The Duke looked at Hugo.
“Are you certain you could not be making a mistake?” he asked.
“I cannot believe that Amé would stay away from you for so long,” Hugo replied. “It must be over an hour now since she has been seen.”
“Wait here!” the Duke commanded. “I will speak with de Fersen. He may be able to tell me more.”
He then walked down onto the lawn to the crowd that was still grouped around the Queen, their merriment ringing out above the music of the orchestra. Count de Fersen was standing a little aloof from the rest, his grave and serious face in obvious contrast to the laughing gaiety of everyone else.
Isabella, watching, saw the Duke approach him.
They spoke for several minutes and then the Duke turned to return to the terrace. She knew by the way he walked that he had nothing favourable to report. The carriage of his head, proud though it was, told its own story. And yet she could not contain the questions that sprang to her lips.
“What did he say? What was the man like who spoke to her?”
“The Count was, I regret, not able to be of much help. He hardly glanced at the man. He was in white, like every other guest here. He thought that he was young, but he was not even sure of that. He only knows that what the stranger said seemed persuasive enough to make Amé move away with him almost instantly.”
“Then, if it was a trap, she must have been deceived into believing she had received a message from one of us. Knowing what she feels about you, Sebastian, someone had only to go up to her and say, ‘the Duke wants you immediately. I will show you where he is,’ and the child would follow him blindly, whoever he might be.”
“But a guest here, of the King and Queen, to lend himself to such a scheme, seems almost impossible!” Hugo protested.
The Duke shook his head.
“I have heard things tonight that lead me to believe that such behaviour is by no means as extraordinary as we might think,” he said, remembering his talk with the Ambassador.
“But what can we do?” Isabella asked frantically.
That is the problem,” the Duke replied. “If the Cardinal has taken Amé, it will indeed be hard for us to prove that we have any claim on her.”
“Sebastian, we cannot let her go like this,” Isabella expostulated. “If they have taken her, then we must follow her. If they have hidden her, then we must find her. Surely you must see that?”
“I see it all very clearly,” he answered. “Rest assured, Isabella, I shall leave no stone unturned to find Amé and bring her back to us.”
“But how – how can you do it?” Isabella enquired.
“I don’t know,” the Duke answered, “but I promise you it shall be done.”
There was an assurance in his voice and a note of solemn resolution as if he had made a vow. His words seemed to comfort Isabella for the moment.
Then she gave a little cry and put her hands up to her face.
“Poor child!” she whispered. “I love her, Sebastian, and I cannot bear to think of her being snatched away. Do you think they will ill-treat her?”
“We can none of us answer that question until we know who ‘they’ may be,” the Duke replied.
“But it is the Cardinal – of course it is the Cardinal,” Isabella asserted.
“He appears to be the most likely person,” the Duke agreed, “and yet there is always a chance it might be another enemy.”
As he spoke, he now saw the British Ambassador coming up the steps from the garden. The Duke went towards him and in a few brief sentences told him that his Ward was missing.
The Ambassador looked grave.
“You think this is revenge for what happened last night?” he asked.
“That idea has crossed our minds,” the Duke admitted.
“I think the only thing to be done is for me to call officially on the Cardinal,” the Ambassador said. “I will point out to him that Miss Court is a British subject and under your protection. I have reason to believe that the Cardinal is disposed to be friendly towards England. I will tell him that, if he has indeed abducted Miss Court, the impression it will make in London will be an extremely bad one.”
The Duke bit his lip. He was aware of the dangers that this was carrying him into. Amé was not a British subject and no one in England had ever heard of her. She had been accepted in Paris on his assurance that she was his Ward and that she was a relation.
He thought of Pitt’s trust in him, the scandal and consternation it would cause if the subterfuge that he had practised at the French Court was disclosed.
He had known at the time that he was taking a great risk, that he was involving himself in something that might, if they were discovered, do him an immeasurable and an almost irretrievable amount of harm.
He had thought about this and known exactly what he was doing when he walked towards the British Ambassador. His appeal was official and there was no going back on it.
It was Amé who was important and not his reputation. It was Amé who mattered, whatever the cost to himself.
“I cannot, of course, call on His Eminence tonight,” the Ambassador was saying, “but I will drive to his Palace first thing in the morning. The delay, though it may be irksome, will give us a chance to be quite certain that there is no other possible explanation for Miss Court’s disappearance. There is, of course, just a chance that she may turn up.”
The Ambassador glanced at the white-clad figures moving across the lawn, at the flashes of white that showed in the shadows and he heard the voices and laughter that seemed to come from the darkness of every arbour. He was thinking what the Queen had thought when she was told that Amé was missing.
“I am grateful to you for your assistance,” the Duke said stiffly, “and so I can assure you that, if by any chance Miss Court returns to us before nine o’clock tomorrow morning, a messenger will be sent immediately to the Embassy.”
“If I don’t hear anything, I will call on the Cardinal at nine-thirty,” the Ambassador promised. “May I add that I am deeply concerned at what has occurred?”
