by Leda Swann
“And the man who stabbed me? Who was he?”
“I do not know his name. I had the ill fortune to come across him a few days ago. He did a great evil once, an evil that I could never forget or forgive. I saw a chance to repay him, and I took it. I slit his throat with my knife and watched his life’s blood bubble away on to the floor.” She shuddered and put her head in her lap, looking young and lost, so unlike the self-possessed beauty she had been when he had strode into the church. “I am not sorry that he is dead. I will never be sorry for that, but I had never killed a man before. There was so much blood. It makes me ill to think on it.”
He put his arm around her shoulder, hugging her to his body. She looked like she needed the warmth of his presence. “I would rather have you sick over it than not. You are not one of those who likes killing.”
She swallowed convulsively. “I have not told another soul what I have done. It was horrible. There was so much blood.”
They sat there in silence for a moment until her shudders stopped and she raised her head again. The silvery marks of tears remained on her cheeks, but her face was pale and composed.
He stood up and offered her his arm. Poor woman, that she had been driven to murder. He could not guess at the depth of despair she must have sunk to have even considered such a desperate act, let alone to have carried it out. “Come walk with me in the park. The sunshine will chase away your gloomy horrors.”
He was not revolted by what she had done. Quite the contrary. How glad he was that she had found the courage to defend herself against the villain. How proud he was that she had come off the victor. She was truly brave.
They descended the church steps slowly and walked the length of street to the park that ran along the river. The fresh air had put the color back into her cheeks and she walked with a spring in her step.
Metin was silent, thinking over what she had told him. She had killed the man a few days ago. He had been speaking with his young namesake only yester night. His conclusion was inescapable. The boy could not have been the one who had tried to kill him.
He stopped walking and turned to face her. “I do not wish to upset you further, but can you tell me what this man looked like? This man who tried to kill me?”
She squared her shoulders and swallowed hard before answering. “Not a youth anymore, mayhap in his thirties. A bit taller than me, and thin as a rake. Straight brown hair, light brown, that hung over his eyes. A face like a weasel, and a personality to match. He spoke like a gentleman born and bred, but he was no such thing. The meanest beggar on the street was more of a gentleman than ever he could be.”
Definitely not the boy who had stolen his name. The lad was not a one to inspire such hatred as he could hear in her voice. “And the others? You said there were five or six. What did they look like?”
“I did not see any of them as clearly as I saw that man, but I did not recognize any of them. Why do you ask?”
“Was one of their party a young man, scarcely more than a boy, a slight fellow with a delicate face and long black curls to his shoulders?”
She creased her forehead in thought. “No, I am sure none of them would fit such a description. They were all older than that for a start, and none of them had a face I would describe as delicate. They looked battered and beaten like the gutter rats they were.”
He took her by the hands and looked deep into her eyes. He felt bad that he had made her relive the moment, but he was glad that she had done so for his sake. She had the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen, deep, rich brown eyes framed with long eyelashes. “Thank you, Miriame. You have relieved my mind of a horrible suspicion I have been harboring. You have set my mind at rest and I am grateful to you.”
Her eyes were the most unusual shade of brown, the color of rich earth. With a sudden start, he realized that he had seen those eyes before. An exact copy, if he was not mistaken. “Do you have a brother?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as casual as he could.
She shook her head emphatically. “No.”
Her answer came too quickly for his liking – barely before he had finished the question. “Odd,” he said, touching his finger to her face by the side of her eyes. “I would have sworn I know a man who has just your eyes.”
“I shall be sure to ask for them back, if ever I come across him.” Her words were flippant enough, but he sensed that she was troubled by his remarks. She turned her head away and wouldn’t look him in the eyes anymore.
She claimed she had killed the man who knifed him because he deserved to die – though she wouldn’t say why.
The boy with her eyes claimed he had killed the man who had hurt his sister.
He would stake his life on it that there was only one body.
So which of them was the killer? Miriame Dardagny, or her brother, the young Musketeer with the knife who had stolen his name?
He did not need to ask which of them was the thief.
Jean-Paul paced up and down the richly furnished chamber, cursing under his breath. Francine had called him and he had answered her summons – eventually. Was she punishing him for not jumping at her bidding by making him for her wait now? It would be just like her to be so petty.
He coughed. The damned incense she burned everywhere made him feel lightheaded and irritated his throat.
Just as he was about to stomp out again and be damned to her summons, Francine appeared at the door, looking like an angel in a pretty gown of pale green. “Ah, Jean-Paul,” she cried, holding out her hands to him with every evidence of delight. “How delightful it is to see you again.”
He bowed stiffly. “So you have remembered my name this evening, Madame. I am honored.”
“Come now, Jean-Paul, do not be angry and sulk at me. You know how things are at Court. I cannot take the same notice of you that I could do in the country. The King would be angered and I would lose his favor again.” She fanned herself rapidly with the peacock feather fan in her hand. “That would never do.”
