by Alexa Aston
A servant entered and Garrett recognized him from his previous dealings with de Picassaret, although he couldn’t recall the retainer’s name.
In stilted English, the stout man said, “Comte de Picassaret has been detained, my lord. He will arrive shortly. May I get anything for you?”
Garrett shook his head. “No, thank you.”
The man nodded and left, leaving the door ajar. Garrett heard him pause in the hallway and begin speaking rapidly in French. Though he could hear two voices, he couldn’t make out everything said. The words came rapidly, spoken more as the French did in the north. Still, he was able to ascertain that the comte was terribly angry. Something about plans being ruined and responsibility being questioned.
Frustrated at his lack of understanding, Garrett closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Bordeaux, the lazy sunshine of the south permeating him. Speech there was more melodic and slow. Garrett had picked up much more of the language while there than he ever had from his tutors. Unfortunately, he had rare opportunities to use it since he despised any time spent at court, so he’d lost his command of the nuances of the language since he’d returned to England.
Eventually, he heard sharp steps approaching and sat up quickly. Henri de Picassaret strode in. Garrett was shocked by the Frenchman’s appearance.
The man had aged half a score since they’d met the previous year in France. Henri’s skin was even paler than before. Deep wrinkles lined his face. His ice blue eyes were bloodshot, as though he hadn’t slept for several nights. His iron gray hair had a dull cast to it. Always lean despite his ample belly, the comte now seemed gaunt. As usual, his thin mouth was set in a tight line.
Garrett rose and offered his hand. Henri shook it perfunctorily. Both men took seats across from one another.
Henri spoke first. “I hear that your wife ran off, Montayne.” His eyes flicked rapidly over Garrett, who sat stunned by the Frenchman’s opening remark.
Garrett stood abruptly, his fists clenched. He fought to keep his anger from erupting at the older man’s cruel words. “That topic, de Picassaret, is not open for discussion. Good day.”
He moved to leave but Henri stood and clutched his arm tightly. For such a frail-looking man, his strength was surprising.
“No, my apologies, monsieur. I was thoughtless. I am sure that you grieve for your lost wife.”
Garrett was slightly mollified but did not take his chair.
“Come,” Henri said, his tone now conciliatory. “Let us not talk of wives when there is business to conduct.” He paused. “I merely heard that an acquaintance’s wife had recently run off. The man is beside himself and has no idea where to begin looking.” He offered Garrett an apologetic smile. “I thought you might advise me, for my friend, since you have experienced something similar.”
Garrett glared at Henri. “Some things are best left private,” he said, his mouth set. They stared at each other for several moments before taking their seats.
Henri opened the discussion again. “I am ready to offer you an unusual business proposal, Lord Montayne.” Henri’s eyes glittered. “It is one that you must accept immediately, however, for I am to return to my home shortly.”
“What do you propose?”
Henri smiled. “I would like to go into a partnership with you, mon ami. You have a good head for the business and you know wine. Your vineyards in Bordeaux regularly bring in a substantial profit.”
“My family has been in the wine business for many years now. What kind of partnership do you seek, Monsieur le Comte?”
“I know you trade your wines not only in England but also ship to the Hanseatic ports and the Low Countries. I would like my champagnes to also go to these places.”
Garrett arched his brows. “On my ships?”
Henri nodded. “In exchange for our wines traveling to their destinations together, I would give you control of one-fifth of my vineyards outside Reims for a period of ten years.”
Garrett considered the proposition, which differed greatly from the Frenchman’s previous offer. “I would own part of your vineyard in exchange for your champagne accompanying my wines. Do I understand you correctly?”
“Yes, you have grasped the essence of my offer. We can work out the details, of course, at a later time.”
Henri waited for Garrett’s reply but Garrett rose and began to pace around the room, his hands locked behind him.
He stopped abruptly. “I know little to nothing about champagne and really have no inclination to begin now. I rarely travel to Bordeaux as it is. Reims is far away from my home. Why do you suggest this?”
