Louisa Rawlings (42 page)

Bonnefous’s voice was gently disapproving. “Have I earned such discourtesy, monsieur? I’ve been harsh in my examination, I grant you. But it’s in the nature of my profession to guard the interests of my clientele. I was merely curious as to your presence here, because Monsieur le Comte told me last night that the library was to be closed until some repairs could be made. I expected to see workmen, not you.”

“By Lucifer,” muttered Lucien, “that’s how it was to be done.” The workmen would have kept him from rescuing Véronique. Hubert might even have planned to seal off the tunnel for good!

“I’ll confess to you now,” Bonnefous went on, “that I did think the girl was a fraud in the beginning. And that you were involved. But I learned that you arrived in this country in June, which would seem to absolve you. As for Véronique, Madame de Chalotais has long since convinced me that the girl gave her certain signs confirming her identity. I’m pleased that the matter is closed.”

“I’m not sure it is. I think you’re an honest man, monsieur. A fair one. I need your help. And your trust. I can’t think of another way of winning it except by being honest with you.” Lord, he must be mad! After all his planning… “The girl
is
Véronique, Monsieur Bonnefous. You may rely upon it. In truth, I found her in Bordeaux.”

“
You
, monsieur?”

“Yes. The captain who said I arrived in June was paid to do so. It was I who persuaded Véronique to return home.”

“Why?”

“Your instincts are good, Monsieur Bonnefous. For the hundred thousand livres.” He
had
lost his reason.

Bonnefous looked stricken. “But how? The money has been invested!”

“Through means that are too complex to explain, the money has found its way to my bank in Guadeloupe.”

“And Véronique knew of this?”

“Yes. But I persuaded her that it should have been mine. She’s not to be blamed. Do you understand? I alone am culpable. It was an unfair appeal to her sensibility. Her concern for her cousin. But as soon as I can, I’ll see that the money is returned.”
Sorry, Martin
, he thought.

“I suppose I should be outraged at these facts, Monsieur Renaudot. But, under the circumstances, and because of my sympathy for your situation, I don’t think the authorities need learn of any of this. I think you’ve suffered enough at the hands of this family. And certainly, if you make restitution…”

Lucien nodded. “You have my word.” He sighed. “You might as well know the whole story. Véronique seems to have lost much of her memory. I had to refresh it on some points.”

“Ah!” Bonnefous looked pleased with himself. “I
knew
she was too glib!”

“Perhaps she had an accident when she left here. Something that clouded her memories. But more and more she’s recalling things.”

Bonnefous tugged at his earlobe. “The harpsichord…she played it like someone in a dream.”

“Yes. When we spoke of it, she said she thought she couldn’t play. But her hands seemed to direct her that night.” And he’d mocked the story.

“I’m curious, Monsieur Renaudot. It seems to me that your scheme was a perfect success. That you were out of jeopardy. The money safe. Why do you destroy your own edifice now?”

Why, indeed!
“Because someone is trying to kill Véronique.”
Could there be a better reason?

“
Parbleu!
Who?”

“I think it must be Hubert. But I need you to confirm it. Your knowledge of his affairs. Did he lose a great deal by her return?”

“After your confession, I think you deserve my honesty as well. Monsieur de Chalotais, you understand, was hoping for the hundred thousand livres. The birthday inheritance. It’s why he invited me to Grismoulins to spend these past months.”

“And if Véronique hadn’t returned? Wasn’t the money to go into Aunt Adelaïde’s estate?”

“Not if the girl was declared dead
before
her birthday. He was prepared to have it done even after she returned. To keep her imprisoned until after that day.”

“It was why he insisted she was a fraud?”

“Yes. Though I had doubts about the girl, I had even graver misgivings about Hubert’s plan. I’m not sure I would have agreed to it.” He shrugged. “But then, of course, Madame de Chalotais confirmed the girl’s identity, and Hubert was forced to accept the truth.”