“My most grateful thanks,” the Duke sighed.
The Ambassador bowed and turned away. He saw that the Queen was approaching the steps he had just come up.
He turned back.
“Her Majesty is leaving,” he said in a low voice to the Duke. “Thank Heavens for that. We can now go to bed.”
The Queen came floating up the steps almost as though she was on a cloud. There was no one in the whole of Paris who moved with such grace and harmony.
“Goodnight, Sir Charles,” she said to the British Ambassador and then held out her hand to the Duke. He kissed her fingers.
“Have you found your Ward?” she enquired.
“Not yet, madame.”
“Then she is indeed being very naughty,” the Queen smiled, “you must scold her when she returns to you.”
“I shall certainly do that, madame, when she returns,” the Duke replied.
He was well aware that there were a large number of people listening. He thought that he received several curious glances, but he could not be sure. The Queen had already passed into The Palace and soon the terrace was deserted save for the Duke, Isabella and Hugo.
It was then, with one accord, they turned towards the gardens.
With the Queen’s departure the fête was over and the very last of the loving couples tore themselves apart and moved towards The Palace. The fire behind the Temple of Love was dying down. Already its glow was less intense and some of the coloured lights went spluttering and flickering into darkness.
The Duke, Isabella and Hugo began their search. Swiftly though they moved, it took them nearly an hour.
The gardens were big and they were determined to look everywhere, however obscure, however unlikely a hiding place it might be and, when finally their tour was completed, they found that they were the last people in the gardens.
It was then, her face very pale and her eyes full of tears, th
at Isabella gave a little sob.
“She has gone, Sebastian. There is no doubt about it now.”
“No doubt at all,” the Duke replied, “but I will find her. I will find her if it means killing those who have taken her from me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Amé felt the horses pulling the vehicle that she was being carried in up a steep hill and then at a hoarse word of command they stopped.
At first she had struggled against the enveloping folds of the suffocating cloak that had been thrown over her, but in consequence she had been handled so roughly that prudence and sheer physical pain had decided that she should be still.
She could see nothing and it was indeed hard to breathe. The cloak had been flung over her and wound envelopingly round her head and shoulders while she had stood irresolute at the edge of the garden, wondering why the Duke should have sent for her to such a strange and isolated part of the grounds.
She had walked quickly at the side of the gentleman who had led her away from the crowds that thronged the lawns, that she had no time to question him.
Besides her heart had been distraught with anxiety.
“There has been an accident, mam’selle,” the gentleman had said in her ear as she had watched the Queen speaking with those who were piling high the faggots behind the Temple of Love.
“An ‒ accident?”
Her hands had flown instinctively to her heart.
“His Grace the Duke of Melyncourt requests that you come with me immediately,” the gentleman said.
For a moment Amé had hesitated, wondering if it was best to make her excuses to the Queen and then, seeing Her Majesty deeply engaged, she had without further delay turned to accompany the suave stranger.
She noticed very little about him as he hurried her through the shrubs and bushes that bordered the lawns.
As they went, Amé, anxious though she was, managed to reassure herself with the thought that it could not be the Duke who was injured or involved in an accident or he would not have sent for her.
It must be Isabella who was hurt, or perhaps Hugo. Whichever of them it might be, her heart cried out at the thought of them in pain.
What could have occurred? It was very difficult to know how she could help as she hastened to formulate anything save her desire to reach the Duke’s side. Then, as the trees cleared a little, she saw the roadway, only a soft track through the trees, but nevertheless wide enough to hold a vehicle, a dark shabby-looking carriage drawn by two dispirited hungry horses.
For the first time since they had left the crowds in the garden Amé hesitated.
Something like doubt swept through her mind. There must be some mistake here. This carriage, poor and plebeian, could not in any way be connected with the Duke.
It was then that the cloak was thrown over her, its violence knocking her off her feet.
She struggled and tried to scream, but her voice was lost and a moment later she felt herself lifted up by strong arms and flung violently on to the seat of the coach.
The gentleman who led her from the gardens spoke again,
“You know your instructions,” he said to someone in a low voice and then there was the crack of a whip and she felt herself being carried away.
She struggled then wildly in a panic-stricken fashion, which exhausted her strength and brought in return a series of blows, one of which finally flung her to the floor of the carriage. She lay there panting and with a sense of despair which came not only from her knowledge of her physical inferiority but from the realisation that she was no longer free.
Yet, even then, she could hardly believe that this was the Cardinal’s doing.
She had not lived for nearly eighteen years in the Convent de la Croix without learning something of the Church and its ways. There might be injustices, individuals might suffer wrongs and feel themselves entitled to their grievances and complaints, nevertheless the Church as a whole was a sanctuary for the oppressed and a comforter for those who were in trouble.
In the years that Amé had grown up with the nuns it would have been impossible for her not to believe in their Holiness, their unselfishness and, above all, their innate dignity. The Mother Prioress might be autocratic at times, but then she was a great lady and a great aristocrat.
