Tender the Storm (52 page)

A slow smile touched Housard's lips. "So," he said, "I'm to be let off the hook, am I?"

Almost reluctantly, Rolfe allowed, "On reflection, I admit I was too hasty in my judgment."

"I should say so." Housard turned in the saddle. His look was long and direct. "I gave you my word that I would do nothing until you had Zoë safely away."

"And her brother also," said Rolfe quickly.

"I'm sorry about the boy. His fate does not look promising. My advice to you is to forget about him and leave France as soon as may be."

"That's all very well for you to say," answered Rolfe grimly. "You don't know my wife. Nothing will budge Zoë until she knows what has happened to her brother." He fell silent for a moment or two,
then
asked in a more normal one. "You've heard nothing of the boy?"

"Nothing.
He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth."

"He's in hiding, then?"

"It would seem so."

"And desperately in need of friends."
Abruptly, Rolfe asked, "What happens now? What are your plans?"

Housard took a moment before replying,
"La Compagnie
is finished. Out task is done. On the whole, we have accomplished what we set out to do."

For a long interval, there was a silence as both gentlemen reflected on their conversation. Finally, Rolfe said, "He's outwitted us. This is all his doing. We were closing in for the kill. He must have suspected as much."

"If so, he's got clean away just like the last time. Who is left to point a finger at him?"

Rolfe scanned his companion's expression. "Somehow, Monsieur Housard, I did not think that you would give up so easily."

"I haven't given up, or at least, only temporarily. One day, information will come my way, another piece of the puzzle will fall into place, and I'll have my man."

"Meanwhile,
Le Patron
gets off scot-free?"

"As I said before, who is left to identify him? Un
less . . ."

"Yes?"

"I was thinking of
Le Cache-Cache,
but even if we find the boy first, it's not likely that he'll be able to help us. In all probability, he has no more idea of who
Le Patron
is than we do."

At the mention of Zoë's brother, a frown pleated Rolfe's brow. "She'll try and get to him, or he'll come to her. Nothing is more certain."

"Then get her away now, man, before that happens."

"It's not so easily done," said Rolfe. "Zoë would never agree to it, and if I tell her all I know, she might be panicked into doing something foolish."

"She already has," answered Housard dryly. "Haven't I already told you about the gold and the passports she has procured?"

At the mention of this sensitive subject, Rolfe's face darkened. "I'm indebted to Deputy Tallien for passing on that piece of information," he remarked formally.

"Yes, it pays to have friends in high places. Still, if he finds
Le Cache-Cache
before we do, nothing will save him. Since the assassination attempt, Tallien has been out for the boy's blood."

"You're sure that no one is watching the house?"

"Quite sure."

"Then it would seem that the authorities have no notion that
Le Cache-Cache
and Leon Devereux
are
one and the same person. That's something, at least."

"They are hunting for someone they know as Louis
Reubell
."

After a moment's consideration, Rolfe said, "Bear with me for a little while longer, Monsieur Housard.

I understand that our work here is virtually over. But I hope that I may call on your resources to help me solve the problem of my wife's brother."

"How much longer?"

"A week.
No more."

Without prevarication, Housard answered, "You have it. But I warn you, to delay longer is to place your own life in jeopardy. I am not the only one who is remarkably well informed.
Le Patron
must also have his sources."

Darkness shrouded the house and gardens. An unnatural silence pressed heavily about. The night was humid. A storm was brewing. The sweet fragrance of herbs was distilled in the air.

Zoë hesitated, her back pressed against the door through which she had just exited. Gradually, her breathing evened; her eyes accustomed themselves to the velvety blackness. For a moment or two, a shaft of moonlight illumined the stand of beeches leading down to the boathouse before heavy cloud obscured the view.

Like a creature of the wild alert to every peril, she remained frozen, poised for flight, forcing herself to a calm she could scarcely sustain. Her fears were not easily quelled. This past week, she was reflecting, was one of the most harrowing she had ever endured in her entire life.

