Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  She awoke once at the close of the night. She thought she heard the rattle of her doorknob. “Go away, Lucien,” she whispered. “Go to hell.” She pulled the coverlet about her ears, lay down, and slept again.

  She took breakfast in her room in the morning, and sent a note to Léonard, telling him she’d be ready for their picnic at half after eleven. She spent the morning hours in a turmoil, torn between love and suspicion, hope and fear. It couldn’t have been Lucien. Yet there was no other explanation.

  She dressed in light linen clothes for the picnic. The breezes blew warm at her window; it would soon be hot July. She hurried to the kitchen to get the food basket that had been prepared, then ran to the gardens to wait for Léonard.

  “Véronique.”

  She turned. Lucien stood in the shadow of a rose arbor. “What do you want?” she asked coldly.

  He beckoned. “Come and talk to me.”

  Did he think she was mad? “Not there, Lucien. Here, in the open, where we can be seen.”

  His eyebrow lifted at a quizzical angle, but he stepped out of the arbor and came toward her. “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday afternoon.”

  “Why did you call me Véronique, just then? Do you believe me?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I’m not really convinced. But I thought it would please you. And, despite my rather crude behavior yesterday, I do want to please you. Though you probably mistrust my motives.”

  “A quick marriage? With a compliant Véronique? Is that it, Lucien?”

  “I do want to marry you. For many reasons.”

  “How charming you can be. A Chalotais trait, no doubt. It’s only a pity that you can’t make up your mind. First you charm me. Then you try to kill me. And when that doesn’t work, you try charm again.”

  “Kill you? Have you become such a pampered darling that when a man tries to take you against your will it’s akin to murder?”

  “Very clever and amusing,” she sneered. “And what about the mill? Was that just an accident?”

  He muttered a curse. “I told you that was just your imagination. I even went back to the mill to find out for myself. As I thought, the wind shaft was disconnected.”

  “Do pirates learn to lie with a silver tongue, as well as to kill and cheat? And how do you neatly explain away the tunnel last night? Were you hoping I’d die there? And guarantee your inheritance by my death?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I should have saved your note for the police. It might have been amusing to see you worm your way out of that. Your lure, to get me to the tunnel and lock me in.”

  He frowned. “I never sent you a note.” He reached out to take her by the arm.

  “Damn you, don’t you touch me!” she shrilled. “I still have your knife.”

  “My knife? I lost it days ago.”

  “And it was your undoing. And my salvation. It’s a pity the blade snapped when I pried open the locked door. But it still serves. And this time I’ll not give it back to you.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “I’m on my guard now, Lucien. If you ever try to kill me again, I’ll drive your own blade into your black heart!” She snatched up her picnic basket and raced off to where Léonard was waiting.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lucien stared at the girl’s retreating form. Kill her? What madness was that? Not content with turning his world upside down, with making him doubt—for the first time!—the rightness of his hatred, the little imp now accused him of trying to kill her! It just seemed to get worse. Nothing made sense anymore.

  Once, he’d known what he wanted. To steal the Chalotais money. To get his revenge. To enshrine his hatred in his heart so he’d never forget what had been done to him. But these last few weeks with the girl…he’d seen all his neat plans crumble. All his certainties turn to dust. He’d felt lost, bewildered, confused. Wondering why he’d begun the whole stupid thing. He’d start to yearn for home, dreaming of sunny Guadeloupe; then a vision of the girl’s radiant face would appear before him, and he’d scarcely remember what his island looked like. She invaded his thoughts, tangled his heart, until he thought he’d go mad. He didn’t understand her. Lord, he didn’t understand himself anymore.

  And now she said he’d tried to kill her. At the mill. In the tunnel. He couldn’t believe that. Hadn’t he gone back to the mill yesterday to see for himself? Everything there was as it should be. And now the tunnel? It was absurd, but perhaps he should find out what fantasies she was weaving now.

  He went down through the park to the grotto. He didn’t want to chance entering the tunnel from the library. Not in the morning, when the château still bustled with servants at work.

