Deadly Descent (24 page)

Chapter 25

Aftermath

Anne hurled a pair of shoes into a trunk half full of clothes she had hastily packed. The rest of her things were strewn about the parlor. The humiliation of being ordered out of the chateau was coming home to her. She was folding a shift when Michou touched her arm. A note had slipped under the door.

“Please pick it up,” Anne signed, then leaned over the trunk and patted down Comtesse Marie's riding suit. A few days earlier, Anne had tried it on while Comtesse Marie watched. Together they had marvelled at the close fit. The comtesse had worn it as a younger woman. With age she had grown thinner and the costume hung loosely on her.

Anne straightened up, staring into the trunk. Was nobility merely a change of clothes? Or, a title? Marie de Beaumont and her nephew Paul deserved respect. Decent, useful people. But Debussy, Pressigny and the Amateurs? Rubbish in silk stockings! She finished the packing with renewed energy, dropped the lid of the trunk with a thump, and clasped it shut.

Michou handed her the note, a message written by a cramped, shaking hand. Anne went to the window for better light.
Please see me before you depart. Claire
. Intriguing. Did she know what had happened in the comte's apartment? The memory of it rushed back to Anne's mind. The comte's impotent lechery. Krishna's resistance. Perhaps he was merely looking after his master's best interest in keeping the police away from Chateau Debussy. What other reason could there be?

She looked out the window, rubbing the back of her neck. Another puzzle. Why this request from Claire? Was she merely curious? She appeared to keep herself informed. It might be prudent to find out what she had heard. Anne glanced at the message again. Its tone was courteous. Surprisingly so, in view of the rude remarks the woman had made at supper last night.

Anne looked around the room. The trunk was packed. Next to it stood Michou ready to leave. There was time for a brief visit, Anne thought, and strode toward the door. It was worth the risk. Michou could stay with the luggage.

Claire's apartment at the opposite end of the mansard floor was similar to the one Anne and Michou were vacating. Odd location for a noblewoman and member of the family, Anne thought, as a young maid showed her in. It was as if the comte and his stepdaughter chose to live as far as possible from one another. While waiting for Claire, Anne glanced about the sparsely furnished parlor with amazement. There were no plants or flowers nor any pictures. If Claire had a home, it was elsewhere.

The parlor appeared to serve as a study. Against one wall stood a secretary and next to it a library table, its surface covered with piles of books. Anne inspected the topmost, a volume opened to colored engravings of a trellised pear tree, its fruit and leaves. Bookcases lined another wall from floor to ceiling. Scanning the shelves, she found a few books of recent, fashionable interest, including a worn copy of Choderlos de Laclos'
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
. A gentleman's guide to the art of seduction. “Jean” was inscribed inside the cover. Lent it to his sister, Anne supposed, to feed her starved fantasy.

The rest of the books comprised a botanical library. Anne opened Linnaeus'
Species plantarum
, noting a crest with the name Comtesse de Pressigny stamped on the title page. Claire's mother, most likely. Anne was closing the book when a door opened behind her. Claire approached, looking very different than at last night's supper table. A simple yellow dressing gown lightly covered her shapely body. Free of cosmetics, her face revealed a certain beauty in the soft, early evening light.

“Have you an interest in the Swedish botanist?” she asked with a hint of doubt. She took the volume from Anne and fanned it, raising no dust. Her bible, Anne thought, then glanced at Claire's hands. They were brown and rough.

“I'm aware of his reputation,” Anne replied. She and Paul had spoken about him a few weeks earlier while they were trimming roses in the garden. “He's the scholar,” she said, quoting Paul, “who brought order to our understanding of the plant world.” She squirmed inwardly as she heard the pedantic sound of her remark.

Claire looked straight ahead, smiling indulgently, and returned the book to the shelf. “I find plants are better company than most of the people I know.” With a brusque gesture she directed Anne to a group of chairs by the window. “I must talk to you.” She seated herself across from Anne and waved the maid out of the room.

“I've heard at second hand that you and the comte had a disagreement. Let me guess what happened. He tried to attack you, and you outwitted him. Right?” Without waiting for an answer, she leaned back in the chair, her eyes hard, her arms folded across her chest. “Tell me about it.”

