly. And bruises do so much for your looks.”
Emmanuel smiled at him anyway, still buoyed by his kiss with Catherine. Henri hesitated, as if waiting for an angry reply, then stepped forward to shake hands, his light brown eyes darting as if waiting for Manu to bite.
“Tonton Manu!” shouted a young voice. Jean-Louis’s oldest boy, Marcel, came barreling out of Manu’s tiny bedchamber. “Papa said I could sleep on your floor, since there’s no more room anywhere!” His blue eyes gazed up in adoration. He gasped. “You have a bruise!”
Manu smiled awkwardly. “Not even in with the other boys?”
Marcel shook his head. “Papa and Tonton Henri are taking the beds in their room and the other boys have to sleep on the floor, too, one in there and one in Grand-père’s room, and they’ve made Dario go in with his parents.” The boy grinned. “Papa said they were dividing.”
The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) Page 16