“Rather than you seducing the Vicomte, I will seduce his wife.”
Milady blinked. Thought about it for a moment. Blinked again. Tried to come up with some reason why it was a ridiculous idea that could never work.
“Assuming you were successful, what would prevent de Castres from either walking in on you in flagrante delicto with his wife, or walking in on us rifling through his personal correspondence?”
Aramis raised a wry brow. “Simple,” he said. “We wait until he disappears with the unfortunate Mlle Jeunésse. I daresay he’ll be otherwise engaged for some time.”
“But, you’re a priest,” Milady said, still unwilling to pick up the rope he was throwing her until she was absolutely sure the other end was solidly tethered.
“Do you doubt my ability to seduce a sad, lonely woman who has been publicly spurned and humiliated by her husband?” he asked tartly.
“I am merely surprised at your willingness to do so.”
“As I was surprised at your willingness to do so,” he shot back. “The difference is, you are promised to your husband, while I am promised to God. God already understands that I am weak, and a sinner, and He will forgive me for my sins.”
Milady held her breath for a moment, before it could be loosed in some pathetic noise of grief or gratefulness. The drugs she had taken sang in her veins, heightening every sensation—relief, gratitude, friendship. She lifted a hand to rest fleetingly against Aramis’ cheek, aware that her fingers were trembling faintly.
“I hope your God will also take into account the fact that you only sinned to save another from having to do so,” she said once she had regained her composure.
His eyes flicked down and away, and she marveled for a moment at the idea that she’d actually managed to fluster him.
“Perhaps He will,” he agreed, and cleared his throat. “Now, you should circulate and keep an eye on our host while I test the waters with the lady of the house. Once de Castres disappears with his companion for the evening, I will attempt to get the Vicomtesse alone. I will rejoin you in the parlor as soon as I am able to get the information we need.”
She nodded, more affected than she could express. Aramis took a deep breath and let it out slowly, donning the mask of handsome, charming, amiable René d’Herbault—a man almost impossible not to like, and to trust. A moment later, he slipped out of the alcove without another word. Milady stayed behind for a few moments, leaning against the wall as relief and anticipation sang along her heightened senses.
One step closer, she thought. One step closer to Charlotte.
* * *
Milady made the rounds of the party, chatting and nursing a crystal goblet of the Vicomte’s best wine, snagged from the tray of yet another oddly brutish servant—one of several in the Vicomte’s employ. With half an eye, she followed the progress of the rake-in-sheep’s-clothing on one side of the room and the priest-in-rake’s-clothing on the other as they wooed their respective marks over the course of the evening.
It was a fascinating study. As time went on, the Vicomte overpowered Mlle Jeunésse’s frail defenses, easing further and further into her physical space. Milady watched alarm and fascination chase their way across the girl’s face as she fell more and more under his thrall, simultaneously flattered to have attracted the attentions of a powerful man and worried about displeasing him. On a good day, Milady might even have intervened on the girl’s behalf, but tonight the young woman would become a victim not only of her own foolishness, but of circumstance.
In contrast, Aramis had wandered over to Lady de Castres with a drink in each hand, and offered her one of them after introducing himself and thanking her for her hospitality. He’d sat nearby, chatting with her for nearly an hour and smiling his charming smile. The pale, neglected woman had gradually turned toward him like a blossom unfurling in the light of the sun, until she was physically leaning toward him from the edge of her chair.
When de Castres finally left the room, tugging a bewildered-looking Mlle Jeunésse along behind him by the hand, the Vicomtesse’s eyes wrenched away from Aramis to follow the pair, her face falling. In the moments that followed, Aramis was no longer sitting across from her, but kneeling at her feet, one of her hands clasped between both of his own.
Milady could well imagine the direction taken by the low conversation between them... what a foolish man, to neglect such a beautiful and charming wife... if I were your husband, I would worship you day and night... how do you think he would feel if you did such a thing to him—I’m sure he wouldn’t be so sanguine about things then!
