Louisa Rawlings (21 page)

Lucien looked surprised. “Yes, of course. If you think it’s necessary. Monsieur Farigoule, may I present Véronique?”

Farigoule kissed Topaze’s hand. “A charming creature.
I
shouldn’t have overlooked her, Renaudot.”

Martin scowled. “But then you’re not as blind as my friend Lucien.”

Ave Maria
, thought Topaze.
Let them not begin to quarrel again!
She laughed brightly. “Let me see if Madame Le Sage needs my help.” She nodded at them and hurried away.

Upon further reflection, she decided that it was best not to tell Martin that she’d slept with Lucien. And there was no reason for him to find out. He was leaving in two days, and Lucien would be discreet in coming to her room at night, she felt sure. By summer, all this would be over. Martin and Lucien would be together in Guadeloupe. They were partners, friends. Why create a further gulf between them?

She made a special effort to treat them evenhandedly during supper. Madame Le Sage had prepared a sumptuous meal. Monsieur Farigoule was a lively guest, a charming scoundrel who kept them all laughing. Topaze had guessed—from his first conversation with Lucien—that the man was involved in smuggling. All during supper he and Lucien exchanged stories of various “business ventures”, couched in euphemism so that Madame Le Sage—listening intently, her pudgy fingers occasionally cupped about her ear—was none the wiser.

After supper Lucien and Farigoule continued their reminiscences in lowered tones; Topaze assumed they were speaking more frankly now. Madame Le Sage sat at her spinning wheel, and Martin challenged Topaze to a card game. At last Farigoule stood up, stretched, yawned discreetly behind his hand. “It’s been a long day. I beg your leave, Madame Le Sage.”

Martin discarded, then glanced at the banker. “You’re welcome to share my room and my bed, monsieur.”

Madame Le Sage looked up from her spinning. “That won’t be necessary, Martin. Lucien has offered his room.”

“How kind. Lucien will sleep with me, then, Aunt Louise.”

“No. At his request, I’ve moved him to his wife’s room.” Martin stared at Topaze across the card table. “Is that so?”
Ah, Dieu
, she thought, seeing the pain in his eyes. She’d hoped to avoid this. But Lucien had acted without her say-so. What must Martin think now?

Lucien stood up and smiled. “Has the room been prepared?”

He held out his hand to Topaze. His desire was clear on his face. “Then come, wife.”

“But the card game…”

He scowled. “It’s just a game. I’m tired. Come.”

Stung by his imperious tone she hesitated, then put down her cards and smiled sheepishly at Martin. “You would have won, in any event.”

Lucien gave a little bow. “Good night to all. We’ll meet at ten tomorrow. In Martin’s room. Is it agreed?” Without waiting for an answer, he slipped a proprietary arm about Topaze’s waist and led her from the room.

He was a cursory lover this evening. He seemed distracted, filled with nervous anticipation for the plan that was finally coming to fruition. And perhaps more than a little disturbed by his talk with Farigoule, which seemed to have brought back unpleasant memories. It didn’t matter to Topaze. Though her body was only briefly stirred, her lips gloried in his sweet kisses. And the warmth of him beside her as she fell asleep was joy enough.

She let him go down to breakfast without her, and enjoyed a solitary cup of tea in her room. She heard Henriette giggling in the yard below her window.
It must be ten o’clock
, she thought. Henriette’s sweetheart, a rawboned farmer who lived several leagues away, always managed to come by at about that hour. She crossed the corridor and went into Martin’s room. It was empty. She moved to the table, idly studying the plan of Grismoulins, and waited for the men to arrive.

“It didn’t take you long. Were you only waiting for me to leave?”

She turned. Martin stood in the doorway, his handsome face dark with anger. “Don’t,” she said.

His expression softened. “Forgive me. That was cruel.” He strode to her and took her hand in his. “Are you happy now?”

“Dearest Martin. What does that mean? Happy. Unhappy. Life is for living. I’d be a sorry creature if I waited for it to be paradise.”

“Damn him. He doesn’t return your love, then.”