How could he ever have imagined that she loved him, this pink and white painted porcelain doll who simpered at him so sweetly and so falsely. “The King’s favor means more to you than mine does?”
“Of course it does, you silly boy. How could it be otherwise? Without the King’s favor I am nothing at court. As the King’s mistress I am courted by all. Would you have me give that up for nothing?”
“My love meant nothing to you?”
She pouted prettily. “You are a sweet boy, but your love could not give me silk gowns and Brussels lace or an apartment in the royal palace.”
How could he ever have found her fascinating? She was no more than a self-centered, mercenary whore, selling her body to the King for sparkling baubles and pretty trinkets. “So the King did not compel you to return as you claimed?”
“Compel me?” She laughed, the sound of water tinkling merrily over the rocks in a stream. “He compelled me to go away when I displeased him. As soon as he allowed me to return, I came back with wings on my heels. He had no need to compel me.”
“You lied to me.”
“You were so in love with me I had not the heart to tell you the truth.” She sighed and a tear trembled on her lower lashes. “It would have hurt you more than I could bear. I was fond of you. I could not bear to see you suffer.”
“So you publicly humiliated me instead?”
“I did not want to lose the King’s favor again. He might have exiled me forever.” She lifted an imploring face towards him. “You see how it is?”
“Yes. I see.” He turned his back on her. “Fare thee well, Madame. I hope the King’s attention is worth selling your soul for.”
“Wait. Before you go...”
He stopped with his back towards her still. “What do you want.” This, he knew, would be the real reason she had called him back. She wanted something from him. Why else would she bother to speak to him?
“The letters I wrote to you...” Her voice tailed off into nothing.
> He turned to face her again. “What about them?”
“Please could you give them back to me?” she wheedled. “It was foolish of me to write them to you. I would not have the King find out about them. He would be angry with me. You wouldn’t want the King to be angry with me, would you?”
She wanted her letters back. That was the reason for this whole charade. “I’m sorry, Madame. I no longer have them.”
“Where are they?” Her voice had lost some of its softness. “Did you destroy them?”
“Nothing so dramatic. I was robbed one night in the street and the letters, along with everything else I had, were stolen from me.”
“They were stolen from you?” Her face had turned pale and rather sickly-looking all of a sudden. “Who took them?”
He shrugged. “I have few ideas. I was more concerned at the time with the wound in my chest. They well nigh killed me before they robbed me.”
“You are not telling me a lie?” She snapped her fan shut with a vicious flick of her wrist and fixed him with an evil glare. “You swear you didn’t sell them to the Cardinal’s men?”
“Sell my letters? What kind of a man do you think I am?”
She shrugged. “I need those letters. If the Cardinal gets them before I do, he will give them to the King and I shall be ruined. Ruined. They will pack me off to a nunnery. I would rather die.”
Scheming little fraud that she was, he didn’t want to see her ruined. Her unhappiness would solve nothing. “I have a suspicion that I might know who robbed me,” he said slowly. “If he was indeed the man, and if he still has the letters, I will find them and bring them back to you.”
A light of hope sparkled in her eyes. “You swear it?”
“On my honor.”
She took his hands and stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “You are a good man, Jean-Paul, and better to me than I deserve. I thank you. I will not forget what I owe you if you can do me this favor.”
He stood stiffly, trying to remain unmoved at the feel of her hair brushing his cheek and her breasts pressed up against his chest. “I have no wish for a reward, Madame. I offered to help you only because it was the honorable thing to do.”
“You have earned one anyway by giving me hope.” She looped a gold chain from around her neck and pressed it into his hands. “Give this to the woman who will love you as you deserve to be loved. Love you as she may, she will love you all the better for such a gift.” She smiled at him and held out her hand. “Friends again?”
He took her white fingers and pressed them against his lips. He would never trust her, but he would no longer hold a grudge, either. He understood her now as he never had before. She was a woman determined to make her way in the world, as he was determined to make his way. They had chosen different paths, that was all. “Friends again,” he agreed.
He left her chamber in a thoughtful mood. She had sacrificed her fondness for him to the caprices of the King. At least she had been fond of him once. That took away something of the sting of her betrayal.
She had taken nothing but what he had thrown lavishly at her feet, begging her to accept. He would not ever forget that lesson she had taught him so well, but he could at last forgive her for teaching him.
The boy who had stolen his name was waiting at the western door. Miriame’s brother, if he guessed aright, with all Miriame’s courage and daring, but none of her beauty and sweetness.
Metin glared at him, shut the door behind him with a bang and stood with his back to it, feet apart. “What are you doing here?”
The boy shrugged. “The Marquise asked to see me and I am here at her command. What is it to you, anyway?”
Metin did not know who he wanted to protect from whom. The boy was a thief and a scoundrel. Francine should be warned against him. Then again, the boy was only young and must be even more green and inexperienced than he had once been. What hope did he have if Francine were to work her wiles against him. His conscience smote him at the thought of leaving the boy to walk unwarned into such a snare as she would set for him. “What would Francine want with you?”
