Charles dropped into a seat. “But why? Why impersonate my wife?”
She shrugged, dropping into another seat, her knees spread wide. “I dunno. It’s really too bad. I actually like Denys. Really like him. He’s really sweet, and I know he loves me, but, well, it’s not really me, is it? He’d probably shove me aside if I approached him on the street.”
Marcus was still shocked at the complete transformation before him. “And he had no idea you weren’t actually Lady Joanne?”
“None. I desperately wanted to tell him the truth, but, well, I feared it would end the relationship, and it was nice to experience how royalty lives. But if I told him, he’d likely have me arrested, and I’d lose both him and the money the gentleman was paying me to play my part.”
Marcus held out a hand, silencing the question about to erupt from Charles’ mouth. “This gentleman, who was he?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I never saw his face and he disguises his voice. I tried to see it the first time I met him in a public place, but he wore a hood that hid his features. All I know is that since that first meeting, I meet with him after I see Denys, to tell him what happened. A few days later, I’ll receive a message with new instructions and payment for my services.”
“When do you see him next?”
“I’m supposed to see him tonight, after my date with Denys.”
Marcus drew a quick breath of excitement. “When?”
“Midnight.”
“Then we still have time.”
8
Rue St. Denis
Paris, Kingdom of France
“This is an odd affair.”
Marcus nodded at Simon as they followed Miss Girard in her carriage, met at the appointed hour as if she had kept her illicit meeting with Sir Denys. “It is indeed. This intrigue with women is yet another reason I prefer life in the Order than as a common man.”
“Agreed. A few moments of infrequent pleasure are not worth the difficulties a woman can introduce into one’s life.”
Marcus pursed his lips. “And yet, for time immemorial, men have made the same mistake repeatedly. There must be something we’re missing.”
“We are the wrong two men to be debating the pros and cons of men and women associating with each other.”
Marcus chuckled. “You are right, there. Alas, we’ll never know, my friend. I prefer the love of my brothers and the Lord, than that of any woman’s heart.”
“It is a difficult life we have chosen for ourselves.”
“It is, but the rewards will be boundless in the next life.”
“Amen. If they’re not, I’m seeking out Hugues de Payens and those other scoundrels who founded the Order, and kicking their asses.”
Marcus stifled a belly laugh, reminding himself they were on a clandestine mission, the carriage in the not too far distance carrying their imposter to meet the man who had hired her. They hoped to capture him at the prearranged meeting, though he was concerned for the girl’s safety—if her employer had been observing from a distance, he would have seen their altercation of several hours ago.
“They’re stopping.”
Marcus slowed, his unfamiliarity with the city a distinct disadvantage. It had barely been three weeks since they had arrived from the Holy Land in response to his sister’s desperate letter, a letter that had arrived too late. It had meant a drastic change to all their lives, and though he had to admit he was enjoying life with the children, it was little diversions such as today’s that kept him on his toes.
Marcus shifted his horse deeper into the shadows and watched as Miss Girard stepped out of the carriage, looking both ways as if searching for her benefactor.
She cried out and collapsed in a heap.
Simon cursed and Marcus urged his horse into a gallop, swiftly closing the distance between them. He leaped to the ground and rushed to her side as Simon continued forward, blocking the carriage from leaving should the coachman panic.
Marcus grimaced at the arrow piercing the young woman’s chest, blood rapidly staining her cream-colored dress as she gasped for breath. She reached up and grabbed his shoulder.
“Please, tell Denys that I’m sorry for what I’ve done, and that I truly did love him.”
Marcus clasped his hand around hers. “You’ll tell him yourself.”
She smiled then sighed her last breath, making a liar of him.
Horse’s hooves pounding on cobblestone drew his attention, no one with nothing to hide having reason to move at such a pace at this time of night. He jumped on his horse and pointed at Simon. “Stay with her!” He urged his horse forward, after whom he was certain was not only the man behind everything, but also the murderer of this simple woman who had been used, for what purpose he did not know.
He rounded a turn in the dark street and spotted a rider ahead, racing along the side of the River Seine, toward a bridge leading to the other side and far better parts of the massive city. He was gaining on the man, his horse clearly the better, and he was brimming with confidence that he would soon catch him, when his adversary approached the bridge. A yell rang out, and moments later Marcus’ heart sank as he saw the drawbridge begin to rise, the rider leaping over the gap now making its presence known.
Marcus urged his horse onward, even faster than before, determined to make the jump himself, but it was a fruitless effort.
He wasn’t going to make it.
He slowed up and watched in anger and dismay as the rider, now safely on the other side of the river, rode off into the darkness, a free man.
As he stared into the fog blanketing the area, focusing on his bad luck, and his adversary’s exceptional good fortune, he finally realized something was wrong.
There’s no boat!