She could see the seed being planted in the other woman’s mind. Watch it, as it took root and grew. When the Vicomtesse eventually rose and held her hand out imperiously for Aramis to take, she clearly thought it all her own idea, and Aramis merely the means by which she would have her private revenge. Indeed, he hesitated before her summons, charmingly uncertain.
Very well, Milady could imagine him saying, but only to teach your lout of a husband a lesson.
Aramis caught her eye in the briefest of glances as they disappeared into the interior hallway, and she tipped her head in acknowledgement. She forced herself to continue chatting away with this group and that, even though she felt as if she might crawl out of her own skin.
The next forty-five minutes passed like treacle. Her body and mind itched, itched, itched— a side effect of the tea, no doubt, though there was worry aplenty to be had from the situation itself. When Aramis finally reappeared and caught her eye, she could not completely prevent her explosive breath of relief, and she received a couple of odd looks from people nearby as she excused herself to join him.
“Well?” she asked immediately upon reaching him.
Aramis ran a hand through his tousled hair, succeeding only in tousling it more, and Milady fought the urge to shake him.
“Come into the hallway,” he said, rather than answering directly.
She glanced behind them to make sure they were not garnering any unusual attention, and followed him into the bowels of the house.
“Our hostess was quite eager for a sympathetic ear,” he said. “It didn’t take much before she was regaling me with complaints about the Vicomte’s tendency to disappear into his study down the hall for hours at a time, ignoring her completely. Fortunately, she wanted to have her revenge right on the marital bed, and it just so happens that de Castres keeps his keys on the table next to it.”
Aramis lifted one hand, a large key ring dangling from his forefinger, and Milady felt a renewed surge of excitement.
“Well, come on then! We must go there at once,” she said. A sudden thought assailed her. “Wait. What of the Vicomtesse? Did she see you steal the keys?”
Aramis looked shifty. “I’m afraid so, though she was a bit... tied up at the time.”
Milady stared at him. “Why do I get the feeling you mean that literally?”
“All right... yes,” Aramis said. “I may have left Her Ladyship gagged and bound to the bed.”
Milady arched a brow. “This really hasn’t been her night, has it? I do hope you at least showed her a good time first.”
“Of course I did!” Aramis replied indignantly, and Milady fleetingly wondered how many other priests would be offended by the implication that they hadn’t just engaged in carnal relations with a married woman.
“Glad to hear it,” she said acerbically. “Now, can we go before de Castres tires of his new toy and finds us wandering around his private rooms, please?”
Aramis huffed and led the way to the back stairs. They hurried up the narrow flight to the second floor. Milady could feel the wound across her hip pulling unpleasantly with every step as she mounted the stairs, but the pain that should have been associated with it was obscured behind a warm, gray mist.
Aramis led her along the main upstairs hallway, and indicated an ornate doorway. Muffled, indistinct cries for help could be heard from within. “That’s the master bedroom,” he said.
&
nbsp; “I would never have guessed,” Milady replied, deadpan.
Aramis ignored her, his finger describing an arc until he was pointing at a cluster of rooms further down the hall. “By Her Ladyship’s description, de Castres’ private study must be one of those four rooms. With luck, they won’t all be locked.”
They tested the doors one by one. The first three were, in fact, unlocked, and opened into spare bedrooms. The fourth did not yield to Milady’s hand, and she gestured impatiently for the key ring. There were perhaps three dozen keys on it, but some were not of the right size or shape to be used on an interior door. In less than two minutes, she found the correct one. The lock clicked and the door swung open before them, revealing a gentleman’s study.
She and Aramis looked at each other, and stepped inside. He moved inside to light a couple of lamps. After closing and locking the door behind themselves, they gave the room a once-over. Aramis cleared his throat.
“Would you prefer to take the desk or the secretaire?” he asked.
