Pale Moon Rider (34 page)

“Am I correct in presuming Antoine is the current duc d’ Orlôns, regardless of whether the present government in
France
recognizes the validity of his claim or not?”

The subject Was rather personal and wholly unsuitable for discussion, but she managed a nod.

“Then marrying you—and please correct me if I am wrong—would be of little direct benefit to Vincent’s heirs, if there are any.”

“You are not wrong. The title passed to my father on the death of his father and brothers. Had the revolution not happened,
papa
would not have inherited at all— well, nothing more than a small portion of the estates— for he was the youngest of four brothers, and there were several sons born to the eldest and the title would have passed to them. Robespierre was very thorough, however, he eliminated everyone whose claim might supersede my father’s. It was his way,” she added quietly. “Especially if he thought he could manipulate the remaining heir by fear or threats of execution. Fortunes that might have otherwise been hidden or smuggled out of
France
were added to the treasury of the new republic in this manner. Titles could be forfeited on the stroke of a pen, but jewels and gold buried in the forest could not.”

“So he took hostages?”

“They were called dissidents.”

“And they were held until the fortunes were turned over to the government?”

“Yes, and then often executed anyway, under a charge of treason.”

“So much for politically pure motives,” he murmured. “Did your grandfather have jewels and gold buried in the forest?”

She shook her head. “I do not know. Papa cared very little for baubles and trinkets and if he knew of anything grandpère had hidden away, he would happily have given it up to the tribunal in exchange for the guaranteed welfare and safety of his family. I suspect that was why Antoine and I were not arrested sooner, for the d’Orlôns fortune was quite considerable and they may have been convinced
papa
knew more than what he was telling them.”

“Are you suggesting Robespierre never got his hands on it?”

Renée shrugged and sighed. “I honestly do not know, m’sieur. If it is buried under a tree somewhere in a forest, the truth of it went to the grave with
grandpère.”

Tyrone laid back and stared up at the drifts of cobwebs. He was missing something. There was a link somewhere and he was missing it. He tried to think back over everything
Dudley
had discovered about the honorable Lord Paxton’s dirty linens and tried to fit the pieces together, beginning with the scandalous elopement of Celia Holstead thirty years ago. The father had betrothed her to the Duke of Leicester, an alliance intended to unite their two families as well as their two financial empires. But she had eloped, on the very day of her wedding, with a young and dashing Frenchman, causing one of the largest scandals of the decade, not to mention the complete dissolution of any business mergers that had been forthcoming. Without that infusion of money and prestige, the Holstead fortunes had plummeted. The father had disowned the daughter and never again acknowledged her existence until the day he died. The brother had refused any attempts at a reconciliation, despite the fact the groom turned out to be a member of one of the wealthiest and most influential families in
France
. Had he been the eldest son and heir to the vast fortune, there might have been some leeway for forgiveness, but Sebastien d’Anton had not been worth the earl of Paxton’s notice or sympathy.

All that would have changed, of course, when the revolution came along and the Duc d’Orlôns found more than just the lives of his family in jeopardy. He might have found the wisdom to seek, if not a reconciliation, at least a mutually beneficial business arrangement.

“What if that tree was in
England
?” Tyrone asked slowly.

“M’sieur?”

“Was your grandfather the kind of man who would bury old hatchets and ignore past insults to his family if the safety and well-being of its future was at stake?”

“I do not understand your question.”

“The first night we met you told me your uncle had arranged your marriage to a man who profited from the blood of those who died on the guillotine.”

“Yes. That is the truth.”

“You also said there were a number of terrified aristocrats who paid him enormous sums to smuggle their wealth out of
France
before men like Robespierre could confiscate it in the name of
liberté, égalité
, and
fraternité.
According to you, he took their jewels and promised to safeguard their treasures until the arrangements were made for their escape.”

Renée felt a chill brush down her spine. “Yes,” she whispered. “That is the truth also.”

“But then, you said he placed it in the vaults of his own bank until he received word the family was executed, and then he claimed it as his own.”

“Forgive me if I do not understand, m’sieur, but—”

“Edgar Vincent is not the one who owns the bank. Your uncle does.”

“My uncle?”

“It is not something he might brag about in genteel company, but Lord Charles Holstead, earl of Paxton, owns one of the larger banks in
London
. In his father’s day it was also one of the most reputable, but after the merger with
Leicester
failed, it was forced to seek the business of a different ki
nd of clientele. Slavers, black-
marketeers”—-he had the grace to offer a rueful grin— “thieves. His managers ask no questions and tell no secrets … for a price of course.”

Renée was mildly astonished. “And how do you know these things, m’sieur?”

“In my line of business, my life depends on what I know. For instance, I know Roth and Vincent go back a long way. There was some trouble when the colonel was younger—something to do with a young woman who was rather savagely beaten to death if I recall correctly—and his family bought him a commission in the army, hoping to hide him away for a while until the stink blew over. Vincent, who I suspect was somehow involved with procuring the evening’s entertainment, suddenly found himself with a small windfall of cash—a payoff for his silence, perhaps—and was able to branch out to bigger and better things in the black market. Your uncle, meanwhile, was gambling away his fortune and running himself so far into debt he had no choice but to start stealing from some of his accounts. Vincent was one of them.”

