Martin laughed softly. “How little I know of you, my friend. Your mother wasn’t titled, then?”
“You’re getting to ask as many questions as the chit. No, my mother wasn’t titled. Only rich. Can we get on with it? As I told you, Véronique, you wouldn’t know that Hubert is now the comte. You must think of him only as Monsieur de Chalotais.” He laughed, a sharp dry bark. “Or, as he prefers to be called, Monsieur le Baron de Marcigny. He was very ambitious, and jealous of his brother Simon. It’s improper, of course, but since your mother is the last of the Marcigny line, Hubert appropriated the name and invented the title for himself. It’s done all the time.”
Topaze frowned. “I don’t think I like him.”
“In point of fact, you don’t. Though he’s been married to your mother since you were three, you’ve never called him Papa. Only Beau-Père, stepfather. Or Monsieur le Baron, when you want to mock him.”
Topaze began to laugh. “Wait a moment. If Hubert is the Comte de Chalotais, I can expect more than the Marcigny inheritance, n’est-ce pas? Won’t I inherit Grismoulins as well?”
Lucien’s mouth curved in scornful amusement. “You may have Véronique’s face, but you haven’t lost Topaze’s guile. Stop licking your chops, you greedy little hoyden. You’ll have to settle for the Marcigny money. Hubert has a son.”
“My brother?”
“Stepbrother. Older than you.” He tapped his chin, thinking. “Let me see. Léonard must be twenty-one by now.”
Martin smiled in encouragement, his brown eyes on Topaze’s face. “So many names and facts to remember. Will it daunt you?”
He really was very kind. “Not in the slightest. Léonard. Twenty-one. And… Cousin Lucien? How old?”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“A very grown-up cousin. You couldn’t have paid much attention to me.”
“I didn’t.”
“And how old are you, Martin?”
“Lord!” exclaimed Lucien. “Martin had nothing to do with Véronique or the family.”
“Oh, pooh,” she said, waving him aside. “Véronique doesn’t want to know. Topaze does.”
Martin lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. “Charming Topaze. I was born the year after Louis the Fourteenth died. In 1716. I’m twenty-three.”
She smiled back. “Just the right age.”
He laughed. “Name of God, Lucien, but I’ll steal your wife if I can.”
Lucien scowled and rubbed at his scar. “You can have her. But not until we have the money. Now, we were speaking of Léonard. You call him Moucheron. Little Gnat. You have a fondness for nicknames.”
“Moucheron. Is he small?”
“Not at all. He’s…rather large. Even as a child. But, while his body has grown, his mind hasn’t. He’s somewhat helpless and simple. And he stutters when he’s upset.”
Topaze felt a pang of dismay. “And I call him Little Gnat? Am I as cruel as that?”
“No. Just a thoughtless child. Your mother spoiled you. You call Père François, the family confessor, Le Loup. The Wolf.”
She suppressed a giggle. “Not to his face, I hope!”
“No. Not to his face. You call your mother Fleur, the Flower. Or Little Cabbage. Upon occasion, Mother. Never Maman, unless you’re quite vexed with her. She calls you Poupée, Doll.”
“Tell me about her. Fleur.” It seemed odd to call one’s mother by a nickname.
“Her name is Adelaïde de Chalotais, born de Marcigny. You’ve always been close, to the exclusion of most everyone at Grismoulins.”
Topaze crossed to the window. The rain still beat upon the panes, and the wind sighed through the bare branches of the trees. A lonely, mournful sound. She turned back to the two men. “Then how could Véronique have left willingly?” she asked.
Lucien’s face was a mask of indifference. “Lord knows. But the money is waiting. Why concern ourselves with anything else?”
“That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? The money.”
He laughed. “By Satan’s horn, is there anything more? Except, perhaps, the added bounty of stealing money that is, by rights, supposed to be mine in the first place. Could any joke be more delicious?”
“No. We’re stealing the Marcigny money, aren’t we? That was rightfully Véronique’s?”
“A fair exchange. If it weren’t for owning Grismoulins, Hubert would long since have been out on the streets. The Chalotais family were all improvident. Gamblers. Prodigals all. No appreciation of the power of money.”