  He arrived at the grotto, ducked under the overhang, and reached for the stalactite. “Merde!” he said aloud. The stalactite was gone, snapped at its base, leaving a small gear visible, and nothing more. It couldn’t have been an accident: There were no broken bits on the ground. Whoever had done it had removed the mechanism and taken it away. He pushed at the door in vain. Without the mechanical release, it would take half a dozen men to budge it.

  He frowned. The girl said she’d been locked in. And lured to the tunnel by a note that she thought was from him. Could it have happened that way? Concerned now, he turned about and raced for the château. He’d have to take a chance on being seen in the library; he had to know the truth.

  He slipped through the bookcase door and made his way into the tunnel. Lifting his lantern as he neared the inner door, he cursed aloud. Just as she’d said. It was still bolted, though it gaped on the hinged side. He even saw the tip of his knife in the dirt. He shivered. Someone had lured her here last night. Someone had followed her, waited until she was past this door. Then thrown the bolt. She would have died here, but for the accident of finding his lost knife.

  But surely whoever had done it would have known he’d go looking for her. How could he have been kept from the tunnel? Unless his life was to be forfeit, after she was gone. A cold dread clutched at his heart. Someone wanted her dead. And it wasn’t the first time. The windmill arm had nearly killed her. It wasn’t her imagination. He realized that now. When he’d gone back, he’d seen that the arm was disconnected, sure enough. But the dust on the floor near the controlling lever had been disturbed, as though someone had stood just there. And engaged the gears so the arm would strike her? What a fool he’d been! He’d ignored the evidence of his own eyes. Just as he’d ignored everything. He’d been deaf and blind to everything but his own revenge, his own hatred. Even after all this time, he was still no better than the savage pirates he’d roved with.

  He groaned. And he’d ignored the truth she’d tried to make him see. She was Véronique. By some bizarre coincidence, their paths had crossed. And he’d brought her back. Not to reunite her with her family, not to bring joy to her, to Adelaïde. But to use her. He cursed his blind selfishness. And now he’d put her life at risk.

  Even at this moment, she might be in danger. Oh, Lord, protect her, he thought. He felt the sweat on his brow, despite the cold tunnel. He hurried back to the library. He had to find her.

  He was just closing the bookcase when the library door opened. Bonnefous came into the room. The solicitor raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised to see you here, Monsieur Renaudot.”

  Lucien contrived to look bored. “I do read, monsieur. Even bastards read.”

  Bonnefous’s voice was gently disapproving. “Have I earned such discourtesy, monsieur? I’ve been harsh in my examination, I grant you. But it’s in the nature of my profession to guard the interests of my clientele. I was merely curious as to your presence here, because Monsieur le Comte told me last night that the library was to be closed until some repairs could be made. I expected to see workmen, not you.”

  “By Lucifer,” muttered Lucien, “that’s how it was to be done.” The workmen would have kept him from rescuing Véronique. Hubert might even have planned to seal off the tunnel
for good!

  “I’ll confess to you now,” Bonnefous went on, “that I did think the girl was a fraud in the beginning. And that you were involved. But I learned that you arrived in this country in June, which would seem to absolve you. As for Véronique, Madame de Chalotais has long since convinced me that the girl gave her certain signs confirming her identity. I’m pleased that the matter is closed.”

  “I’m not sure it is. I think you’re an honest man, monsieur. A fair one. I need your help. And your trust. I can’t think of another way of winning it except by being honest with you.” Lord, he must be mad! After all his planning… “The girl is Véronique, Monsieur Bonnefous. You may rely upon it. In truth, I found her in Bordeaux.”

  “You, monsieur?”

  “Yes. The captain who said I arrived in June was paid to do so. It was I who persuaded Véronique to return home.”

  “Why?”

  “Your instincts are good, Monsieur Bonnefous. For the hundred thousand livres.” He had lost his reason.

  Bonnefous looked stricken. “But how? The money has been invested!”