The maid brought in a tea tray, giving Anne a few minutes to consider what, if anything, she should say. She fought down an impulse to tell Claire to mind her own business. The woman already knew the basic elements of the story.

Anne agreed with a shrug, then gave Claire a detailed account of the incident. She omitted the comte's snide remarks about Georges spending the night in her apartment.

Claire listened intently, her mouth set in a scowl, until Anne finished. “I owe you an apology,” she said. Her expression softened. She leaned forward, rubbing her thighs with her hands. “I was rude to you at the supper table. But I hate the comte and I thought you were his whore!” She appeared to struggle momentarily for self-control, then spoke in a small calm voice. “When I learned you had resisted him, I changed my opinion. I have to say I admire you and wish I had your nerve.”

Anne smiled gently, assuring her no offense had been taken for her remarks at supper. “Why do you need more nerve?” asked Anne.

For a moment, Claire stared into her cup, then raised her eyes to Anne. “I feel like I'm in prison, helpless, in the clutches of a lecherous sadistic jailer. Until he grew ill, he had his way with me for years.” Her eyes darkened, her chin thrust forward. Anger seemed to roil beneath her icy surface. “If I'd had courage,” she said in a low, quiet voice, “I'd have thrown a candelabrum at the old bastard's head.”

She rose stiffly from her chair, seized a vase from a nearby shelf, and hurled it at the wall. Anne flinched as it exploded in a shower of tiny pieces. Claire returned to her chair, smiling as if she had done nothing out of the ordinary. But her eyes had become unnaturally bright, her breathing strained.

Was the woman mad? Anne wondered. Should she invent an excuse to leave? She sipped from her cup. Claire did likewise. After a few wordless moments, when Anne sensed Claire's breathing return to normal, she ventured to ask if her brother was of much help.

“He hates the comte as much as I do, but he's concerned only with the Amateurs.”

“Could you move away from here?”

“I have no money. The comte has swindled most of my mother's legacy and he controls the rest. The only thing I can do is garden!”

“Perhaps you could turn gardening into a new life.” Even as she spoke, Anne realized how unlikely that prospect was, unless Claire could find a sympathetic patron. Comtesse Marie de Beaumont came to mind, but it seemed an unlikely match. Anne rose to leave. “I wish I could be more helpful, but as you know, the comte wants me off the property within the hour! Perhaps we can continue our talk later, somewhere else.”

Claire nodded. “I hope so.” She saw Anne to the door and took her hand in parting. It felt like the grip of a drowning woman.

***

Paul de Saint-Martin paced back and forth, mulling over the report his adjutant had just given him. The air felt warm and still in the ground floor parlor at Chateau Beaumont. The colonel had hung his coat over a chair and opened his shirt at the neck. Through the windows he saw a servant lighting lamps in the courtyard. The sun had set. Darkness nearly filled the sky.

He glanced down at his adjutant sitting in front of two empty glasses and a bottle of brandy. “I'm concerned about Miss Cartier. That encounter with Debussy and his steward must have upset her. She walked past me with just the ghost of a smile.”

Georges looked up and shrugged. “She was tired, didn't want anything to eat, just a bath. When she's rested, she'll tell you what happened first hand. I was in the comte's anteroom and didn't see much.” He glanced hopefully at the brandy and the glasses.

Still uncertain about Anne, Saint-Martin sat down at the table and poured for himself and his adjutant. Raising his glass, he met Georges' eye. “Well done! We're now certain Derennes isn't hiding within Chateau Debussy, and we know a great deal more about the Laplante case.”

“I'll drink to that.” Georges lifted his glass.

The two men settled back in their chairs, sipping their brandy. “We've done what we can here,” Saint-Martin said, fingering his glass. “Tomorrow, we'll return to Paris….”

Georges cut in, “And trace the stiletto back to Laplante.”