She smiled in mockery. “But you know.”
His face was frozen into a grimace. “Lucien de Chalotais didn’t know. Lucien Renaudot was forced to learn. Money is power. Haven’t you learned that yet? Now, as to Hubert. He was the second son. He had almost no money, and no lands. His first marriage was unprofitable. Faced with the prospect of entering the army or joining the clergy to get a living, he looked around for better opportunities. He hoped that the Marcigny marriage would make him rich, but alas. The Marcigny family hadn’t forgotten their disappointment with Adelaïde’s first husband, your father. Most of the fortune is in trust, and beyond Hubert’s reach. He used the last of his own inheritance to woo and win Adelaïde de Marcigny, then moved into Grismoulins with her. And you and Léonard, of course.”
“With you and your parents.”
“Yes. One large, happy family, filled with the milk of human kindness.”
“Were they all so vile as you make it seem?”
“Rest content, my little street urchin. They deserve to be swindled, if a spark of conscience still burns in your thieving heart.”
Curse the blackguard! “Did Véronique think them vile?”
He smirked. “No, but she was so young, so lacking in judgment.”
“Then spare me your malice,” she snapped. “It’s not part of Véronique’s lesson.”
He had the grace to look abashed. “A point well taken. Now, let’s review the names and relationships again.”
“One more question.” She smiled, her eyes wide with innocence. “That is, if the chit’s questions can be borne. Did Véronique like her cousin Lucien?”
“As a matter of fact, she did.”
She laughed wickedly. “By Saint Germain, she was young!”
They spent the rest of the morning talking of the family. Lucien described them in careful detail—their physical features, their ages, their habits and quirks—until Topaze almost began to feel that she’d been raised at Grismoulins herself. He was a good teacher, she an apt pupil; by the time Madame Le Sage bustled into the room and invited them to come to dinner, Topaze could rattle off dozens of facts.
“By God,” said Martin, “I begin to think it will work after all!”
Lucien chuckled. “I never doubted it. But then I saw”—he smiled at Madame Le Sage, who was listening intently—“Véronique’s performance in Bordeaux.”
If he meant to rattle her, she’d have none of it! She smiled up at him and took his arm. “The play was The Stolen Purse, I believe.” Her expression was bland. “Shall we go to dinner?”
He nodded. “A triumph for you. You were not so successful in The Purloined Knife, however.”
“The fault of my fellow player, I suspect. He played it with ill grace. And far too much ‘business’ with his hands.”
He laughed aloud and pulled her closer as they made their way down the stairs. “You saucy miss!”
Her arm was warm, tucked into his. I like it when he laughs, she thought. He’s almost human.
After they had dined, Topaze insisted on holding Lucien to his promise. She’d learned her morning’s lessons; hadn’t he himself told her so? She should be allowed to blow bubbles. When Martin joined the argument, Lucien conceded.
“What nonsense,” he muttered, seating himself at a table in Martin’s room, as Topaze carried in a large beaker of soapy water. “But if the two of you wish to indulge in childish play, who am I to stop you?” He pulled out his penknife and sharpened a quill pen
. “I, however, intend to sit here and draw plans of Grismoulins and the local towns.”
Topaze giggled. “If you want to be an old sobersides…it aren’t my concern. It isn’t. Martin, do you have the straws?”
“But there’ll be work this afternoon,” grumbled Lucien, and bent his dark head to the paper.
Accompanied by the scratch of his quill pen, the patter of the rain on the windows, Topaze and Martin spent the next hour or so in lighthearted play. They blew through the straws into the beaker until the bubbles foamed up and spilled over; they blew individual bubbles and shook them off the ends of the straws, then watched them float in iridescent splendor before popping noisily and harmlessly in the air. Topaze was delighted to see that while Lucien pretended to ignore their happy chatter and games, he kept glancing at them out of the corner of his eye; once she caught him covering a smile at some bit of foolishness of hers. She thought, Is he too proud to laugh? To enjoy himself? Or too absorbed with his wicked scheme—the rogue!—to take notice of life’s small amusements?
