A Midnight Dance (37 page)

“Now,” Jules said to Luc. They moved between the cart and the carriage and slipped inside the plush interior, unnoticed, quickly drawing the curtains shut.

With the dwindling light of day, inside the carriage it was dark.

“Monsieur le Marquis!” the driver exclaimed. The quick shuffle of feet told Jules the man was rushing to aid his master.

“Straight home,” said a familiar voice, the same calm, even tone Jules remembered.

Poised, he waited.

The latch turned. The carriage door opened.

The moment the Marquis stepped up and leaned forward, Jules yanked him in and slammed the door shut. The Marquis landed on the seat opposite Jules and Luc.

His eyes widened. “Who—Who are you? What—What do you think you’re doing?”

“Valentin, it’s Jules de Moutier and my brother, Luc.”

“Monsieur!” The driver pounded on the door, unable to open it while Jules held it shut. It had been jerked from his hands, alerting the man that something was amiss. “Monsieur le Marquis, are you all right?”

Speechless, Valentin stared back at his unexpected guests. He sat up and peered closer, his gaze traveling from Jules to Luc and back again. His expression changed from surprise to shock.

“My God,” he breathed. Reaching out, he grasped both Jules’s and Luc’s hands and squeezed. “What has become of you?” His voice quavered with emotion.

“Monsieur!” The pounding persisted. “Please, are you all right!”

Valentin cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Valentin,” Jules said. “We must speak to you. Somewhere private.”

In the Hôtel d’Argon, in the Marquis’ private apartments, the distinguished Aristo took in the trio before him, his expression aggrieved.

Light from the flickering flames in the hearth, the silver wall sconces and torchères revealed the extent of Jules, Luc, and Sabine’s beggared appearance.

But Jules wasn’t embarrassed. The importance of this meeting blanketed whatever personal discomfort Jules might derive dressed as a pauper before Valentin.

Sabine shifted her weight from one foot to the other. At Jules’s behest, she’d been admitted in the Marquis’ carriage.

Surrounded by lavishness, she stood between Jules and his brother, her eyes uncharacteristically downcast. Every so often she touched her frayed skirts. Clearly, she didn’t share his indifference to their appearance, but was embarrassed by her mode of dress and diminished status, especially since she’d learned in the carriage that Valentin had been an acquaintance of her father’s.

“Disguises or not, you are of noble birth, of superior bloodlines. It grieves me to see you like
this
,” Valentin said, the sincerity of his words reflecting in his benevolent eyes. “You wouldn’t have gone to such lengths unless you were in dire straits.” He moved to his writing desk, stacks of his beloved books covering most of its surface. “I’ll advance you funds.”

“Valentin—” Jules began but the Marquis held up his hand to stop the flow of his words.

“I insist. Think nothing of it, son. Now then, how much will you need?” He picked up his quill and glanced at Jules, then Luc.

“We didn’t come here for money,” Luc said.

Valentin dropped the quill back into the crystal inkwell. He stepped around his desk, concern etched on his visage. “Then why do you risk your freedom? Your
life
? You know the consequences you face if either of you is caught in Paris. What has happened?”

“Valentin.” Jules paused, grappling with his words. The Archbishop had been the Marquis’ friend. He hated being the bearer of bad news, being the one to cause the tenderhearted man distress.

So different from the other Aristos Jules knew, the Marquis d’Argon, who disliked darts and dice. Who preferred prose over promiscuity—it was common knowledge he’d never been unfaithful to his wife. Even Jules’s father, who’d held himself to a higher standard of conduct than most of his peers, had had mistresses—though he never flaunted them.

“Five years ago you took a great risk to help us,” Jules began. “You were the only one who didn’t believe my father was a traitor to the Crown. It’s something my brother and I will never forget. We are forever in your debt.”

Valentin waved off Jules’s words, looking embarrassed by them. “I simply did what was right.” The man was as modest as he was decent. “I couldn’t sit back and watch you and Luc meet with the same fate as your father. There had been enough injustice already. I’m sorry you lost everything,” he said, rueful. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“There is something more you can do,” Luc injected, his impatience showing. “We need information.”

“Information?”

“Yes, Valentin, my brother is correct.” Jules briefly tossed Luc a stern look, cautioning him to watch his outbursts. They had to broach this gently. “I loathe to ask for more of you, but you’re the only one we can turn to.”

“But I have told you all that I know,” the Marquis assured them. “Making inquiries is difficult and dangerous. Even now. Your father hasn’t been forgotten or forgiven. I want to see your lands and title restored. But there is nothing more I can do. Especially now. I’m in negotiations with the Duc de Talon over the marriage contract between his son and my Marguerite. I cannot jeopardize her future—”

Jules approached. “We don’t wish to place you in peril or risk disgracing your family . . . We came here looking for information regarding your friend, the Archbishop of Divonne.”

“Bailloux? What about him?”

Jules’s silence was saturated with reluctance.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, but he is . . . dead.”

“Dead?” Ashen, Valentin simply stared back at him in stunned disbelief. “H-How . . . do you know this?”

“We found him in his chapel, hanging from a rope.” Jules pulled out the Archbishop’s letter from inside his doublet and handed it to him. “We found this near his body.”

The older Aristo’s hands slightly trembled as he read the contents. When he finally met Jules’s gaze, his eyes glistened with tears. “I—I cannot believe it . . .”