He gave a cheeky grin. “That is for me to know and you to guess of.”
“Francine is not the woman for you.”
“I am sure you are right.”
“She is using you to further her own ends.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“She wants the King and no one else.”
The boy’s grin widened. “Ah, that is where our opinions differ. I would have said she wants the King in her public bed so she can queen it over the rest of the court. But in her private bed she wants someone who can give her what the King does not. She wants a real man.”
“She wants you? You think she wants you.”
“Only for the moment, but that is fine by me. I’m a “for the moment” kind of man myself.”
He clenched his fists together in an effort to keep his temper in check. “You told me you were not her lover. You swore as much.”
“I’m not.” The boy shrugged one slim shoulder. “Not yet. She likes the chase as much as the capture and I’m still playing hard to get.”
“You intend to be her lover, then? A nothing, a nobody like you?”
“Only if she catches me. She’ll appreciate me more if she has to work hard to get me. No one appreciates the ripe fruit that falls into their lap at the first shake of the tree. I would have thought you’d found that out already.”
The boy’s taunting made him see red, as it always did. “You’re a scoundrel. I will warn her against you.”
“I wouldn’t bother if I were you. She’d probably be quite excited about it and even more determined to catch me. Besides, she’ll think you are jealous of me for replacing you in her affections, fickle as they are, and will laugh at you behind your back for your fondness.”
He fought his rising temper. How did the boy manage to bait him so successfully every time. He could hardly see him now without wanting to tear him apart from limb to limb. “I should kill you, you know.”
“I thought we had already tried that before. It ended with my knife in your side.”
“No, it began with your knife in my side and ended with my knife in your side and you puking your guts out like a girl.”
“Details, details. Now will you be so kind as to move your carcass out of the way so I can go and be chased by the Marquise?”
“Do you really want to waste your time with such a woman as she is?”
The boy put his head on one side and thought for a moment. “Not particularly. But she pays well.”
How had he taken so long to see the resemblance between his mysterious Miriame and her brother, the false Metin? Their eyes were the exact same color. Their skin was the same golden brown, their hair the same jet black curls, though Miriame wore it around her ears in glorious disarray and her brother kept it tied with a piece of leather at the nape of his neck. They were even about the same height. “I met your sister today.”
That made his ears prick up. “My sister? I wasn’t aware I had one.”
“Miriame. Miriame Dardagny. About your height, dark hair, eyes the exact same color as yours. A very beautiful woman, despite her marked resemblance to you.” The more he saw the boy, the more resemblance he saw in the pair of them. It was not just the way they looked, but they way they walked, the way they spoke, the way they had of raising one eyebrow at a time. Heaven knows, they were alike enough to have sprung from the same seed as twins.
“She sounds like just the sort of woman I’d like to meet. Please, introduce us some time. But not right now, if you please. The Marquise is waiting for me.”
“She saw the men who knifed me some five or six weeks back.”
“How nice for her. Did she enjoy the entertainment?”
“She told me she killed the man who knifed me.”
“She has a vicious streak, then, this supposed sister of mine?”
“It would seem so.”
“I’m no
t surprised. Most women do.” The boy looked pointedly at the door. “You must excuse me, now. Playing hard to get for the Marquise is one thing. Being very late to an appointment one has been begged to keep is quite another. Now, would you let me past?”
He had to warn the boy, if only for Miriame’s sake. He was her brother and no doubt she loved the rascal well enough; she had certainly tried to cover up the evidence of his thievery from him. He had to admit that the boy was a likeable rogue for all that he was a thief and his own personal tormenter. “You do not know what you are getting yourself into. Francine will eat you before breakfast.”
“I think not. I am tougher and more indigestible than you might expect. Now move.”
He could see no other way out unless he was to fight the boy. For his pretty sister’s sake, he was loath to do so. Besides, thief as the boy was, there was something about him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something that made him want to rather befriend him than tear him to pieces. He would leave Francine to do the tearing for him. She was better at it than ever he could be. Without another word he moved to one side.
The boy turned back when he was partway through the door, a malicious smile on his face as if he were delighting in Jean-Paul’s confusion. “Make no mistake, Monsieur, in underestimating my sister. Miriame is even tougher than I,” and he was gone.
Miriame leaned against the door, breathing hard. She had been careless, and Metin was not a fool. He had seen the resemblance between her in breeches and her in a skirt and had decided they were related. Siblings. Brother and sister. His guess was closer to the truth than she well liked, but if she could keep him in such a mind, then all would be well. He would just have never to see them together. She was sure she could manage that.
In the meantime, she had the Marquise to deal with.
“Ah, Jean-Paul, my friend, you have arrived at last.” The Marquise welcomed her with open arms. Bother. She had almost been hoping that her tardiness would have put the Marquise’s nose out of joint. “I am glad to see you. Was your mission successful?”
Miriame sidestepped the embrace as gracefully as she could. “My mission?”