She tried to draw him into the game, moving close and blowing bubbles in his direction so they popped about his ears, but he muttered and waved her away, swearing that he had better things to do than be tormented by a pert girl. She made a face at him and turned her attention back to Martin. “Let’s see who can make the largest bubble,” she challenged.
She dipped her straw into the soapy water, lifted it, blew gently; with a soft tick the bubble burst before she’d fairly begun. She shrugged and passed the slippery beaker to Martin. He was more skillful. His bubble grew to the size of a man’s fist; then, as Topaze held her breath, it quivered and exploded in his face. Lucien laughed. Martin cursed and rubbed at his eye. He swore again and clamped his eyes shut. “Damn! There’s soap on my fingers. I’ve only made it worse.”
“Wait!” cried Topaze. “I’ll get some clear water.” She dipped a small towel into a pitcher of water and wrung it gently. Taking Martin by the hand, she led him to a chair. “Sit. Let me tend your eye.”
“Foolish games.” Lucien snorted and resumed his writing.
“Sweet Jesu, but that stings.” Martin leaned his head back, keeping his eyes tightly closed.
“You poor dear. Does this feel better?” Gently Topaze dabbed at his face, squeezed the cool water into the offending eye.
He blinked twice, testing the cure, then smiled. “Such a loving nurse. Did you tend the Givet children as sweetly?”
“Alas. Soap was too dear this past year for such games. But they came to me with all their little hurts.”
“And did you kiss them and make it better?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes. “My eye still hurts.”
She laughed. His eyelashes were long and silky, a smoky brown tipped with gold from the sun. They lay against the smoothness of his tanned cheeks and curved softly at the ends. He looked like an innocent child. She bent down and kissed his closed eyelids.
His eyes opened. Brown velvet, filled with liquid warmth and tenderness. And something more? Did she imagine something more? Pain, perhaps? Yearning? Or merely the aftereffects of the stinging soap? They stared at each other for a long time. Topaze was suddenly aware that Lucien’s pen had been silent for nearly as long a time.
“By Lucifer,” he growled. “Enough of your games. There’s work to be done. Véronique, what does your mother like for breakfast?”
She turned, startled. “Oh. Coffee, with a sweet cake. No. Tea. With milk. And two spoons of sugar?”
He scowled. “One. And no milk. Perhaps if you concerned yourself with what must be learned, instead of wasting your time in idle foolishness and games…”
Damn the man! They’d only just begun the lessons. Why had he turned on her so cruelly? She started to respond, then contented herself with raising her hand and gesturing obscenely with a finger.
He stood up. His eyes were cold and glinted with a dangerous light. “If I see you do that again,” he said softly, “I’ll take a ferule to your hand. Like a naughty child in school.”
Martin scowled in indignation. “Name of God, Lucien…”
“I mean it, Martin. I’ll not have this scheme ruined because of the coarse behavior of a ragamuffin. Do you understand, girl?”
She swallowed the fear that had taken hold of her. He was only a man, after all. Why should he have the power to set her to trembling, just with one glance of his cold and malevolent eyes? She forced herself to smile. She sank into a deep and elegant curtsy, surprised that she still remembered how, after all these years. “Dear Cousin Lucien. You’ll find me an apt pupil. Have no fear. Though you’ll have to remind me what it was that I found charming about you, when I was a child.”
Her words seemed to temper his anger. “Yes. Well, perhaps I was a little harsh. I have no doubt of your ability to learn.” He managed a fleeting smile. “Now come and look at the plan of the château that I’ve drawn.”
They spent the rest of the day poring over the drawings. As Lucien pointed out the rooms where the various family members stayed, Topaze repeated the morning’s lessons: names, nicknames, ages, descriptions. Lucien was pleased; they trooped down to supper laughing. Afterward, they played whist with Madame Le Sage. Topaze found it instructive that Lucien brought the same intensity to the card table as to his other endeavors. He might have been fending off cutthroats in the streets of La Rochelle, rather than playing a game of cards. The same ruthlessness. The same desire to win, whatever the cost.