He urged his horse toward the small gatehouse and dismounted. He rapped three times on the flimsy door, and when there was no answer, he kicked it open and stepped inside. A startled man leaped from his chair, raising his hands as he backed away from the controls that operated the bridge.
“Why did you raise the bridge?”
The man paled in the candlelight. “I-I thought there was a boat.”
Marcus drew his dagger and flipped it several times in his hand, all the while eying the man. “I beg your pardon?”
“I-I thought I heard a boat.”
“I thought that’s what you said.” Marcus stepped closer and pressed the tip of the blade against the man’s chest, hard enough that were it not for the man’s soiled shirt, he’d draw blood. “I suggest you tell me the truth, otherwise I’ll be forced to cut your heart out.”
“He paid me! He said if he were to be crossing at a gallop, he’d yell to me and I was to raise the bridge immediately!”
Marcus pressed a little harder. “And who is he?”
“I-I don’t know, I swear! He wore a hood every time we met. I never saw his face.”
“When did he pay you?”
“This evening, maybe four hours ago.”
“And was this the first time?”
“No, he’s been paying me once a week for several months now, but this was the first time he was ever in need of my services.”
Marcus stepped back, the man speaking freely now. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
The gatekeeper shrugged, relaxing slightly. “Nothing I can think of. He’s a man whose face I’ve never seen, and who was always dressed in a dark robe with a hood that covered his features.”
“Was he tall?”
“Yes, about your height I would say.”
“Fat? Thin?”
“Healthy like yourself.”
“Beard?”
“Yes, neatly trimmed.”
Marcus smiled. “But I thought you said you never saw his face?”
The man’s eyes widened. “I must have! I know he definitely had a beard. Now that I think of it, I have a distinct impression of his chin.” He sighed. “But it’s the eyes and nose that really make a man. Those, I am positive, I never sa
w.”
Somebody rapped on the door, throwing it open. “Lower the bridge, you fool!”
Marcus turned to face the man, and the impatient arrival stepped back several paces at the sight of the Templar surcoat.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t realize.”
Marcus bowed slightly. “There’s nothing to apologize for. My business here is done.” He turned back to the gatekeeper. “Should you remember anything of relevance, relay it to Lord Charles de Rohan. He will know how to reach me.”
The gatekeeper shook out a nod then went to work lowering the bridge as Marcus stepped outside.
“You’re a friend of Lord Charles?” asked the man now atop his horse, waiting for the bridge.
Marcus shook his head. “No.”
“A good thing. Perhaps you have not heard that his wife ran off on him. I’ve heard rumors of the most dastardly sort.”
“One shouldn’t believe everything one hears.”
“Of course not, but should they prove true, his days in the Court are numbered. A man who cannot control his wife, can hardly be trusted to advise the King in the affairs of state.”
9
De Rohan Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
Sir Denys paced back and forth in front of the fire, warming the bones chilled by the brisk ride into the den of the lion threatening to end his time on this earth. It was a foolish impulse to come here, yet he had to. This matter was out of control, and though it turned out he had never known Lady Joanne, the woman was innocent, and her husband had to know.
The door opened and the man himself finally entered, his eyes widening in rage at the sight of him. Denys placed a chair between them both. “Lord Charles, I apologize for the late hour, however I felt our business couldn’t wait until the morning.”
Charles’ eyes flared. “You would dare show yourself in my own home, after what you have done!”
Denys raised a calming hand. “Now, apparently you haven’t heard. The woman that I thought was your wife, wasn’t. Nothing ever happened with Lady Joanne.”
“So I have been informed, yet it does not change the fact that you would have bedded another man’s wife if it weren’t for the deception.” He stabbed at the air between them with a finger. “You, sir, have no honor!”
Denys bowed his head slightly in shame, the man right. “In my defense, I was beguiled, told everything I had ever wanted to hear, and how she was in a loveless marriage with no physical intimacy. I thought I was rescuing a woman from a pitiable existence from a man who couldn’t care less whether she was in his life or not.”
Charles was crimson. “I don’t believe that for an instant. You thought you had found a way to embarrass me in front of the Court through my wife. And you would have succeeded if it were not for those Templars who have uncovered the truth!”
Denys felt a flash of anger at the accusation his motives were political. “You fool! She came to me! I was as much a victim here as you!”
Charles snorted. “For you to think such a thing, shows you should never sit in the Court!”
Denys sighed, realizing he had chosen his words poorly. “My heart has been broken, sir.”
“Better your heart than my reputation.”
There was a knock at the door, and Charles glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”
A servant entered with a tray, a folded message on it. “From the King’s Court, sir, the messenger arrived just moments ago.”
Denys’ eyes narrowed, never having received a message from the court at this hour himself. He watched as Charles read it, his eyes widening with each word. He handed it to Denys.
“What is it?” he asked as he answered his own question, quickly reading the shocking message.
