Milady was somewhat taken aback by the little speech, delivered calmly and honestly as it was. To cover, she reached for the bundle and said, “Well, then. I suppose I had better arm myself as best I can, since you’ve so kindly provided the weapons.”
“You can still send me back to my Latin students and ask for Porthos’ or d’Artagnan’s help instead, should you wish,” he said, a faint smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, and his eyebrows raised in challenge.
No doubt he was picturing, as she was, either of his friends trying to navigate the shark-infested seas of the Parisian salons while also posing as her husband. They’d be torn apart like innocent baby seals, and both she and Aramis knew it.
“No, no,” she said. “At least this way, it will be an actual weapon that takes us out, as opposed to the teeth and claws of some rabid socialite with a sharp eye. Much less painful that way.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Aramis replied in a decidedly wry tone, and left her to her preparations.
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them left for their appointment with the unsuspecting Lord Lavardin. The Hôtel de Sainte-Beauve was the city residence of Her Majesty’s Intendant of Commerce, M. Lavois. Olivier had mentioned the man in passing upon occasion, but neither Milady nor Aramis had any acquaintance with him. As such, they were both relatively safe from being recognized, and they strode up to the front entrance boldly. When a stiff-backed, middle-aged servant opened the door, gazing down his generous nose at them, Aramis smiled his pleasant smile.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I understand that the Marquis de Lavardin and his family are currently residing here as guests of M. Lavois?”
“That is correct, sir,” said the servant, his face expressionless.
“Excellent!” Aramis said. “Please tell Lord Lavardin that we are here to speak with him. It is somewhat urgent.”
“May I give His Lordship your names?” the servant asked, a slight frown marring his brow at the rather unconventional request.
“Our names are not important,” Aramis replied. He was still smiling, but there was a dangerous edge to it now. “Merely inform him that we have come to speak to him about Bebette.”
Despite his obvious confusion, the servant merely nodded once in acknowledgement and ushered them into the entryway. “Of course, sir,” he said. “Please wait here for a moment while I see if His Lordship is available to meet with you.”
Milady stood silently, pleased that Aramis seemed content to do the same. The weight of the various weapons hidden about her person was a reassuring sensation. Beside her, she was aware of the aura of anger—righteous but tightly subdued—surrounding her companion as he contemplated meeting with one of the parade of men who had reduced Bebette to a broken shell without even a voice of her own. Aramis might balk at the prospect of shedding blood, but Milady doubted that meant Lavardin would find being in his presence a safe pastime.
A couple of minutes later, the clack-clack-clack of heeled shoes on marble heralded the return of the servant. With the air of a man who found the behavior of the nobility baffling, but knew it would cost him his job to say so, he announced in a prim voice, “The Marquis de Lavardin would be pleased to meet with you in the study, if you would both care to accompany me.”
Aramis and Milady exchanged the briefest of glances, silently acknowledging that the Marquis would not, in fact, be pleased by their upcoming meeting. “Of course,” Aramis said. “Lead the way.”
Chapter V: November 19th, 1640
THE HÔTEL WAS A GRAND OLD STRUCTURE, lovingly restored to its full glory thanks to its owner’s deep purse. The Intendant who owned it had a reputation as a gregarious and social gentleman. Milady wondered how discriminating he was when it came to his guests. Did he have any idea of Lord Lavardin’s unconventional tastes? Would he care, if he did?
After leading them up a wide, sweeping staircase, across the landing and down a hallway papered with tiny flowers of pink and gold, past fine paintings and statuary, they arrived in front of a set of oak-paneled double doors. The servant knocked discreetly, and a voice within replied, “Send them in and see that we are not disturbed, please.”
Their guide opened the doors and showed them through, retiring immediately and closing the doors behind him. On the far side of the room stood a young man of perhaps twenty-five, with dark hair swept smoothly back from his face and even, pleasant features. Handsome, in an unassuming way, despite the slightly pale and sweaty cast to his skin. Milady knew well from her own early experience that monsters often resided within wholly unremarkable forms, and the Marquis de Lavardin appeared to be just such a creature.