Chapter Eight
The days flew by for Topaze. Days of satisfying food, warm fires, good fellowship. She explored the farm, chatted with the farmboys, found delight in the comfort and charm of her surroundings. On fine days she took walks with the men, skipping merrily across the bare hills to keep up with their long strides. Though she missed the Givet family, the bustle of her days seemed to fill the lonely gaps.
There was the work, of course. Each day Lucien found his own memories prodded by the lessons of the day before. It was clear he hadn’t thought of Grismoulins for a long time; now he spent hours bent over the table in Martin’s room, scribbling his notes: a chance recollection, the placement of a piece of furniture, the name of a long-forgotten servant. “I’m sure many of the cats and dogs are dead by now, but you should know all about them, in any event. Pachot says your favorite pup, Routard, was kicked by a horse last year.”
Topaze turned reluctantly from the window. It had snowed all last night—a rare occurrence in these parts. She ached to be out frolicking in the white drifts, rolling in the snow, tasting its crisp iciness on her tongue. She smiled at Martin. He seemed to read her thoughts, and nodded imperceptibly. She’d learned not to ask Lucien’s permission beforehand; after she’d pleased him by learning her lessons was the time to wheedle him into allowing a lighthearted diversion. She forced herself to concentrate on the work at hand. “Routard. What kind of dog?”
“A lap dog. Shaggy. Dark gray. Lively and noisy.”
She frowned. “By the bye, who’s Pachot? I remember you mentioned his name before. The day we met, I think.”
“You do have a good memory. Pachot was the wine steward.” He chuckled. “A particular friend of mine in my wild adolescence. Many’s the drunken night I…well, never mind. But I was well on my way to becoming another useless and dissolute Comte de Chalotais.”
“And of course you now live an upright life, saved from wickedness and dissipation.” She meant it as a mocking joke, and was surprised at the sudden hostility in his eyes.
He rubbed at the scar on his cheek. “Yes. Thanks be to God. Now, as to Pachot…quite by accident, we met him at La Rochelle, Martin and I. He never liked Hubert to begin with. I gather they quarreled, and Pachot was dismissed. He was on his way to Canada and a married daughter. In between his bursts of venom, I was able to glean a great deal of information. I questioned him only out of curiosity, little knowing how vital his news would become to us.”
“And that’s how you know the
money is still waiting for Véronique.”
He leered his devil’s smile. “For you, my dear cousin. And for me and Martin, of course. Because we’re so deserving.”
“Hellfi—” she bit off the oath. “You wicked rogue. I’m glad we’re not blood cousins.”
“Sweet cousin. Back to your lessons. What do you remember about your old nurse?”
“Jeanne-Marie Flandre. I call her Nanine. She came to the Marcigny family when Fleur, my mother, was born. There’s a wart on her nose, and her front tooth is broken. She has a fondness for orange comfits.”
He nodded. “She’s the one to fool. There’s little that goes past her. Though you love your mother, you have a special fondness for Nanine, and she for you. She nursed you through all your illnesses, bathed you, dressed you, comforted your hurts. If you can pull the wool over her eyes, you’ll be halfway to success.”
“And the other half?”
“Le Loup, Père François, the family confessor. He’s a sanctimonious old fool, filled with hypocritical pieties.” Lucien smiled malevolently. “Won’t he be astonished to hear you eternally invoke your saints. Véronique avoided church when she could.”
“And he lives at Grismoulins?”
“Yes. Though he has a parish somewhere—from which he collects a handsome stipend—he’s always found it more to his taste to live like a gentleman. He pays his substitute a scant wage out of his living, and the poor parish is forced to make up the difference, or close the church. The Chalotais, meanwhile, maintain their own chapel and give a pension to Le Loup—all for the privilege of going to Mass without getting their feet wet. Such is the glory of the church of France.”
“And I’m to fear Pêre François?”
“He’s naturally suspicious. And perverse. The more the family accepts you as Véronique, the more the good Father will dance like a cat on hot bricks to prove you false.”
“Alas! A man of God…?”
He laughed, a short, bitter laugh. “Save your dismay. You said farewell to your last pious Frenchman when you left the Givet family.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
Louisa Rawlings Page 9