Louisa Rawlings (66 page)

Trivelin swore softly. “I don’t give a damn about your
amours
, Falconet. Why have we been summoned here? I was about to sample a rare bottle of wine I found in Villandry.”
 

Bleyle looked around the table and sighed. “My friends,” he said solemnly, “Charles of Spain signed his will on October first, eight days ago. Upon the advice of the Pope in Rome, he named Philippe, Duc d’Anjou, his sole heir to Spain, her territories in the New World, and all her outposts in Europe. We have the news secretly, through spies in Madrid.”
 

Gourgon squeaked his concern, his lisp more pronounced than ever. “Now what’s to be done? We surely can’t kill Anjou now! It was different when we discussed it in Paris. To kill him before he’s named heir is not the same as killing him afterward.” Rouge remembered now that when she’d returned to Versailles in June, Bleyle and Arsène—and Chartres!—had been away. In Paris. She remembered Arsène’s circumspect answers to her questions of what he did there.
 

And Anjou was to be killed. But why?
 

“Have you begun to whine again?” growled Arsène. “Of course we can kill him. Bleyle here is in favor with the king. He’s held the candlestick when the king retired, name of God! And Louis still holds affection for the Falconets. We’ll petition the king to propose the Duc de Berry as the heir, in his dead brother’s stead. Bleyle, leave tomorrow for Versailles before the morning is over. Don’t wait for Chartres’s arrival. Just get to the king’s side at once. And the moment the news of Anjou’s death reaches the court, you can propose Berry. I’ll join you when I can.”
 

“I still don’t like it,” complained Gourgon. “Anjou is only seventeen. It seems so heartless…”
 

“Fool! Will you always play the softling?”
 

“Oh, but…”
 

“Damn it, it’s too late to have doubts, Henri!”
 

They began to quarrel. Gourgon expressed his doubts, Trivelin explained their reasons once again, and Arsène and the rest chafed with impatience and cursed Gourgon for a shifting weathercock.
 

Listening to them, Rouge saw the whole plan clearly. The King of Spain had named Anjou, King Louis’s second grandson, to succeed him. Anjou was a sober, responsible young man. His younger brother, Berry, on the other hand, was weak, pleasure-loving, capable of being controlled and manipulated. And still a boy. He could easily be influenced. And he was devoted to his cousin Chartres, as only a boy of fourteen could admire a free-living man of twenty-six. The plotters intended to kill Anjou and propose Berry in his stead. When Charles of Spain died, the Duc de Berry would rule as king, with Chartres as his advisor, controlling him from behind the throne. Rouge suddenly remembered Chartres’s interest in chemistry. She wouldn’t be completely surprised, now she came to think of it, if the young King of Spain were to die of a mysterious ailment before he’d had a chance to marry and produce an heir! Stranger things had been known to happen in royal circles.
 

At last Gourgon threw up his hands. “Very well! If we must, then do it!”
 

“And you’ll see to it, Bleyle, that Berry is proposed.”
 

Trivelin frowned. “Wait a moment. After all the months of negotiating and discussions, and pressure from the Pope, Charles of Spain may be weary of the whole issue. If Anjou is killed on the soil of France, Charles may take it as a sign from God that a French Bourbon prince was not meant to rule his country. What’s to stop him then from naming an Austrian Hapsburg? Their claim is almost as good as France’s.”
 

Arsène laughed softly. “Not if Charles thinks that the assassins are Austrian. Bleyle, what are the details of the plan?”
 

“Chartres is coming tomorrow. He’s bringing Anjou with him in his coach. And Anjou’s tutor. Our men, dressed as masked brigands, will be stopping every coach on the road from Tours tomorrow.” He smiled apologetically. “We had to assure them they might indulge in a bit of discretionary robbery, as an added inducement. The passengers will be ordered out. On some pretext, a quarrel will break out. Swords and pistols will be drawn. In the ensuing fight, Anjou will be killed. And his tutor as well. Chartres, miraculously, will be saved. The coachman and lackey, of course, as valuable witnesses, will be unharmed.”
 

“But how will the brigands know not to kill Chartres as well? Do they know him by sight?”
 