  “Through means that are too complex to explain, the money has found its way to my bank in Guadeloupe.”

  “And Véronique knew of this?”

  “Yes. But I persuaded her that it should have been mine. She’s not to be blamed. Do you understand? I alone am culpable. It was an unfair appeal to her sensibility. Her concern for her cousin. But as soon as I can, I’ll see that the money is returned.” Sorry, Martin, he thought.

  “I suppose I should be outraged at these facts, Monsieur Renaudot. But, under the circumstances, and because of my sympathy for your situation, I don’t think the authorities need learn of any of this. I think you’ve suffered enough at the hands of this family. And certainly, if you make restitution…”

  Lucien nodded. “You have my word.” He sighed. “You might as well know the whole story. Véronique seems to have lost much of her memory. I had to refresh it on some points.”

  “Ah!” Bonnefous looked pleased with himself. “I knew she was too glib!”

  “Perhaps she had an accident when she left here. Something that clouded her memories. But more and more she’s recalling things.”

  Bonnefous tugged at his earlobe. “The harpsichord…she played it like someone in a dream.”

  “Yes. When we spoke of it, she said she thought she couldn’t play. But her hands seemed to direct her that night.” And he’d mocked the story.

  “I’m curious, Monsieur Renaudot. It seems to me that your scheme was a perfect success. That you were out of jeopardy. The money safe. Why do you destroy your own edifice now?”

  Why, indeed! “Because someone is trying to kill Véronique.” Could there be a better reason?

  “Parbleu! Who?”

  “I think it must be Hubert. But I need you to confirm it. Your knowledge of his affairs. Did he lose a great deal by her return?”

  “After your confession, I think you deserve my honesty as well. Monsieur de Chalotais, you understand, was hoping for the hundred thousand livres. The birthday inheritance. It’s why he invited me to Grismoulins to spend these past months.”

  “And if Véronique hadn’t returned? Wasn’t the money to go into Aunt Adelaïde’s estate?”

  “Not if the girl was declared dead before her birthday. He was prepared to have it done even after she returned. To keep her imprisoned until after that day.”

  “It was why he insisted she was a fraud?”

  “Yes. Though I had doubts about the girl, I had even graver misgivings about Hubert’s plan. I’m not sure I would have agreed to it.” He shrugged. “But then, of course, Madame de Chalotais confirmed the girl’s identity, and Hubert was forced to accept the truth.”

  “Then what can Hubert gain by seeing her dead now?”

  Bonnefous’s eyes widened. “Name of God! The Marcigny inheritance, of course! I never thought of it.”

  Lucien swore. “He has Grismoulins. Isn’t it enough?”

  “Quite frankly, Grismoulins is mortgaged to the hilt. Monsieur de Chalotais is less than wise when it comes to gambling. He told me only last week that he might be forced to sell his hôtel in Paris.”

  “Sell his hôtel? Is he that desperate? But what about the lavish party he gave for Véronique?”

  “On credit, alas.” Bonnefous frowned. “But to try and kill the girl? His own stepdaughter? No, monsieur. It makes no sense. I’m a man of logic. What’s to be gained by killing the girl, once the hundred thousand is beyond Monsieur le Comte’s reach? The Marcigny inheritance simply becomes part of Madame de Chalotais’s estate. Not to be his until her death. Who knows when he’d see it?”

  “Madame de Chalotais has been quite ill of late, n’est-ce pas?”

  “By my faith, monsieur! Do you mean to suggest…?”

  “I don’t know. I do know Véronique is in danger. Twice yesterday an attempt was made on her life. We must find her.”

  “Dieu! Come along then. I’m glad you’re wearing your sword.”

  They hurried out of the library. Lucien found himself trembling with fear and dread. They saw Madame Revin in the galerie. He called to her, explained that they were looking for Mademoiselle Véronique.

  Madame Revin smiled. “Oh, she’s gone on a picnic with Monsieur Léonard.”

  “Where have they gone?”