“Good evening, Lord Lavardin,” she said, stepping forward to meet him. Behind her, Aramis took up a casual position in front of a bookshelf, lounging with his arms crossed in a manner that was just slightly too familiar and disrespectful to be anything other than a silent threat.
Lavardin drew himself up to his full height. “I demand to know the meaning behind this intrusion,” he said, splitting his attention between the two of them as if unsure just whom he should be addressing.
Milady was pleased to detect the faint tremor, barely noticeable, underneath the bravado. Dealing with a coward would make their task a simpler one. She allowed a bit of that pleasure to seep into her cool expression.
“Why, Lord Lavardin,” she said, as if surprised by his confusion, “I thought my companion made it quite clear. We are here to speak with you about Bebette.”
“I know no one by that name,” Lavardin said.
“No?” Milady asked, tutting softly. “Pity... one would have thought that you would at least take the time to learn the name of the eleven-year-old child you were paying to fuck.”
Lavardin made a choking noise, more beads of sweat popping out on his forehead despite the relative chill of the room. “Now, see here—!” he began, only to take an involuntary step back when Aramis pushed smoothly away from the bookshelf to join her in front of the flustered Marquis. Lavardin’s mouth opened and closed twice, before he managed to add, “You have no proof for such wild and ridiculous allegations!”
Milady smiled pleasantly, enjoying the moment. “Well,” she said, “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. We have the girl in question, and we have the pendant you foolishly gave her, after purchasing it a week ago last Tuesday from the shop of M. François Tourniere. Not the brightest move, I fear, giving him your real name and address... though it has certainly made our job easier.”
Lavardin was openly trembling now. “I have a wife and children,” he said faintly. “If it’s money you want...”
“No, no,” Milady said breezily. “Well, perhaps it would be better to say that money is not our primary objective. I’m sure any funds that we might need would be mere pocket change to a man such as yourself. We require merely that you facilitate some introductions, and perhaps write a letter of recommendation on our behalf. Tell me, Lord Lavardin, when you are not too busy sexually brutalizing little girls, do you ever frequent the salons?”
It was fascinating to watch rage and fear battling for supremacy on the man’s face. After a moment, he seemed to pull himself mostly back under control.
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I have been pleased to attend the salon of Mme de Sévigné, and that of the Duchess d’Aumale.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Milady said. “Though one wonders if they have any idea what sort of creature they are inviting into their midst.”
Rage gained the upper hand, two high spots of color appearing on the man’s cheeks. He lunged for the mahogany desk in the center of the room. Before he could do more than grasp at the handle of the top drawer, however, Milady had whipped one of the tiny pistols out of the sleeve of her dress and was pointing it at him.
“Now, now,” she said, “we’ll have none of that. Stand away from the desk, unless you care to be shot somewhere unfortunate. She let her aim wander downward from his he
art to his groin. “Although I suppose it might be doing the children of Paris a favor...”
Lavardin froze, and backed away a few steps.
“Would you mind?” she asked Aramis, flicking her chin toward the desk.
“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” he said, and circled round to pull open the drawer and draw out the pistol concealed within. He un-cocked it and crossed to a decanter of wine sitting on the sideboard. Calmly removing the stopper and lifting the cut-glass container, he poured the liquid down the barrel of the pistol and over the frizzen pan, soaking the gunpowder inside and rendering it useless. Wine, mixed with black gun grease, dribbled onto the luxurious rug at his feet. Aramis replaced the decanter carefully, gave the pistol a delicate shake that spattered a final few drops onto the floor, and replaced it in the desk drawer under Lavardin’s open-mouthed gaze.
“Much better,” said Aramis, returning to Milady’s side.