It had begun with the report which had swept through Paris. The Committee of Public Safety had smashed that most feared of all secret societies,
La
Compagnie
, and its members were either dead or on the run. Rumor was rife. Some maintained that that glamorous
figure,
Le Cache-Cache,
had already been executed but the authorities were keeping it quiet in the interests of public safety. Others confidently predicted that
Le Cache-Cache
was merely in hiding and would emerge to wreak a terrible vengeance on his persecutors. And though desperate to know more, Zoë had compelled herself to act the part of a disinterested observer, concealing her fears for Leon behind a mask of polite interest, and never more so than when Rolfe's eyes came to rest upon her.

He was watchful. More than once she had surprised a brooding look in his eyes before he had time to veil his expression. There was a new constraint between them. Conversation was difficult. His manner was unpredictable, veering from solicitous to downright dictatorial. And always, he was there, by her side, a stern and forbidding presence.

She shivered, feeling suddenly cold, and she drew her lightweight cloak more securely about her person. Nerves, she thought. As one day had slipped into the next and no sign or word from Leon, her nerves had been stretched taut. And the contretemps which had taken place that very evening at Madame Tallien's salon had almost shattered her fragile control.

A duel.
There was to be a duel between Rolfe and Tresier, and Zoë could still not determine what had led to this new catastrophe.

Rolfe had taken her into supper and, as ill chance would have it, they were joined by Varlet and Tresier. All was politeness, as far as she was aware. And as the gentlemen had conversed, she had become absorbed in her own thoughts, toying with the delicacies on her plate.

Suddenly conscious that Rolfe was bristling, she raised her head. Tresier, it seemed, had made a remark to which Rolfe took exception. Tresier refused to apologize. Suddenly all three gentlemen were on their feet. Without warning, Tresier threw his glass of wine in Rolfe's face.

A petrifying silence seemed to grip the whole room. Rolfe's smile was unlike any Zoë had ever seen on him before. It chilled her bones to the very marrow. His voice, when he spoke, was equally terrifying. She didn't have to look into his eyes to know that they would have taken on a silver glitter.

"Name your seconds," said Rolfe, breaking that electrifying silence.

Something moved in Tresier's eyes, and Zoë knew that, for all his bravado, the young man was deathly afraid. So was she, for both of them.

Desperately, almost ill with fear, she tried to avert the catastrophe. But nothing she said made the least difference. Tresier had insulted her. And though she insisted that she had not taken offense, honor must be satisfied.

Later, both gentlemen denied that their little quarrel was of any significance. Everyone knew that dueling wasn't permitted. They had settled their differences amicably, they gave out. No one believed them, least of all Zoë. Paul Varlet's self-satisfied smile gave the game away. There was to be a duel, and Zoë had yet to think of a way to put a stop to it.

She could not think of that now. Leon, she hoped, would be waiting for her in the boathouse. It was the night they had arranged to meet during her salon. As she glided towards the path which led to the river, she tried to force from her mind the conviction that only injury or death would keep her brother from their rendezvous.

She felt for the key to the boathouse under a stone crock by the door. It was missing. "Leon?" she whispered, and pushed inside.

"Shut the door,"
came
the terse reply, and Zoë made haste to do as she was bid.

Out of the darkness loomed a tall shadow. "When did you get to be so tall?" she asked, and sobbing with relief, she slipped her arms around her brother's waist, and rested her head against his chest.

"Careful," he said, wincing, "I took a fall. My shoulder has been acting up again."

"I did not know if you would be here," she whispered, her throat aching with tears. "I've suffered agonies."

"Forgive me, Zoë. I did not know where else to turn. This last week . . ." He faltered, shook his head and said, almost savagely, "God forgive me for involving you, but you are my last hope. Someone has betrayed me. They know all my usual haunts. Everywhere I go, they are waiting for me. Thank God they know me only as Louis
Reubell
,
else they would be waiting for me here also."

"Darling, it's all right," she soothed. "It's all right. You are safe now."

He was
hors la
loi
,
an outlaw, and by helping him, that made her one too. She could find no justification for the path he had chosen. At the same time, he was her brother. The rights and wrongs of what she was doing might escape her. But Zoë knew her duty. It was more than duty. It was love that guided her. And where Zoë loved, she would brave the wrath of the gods if necessary. The laws of France seemed insignificant in comparison.