His jaw dropped, and Charles glared at him, the rage checked only slightly. “It would appear that I am but one of several whose reputation has been sullied this day.”
Denys reread the message before returning it. “This is incredible! It can’t be true!”
“I hardly think a message would be sent at this hour from the King’s Court if it weren’t.”
Denys shook his head. “But what does it mean?”
“It means we have both been used by someone, and I intend to find out who.”
10
Rue St. Denis
Paris, Kingdom of France
Simon stared into the dark, silently cursing himself for letting Marcus go off on his own. The woman was dead, and a swift blow to the side of the coachman’s head would have kept the man out of commission for some time, allowing him to aid his master in the pursuit.
Yet he had his orders.
And he shouldn’t worry. Marcus was the greatest warrior he had ever met, his abilities on the battlefield almost legend if admiration were a trait to be sought. But it wasn’t. Not for a Templar. Marcus served his Lord as he had sworn to do, and his duty was to protect the Holy Lands and the Christian pilgrims traveling to it, from those who would do them harm.
And he did it exceptionally well.
They all did. A knight with the skills of Marcus was a valuable commodity, and over the decades, he had fought beside those who would become their leaders. It meant small concessions, such as being allowed to keep Simon, Jeremy, and David close.
Simon had served long enough to become a knight himself if he so chose, David and Jeremy long enough to become sergeants.
But none were there for advancement—they were all there to serve their Lord in the best way they could, and all had concluded, on their own, that the way to do that was to ensure Marcus had the best possible men at his side, supporting him.
If something should happen to him…
Simon sighed. He wasn’t sure what he would do. He was closer to the man than his own brother, and in fact, wasn’t even certain if his own brother was still alive.
Should something happen to his friend, he would keep his word and take care of the children. He smiled slightly at the thought of taking Isabelle as a wife, though the woman would never have him—he was too old and weathered for a young thing like that.
Yet so was Marcus, though he had avoided the leather face that cursed Simon.
The carriage he was leaning against rocked, and he stepped away from it to see the coachman sneak off on the other side. He shook his head then rounded the carriage, approaching the man from the back, grabbing him by the collar.
“And just where do you think you’re going?”
The man cringed, squeezing his eyes shut. “I-I want nothing to do with this! I’m just the coachman!”
Simon shoved him to the ground and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. “What’s your name, then?”
“Richard.”
“Are you always her coachman?”
Richard nodded, his eyes now opened.
“For how long?”
“Going on two months now, maybe a little longer.”
That matches the length of the affair, if Sir Denys is to be believed.
“And who hired you?”
“I-I don’t know. I was given written orders and a large purse. I was given instructions on where to pick her up the first time, then ever since, before I drop her off, she tells me where and when to pick her up the next time.”
“Do you have this letter?”
Richard hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It said to destroy it.”
Simon drew his sword several inches from its scabbard. “I’ll ask you again. Do you have this letter?”
The man’s shoulders slumped, courage begging in this wretched soul. “Yes.” He sighed. “The entire situation seemed strange to me, so I thought it best to keep it.”
Simon suppressed a smile. “Where is it?”
“Hidden under the floorboards of my room.”
“You will take us there when my master returns.”
Richard’s shoulders slumped further. “Of course.”
“What can you tell me about this woman?”
Richard glanced under t
he carriage at the body on the other side. “Nothing, really. I show up at a certain location at the appointed hour. She climbs in the back, I deliver her to where she says to go, then I wait until she returns. I deliver her to where I picked her up, and she tells me where and when to pick her up the next time.”
“And is it always the same place?”
“Yes.”
“Every single time?”
Richard opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated. “Actually, once she had me drop her off at a different location. It was raining very heavily, so I don’t think she wanted to walk very far.”
Simon’s heart pounded a little harder. “Where was this?”
“Quai de Gesvres. Not a very good neighborhood, if you ask me, but not much worse than mine, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I found it quite odd at the time, though. She dressed as one might expect the aristocracy to, yet she lived in such a place? It made no sense to me.”
“Can you take us there?”
Richard frowned. “I get the distinct impression that I have no choice in the matter.”
Simon smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other.” He spun at the sound of a rider approaching, and sighed with relief at the sight of his master. Marcus swung off his horse and joined them. “Did you catch him?”
Marcus gave him a look. “Do you see him tied to my horse?”
Simon made an exaggerated lean to his left, staring at the horse. “He must have fallen off.”
Marcus chuckled then motioned toward the coachman, still on the cold, damp ground. “What’s this?”
“Someone tried to make a break for it.”
“Sounds like someone with something to hide.”
“And you’d be right. He claims to have a letter written by the man who hired him, hidden away in his room. And, he claims to have dropped our late friend off at what might be her home.”
Marcus’ eyebrows rose. “And where might that be?”
Simon kicked the man in the foot. “Tell him.”
The Templar Detective and the Parisian Adulteress Page 4