“Indeed so,” she agreed, concealing her own weapon once more. “There’s no call for such nonsense, Lord Lavardin. What we require of you is hardly a great hardship, under the circumstances. We merely need access to the salons, which should be easy enough for you to arrange.”
“What about the money?” Lavardin asked. He was trembling again, his features gray and shiny with perspiration.
“Oh...” Milady paused, pretending to consider. “I think two hundred pistoles will suffice. You may bring it when you accompany us to the salons, if you do not have that much on your person at the present moment.”
Aramis raised an eyebrow at her, and she raised one right back. It wasn’t as if they had ready access to more money now that she’d spent most of their accumulated funds at the brothel—not unless Aramis cared to steal from the seminary’s strongbox, which seemed deeply unlikely.
“And in return, you will keep quiet about my private dealings?” Lavardin asked cautiously.
“Of course,” Milady lied. “We merely desire access to certain people and places, and you, Lord Lavardin, are a convenient way to gain that access.”
“Very well, then. We have a deal. What, precisely, would you have me do?”
Milady pulled a folded piece of paper from inside her bodice. It was a letter of introduction she had penned the night before, for the fake identities she had devised for Aramis and herself. She stepped forward and placed it on the desk.
“You will copy this letter in your own handwriting, word for word. Sign it, and seal it with your personal seal. Once we have it, along with whatever coins you currently have on your person, we will take our leave of you until this evening,” she said. “At seven o’clock, we will meet you outside the salon of Mme de Sévigné. You will escort us in, and introduce us as childhood friends of your sister. You do have a sister?”
“Yes,” Lavardin ground out. “She lives in Reims.”
“Perfect. What is her name?”
“Louise.”
“You will introduce us as old friends of Louise, visiting Paris for the first time,” she said. “And then, you will leave us be. I should add that both Bebette and the ill-advised pendant are residing safely with friends of ours. These friends have the ear of some powerful people, and will be more than eager to share the details of your perversity with them should anything... unexpected happen to my companion or myself.”
“Who are you two, to behave in such a way toward a Marquis?” Lavardin asked, with a final burst of bravado.
“For your purposes, we are René and Charlotte d’Herbault—friends of your sister Louise, visiting Paris from our home in Blois,” she said, ignoring the sharp look Aramis threw her at the names. “That is all you need to know. Now, please sit down at the desk and copy the letter, so that we may leave you in peace for awhile.”
Lavardin sat warily in the chair, keeping half an eye on them as he gathered paper and ink, as if he expected them to attack him bodily at any moment. Milady swallowed a sigh, hoping that his nervousness would not render his handwriting unrecognizable. Aramis was still watching her with half an eye, making her neck prickle.
They stayed frozen in that uncomfortable tableau for twenty excruciating minutes while Lavardin painstakingly copied the letter of introduction, sprinkled sand on it to dry the ink, folded it carefully, and sealed it with wax.
“There,” he said, shoving it across the desk to her with bad grace, and dropping a small pouch of coins next to it. “Now get out.”
Milady picked up the new letter, her original letter, and the velvet purse. “Remember—seven o’clock,” she said. “Be at the salon of Mme de Sévigné with the rest of the money. If you fail to show up, you will find the consequences to be... regrettable. Now, I believe you should show us to the front door yourself, rather than calling the servant. You first. We’ll be right behind you.”
Lavardin led them silently out of the study and back through the large building, his back an ugly line of tension. As they retraced their steps down the hallway, Milady could hear the distant sounds of childish laughter... presumably that of Lavardin’s young sons. She clenched her jaw, and wondered how old they were.
When they reached the grand front doors, Lavardin opened them without a word and waved the two of them out curtly. The doors closed behind them with a firm thud, not quite slamming shut. Milady ignored the way the hairs on her neck stood up and forced herself to walk away slowly and calmly, her hand draped in the crook of Aramis’ elbow. Only when they turned the first corner onto the large and busy thoroughfare did she allow herself to relax.