Henri shrugged in the typical Gallic manner, a shrug that could encompass many things. “It would open up new markets for my champagnes, of course. You have a large, swift fleet and it is well protected.” He grinned. “You also have a reputation for getting the best prices available, my lord. You seem to squeeze more gold from the traders than anyone in all of England.”
Garrett nodded. He knew that to be correct. He drove a hard bargain, as did his managers. His family was much better off in the years since he had been in charge of their finances.
Henri shifted in his chair. “Naturally, I would not expect you to care for the vines. I would look out for your portion of the champagne vineyards as if they were still my own. You’d simply have to transport the wine, along with my own stock, and collect the profits.”
He looked expectantly at Garrett. “Then we are in agreement?”
Something kept him from committing. The offer appeared simple on the surface. In regard to business, though, he was a patient man. He’d never leaped into any transaction without more information. He would not start now, especially with a man he barely knew.
“Your proposition is intriguing, my lord,” he said as he returned to his chair. “I could be interested in entering the champagne trade. But I hesitate.”
Henri appeared startled, as if he’d assumed Garrett would immediately accept his idea without question.
Before he could speak, Garrett added, “I have never undertaken something so vast quite so suddenly. I would first have to see your vineyards.”
Henri appeared taken aback. “But why, monsieur? They are impeccably kept. My secret recipe for adding the cultured yeasts and sugar yield the finest champagnes in all of France! You have drunk of my champagne. You know it to be the best.”
“’Tis quite fine, de Picassaret, I’ll agree with you. I simply need more time to study the situation and learn more about champagne.”
“Impossible!” Henri sputtered. “I want an answer from you today, this minute!” His voice rose as his complexion mottled bright scarlet. “You must give me an answer now. I insist!”
Henri reached over and grasped the arms of Garrett’s chair in his hands. He leaned close, spittle flying, and demanded, “Now! I want you as my partner now! I want this settled before I sail for France.”
Garrett remained composed as Henri hovered inches from him. His voice was low when he responded, his tone deadly. “Remove your hands from this chair, monsieur, or they will be removed from your wrists.”
Henri stared at him blankly for a moment. Slowly, he released the chair and stepped back. He seemed uncertain of where he was. Garrett was afraid the man had gone mad before his very eyes. What else could explain such bizarre behavior?
The manservant rushed into the room. He wondered how much of their conversation had been overheard.
“I am sorry, my lord,” he addressed Garrett, even as he went to Henri and put an arm about him. “My master has been under much strain lately.”
Henri looked at Garrett with clearer eyes now. “Lord Montayne, consider my offer. If you wish to come to Chateau Maraine to inspect my vineyards, you would be most welcome. I sail for France the day after tomorrow.”
He turned to his servant. “Come, Bertrand, we must go to mass again. There is much I wish to discuss with God.”
The pair left the room, leaving Garrett puzzled by suc
h odd behavior.
He retraced his steps and exited Lord Fenton’s home, reclaiming Ebony from the stable boy. As he mounted, Garrett wondered about the state of Henri de Picassaret’s mind. Had he witnessed a spell of madness? Why had de Picassaret become so unhinged when Garrett had refused to act immediately? He had noticed the Frenchman was a bit high-strung in the past but today he had been truly unbalanced for a few minutes.
Garrett pondered over their meeting as he headed for his London home, deciding being in business with Henri de Picassaret would be unwise, especially after seeing the Frenchman’s volatile temper and odd behavior, which hinted at the possibility of madness. Though he would merely transport de Picassaret’s champagne to new ports, Garrett was thorough and always liked to learn as much as he could about the cargo he moved. While drinking champagne was most pleasurable, he knew how long it had taken him to acquire knowledge of the wines grown on his own lands. He also must consider his reputation. He was known for being fair and reliable. De Picassaret’s questionable behavior would make him undependable and possibly untrustworthy. Garrett wasn’t willing to risk his reputation on a venture he didn’t really need to be involved with. It would take a far more enticing deal before he would even consider linking himself with Henri de Picassaret.