“The desk,” she said immediately. Aramis nodded, and went to plunder the secrets of the mahogany secretaire.
The desk was discouragingly neat, with only a few piles of innocent papers and receipts resting on top. However, there were four drawers on each side and one in the middle, under the writing surface. The top three drawers were unlocked, and again, contained only the expected contents—writing supplies, and the sorts of odds and ends that tended to accumulate in an area that saw regular use. The remaining six drawers, however, were locked. Milady rifled through the keys on the key ring, but none were small enough to match the tiny locks.
Thinking for a moment, she remembered berating Olivier years ago, in the early part of their marriage, for keeping the key to his desk hidden under the desk itself. Crouching awkwardly, once again feeling the bullet wound gape and stretch, she eased herself into the tight space and began to feel around for anything out of place. There was nothing under the writing surface, but when she shifted, her sleeve caught on a small nail protruding from the left side. Sure enough, a tiny key hung from it on a thin length of ribbon.
Milady gave a small crow of success and crawled out from underneath the heavy wood construction, key in hand. She immediately set to the drawers, unlocking them all and starting methodically with the uppermost on the right. The contents were undeniably more personal than what was to be found on top of the desk, but still innocent enough—consisting mostly of financial documents and ledgers that appeared, on quick perusal, to be roughly in line with what one would expect of a household of this size.
“Anything?” Aramis called.
“Not yet,” she replied. “You?”
“Just personal correspondence,” he said. “Nothing suspicious about it that I’ve seen so far.”
She nodded and went back to the drawers. The second from the top drawer on the right side contained unopened correspondence, and she pulled it out. Forgoing subtlety, she broke the seals and began to read, catching her breath in shock a moment later. Aramis looked up immediately.
“What is it?” he asked, and crossed quickly to her side. Looking down at the letters, he frowned. “Is that—?”
“English, yes,” Milady said.
“You speak it, do you not?”
She nodded. “I do. And believe me, I have never before been so glad of that fact. This letter discusses Olivier’s incarceration and asks if he is still holding to his story of murdering the Flemish Ambassador’s party.”
Aramis’ eyes sharpened like a hawk’s. Milady read over the other letters as fast as she could and looked up, excitement bubbling up in her chest.
“The Vicomte de Castres is an English operative and spy,” she said.
Aramis looked gobsmacked. “Of course,” he said after a moment. “Who benefits the most from a war between France and Spain? Certainly not France or Spain. If Athos is blamed for the Ambassador’s death, it strains relations between the two countries. However, you said the men who attacked you spoke Spanish. So if Athos recants and claims Spaniards attacked his family and abducted his wife and daughter, that’s very nearly as bad for Franco-Spanish relations.”
“And either way, England stands by as France and Spain squander precious resources on their quarrel, and grow weaker,” Milady concluded. She straightened, and a wave of dizziness assailed her. Aramis reached toward her as she raised a hand to her forehead and swayed. Cloudy images formed behind her closed eyes.
Awareness came and went in waves as she was half-carried, half-dragged down the stairs, to where Olivier and his attacker lay in a tangled heap.
“Maman! Papa!” Charlotte cried, and Milady craned her head around frantically until she saw her struggling daughter being carried by another of the intruders.
“Charlotte!” Olivier called, his face deathly pale and his voice hoarse with pain. His leg was twisted grotesquely beneath his body, and Milady felt the grayness close around her for a moment at the sight.
The leader of the men stepped forward and leveled his sword at Olivier’s throat. Her husband glared up at the man with murder in his eyes.
“Monsieur le Comte,” said the man in heavily accented French, “if you wish your wife and daughter to remain alive, here is what you must do...”
“Milady!”
Aramis’ hand closed around her upper arm, dragging her back to the present.
“I’ve remembered something,” she said in a wavering voice. “After Olivier fell and broke his leg, the leader of the men who attacked us held a sword to his throat. He threatened to kill Charlotte and myself unless Olivier agreed to do something for him.”