“That went well, as such things go,” she said.
“Hmm.” Aramis gave a hum of what might have been agreement. His continuing near-silence unnerved her, atypical as it was for him.
The walk back to the little suite of rooms tucked next to the mews behind the seminary was a fairly short one. When they arrived, Aramis let them in and turned to her as soon as he had closed the door.
“Charlotte d’Herbault, Milady? That seems suspiciously close to self-flagellation, does it not?” he asked, looking down at her with a frown. “Why would you wish to hear that name over and over in the coming days, when you could have chosen anything else?”
Milady brushed past him, escaping to the other side of the room, and he let her. She fetched up by his small writing desk, and angled her face to look out the small window above it. An ugly little noise escaped her—laughter with no humor behind it.
“You all think you know so much about my past,” she said finally. “I was not born Milady. I was not even born Anne. When I was born, my mother named me Charlotte. What better alias to use than my own name?”
She didn’t need to see Aramis to picture the gentle frown as he slotted that new information into place in his mind “And you named your daughter Charlotte, as well?” he asked.
“The Charlotte who was my mother’s daughter died when my parents shipped me off to the nunnery, where I became Sister Therése,” she said. “A childhood cut short... an identity erased as if it had never been. As if it never had value. I swore that my own Charlotte would have the childhood I did not. That she would be safe and protected... loved unconditionally by her family and friends.”
Aramis breathed out, the slow gust of air audible even across the room. “I see.”
“No.” Milady turned, her eyes seeking Aramis’ face, willing him to understand. Her breath seemed to lodge in her chest, leaving her lightheaded. “No. I swore, Aramis. To myself, and to Olivier. To her. No harm would come to her.”
Aramis crossed to her slowly, and she had to look away from his expression of compassion. It was painful, the way these men—these friends of Olivier’s—tried to cosset her as if she were something precious and pure, rather than seeing the truth of the poisoned, damaged creature that stared back at her from the looking glass every morning from behind a pretty face. For a moment, she felt a sick craving to watch as Olivier’s face crumpled into disgust and loathing upon learning of the way she had failed their child.
Aramis picked up her left hand and
held it in both of his.
“Don’t,” she grated, still not looking at him.
Somewhat to her surprise, he ignored her warning. Somewhat to her surprise, she did not immediately jerk her hand free.
“You are not God, Milady, to control the cogs of the world and prevent all its ills from touching your child,” he said. “You are a mother. A mortal mother who has already done far more than most could ever hope to do in similar circumstances. In a few hours we will take the next steps leading back to Charlotte. You haven’t failed at anything yet, nor broken any promises to your family.”
“Pretty words from a silver-tongued priest,” she said, finally withdrawing her hand—though less forcefully than she would have liked. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take them to heart while my daughter languishes somewhere, a prisoner or worse.”
She still could not look him in the eye.
Aramis stepped back, apparently giving up on his misbegotten quest to comfort her. His voice was brisk when he said, “Very well, then. I shall merely have to repeat them at a later date, when your child is safe in your arms, and you are safe in your husband’s arms. In the mean time, it is my pleasure to finally make your acquaintance properly, Charlotte.” He sketched a shallow and slightly ridiculous bow. “René d’Herbault, née d’Herblay, at your service.”
“Yes, well,” she said, grasping at the banter as one might grasp a rope in stormy seas, “I didn’t want to place too much of a strain on your memory. Or your imagination.”
“Hmph,” he said, pretending offense. “You know, d’Artagnan still tells the story of how you made him use his own name when we were searching for Queen Anne and de Tréville in Châteaudun, because you thought him too simple and naive to use an alias.”
“D’Artagnan couldn’t have lied his way out of a bag made of cheesecloth back then,” Milady said. “I’m not sure he could, even now.”
“I shall make a point of telling him that you said so, the next time I see him,” Aramis said, and moved to the small larder to pull out a light repast for them.
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 7