“No. But he’ll be wearing a red ribbon bowknot on his shoulder, which will both identify his party and save his life. Whoever crosses swords with him is instructed to make a show of the battle, so Chartres emerges a hero, and untainted by suspicion.”
 

“Perfect! And the coachman and lackey will corroborate Chartres’s story of the attack,” said one of the men.
 

Arsène smiled. “Then we have no difficulties. Have the brigands dressed in clothes from the Tyrol. All Europe will think that they were assassins sent by Leopold of Austria, and Charles of Spain will harden his heart against the Hapsburgs.”
 

Trivelin grunted in assent. “They’re my men. I’ll send a message to them at once. They’ll contrive to find something that identifies them to the world as Austrian.”
 

Bleyle rubbed his hands together, as though he were already counting the money. “I’ll expect Chartres’s gratitude for this. And the opportunity to destroy several people who’ve angered me through the years.”
 

Arsène sneered. “My good friend Bleyle. You always were a poor loser.”
 

“And you? When Berry is the King of Spain, he’ll no longer need Pornichet. How long have you let
that
canker eat at your heart?”
 

Dieu!
thought Rouge. What madness! They thought only of revenge, or the opportunity to enrich themselves. But France herself was endangered! Chartres was making overtures to England. Once he controlled Spain through Berry, he could retaliate against those he felt had wronged him. He had always hated King Louis for the way he’d been treated. And he knew his opportunity to inherit the throne of France through the line was almost without hope. What was to prevent him, with his new power, from becoming a traitor to France, turning his back on his own country? He could ally Spain with England; France, caught in that vise, would be crushed.
 

There was no time to waste. She’d ride out tonight. Now. A moment to change her clothes. A word to a stableboy. She’d already learned that what Arsène had said of Rochenard was so: the servants waited on the pleasure of the guests, with no request denied in the name of love. She would say she was off to a romantic tryst if anyone questioned her. She still had Tintin’s purse, if they needed further persuasion. And then she’d…
 

She let out a squeal of surprise as two arms went around her waist and she was lifted into the air. “You’re a pretty little
coquine
,” said a booming voice over her shoulder. Then, “Open the door, my friends!” it called.
 

As the door swung wide and Arsène jumped from his chair in stunned surprise, Rouge was carried into the room and set roughly on her feet. She allowed herself a moment to glare at the man who had lifted her—an unfamiliar giant in a blond wig—then spun to Arsène in a fury. “What manner of friends have you, to treat a woman so?”
 

“Name of God, Quinton! Explain yourself.”
 

The giant shrugged and helped himself to a cup of wine. “I found the jade listening at the door.”
 

Arsène strode to Rouge and clasped her cruelly by the arm. “Is this so?”
 

There was no point in lying. At least not more than she had to. She couldn’t deny what Quinton had seen: a woman on her knees before a keyhole! She stuck out her lip in an angry pout. “I wanted to find out for myself what business was more important than I!”
 

“And what did you hear?”
 

She tossed her head. “A lot of silly talk about politics. And now I’m more vexed with you than ever!”
 

“Damn it, Falconet,” growled Bleyle. “Why can’t you keep your women under control?”
 

“Pish tush, Monsieur de Bleyle,” she said indignantly. “A fine thing to say! And you a friend of my father. Not even a greeting. For shame!”
 

He had the grace to look abashed. “Forgive me, Rouge. Madame de Villeneuve now, is it not, as I’ve heard?” He bowed gallantly.
 

Arsène was still holding her arm, his blue eyes filled with suspicion. “What did you hear?” he repeated.
 

“Name of heaven!” she said, shaking free of him. “Will you torment me? I wasn’t there long enough to hear very much. And it made no sense. Spain and France. France and Spain.” She shrugged. “What do I care? Now that it’s forbidden to wear Spanish lace, I do very well with Valenciennes.”
 

Trivelin puffed with annoyance. “Lace! Send the minx back to her rooms with a kiss or a smack on the rump, and let’s get on with our business!”
 

Gourgon laughed. “I’ve never known them to be any different at Versailles. The prettier the face, the emptier the head!”
 

