She nodded her thanks and took the proffered jar. D’Artagnan stayed for a few minutes to chat about Bebette and Clémence. Before he left, he asked if either of them needed anything, since Constance would be going to the market in the morning. Milady nodded and retired to the bedroom to write a list, which included honey, salt, powder for makeup, and a couple of items from the herbalist, one of which would most certainly have sent Aramis into paroxysms of disapproval.
She added a note at the bottom to have the items delivered directly to Aramis’ rooms by messenger, and took out several coins from the collection she had extorted from the Marquis de Lavardin to pay for it all.
Aramis and d’Artagnan were discussing something in low voices, but they looked up immediately when she returned to the room. D’Artagnan accepted the folded shopping list from her and wished them both a good evening, promising to get the items to her as quickly as possible.
The rest of the night and the following day passed in dreary boredom. Milady took far better care of her health than she might have under other circumstances, cosseting herself with soothing drinks every couple of hours and rubbing salve onto both her throat and hip several times a day.
A boy arrived with her packages during the afternoon while Aramis was attending to his students, just as she had hoped. She puttered around, placing the honey and salt in his small pantry to replace what she had used, and taking the rest into the bedroom. After confirming that everything she had asked for was present, she stowed the bundle in the chest at the foot of the bed, ready for the following day.
That evening, Aramis sat with her at the table, eating soup. When he had finished, he looked up and met her eyes.
“We need a more detailed plan for tomorrow night,” he said without preamble.
Milady nodded and rose to retrieve a sheet of paper and a quill so she could communicate. When she was ready, she gestured for him to go on.
“It seems unlikely the Vicomte would be throwing a party if he was physically holding hostages at his residence,” Aramis began, and she nodded agreement. While it was possible that he would do so as a sort of bluff, to avert suspicion, the risk of such a plan seemed much higher than any possible benefit.
Need access to his papers, letters, etc., Milady wrote. Private study?
Aramis glanced at the paper and nodded. “Agreed. Of course, that’s going to be a fairly tall order. We’ll need to remain undisturbed for an extended period, and such a room is likely to be locked. Particularly if it contains material he needs to keep hidden.”
I have an idea about that, she wrote.
“What sort of idea, exactly?” Aramis asked, raising an eyebrow.
She waved off the question and jotted, Still working out the details.
In fact, that was a lie. She had a perfectly good idea of what would be necessary, and an even better idea of Aramis’ likely reaction upon hearing her plan. Indeed, even now, he was looking at her suspiciously.
What? Don’t you trust me? she added, her own expression innocent with a calculated tinge of hurt playing around the edges. It was a low blow, and she knew it.
His face settled into impassive lines. “I trust you with my life, Milady. I have done so for many years.”
The way he phrased it was not quite a direct answer, but she nodded with as much finality as if it had been. The longer she could put off the explanation of her plan, the better for both of them.
* * *
Milady continued to treat her various hurts that evening and the following morning. The valerian root tea ensured that she got a reasonably restful night’s sleep, though she did jerk awake once in the small, dark hours with the certain knowledge that she was missing something vital—some memory or piece of information that was critical to her plan. After wracking her brain unsuccessfully for a long time, she eventually slipped back into a dream-filled slumber.
Aramis returned after morning services only to leave again almost immediately, claiming he had errands to run before his classes and leaving her largely to her own devices throughout the day. This suited her fine, since she had things of her own to see to before the evening’s events.
As midday approached, she went through the now-familiar ritual of gargling with salt water and drinking warm, honeyed wine. Afterward, she cleared her throat experimentally and tested her voice. After several attempts, she was able to speak tolerably well. While someone who knew her would notice right away that her voice was off, it would pass among strangers for that of a woman with naturally smoky tones.
Next, she tested the makeup to ensure that it would cover her bruises. Mixing a small amount of the powdered chalk and lead with an egg white and some vinegar, she smeared the resulting paste over the darkest of the marks ringing her throat and examined the effect in the looking glass. When applied thickly, it was an adequate cover-up, but she would have to take care not to move her head and neck too much, lest it start to crack and flake off as the evening went on.
Finally, she un-bandaged the wound on her hip, wincing as she tugged the strip of linen free from where it had adhered to the weeping mess of salve, blood, and pus. It did not appear to be infected, but the ragged-edged furrow would take days to close properly, and it still radiated pain with every step, making her gait halting and ungainly. Unacceptable, for what she had planned tonight.
She dabbed at the injury and flushed it clean before applying more salve. After a moment’s deliberation, she left it un-bandaged and tied her underdress up and out of the way with a sash at her waist, leaving the graze uncovered. With luck, a few hours exposure to the air would dry the wound enough that a bandage would not be necessary tonight. She had no desire to have to explain such a thing to the Vicomte should her plan go as she hoped.
Finally, confident that Aramis would be ensconced with his classes for some time yet, she took out the small package and note from the herbalist. Unwrapping it, she laid out the handful of dried poppy seed heads contained within, still attached to the stems. A second packet contained a dried brown powder labeled guarana. The attached note gave precise instructions on the preparation of a tea for increasing energy and relieving pain, and she read it carefully.