She laughed sadly. “He doesn’t even know I love him. What would be the point in telling him? He’s so filled with anger there’s no room in his heart for anything else. But he’s gentle and tender when he wants to be. And sometimes”—she choked back the sudden rush of tears—“when…when we’re together, I can make him forget. He loses himself in my arms for a little while. And then I can pretend, for those few brief moments, that he cares. The poor man. He’s so alone.”

“Damn it!” he burst out. “How can you give so much and ask for so little in return? I watched him last night. He still behaves as though you’re the little chit he picked up off the street! He should be wooing you. You should demand it. Name of God, where’s your pride?”

She stared at him in surprise. “When you’re poor, you forget to have pride. It’s a luxury you can’t afford.” She shrugged. “And I love him.”

“Topaze…”

“Good morning.” Monsieur Farigoule hurried into the room, followed by Lucien. Martin nodded a curt greeting, putting aside his strong emotions with difficulty. The four of them sat down at the table to discuss the scheme in earnest.

Despite his ventures into smuggling, Monsieur Farigoule appeared to have a thriving—and quite legitimate—bank in Nantes. He lent, he borrowed, he advised his patrons on investments. But, as he told Topaze, from time to time those investments (alas!) turned sour. Since, for the most part, his advice was sound, his reputation hadn’t suffered because of the occasional loss. And if there was any real difficulty, his large personal fortune—swelled by his smuggling profits—could always be used to make up a sudden deficit.

Farigoule beamed. “You see, my dear,” he said to Topaze, “I’ve found it simple to play upon the greed of mankind. I give advice, my ‘pigeon’ has one or two modest successes, with generous interest payments, and then he’s ripe for the plucking. One more investment. The largest yet. I warn him against it. He’s adamant. I concede. ‘If you force me to take your money, monsieur…but I’ll not be liable for the consequences.’” He smiled, a cherub’s grin, and spread his hands in the air. “And, of course, the poor man loses everything.”

“What has that to do with me?”

“When you leave here on Wednesday,” said Lucien, “you’ll take the public coach from Beauvoir. Monsieur Farigoule, a respected banker from Nantes, who happens to be traveling in the region, will board there as well. As you travel, he’ll engage you in conversation, extolling the merits of certain ventures to which he’s privy.”

Farigoule smiled again. “You needn’t listen, of course, my dear. It will all be hodgepodge. Simply for the benefit of the other passengers, should they be questioned later.”

“And then?”

Lucien was clearly pleased with the scheme. “Véronique will go on to Grismoulins, forget about Monsieur Farigoule, and prepare to celebrate her birthday. A week or so before the event, she’ll meet Monsieur Farigoule again, by chance, in a village near Grismoulins.” He grinned wickedly. “Perhaps we’ll even have you invite him to the château. When you come into your money, you’ll insist that Monsieur Farigoule handle your investments.” Lucien clapped his hands. “Hocus-pocus. A hundred thousand livres disappears.”

Topaze stared, open-mouthed. “Now, by Saint Marc, if you’re not the greatest pair of crackropes who ever deserved the gallows!”

Lucien laughed. “Show me a Frenchman who doesn’t delight in his cleverness.”

“But what if the Chalotais don’t agree to my investing my money with Monsieur Farigoule?”

“We’re relying on Véronique’s willfulness. And the family’s delight in having her home again.”

“I suppose I can manage a few tantrums, if I must. But what of
my
portion? I trust you, of course. And Monsieur Farigoule. But…” she shrugged. “Guadeloupe is very far away.”

“What do you
want
to do?”

“Send it by post to the Givets. Half for a gift of gratitude. Half to be held aside for me, until my return.”

“Why can’t you ask it openly, then?” said Martin. “Surely the Chalotais would understand your desire to be kind to the Givets. And seven thousand livres. It’s such a small part of the total inheritance. Why should they object?”

Topaze nodded. “I’ll see if I can persuade them of it.” She frowned. There was one more thing to be considered. “I trust that the investments won’t fail until
after
I’ve left Grismoulins.”