  “To the old gray mill, I think.” She smiled again. “Isn’t it odd? Monsieur Hubert was just asking about them himself. Not half an hour ago!”

  “Oh, Léonard. Isn’t it a lovely day for a picnic?” She threw her arms wide and pirouetted. The sun was warm on the clover, intensifying the sweet-spicy aroma that filled her nostrils. Up here, with the soft breezes, the humming of bees, she could almost lose sight of her troubles. For a little while, she’d drive Lucien from her mind. Forget her dilemma. Forget the danger. The mill, that had loomed so gray and threatening in yesterday’s mist, was a happy, peaked-cap gnome today, sunning itself in the glory of June. And the rolling meadow that spread before it was a lush green carpet.

  “Come and have a piece of fruit,” Léonard held out a golden wedge of melon.

  She sat beside him in the deep grass. The melon was warm and sweet, all of summer in its scented flesh. She gobbled it like a greedy child, then laughed and tossed the rind toward the edge of the cliff.

  Léonard snorted. “You’re too far away. And you’re just a girl. Watch.” He finished his slice of melon, flung the remains with all his might. It sailed into the air and disappeared over the edge of the rock slide.

  “You’re not only the nicest brother I ever had, Léonard. You’re also the strongest!”

  His expression darkened. “Are you glad to be home again? With me?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Then why do you call me Léonard?”

  “You silly goose. Because it’s your name.”

  “You used to call me ‘Moucheron’.

  “I know that. But when I came back, I decided that you were too grown up to be called ‘Little Gnat’ anymore.”

  He beamed, his face flooding with relief. “I thought you were angry at me. And that’s why you stopped calling me Moucheron.”

  “Is that why you wouldn’t talk to me at first, when I came home? Because you thought I was angry?” He nodded in misery. The poor dear, she thought. Always blaming himself, feeling guilty, unworthy. “And why should I be angry with you, dear brother?” she asked.

  He wriggled nervously, his large sad eyes evading her. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “You probably remember it better than I do.”

  “No. I’m just a girl. I can’t remember so well. Remind me.”

  “I told you. I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he pouted.

  “Not even to me?”

  “Well…” He twisted his clumsy fingers together, shame and confusion washing across his face. “I suppose I can talk about it with you,” he said at l
ast.

  “Then tell me. Why should I be angry with you?”

  He blushed, a hot color that suffused his heavy features. “You remember. That d-d-day when you were…you know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I s-saw you. That day with N-N-N—” He lowered his head.

  By all the Saints! “With Narcisse Galande? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Yes.” He sounded as though he was about to cry.

  “You saw us. What were we doing?”

  “D-don’t make me tell it, Véronique.”

  “Please, Léonard. Moucheron. Tell me.”

  “I saw you. And h-him. Doing…doing that thing to you. And you l-liked it.”

  Her breath was caught in her throat. “Doing what, Léonard?” she whispered.

  “You know. I could see his b-bare…and everything. And you were laughing and liking it. With your s-s-skirts all up…”

  My God, she thought in horror. So it was true. No wonder she hadn’t seemed to be a virgin with Lucien, that first time. She’d often wondered why. She’d assumed a childhood accident. Just one more of the myriad things she couldn’t remember. But she’d let Narcisse Galande make love to her. And probably Carle-André. And God knows who else. “I’m sorry you saw, Moucheron,” she said gently.

  “N-no you weren’t. Not that day. I remember. You l-laughed at me, after N-N—he went away.”

  “What a cruel child I was. I wouldn’t laugh at you now, Moucheron. Not for anything.”

  His mouth drooped. “I thought you were being nice, at first, when you let me k-k-kiss you.”

  She rubbed at her head. It was such a torment not to remember. “Did I?” She frowned, a stray thought occurring to her. “Did you want to kiss me?”

  “Yes.” So low she could barely hear him.

  “Then why did you run away when I kissed you the night of my birthday?”

  “Because of what h-h-happened that day. The kiss was the only good part. I thought you’d make f-f-fun of me again.”

  “Did I make fun of you that day? After the kiss?”