“Then what can Hubert gain by seeing her dead now?”

Bonnefous’s eyes widened. “Name of God! The Marcigny inheritance, of course! I never thought of it.”

Lucien swore. “He has Grismoulins. Isn’t it enough?”

“Quite frankly, Grismoulins is mortgaged to the hilt. Monsieur de Chalotais is less than wise when it comes to gambling. He told me only last week that he might be forced to sell his hôtel in Paris.”

“Sell his hôtel? Is he that desperate? But what about the lavish party he gave for Véronique?”

“On credit, alas.” Bonnefous frowned. “But to try and kill the girl? His own stepdaughter? No, monsieur. It makes no sense. I’m a man of logic. What’s to be gained by killing the girl, once the hundred thousand is beyond Monsieur le Comte’s reach? The Marcigny inheritance simply becomes part of Madame de Chalotais’s estate. Not to be his until her death. Who knows when he’d see it?”

“Madame de Chalotais has been quite ill of late,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“By my faith, monsieur! Do you mean to suggest…?”

“I don’t know. I
do
know Véronique is in danger. Twice yesterday an attempt was made on her life. We must find her.”

“
Dieu!
Come along then. I’m glad you’re wearing your sword.”

They hurried out of the library. Lucien found himself trembling with fear and dread. They saw Madame Revin in the
galerie
. He called to her, explained that they were looking for Mademoiselle Véronique.

Madame Revin smiled. “Oh, she’s gone on a picnic with Monsieur Léonard.”

“Where have they gone?”

“To the old gray mill, I think.” She smiled again. “Isn’t it odd? Monsieur Hubert was just asking about them himself. Not half an hour ago!”

“Oh, Léonard. Isn’t it a lovely day for a picnic?” She threw her arms wide and pirouetted. The sun was warm on the clover, intensifying the sweet-spicy aroma that filled her nostrils. Up here, with the soft breezes, the humming of bees, she could almost lose sight of her troubles. For a little while, she’d drive Lucien from her mind. Forget her dilemma. Forget the danger. The mill, that had loomed so gray and threatening in yesterday’s mist, was a happy, peaked-cap gnome today, sunning itself in the glory of June. And the rolling meadow that spread before it was a lush green carpet.

“Come and have a piece of fruit,” Léonard held out a golden wedge of melon.

She sat beside him in the deep grass. The melon was warm and sweet, all of summer in its scented flesh. She gobbled it like a greedy child, then laughed and tossed the rind toward the edge of the cliff.

Léonard snorted. “You’re too far away. And you’re just a girl. Watch.” He finished his slice of melon, flung the remains with all his might. It sailed into the air and disappeared over the edge of the rock slide.

“You’re not only the nicest brother I ever had, Léonard. You’re also the strongest!”

His expression darkened. “Are you glad to be home again? With me?”

“You know I am.”

“Then why do you call me Léonard?”

“You silly goose. Because it’s your name.”

“You used to call me ‘
Moucheron
’.

“I know that. But when I came back, I decided that you were too grown up to be called ‘Little Gnat’ anymore.”

He beamed, his face flooding with relief. “I thought you were angry at me. And that’s why you stopped calling me
Moucheron
.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t talk to me at first, when I came home? Because you thought I was angry?” He nodded in misery.
The poor dear
, she thought.
Always blaming himself, feeling guilty, unworthy.
“And why should I be angry with you, dear brother?” she asked.

He wriggled nervously, his large sad eyes evading her. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?”

“You probably remember it better than I do.”

“No. I’m just a girl. I can’t remember so well. Remind me.”

“I told you. I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he pouted.

“Not even to me?”

“Well…” He twisted his clumsy fingers together, shame and confusion washing across his face. “I suppose I can talk about it with
you
,”
he said at last.

“Then tell me. Why should I be angry with you?”

He blushed, a hot color that suffused his heavy features. “You remember. That d-d-day when you were…you know.”

“Tell me.”