As he rode, a steady rain fell and showed no sign of letting up. Soon, he was soaked to the skin, cold and irritable. The pounding in his head began a constant beat. He couldn’t wait to arrive home. A drink would do him wonders.
He spotted her a few short blocks from his destination. He could not be mistaken. She wore a simple tunic of brown cloth, but her head was uncovered. A long braid of golden hair trailed down her back. Carrying a heavy basket balanced on one hip, she trudged along the uneven street. He wondered briefly if she’d sold his cloak.
“Lady Montayne!” he called out as he leaped off Ebony. “Wait!” He rushed to her, grabbing her elbow.
The woman started and her basket fell from her grasp. Apples rolled all along the muddy street. Garrett stared into brown eyes filled with fear, not the amethyst ones that had haunted his dreams.
“My mistake,” he quickly apologized. “I thought you were someone else.” He released the stranger’s arm. The woman backed away. She then looked out over all the apples spilled from her basket, most likely bruised. Her lip quivered.
Garrett realized how precious the fruit must have been to her. He bent and quickly placed the apples back into her basket, waving her away when she tried to help. Removing a few coins from his purse, he said, “My fault entirely, madam. Will you accept payment for the damage I have done?”
He took her hand and placed the coins into her palm. Surprise flooded her face and she looked at him in wonder.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her voice quivered as she spoke.
He bowed and remounted Ebony.
Was he going as crazy as Henri de Picassaret? Or had he been bewitched?
Chapter Six
Madeleine couldn’t have spent a happier two months. She genuinely liked all the members in the troupe of mummers she had fallen in with. Being with this large group gave her a taste of a different life that was carefree and yet full of hard work. She said a quick Hail Mary to thank her Dear Lord for sending Gwenith into her path.
The June heat was oppressive, though, and it wasn’t even noon yet as she rested in the shade from her duties. She reached around, lifting her long braid high, and used it to fan the back of her neck. The slight breeze gave her momentary relief. She dropped the braid and started to turn but was stopped in her tracks when her braid remained aloft. For a moment, icy fear swept through her. Images of Henri crowded her head. Blinding panic filled her.
She only relaxed when a familiar laugh floated on the air behind her. Whirling, her braid now freed, she caught a glimpse of Royce, a fellow member of the mummers’ troupe, ducking behind the mature oak tree that had provided her shade for the past ten minutes. Silently, she crept toward the huge, gnarled trunk and melted into its side.
She moved quietly around the tree, stretched across the far side, then reached out and goosed him in the ribcage. He let out a yelp and wheeled around.
“You don’t play fair, Madeleine,” he said, his eyes teasing her.
“And you do, Royce? Shame on you.” She shook her finger at him comically, much as she remembered from her childhood how Cook had done when a scullery maid displeased her.
The thought of home and her youth gave her pause and the smile fell from her face. She fell silent, an aching lump lodged in her throat.
Royce must have noticed the change in her. He took her elbow. “Come, wench, we have need of sustenance. I can smell the hot chewets floating along the breeze.”
Madeleine stopped. “Now I know you jest. There’s been no breeze all day.” He looked at her imploringly. “But I seem to have caught a whiff of those meat pies all the same. Lead the way, Master Royce,” she commanded in a noble tone.
They strolled along a row of booths and purchased two steaming chewets, their meat savory and hot. They passed stalls filled with salt, soap, honey, and cheese, the pungent smells intermingling with the sweat of crowded human flesh.
Royce had them settled against an ancient oak at the far end of the meadow, where they ate in amiable silence.
Madeleine counted her blessings, starting first with sweet Gwenith, already as close as a sister could possibly be. They’d spent practically every waking moment together since joining up on the London docks, with never a cross word between them. Madeleine loved her friend’s head of wild, red curls and her impish smile, but Gwenith’s outer beauty only scratched the surface. Her sunny nature had a way of keeping Madeleine’s spirits up, no matter how much work needed to be done. These past two months had flown by in the presence of Gwenith’s optimism and good cheer.