“And I think we can guess what he was tasked with,” Aramis said grimly, taking her other shoulder as well and guiding her to lean back against the edge of the desk. “He had to implicate himself in the murders, or risk losing you and Charlotte. Damn the man! He could have told us.”
Milady looked up with a gasp as heavy footsteps pounded along the hallway beyond the door, followed by angry voices. Aramis’ hands tightened on her for a moment.
“I fear someone has just found the Vicomtesse,” she said, forcing herself upright despite the whirling in her head.
“I fear you’re right,” Aramis replied, grim.
A moment later, fists rapped sharply on the locked door of the study. Milady startled, her hand jerking and knocking a glass vial of ink to the floor in an uncharacteristic display of clumsiness. They both winced as it shattered noisily. Outside, there was a sudden silence, and then the door handle rattled as it was tried. Voices swelled again, angrier than before.
“We have the key, but they may break it down to get in,” Aramis said.
“Since the alternative is leaving us in here with proof that de Castres is a spy,” Milady said, “I daresay they will.”
Aramis crossed quickly to the window and tried it. “Rusted shut,” he reported, and peered out into the moonlit night beyond. “Not to mention a very long way down.”
The first crash against the door made them both flinch.
Chapter IX: November 23rd, 1640
“QUICKLY,” MILADY SAID, “hide the letters somewhere among the books. Otherwise he’ll destroy them if he thinks we’ve seen them.”
Aramis nodded and gathered up the papers. Making note of the title and its placement on the bookshelves, he pulled out a heavy book and stuffed the letters inside, between the pages.
“They’re in l’Astrée, by Honoré d’Urfé,” he said, “just in case only one of us makes it out.”
She nodded. The doorframe began to splinter as the next blow hit, and Aramis rushed back to her and drew his rapier. Still dizzy and dazed, Milady was scrabbling for the dagger hidden under her skirts when the lock gave way and the door swung open on shrieking hinges. The Vicomte strode in, holding a pistol trained on them and flanked by two of the burly servants, also armed with guns. De Castres’ face was thunderous.
“Drop your sword, or I shoot the bitch through the heart,” he told
Aramis, the barrel of his pistol pointed unerringly at Milady’s chest.
Aramis lowered his weapon to the ground and kicked it away without comment.
“Very wise,” de Castres approved. To his servants—or rather, his bodyguards, as it now appeared—he said, “Bring them both to the cellar. Bind the man.”
The Vicomte kept his gun trained on Milady in blatant threat as one of the guards stepped forward and bound Aramis’ hands in front of him with a length of cord. Milady struggled when another guard grabbed her by the arms and starting marching her toward the door, but she was still far too dizzy and disoriented from her earlier flashback to be effective. The two of them were dragged to the back stairs and hustled down two long flights, the air around them growing dank and chill as they entered a basement with rough stone walls. The nobleman followed behind, still with his pistol trained on them.
As they passed a series of wine racks dimly illuminated by wall sconces, Aramis said, “Won’t your guests be missing you, Your Lordship? I’d hate to think we were interfering with your evening.”
“My guests are being informed as we speak that Her Ladyship is feeling ill. I have requested that they leave early so that I may tend to her. So you see, monsieur, I am completely at your disposal... for as long as it takes.” Their captor nodded briefly to the guard holding Aramis, and the burly man drove a fist into his kidney, drawing a grunt of pain from the priest.
De Castres reached up to light a bundle of rushes from the last sconce, and moved past them into a darkened chamber ahead. Torches flared one by one along the walls as he lit them, illuminating the grim space beyond.
“This place was once a dungeon, many years ago. I would like to be able to say that it has been in my family for centuries, and played host to our enemies since ancient times, but sadly that would not be the truth. In fact, I purchased it only a couple of years ago. I believe this particular room was most recently used for cutting up sides of meat. I always thought it might come in useful, though.”
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 15