With care, Jules explained the events that led to the discovery of the Archbishop’s body and the scene in the chapel.

The Marquis slowly sank into a nearby chair as though the weight of the news was too great for his legs to bear.

Jules placed his hand on the Marquis’ shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes . . . No . . . I—I don’t know . . .” His anguish resonated with Jules. He’d been no less grief-stricken when he’d learned his father had lost his life swinging from a rope.

He hated pressing Valentin when he looked so shaken, but had no choice. “Valentin, I must ask you: Did you know he was in love with the Comtesse de Tonnere?”

The older man’s gaze dropped back down to the note. “Yes . . . He is”—Valentin swallowed—“
was
a good friend and confided as such . . .”

“Were you aware of the animosity the Archbishop felt toward my father?” Jules asked.

Valentin remained silent, blankly staring at the note. Jules thought he hadn’t heard the question, but then he answered, “I knew Bailloux was angry and upset with him . . . but I never knew why. Neither of them would say. They didn’t wish to place me in the middle of their dispute.”

“Then you never heard anything about my father blackmailing the Archbishop?” Jules asked, tossing a glance at Luc.

“Blackmailing Bailloux?” Valentin scrubbed a hand over his face, his other hand still clutching the note. “No.”

“Nothing about my father threatening to expose the Archbishop’s affair with the Comtesse?” Luc pressed.

“No. Why would you say such a thing?”

“My brother found a letter in the Archbishop’s study,” Jules explained. “He’s convinced it’s authentic. Signed with my father’s name, its contents threaten to reveal the Comtesse’s adultery to her husband.”

“Good Lord. That would have devastated Ballioux—and incensed him. He was highly protective of her.”

“Then it’s possible that the Archbishop could have been my father’s traitor, no?” Luc asked.

The Marquis dropped his forehead into his palm. “I don’t know . . . I honestly don’t know what to think. I’d planned on visiting Ballioux after I’d settled matters with the Duc. I know he was distraught over the Comtesse’s death. The tone of his letters concerned me. If only I’d been able to get away . . . If only I’d been there . . . He might still be alive . . .”

Still with a hand on the man’s shoulder, Jules lowered himself onto one knee. “Valentin, you knew my father. He would
not
blackmail a friend. Or anyone. He wasn’t that kind of man.”

The Marquis looked at Jules. “Your father was a proud man. At times too proud. Easily offended. This note you speak of could have been written by him in a moment of anger. Something he didn’t mean, yet Bailloux took profoundly to heart. Bailloux was normally a placid man, and prior to his involvement with the Comtesse, pious, too. Under the right circumstances, any man can behave as he never has before. Bailloux may have been the traitor you seek. Or not. Now that he is dead, we may never know the truth.”

Jules shook his head. “I will learn the truth. I must. I owe my father as much.”

Valentin placed his hand on Jules’s shoulder. “Your father is not here to give you his counsel. Allow me to give you fatherly advice, Jules.”

“Of course, Valentin. I value your opinion.”

“Let this go. Concentrate your efforts on reclaiming your lands and status. On gaining the King’s forgiveness. Perhaps in a year or two we can begin to reacquaint you with old friends who may be able to bend the King’s ear in your favor. Leave the ghosts of the past behind.”

“I can’t. I don’t believe the letter found in the Archbishop’s study bearing my father’s name is authentic—it’s a disparaging portrayal of him, utter nonsense.” Jules rose and took the letter from Valentin’s hand. “And I don’t believe the Archbishop killed himself. However, I do think there’s a connection with the Archbishop’s death and my father’s betrayal.”

If he was correct, than there was still someone out there who wanted Jules dead. The same someone who had attacked his men.

Valentin’s eyes widened. “A connection? But . . . who would harm
Bailloux
? Why? And why would someone want both your father and Bailloux dead?”

“I don’t know. What about the Comtesse’s husband? He was always known to have a temper. To be ‘offended easily.’ Perhaps he, too, was at odds with my father? Perhaps he recently learned of the affair—”

Valentin shook his head. “Impossible. He died in a duel two months ago. His temper being what it was, if he were at odds with anyone, everyone would know about it. He wasn’t one to rein in his ire.”

Jules raked his hand through his hair. “What about the letters? The ones used to condemn my father at his trial. Do you have any idea how the letters ended up in the satchel of his personal couriers? Have you heard any whispers—any information at all—as to who could have been the true authors of those letters?” Desperate, he was grasping and he knew it.

“Had I learned more, Jules, I would have informed you straightaway.” What few communiqués Valentin dared to send were delivered to a tavern owner outside the city whom Jules paid and trusted.

“Anyone who was connected—either by kinship or friendship—to men condemned as traitors to the Crown were, and still are, under scrutiny,” Valentin said. “No one wishes to suffer the fate your father suffered. It’s unlikely anyone would be so reckless as to discuss such a nefarious plot openly.”

Frustration crushing down on him, Jules knew Valentin was right.

The older Aristo looked heavy-hearted and weary. Jules reined in his questions. “The hour is late,” he conceded reluctantly.

Valentin nodded and rose to his feet. “I can offer you a night’s stay, but until the matter of the marriage contract is settled, I can do no more. I’m sorry, Jules.”