“We’ve agreed on the suicide?” asked Lucien.

She nodded reluctantly. “And the investment?”

Monsieur Farigoule put a finger alongside his nose. “It will be very profitable. At least so long as you’re with the family. I’ll send you a small dividend or two. Perhaps one more to the Chalotais when you’ve gone. A nice touch, that, don’t you think, Lucien? After which I’ll announce the unfortunate news to the family. The enterprise has failed. The money is gone.”

“To be invested in a tobacco plantation in Guadeloupe,” crowed Lucien.

They spent the rest of the morning refining the scheme; in the afternoon Monsieur Farigoule left for Beauvoir. Supper was a strange affair. Their last meal together—the three of them. The appearance of Farigoule had brought home the reality of the plan. And now they were like soldiers preparing for battle: nerves stretched taut, eyes unnaturally bright with a terrible excitement. And the unspoken emotions that cast a dark pall over their anticipation: love, hatred, envy.

Martin left the next afternoon. Because of Captain Foure at La Rochelle, he planned to sail from Bordeaux. “Will you try to see the Givet family before you go?” asked Topaze. They stood in the farmyard watching one of the boys bring up a wagon to take Martin to Beauvoir.

He smiled down at her. “I’ll tell them you’re well.”

“Tell them I’ll see them soon.”

“And Lucien?”

She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. “He’ll return to Adriane, I’m sure. As he always intended. What does it matter?” She tried to smile. “But I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that he was mine first.”

“Will I see you again?” His voice was low and husky.

“Not in this life.”

“Come to me. When this is over, come to me and be my wife.”

“Dear, dear Martin. And spend my days watching him with
her
?”

He cursed softly. “I wish to God we’d never started this.”

“Then the days of my life would have been diminished by one dear friend.” She laughed. “I should have been a poet, not a thief.”

“Damn the poets. They write about broken hearts far more than they should.”

She felt the last vestiges of her composure beginning to crumble. “Don’t, Martin…” she choked.

His brown eyes were soft with longing, regret. “For what it’s worth, you have my heart, and my love. You know that.”

She stroked his cheek. “Dear Martin. If the world were a perfect place, I should love you in return.”

“No,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “If the world were a perfect place, that fool would open his eyes and love
you
.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with all the fervor in his heart. Then he turned, leaped aboard the wagon, and signaled the boy to depart.

Topaze leaned against the side of the farmhouse and let the bitter tears fall.
God be with you, Martin,
she thought.

She looked up. Lucien stood in the doorway, watching her. Without a word he picked her up and carried her to her room. Still cradling her in his arms, he sat down. “I’ll miss him too,” he said.

She clung to him and sobbed aloud, as much for the hopelessness of her own love as for the loss of a dear friend. As her weeping subsided, Lucien kissed her—over and over again—his lips soft on her mouth, her eyes, her tear-stained cheeks. He caressed her gently, stroking her back and shoulders with strong, warm hands. He traced the curve of one rounded hip, knee, calf. He put his hand under her skirts, felt for the top of her stockings, ran his fingers along the bare flesh of her thighs. His touch was so light that there was as much comfort as passion in his movements. She whimpered softly as his fingers penetrated, gliding and rubbing against the delicate core of her. She closed her eyes and leaned back against his other arm, giving herself up to his tender ministrations. Again and again he stroked the swelling bud of her womanhood until he’d coaxed her into a gentle release. She moaned, sighed once, and relaxed in his arms.

He withdrew his hand and carried her to her bed. He put her down. “Try to rest,” he said.

She opened her eyes. “Lucien. Don’t you want…?”

“I said rest.”

She sat up. Boldly she put her hand to his loins. She felt a hardness, the pressure of his straining member against the palm of her hand. She looked at him, bewildered. “Didn’t you plan to stay?”

His mouth twitched in a wry smile. “I didn’t think you’d want a villainous rogue at the moment. Not when you’ve just lost your dear companion.”

The sweetness of his sacrifice brought the tears back to her eyes. “Lucien,” she whispered.