She looked about to interrupt again and Tyrone held up his hand. “Humor me a moment longer. Suppose, when Roth is sent to
France
to fight for the noble cause of preserving the monarchy, he finds himself in the midst of a flood of wealthy, panicking aristocrats willing to pay almost any amount to see themselves and their families out of Mme. Guillotine’s reach. He talks to his old friend Vincent, who has smuggling barks that regularly cross the Channel carrying perfume and brandy. Subsequently, Vincent talks to Paxton, who has a bank with nice deep vaults and a larcenous weakness to exploit. It’s a good scheme, charging a percentage of what they smuggle out, and provides a steady flow of money, even adding a bonus now and then when the aristocrat who hired them never makes it out to claim his treasure.”

“But that is—”

“Thievery?” he provided, when she stopped to grope for a word. “They probably viewed it as more of a finder’s fee. I mean, really, what else are they to do with unclaimed gold? Give it back to the French government? Give it to our government? Either option would expose their tawdry little smuggling operation and while everyone knows it is happening, it would not do for Lord Paxton to appear to be profiting off the war in any way. Not with him being such a vocal ally of William Pitt. And probably, if not for my untimely appearance on that misty, moonlit road five months ago, they could have kept on smuggling and stealing with impunity.”

Her eyes held his like magnets. Dark blue magnets that pulled the truths from him like little metal shavings. “The night I robbed your fiancé, you see, the brooch was not the only thing I took. He also had in his possession a rather impressive assortment of trinkets, gold and such, probably transporting them out of
London
to a safer place, away from the scrutiny of any agents who might be starting to wonder where all these unclaimed fortunes were vanishing. After the robbery, I tried to dispose of a few pieces and the next thing I knew, the dealer with whom I did business was dead and my intermediary, when he discovered it was Edgar Vincent who had the dealer ’questioned,’ refused to handle any more of the jewels. Within the week Roth had himself transferred to
Coventry
, hell-bent on running me to ground, vowing to use any and all means at his disposal to rid the parish of the scourge known as Captain Starlight.”

“And instead of staying out of his way, you torment and taunt him so that he becomes obsessed with catching you? So obsessed he threatens to hang my brother for a crime he did not commit and uses me to lure you out into the open so you can both try to kill each other. Very enlightening, m’sieur, as always, to know how much more civilized and mature you English are.”

“Ouch,” he murmured. “That is quite the dagger you wield, mam’selle. And me a mortally wounded man.”

She glared at him as he held his hand over his heart and appealed for sympathy.

“If what you say about my uncle and the others is true, why can we not just go to the authorities and expose them?”

“We?”

“Me,” she corrected hastily. “Antoine and I.”

“What would you tell them? That you suspect your uncle, Lord Charles Holstead, the earl of Paxton, honorable member of Parliament, has been opening his bank vaults to French aristocrats attempting to prevent their worldly possessions from falling into the greedy coffers of the revolutionary government? Will you tell them Colonel Bertrand Roth, a wounded hero and veteran of the war in
Flanders
, has profited from the misery of fleeing émigrés? Or that Edgar Vincent, the man who insures a steady supply of French cognac and
Lyons
lace to half of
London
society, is guilty of wanting to marry you because you are destitute, orphaned, and beautiful beyond measure? Without proof, that is all they are guilty of, mam’selle. And even with proof, you would be hard-pressed to find too many juries—filled with men whose sons are most likely on a battlefield somewhere fighting and dying at the ends of French muskets—willing to convict. I could be wrong, but the law does seem to turn a blind eye to thieves who steal from enemies of the state. Some are even encouraged to do so—unofficially of course.”

“Have you, m’sieur?”

“Have I what?”

“Been encouraged to steal from your country’s enemies?”

“You mean has it been suggested—unofficially or otherwise—that to stop a French nobleman on the road and rob him down to his garters is not so dreadful a crime as halting some fat English burgher?” He smiled and his eyes glittered faintly. “No, mam’selle. I’m afraid I cannot even offer that as an excuse for my actions, regardless how determined you appear to be to find one, or”—his voice softened noticeably—“how much I would like to oblige you by providing it. God knows I haven’t had this many appeals to my conscience in more years than I can recall, but the plain truth of it is, I am exactly what you see before you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“A thief who plays a piano
faire les anges pleurer
”
she murmured as she stood. “A man who drinks fine
Burgundy
claret and plays the part of a buffoon because it suits his sense of humor to do so? If that is all you are and all you ever will be … then I pity you, m’sieur, for I have looked into
your
eyes and seen the possibility of so much more.”

She turned and walked slowly to the door.

“It would be another grave mistake, mam’selle, to think you know me. Or to wish you could change me.”

His voice halted her briefly and she looked back at where he lay, sprawled like a fallen archangel in a pool of candlelight.

“No, m’sieur.” She smiled somewhat sadly. “I would never make that mistake, I promise you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

R
enée had already closed the door behind her before she realized she had not brought a candle or taper with her to light the way down. She thought briefly about going back, but her exit had been made with such fine resolve, to return in search of a light to ward off castle ghosts would doubtless restore the mockery to his smile.

She had walked up and down the narrow corkscrew staircase a dozen times or more over the past few days, so there was no mystery as to what loomed below. Nor was it: entirely pitch black, and she guessed that Antoine had left a candle burning in one of the sconces at the bottom. Nonetheless, it was a ghostly sort of glow that lost strength on every turn of the stairs and was thinned to a pale haze by the time it reached the landing where she stood. The more eerie darkness came from above and behind, from the additional turn that led up to the rooftop battlements. If there was an otherworldly being in residence, he was more than likely crouched up there in the utter blackness, his eyes glowing like two pinpricks of light, his breath cold and dank as it frosted out before him.