The colonel nodded. “But the first thing on my list for the morning is a ride in the country with Miss Cartier. If she cares to go, of course. I'd like you to have our horses ready, just in case.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the adjutant, but with a grimace that surprised Saint-Martin. He considered a reprimand but thought better of it. A man as loyal as Georges was entitled to express his feelings. Perhaps it was demeaning to order an old soldier to serve his master's private pleasure with a woman. Or, was envy at the bottom of it? Did Georges resent his riding with Anne? In vain, Saint-Martin sought his adjutant's eye. Conversation lagged while the two men sipped their brandy.

The colonel glanced at his watch. “Ten o'clock. Miss Cartier has rested by now. I'll go to her and hear her report.” He took a final sip, placed his empty glass on the table, and bid his adjutant goodnight. Georges looked up but did not respond.

Saint-Martin paused outside Anne's apartment, ran a hand through his hair, then knocked on the door. A young maid opened it and showed him into a parlor. Mademoiselle Cartier was coming out of the bath, she told him. Would he wait? Yes, he said, curbing an impatience that took him by surprise.

The room was plain but tasteful. Four upholstered chairs were placed around a small mahogany table, a pale green sofa stood against a cream-colored wall. Several sconces shed a soft light over a Turkish carpet. As he idly surveyed his surroundings, a curious feeling came over him, a tingling of nerves, a longing to see her, to touch her. Suddenly, unbidden in his imagination, a nude female form shrouded in mist emerged from an emerald pond and glided toward him, water glistening on her body.

At that moment, the maid returned and the vision vanished. Mademoiselle Cartier, she announced, would join him shortly.

***

Meanwhile, Anne stepped out of the large copper tub filled with warm water. For this uncommon luxury she had to thank Comtesse Marie, who had seen her return from Chateau Debussy irritated and fatigued. The long soaking bath had dissipated whatever had been disagreeable or insulting to her during the day, especially her confrontation with the comte.

As she towelled herself dry, she realized she had returned to Chateau Beaumont without properly greeting Paul. In truth, she had not wanted to speak to him while she was in a troubled state of mind. Now she looked forward to seeing his honest, handsome face. He would hang on what she had to say, his brown eyes bright and eager.

The sound of footsteps outside distracted her. A few moments later, the young parlor maid opened the bathroom door. “A gentleman, Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin, wishes to speak to Mademoiselle Cartier.”

Anne sucked in a breath. Taken by surprise, she recovered as best she could, trying to conceal her pleasure from the maid. “Tell him, I'll join him shortly in the parlor, then come back and do my hair.”

Several minutes later, in a thin blue silk house robe, her hair combed back in soft golden waves, Anne sat alone with Paul at the table in her parlor. She had sent the maid away with the wet towels. Paul listened with rapt attention, as she told her story of the Amateurs' reception. She hesitated briefly before passing over Georges' night in her apartment at Chateau Debussy and the comte's invidious allusion to it. She felt uneasy, as if she were hiding something Paul would want to know. And might resent. But she put her mind at rest. These were irrelevant details, nothing he need be concerned about. At least not now. He seemed so happy and…passionate.

***

As Anne related her experience in Debussy's apartment, Paul grew anxious for her safety, then angry. His face burned. “How dare the comte insult you, a young lady under my aunt's protection! If he weren't so ill.…” He checked himself, then gazed intently at her. “You taught him a lesson!” He moved forward to the edge of his chair and took her hand. “I'm pleased you returned safely.”

She squeezed his hand and smiled. “Could we do something together tomorrow before returning to Paris? An early morning ride perhaps?”

“I'd like that very much.” He was delighted she had anticipated his wish. Caressing her hand, their knees almost touching, he sensed the pulsing life within her. Her scent, fresh from the bath, wafted over him. The thin silk garment cleaved to her body, revealing its loveliness. He began to feel lightheaded with desire.

She gently withdrew her hand. “Then it's best to retire now. I've had a tiring day. I want to be fresh for the ride.”

He rose reluctant to leave. She walked him to the door. They turned toward one another, as if pulled by a powerful hidden force. “Sleep well, Anne,” he said, stroking her cheek.

“And you, too, Paul.” She leaned into his caress. Her arms encircled his waist.

He cupped her head in his hands and drew her to his lips. Their bodies pressed together in an intimate embrace. Then, drawing back, they clasped hands.

“Until tomorrow, then.” He walked out into the hallway, turned and waved.