Her second blessing was time spent with Gwenith’s boy, even if young Master Evan was a scamp of the first degree. Madeleine often wondered how Gwenith managed to keep up with her son’s antics. Her friend had far more energy than most to be able to stay abreast of Evan’s roguish ways. Still, she counted the boy as a treasure close to her heart.
Maybe she could turn Evan loose on Henri. With that thought, she stroked the smooth pebble in her pocket. A girlish giggle popped out at the thought of Henri running in fright from the small boy.
“What are you thinking about, Madeleine?” Royce asked. His voice was gentle and his eyes had lost their usual playfulness. Royce reached out and took her hand.
The depth of emotion in Royce’s gaze startled her. These past few weeks traveling with the troupe had been a means of escape for her before she made her way to France. Though she enjoyed everyone’s company, she did not want any lasting attachments—especially not those of a romantic nature. She was a married woman, despite having fled her abusive husband. She would keep those vows.
How could she let Royce down gently? He’d been a good friend to her, never asking about her past. When others had done so, Royce had always stepped in and helped change the subject or asked a favor from her, leading her away from prying questions.
Theirs had been an easy friendship. That was why his look of tenderness and soft words caught her by surprise. His hand held hers easily yet firmly. Madeleine slowly withdrew from his grasp. She crossed her arms and sighed.
“Oh, Royce, so it’s come to this,” she whispered softly.
The gleam of interest in his eyes was unmistakable. Royce looked at her as a man looked at a woman for whom he had tender feelings. He moved in to kiss her.
Madeleine’s heart lurched. Fear prickled within her but she shrugged it off. This was just Royce. Not all men beat a woman for the slightest infraction, she told herself. Not all men forced relations.
“Madeleine!”
She bolted to her feet as Osbert came toward them. The jovial mummer fairly galloped across the green meadow, his round face red from the exertion.
Osbert laid his hand upon her shoulder. “’Tis Gwenith, I’
m afraid. She calls for you.”
Fear beating rapidly in her chest, Madeleine picked up her skirts and ran across the field to where their tents were pitched away from the stalls filled with goods. Gwenith had been sick for almost three weeks. She couldn’t have taken a turn for the worse. She couldn’t have.
Stomach knotted, Madeleine hurried into their tent. Gwenith, her face ashen and haggard, managed a weak smile upon seeing her.
Madeleine dropped to her knees next to Gwenith’s pallet, noting how thin she’d grown. Taking her friend’s hand, she squeezed it gently and pushed aside the curls that had fallen across Gwenith’s face.
“’Tis a real mess I’m in, Maddie, that’s for sure,” Gwenith managed to get out before being seized by a fit of coughing.
She held tightly on to Gwenith’s hand until the spasm passed and then poured her a cup of cool water from the nearby pitcher.
“Sip on this, Gwenith,” she said in soothing tones, helping her friend to sit up. A trickle dribbled down Gwenith’s chin and Madeleine wiped it away with her sleeve.
“I’m fine now, Maddie. I promise.” Gwenith’s eyes were huge in her pale face, even more wan than usual. “I just wanted to visit with ye a minute, that’s all.” Another fit of coughing erupted.
Madeleine ached with every cough.
Finally, Gwenith calmed again. “Ye’ve been with Royce?” her friend asked, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.
“Yes, I have,” Madeleine begin. “I’m afraid Royce has more than friendship on his mind. If Osbert hadn’t come to fetch me, I fear Royce might have said something he later regretted. Or kissed me.”
Gwenith searched Madeleine’s face. “Ye just now discovered his interest in ye, Maddie?” she asked in disbelief.
She stared at her in surprise. “You knew his intentions were romantic?”
Gwenith chuckled. “Only me and a dozen other mummers, me sweet.” She bit her lip to hold back her laughter. “’Twas obvious from the time I brought ye back with us, Maddie. He’s smitten hard. The only wonder is it took him so long to speak his mind—and for ye to realize he had feelings for ye.”