In her note to the herbalist, she had explained that the poppy tea she had tried before left her listless and barely able to function. In his instructions, he noted that she should decrease her dosage by half. The addition of the guarana powder would take care of the rest. She took the ingredients and the instructions into the main room and limped around, filling a kettle and setting it to boil.
Forty-five minutes later, she was staring down at a small cup full of foul-smelling liquid. She spent the next couple of hours cautiously drinking a small amount and waiting for the effects to kick in, then drinking a bit more, and a bit more, until she was riding a pleasant wave of euphoria and comfort that in no way left her debilitated.
She set the half-empty cup in her bedroom, to sip immediately before she and Aramis left. Then she cleaned up the evidence of her activities and tidied everything away, moving around the main room with her usual confident, effortless stride—unhindered by her injuries.
She retired to dress herself shortly before Aramis was due back, pleased to find that after being exposed to the air all afternoon, the wound on her hip had dried out noticeably and was barely weeping. It might stain her underdress and the inside of her skirts a bit over the course of the evening, but it was unlikely to seep through and become noticeable to a casual observer.
Milady washed in the basin and donned the plum-colored dress she’d worn to Mme de Sévigné’s salon. When Aramis arrived, she was carefully patting on a layer of makeup.
“How is your voice today?” he asked by way of greeting.
“It will pass,” she said, and was surprised to find that even the pain in her throat had faded to nearly nothing under the tea’s influence.
“You sound much improved, certainly,” he agreed. “Shall we dine? We should fortify ourselves, since it promises to be a long and
trying evening.”
Straightening from the looking glass, Milady shook her head with a small movement designed not to disturb the powder caked on her neck. “No, thank you. I fear I haven’t the stomach for it right now.”
It was true. She did not feel ill, per se, but the thought of food was almost alien. Her body already had everything it needed, and it desired nothing else. She strode into the main room, feeling powerful... in control. It was a feeling she had sorely missed in recent times.
Aramis glanced up at her from where he was setting out a light meal, and immediately did a double take. His eyes focused on her as they might once have done while looking down the barrel of a musket at a practice target. He straightened from the table abruptly, brow furrowing.
“Milady, what have you done?” he asked in a tone half angry, half appalled.
Chapter VIII: November 23rd, 1640
“I’VE DONE PRECISELY what was necessary to ready myself for the night’s events,” she said unapologetically.
“No, that’s not good enough,“ Aramis said, his voice low and dangerous. “Tell me what you’ve done.”
She shrugged, unconcerned. There was nothing he could do at this point, even should he wish to. “A lower dose of poppy tea, combined with a powder from the herbalist designed to mitigate its soporific effects and boost vitality,” she said, daring him to make an issue of it. “As you can see, it appears to be highly effective.”
Aramis clenched his fists, angrier than Milady could remember seeing him in recent memory. “Now. It’s effective now. And in a few hours, you will pay for it tenfold.”
“A few hours will be sufficient for my needs.”
Aramis gritted his teeth. “Let us hope that you’re right,” he said. “And while we’re having this lovely discussion, perhaps you’d care to share the details of your plan for tonight. Because I have a horrible suspicion that I know what it is, but I want to hear it confirmed directly from your lips before I say anything.”
Perhaps she would have blanched with guilt in response to the accusation in his eyes, had she not already been full to the brim with liquid courage. As it was, she replied in a bored tone, “The Vicomte de Castres is a sexual predator. I will seduce him in order to gain access to his private rooms and, when he is in a vulnerable position, overpower him somehow. At which point you and I will be free to search for evidence of his connection with the attack on the Flemish ambassador and Charlotte’s abduction.”
“No,” Aramis said flatly. “I won’t allow it.”
Without really taking note of which one of them moved, Milady found herself nose to nose with the priest, suddenly and deeply furious. “I’m not asking your permission,“ she said flatly, her own fists clenching to match his.
“Perhaps we should drop by the Bastille and you can ask Athos’ permission,” he said pointedly, not backing down.
Milady’s anger flared higher, like flames consuming dry kindling. “You overstep yourself. Do not underestimate the strength of my resolve to get Charlotte back. I will kill to have her back. Maim. Torture. Whore myself out to every man in this city. I will tear Paris apart brick by brick if I have to. And if you stand in my way, I will trample right over your broken body without a second thought, René d’Herblay.”
“And will you trample your husband’s broken heart as well?” Aramis shot back. “Because make no mistake. That is exactly what you will be doing. Even your innocent flirtation and playacting to get information while we were hiding the Queen nearly tore him to pieces. This would kill him.”
She felt the dart hit home inside her chest, but thanks to the drug, even that intimate wound caused no pain. “I have already betrayed Olivier by failing to protect Charlotte. With this fresh betrayal, I will make up, in some small way, for my first failure.”
“You’re wrong,” Aramis said. “You are so very wrong about this. Why can you not see?”
“I see everything very clearly,” she spat. “And now I will make things perfectly clear to you. Either come with me and help me get my daughter back, or stay here, and don’t. But do not presume to preach to me as if I was a penitent in a church pew.”