It was impossible to imagine even for one moment that the Reverend Mother would have consented to this sort of banditry. It was hard to believe that the Cardinal, misguided and bewitched as he might be by Count Cagliostro, would stoop to abduction and kidnapping and to using such primitive methods as these to secure her return to the Convent.
Besides, such brutality was quite unnecessary. He had only to send his Priests and at the word of command she must follow them.
No, to imagine that this outrage was the doing of the Church was something just far too incredible to be contemplated.
And yet, Amé asked herself, who else? Again and again the question seemed to ask itself as she lay on the floor – who else, who else?
Then, as the horses came to a standstill, the men who were seated in the coach spoke for the first time.
It was their silence that had been even more frightening than anything else. She could hear their heavy breathing, occasionally they cleared their throats and spat but they never spoke. She wondered what sort of men they could be who would brutally ill-treat her and then be dumb as the coach rumbled over the cobblestones. Now there was an interchange of words in low voices.
“You keep ’old of ’er while I gets the door open.”
“Allons donc! We don’t want half the street out here to see what we’re up to.”
Only a few words, but enough to tell Amé the type of person who had captured her.
The men spoke an argot, the lowest commonest argot of the backstreets of Paris.
She had not long, however, to consider all this. Strong arms handled her roughly and she felt herself flung over a man’s shoulder and carried out of the coach. And even as they reached the ground the horses started up again.
Amé knew that she was being carried into a house, and then she was flung down on the floor, giving a little involuntary cry as the corner of her shoulder struck against the wall.
“Get out now,” she heard a man order her.
It was the same man who had gone to open the door.
“My money first,” was the reply.
“I’ve got it ’ere.”
There was the clink of coins, then there was a low ‘au revoir’, footsteps crossed the floor and a door was shut. Amé lay waiting. A child began to cry overhead and now a woman’s voice called out,
“Is that you, François?”
The man grunted.
“Nom de Dieu!” he swore. “Who else do you expect it to be?”
“You’ve woken Jean,” the woman said plaintively. “’Tis the first time he’s closed his eyes this night.”
“Curse the brat! If ’e’s goin’ to make that noise there’ll be no sleep for any of us.”
There was a pause while Amé could hear the woman vainly trying to quieten the screaming child.
“Come down!” roared François angrily. “I’d best be gettin’ off to work and I wants a bite of somethin’ to eat before I goes.”
“There’s only a small piece of bread left,” the woman said in a whining voice.
Amé could hear her descending what appeared to be a wooden ladder.
“Come and see what I’ve brought you,” François said with a note of coarse humour in his voice.
The woman gave a cry.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“A cursed aristocrat! We’re to keep ’er ’ere until further orders.”
“Keep ’er ’ere?” the woman’s voice was now almost a scream. “I think you’re crazed. How can we keep someone like that ’ere unless she’s dead? Is she dead?”
Amé’s stillness must have been responsible for the sudden fear.
“’Course she’s not dead,” François replied angrily. “She was alive all
right a few minutes ago. Besides our instructions are that she’s not to die yet.”
He moved across the floor as he spoke and dragged the cloak with a sudden rough gesture from off Amé’s head. For a moment she could only lie there and stare up at the two strange faces peering down at her.
The room was small and incredibly sordid. There was a table in the middle and two broken chairs, there was also a wooden dresser containing some pots and pans and a ladder rising almost from the centre of the room to what appeared to be a garret.
For a moment Amé could take in little except that the place was dark and the faces of those regarding her were filthy and frightening. The man, François, unshaven, with long greasy black hair trailing over his forehead and down his neck, was made grotesque by a knife-scar reaching the length of one cheek and cutting across his jawline. It was a recent wound and was livid against the sallowness of his skin.
It gave him a malevolent and sinister appearance, an impression added to by his thick wet lips and heavy-lidded eyes.
His wife was not much more reassuring. Thin to the point of emaciation, her hair, lank and straggly, hung round a pale face in which her dark eyes seemed to burn feverishly. In contrast to her husband she had narrow bloodless lips that moved to reveal blackened and broken teeth.
Amé blinked at her captives and put up her hand to tidy her hair that had been dragged from its pins and ribbons when François had pulled the cloak from her head.
The woman gave a cry.
“She’s alive all right.”
“I told you she was,” François snapped.
“Who are you?” Amé asked bravely, “And why have you brought me here?”
In answer the man spat on the floor.
“You keep your mouth shut and ask no questions,” he asserted. “They won’t get answered, so you might as well save your breath.”
A little unsteadily Amé rose to her feet. She was bruised and cramped, but she managed to retain a certain amount of dignity as she walked across to the table where the man had already seated himself.
“I beg of you to tell me why you have brought me here,” she said. “I assure you that my Guardian, the Duke of Melyncourt, will pay any sum you ask for me. I will write you a letter and you can take it to his house.”
Love Me Forever Page 18