Quinton, deep in thought, had been staring at Rouge. Now he lifted a questioning finger. “A moment. This is Madame de Villeneuve? Born de Tournières, and now wife to the dissolute duc?”
 

Arsène draped a protective arm across Rouge’s shoulder. “To her shame.”
 

“Yes. I thought I’d heard the name from my informants,” Quinton went on. “If she’s the rattlepate she seems to be, can you explain why Monsieur de Torcy hurried straight from Paris to Marly to speak to this lady before he’d even paid his respects to the king?”
 

Rouge felt her body turn to ice. She looked up at Arsène, frowning. “Torcy?” she asked, in a helpless voice. “At Marly?” Her brow cleared and she smiled her most dazzling smile. “Of course! I remember now.”
 

“What did he want?” Arsène’s arm tensed across her back.
 

“His wife had a quarrel with Clarisse de Beaucastel. He knew that Clarisse was my friend, and wanted me to play peacemaker. I never did, alas.” She looked about the room at the scowling faces of the men. She sighed and stared at Arsène, her sad gray eyes holding a soft plea. “May I go now? Or will you allow this interrogation to go on?”
 

“Of course,” he said. “You must forgive us.”
 

“Gentlemen?” She nodded curtly and moved toward the door.

“Wait,” said Bleyle. “It doesn’t pay to be too careful. Quinton, you know some of Torcy’s agents. Beaucastel?”
 

“No. Montigny, of course. That
tapette.
But not Beaucastel.”
 

“
Albret
de Montigny?” Arsène choked on the name.
 

“Yes.”

Arsène’s face went white. He strode across the room and grabbed Rouge by the elbow. “Now, by God, if you’re not the trickiest bitch in the world…!”

The men looked startled. “What do you mean?” asked Gourgon.
 

“This lovely creature has been supping alone with Montigny for months!” Arsène smiled down at her, his face twisted in an unpleasant grimace. “To…deceive his mother. Wasn’t that what you said, Marie-Rouge?” He gave a vicious twist to her arm. “Wasn’t it?”
 

“If you don’t wish to believe the truth, the devil with you!” she said coldly. “You’re hurting my arm.”
 

He shook his head. “My God, I must have been blind. Or mad. I thought I smelled your perfume in my suite this morning after I’d talked with Gourgon and Trivelin. I thought it was my imagination.” He laughed bitterly. “My overwrought lover’s imagination. But now”—still holding her arm, he reached out with his other hand and fingered the keys that hung about her neck—“I wonder. And this afternoon, when I found you in my room. Were you looking for something? Poor tired Marie-Rouge, who needed her nap.”
 

She saw by the look on his face that there was no point in continuing this deception. The least she could do was keep her pride. She stared at him with contempt. “It seemed as good a story as any.”
 

“You would have gone to any lengths. Wouldn’t you?”
 

Her stomach churned, remembering his hands, his mouth on her bare flesh. Her lip curled in disgust. “Yes,” she said.
 

She’d never seen such hatred in anyone’s eyes. “You whore,” he said softly.
 

In the silence, she could hear the chime of a clock from far off. Gourgon cleared his throat. Bleyle took a gulp of wine. “Kill her,” he said. “She knows too much.”
 

Arsène tightened his grip on Rouge’s arm. “No. I’ll take care of her. In my own time. My own way.”
 

“I don’t like it,” growled Bleyle.
 

“It’s not your decision to make. She’s my problem. I’ll take care of her. I promise you, she won’t disrupt our plans.” He turned to his steward, who had remained in the room at the far door. “Come, Prévost. You and I will escort Madame de Villeneuve to her
appartement.
I’ll see you gentlemen at supper. We have letters to write.” His hand firmly under Rouge’s elbow, he steered her along the passageway to her suite, taking her directly to her bedchamber. “This is where you’ll stay henceforth. I’ll relieve you of those keys.” He pulled the ribbon from around her neck and handed it to Prévost. “You’re to keep these keys, unless I ask for them. Madame is to stay locked in her room. When the maids wish to serve her, you’ll unlock the door for them. It isn’t necessary for them to know what’s going on. Sleep in the antechamber tonight. Tomorrow”—he shrugged—“I may make other arrangements. But tonight she must be guarded at all costs.”