“I s-saw you. That day with N-N-N—” He lowered his head.

By all the Saints!
“With Narcisse Galande? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Yes.” He sounded as though he was about to cry.

“You saw us. What were we doing?”

“D-don’t make me tell it, Véronique.”

“Please, Léonard.
Moucheron.
Tell me.”

“I saw you. And h-him. Doing…doing that thing to you. And you l-liked it.”

Her breath was caught in her throat. “Doing what, Léonard?” she whispered.

“You know. I could see his b-bare…and everything. And you were laughing and liking it. With your s-s-skirts all up…”

My God
, she thought in horror.
So it was true.
No wonder she hadn’t seemed to be a virgin with Lucien, that first time. She’d often wondered why. She’d assumed a childhood accident. Just one more of the myriad things she couldn’t remember. But she’d let Narcisse Galande make love to her. And probably Carle-André. And God knows who else. “I’m sorry you saw,
Moucheron
,” she said gently.

“N-no you weren’t. Not that day. I remember. You l-laughed at me, after N-N—he went away.”

“What a cruel child I was. I wouldn’t laugh at you now,
Moucheron
. Not for anything.”

His mouth drooped. “I thought you were being nice, at first, when you let me k-k-kiss you.”

She rubbed at her head. It was such a torment not to remember. “Did I?” She frowned, a stray thought occurring to her. “Did you
want
to kiss me?”

“Yes.” So low she could barely hear him.

“Then why did you run away when I kissed you the night of my birthday?”

“Because of what h-h-happened
that
day. The kiss was the only good part. I thought you’d make f-f-fun of me again.”

“Did I make fun of you that day? After the kiss?”

“Not after the kiss.”

“When?” She was desperate to know. “Please, Léonard. Tell me!”

“After you let me l-l-lie down with you, and I c-c-couldn’t do it…and you laughed…”

She fought back her tears.
Sweet Virgin
, she thought,
I’m glad I don’t remember.
Yet she had to know it all, to know what kind of a monstrous child she must have been. “And then what happened?”

“And then I tried again, and you s-s-said I was hurting you and you p-p-pushed me away and you screamed and I h-h-h—” He buried his face in his hands and began to cry.

“What did you do?”

“I h-h-hit you. Don’t you hate me for that?”

She put her arms around him. “No, my dear sweet
Moucheron
. It was wicked of me to treat you so. It was I who was wrong. I deserved to be hit. I should have apologized to
you
the minute you hit me.”

“But you couldn’t. You were lying so s-s-still and quiet.” Dear God! He’d hit her that hard. Perhaps she’d struck her head. That was why she couldn’t remember. A blow to the head. And half her life vanished into the mists. But it still didn’t explain how she’d got to Madame Benoîte. “And then what, Léonard?” she urged.

“Please, Véronique. Don’t make me say any more. P-P-Papa will b-beat me, the way he did then.”

“You told him?” He nodded, wiping at his tears. “But what happened to
me
,
Moucheron
?”

A dark shadow cut across the sunshine that warmed her arms and back. Startled, she turned around and looked up. Hubert loomed above them. His shoulders sagged with weariness; his eyes were filled with anger, the edge of despair. He sighed. “You couldn’t let it rest, could you.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

She rose to her feet and stared at him, at the silent rage in his eyes. “Enemies in truth, now, Beau-père?” she said softly.

Hubert nodded in acknowledgment, fingering the hilt of his sword. A bitter smile twisted at his mouth. “I feared this would happen, when you became his confidante.”

Léonard began to tremble. “P-P-Papa, I didn’t mean to t-tell.”

“I know you didn’t. Go and wait in the mill for me. And cover your eyes until I come for you.”

Léonard lumbered to his feet and wrung his hands. “Please, Papa. I w-won’t tell it again. I promise.”

“
Go
, I say!” At Hubert’s thundering tone, Léonard cringed, his large bulk seeming to shrink within itself. He hung his head and shuffled off to the mill.