She watched as the smooth mask that Aramis used to hide his thoughts from the world slipped into place. It was a mask that those close to him knew to watch carefully, for much was hidden underneath.
“I will help you get your daughter back, as I promised you I would,” he said. “In return, I ask you to give me your word that if I can come up with a better plan which will still get us what we need tonight, you will give it a fair hearing.”
As if she had not been over and over every detail of the situation during the past two days. She had mulled and prodded at every possibility, every aspect. Repeatedly. Still, it cost her nothing to agree, and she might well require his help.
“Very well,” she said, stepping back to give them both space. “I will consider anything you come up with. You have my word on it.”
* * *
The Parisian residence of the Vicomte de Castres and his wife was not as grand as Mme de Sévigné’s or the Duchesse d’Aumale’s. Indeed, it was very much on par with the residence she and Olivier shared—two stories in a well-kept old building at the edge of a fashionable neighborhood within walking distance of the Louvre. The servant who greeted them at the front door was a brute of a man who had more of the look of a bodyguard than a footman, despite his smartly tailored uniform.
Aramis pulled the invitation she had forged for them from his doublet and presented it with a flourish. The coarse-featured, muscular doorman read it over and checked the seal before ushering them inside with a shallow bow. Milady was relieved to find that this was to be a more informal affair, and their names were not announced. There had always been the possibility that de Castres or his wife would have heard the unfamiliar names and realized that she and Aramis were not supposed to be here.
As it was, their cloaks were taken and they followed the sound of voices and laughter to the spacious parlor, where a modest crowd of partygoers were drinking and talking in small groups. Scanning the assembled people, Milady’s eyes caught on a face she recognized. The silver-haired man with a handsome older woman on his arm had been at the Duchesse’s salon the night that she and Aramis had attended. Ninon had introduced them, she recalled, and she wracked her brain for his name.
Aramis followed her gaze, noting the object of her attention. “M. Boyer,” he said under his breath, and she nodded. “The shipping magnate.”
She allowed Aramis to lead her over to the familiar couple, both of whom looked up at their approach. Milady smiled her most charming smile, feeling her blood buzzing unnaturally under her skin.
“M. Boyer!” she said, lifting her hand to be kissed. “Fancy meeting you again! I was afraid when we first walked in that we wouldn’t know a single person here.”
“Ah, good evening, Mme... d’Herbault, was it not?” M. Boyer released her hand and gave Aramis a polite smile as well. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Ginette.”
Aramis immediately lifted Mme Boyer’s be-gloved hand to his own lips. “Charmed, Madame,” he said. “René and Charlotte d’Herbault, at your service.”
M. Boyer looked at them with interest. “So, you are friends of Lord de Castres, then?”
“Not really,” Aramis said. “In fact, we were rather surprised to receive an invitation from him. We share some common acquaintances, of course, but I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never even met the Vicomte in person.”
M. Boyer looked interested at the admission. “I see,” he said. Indicating a well-built, strikingly handsome man across the room, who was deep in conversation with a young, pretty girl, he continued, “That’s Lord de Castres over there, speaking with Mlle Jeunésse.” He then gestured to a woman on the other side of the room, all alone. “And Lady de Castres is just there, seated in the chair by the window.”
In contrast to the Vicomte, who was now leaning close to Mlle Jeunésse, laughing with delight at something s
he’d said, Lady de Castres was a pale, solitary figure. She sat alone and quiet, a lace handkerchief twisted in her fingers, alternately staring out of the window and darting mournful glances at her husband as he flirted shamelessly with a girl twenty years his junior in front of all their guests.
“His Lordship is a very handsome gentleman,” Milady said.
Mme Boyer raised an eyebrow. “And doesn’t he just know it?” she said, with a meaningful look at the Vicomte’s young conquest.
Milady smirked. “In my experience, most handsome men do,” she said, and shot Aramis a not entirely innocent look.
Mme Boyer laughed softly, and placed a hand briefly on Milady’s forearm. “That’s true enough. It’s what they choose to do with the knowledge that’s important.” The old lady threw Aramis a cheeky wink that emphasized her deep smile lines.
“Ginette,” M. Boyer chided, though his voice was affectionate. “That’s enough gossip about our host, surely.”
“Speaking of which, we should probably pay our own respects,” Aramis said, pulling his eyes away from the huddled form of Lady de Castres in her lonely chair by the window. “Good to see you again, M. Boyer. A pleasure to meet you, Mme Boyer.”
The two couples parted ways after a few more amiable words, but instead of heading for either the distracted Vicomte or the melancholy Vicomtesse, Aramis led Milady to a quiet alcove, mostly hidden from view of the party.
“What is it?” she asked.
“This is the part where you listen to my idea and give it a fair hearing,” Aramis said in a voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry into the room beyond.
“Very well,” she replied in the same tone, tamping down ruthlessly on the surge of hope that he had, in fact, come up with some workable plan that would save her from finally becoming the whore she’d always been destined to be.
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 14