The English Heiress (39 page)

Chaumette shrugged. He had already signaled his henchmen to release Roger and they had done so. “It is no special suspicion of you, I assure you,” he said, “only that the package is so precious that I almost wish I did not need to trust myself. And I want you to understand that I am not holding your wife in order to deprive you of anything I have promised you. That will be exactly as we agreed. To show my good faith, I will leave you a small token of what will be yours when your service to me is completed.”

While he spoke, Chaumette pulled a packet from his coat and laid it on the counter. Then he walked toward the door, Roger and the men who still flanked him turning slowly also. Suddenly, Roger shrugged and moved toward the counter, but a single sidelong glance told him that although the guards had not followed and were moving toward Chaumette, he could not pull the gun from his pocket or reach the one behind the counter in time. Besides, what good would the pistol do? He could not kill all three, and Leonie’s life was at stake.

“I will keep our agreement,” Roger said. “I always intended to do so, as you will realize if you question the guards who were left in the house and who followed my wife and me. However,” he hefted the packet as if estimating its value, “however, I do understand what you have said. I do not like it, but I understand it.”

“Good. When you have written your letter, just hand it to Garnier, who will be in his usual place. You will have an answer tomorrow, about noon. You probably will not see me again before the package is delivered. The man who delivers it will have final instructions for you. Please obey him exactly, and all will be well.”

Then he was out the door. Roger stood like a statue for a few minutes. Finally he dropped the packet of gold coins on the counter and rubbed his hand frantically up and down his breeches as if to rid it of a corrosive slime. After that, he leaned forward against the counter with his head in his hands and struggled with his rage and his grief and his hopelessness. Fool that he was! Fool! Fool! How could he have been so stupid as to accept Chaumette’s hasty assurance that first afternoon that it would be best to have a woman accompany them to care for the child. He should have realized from the very speed with which Chaumette accepted the idea that he had no intention of fulfilling the agreement.

Roger’s hands writhed through his hair, tugging at it. He must think of something, some way to find Leonie. No, first he must write her. Whatever Chaumette said, the poor child must be terrified. Roger bit his lips. What if they beat her and threatened her to make her write as they wished? He must tell her to be quiet and obedient, to accept what had happened. He must find a way to give her hope without implying that he intended to find her and free her. He did not believe for a moment that his letter would not be scrutinized most carefully—that remark of Chaumette’s was only another trap.

It was now clear to Roger that Chaumette was far cleverer and more ruthless than he had guessed. This was scarcely consoling. It was as likely that Chaumette would have Leonie and himself killed once the poor little dauphin was returned to him. That would be their reward. Roger shook himself. He must not think of it. He must try to believe that he would find Leonie before any harm came to her. But that was impossible. He was watched every moment. The first suspicious move he made would produce retaliation. They would do something to Leonie to punish him. He began to shake.

Finally, he drew a deep breath, knowing he must get himself under control. He must not display his fear and suspicion either to Leonie or to Chaumette, and he must write at once so that she would receive the letter as soon as possible. Blindly, Roger began to feel around under the counter for a sheet of paper and the bottle of ink. He drew his knife to mend the pen, but seeing how his hand was shaking, he walked into the kitchen and poured half a glass of brandy. Having knocked that back in one gulp, he glared around, and realized there was no one to glare at. The man who had sat in the kitchen watching and listening was gone.

Although he could see no immediate way in which that could help, the absence of the listener made him feel a little better. It pointed out one little hope. Chaumette must be short of really trustworthy men. Roger returned to the shop mulling that over in his mind, trimmed the quill, and began to write. Running through the letter after it was done, he felt he had succeeded in hiding the panic that still rolled over him in waves. He explained what had happened, why Chaumette (without naming him) had done what he had done—carefully writing of a precious package to be delivered—and urged Leonie to be calm and obedient. Also, because he knew Chaumette would expect it, he told Leonie he was permitted to ask questions to which only he and she could know the answers. He would, he said, ask one such question in each letter—and he asked what lay behind the warped cask.

He had tried to think of a way to include some secret communication in the letter, but he was still too upset to concentrate. Besides, he thought as he folded the paper and ran wax over it—pressing on the wax the tool he used to mark the guns he worked on—it was too soon to begin to cheat. Let Chaumette come to believe he was hopeless and would not attempt to find Leonie. Let him think they had both accepted the situation and were blind to the ultimate end to which it must come. Since there was no longer a man to listen in the shop, perhaps…

The bell of the shop jangled, and Roger jumped nervously. It was almost dark, but he had forgotten to shutter the place and lock the door. He gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted was one of those damned commissioners, yet he did not dare turn one of them away. That would be out of character. Taking tight hold over the urge to shout, “I’m closed, go away,” he rose to finish the business as soon as possible. However, he never asked a question. His mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged.

“I was told you were an honest gunsmith,” Pierre said to him, raising his brows questioningly.

Chapter Twenty

Leonie had slept for several hours after Danou had locked her in the room upstairs, exhausted by pain and nervousness. When she woke, her head was much better, although it was still tender where she had been struck and ached a little when she shook it. Her initial confusion at finding herself fully dressed in bed was soon resolved by her memory of what had happened. She rolled to her side to slide out of the bed, rolled back abruptly as something hard and with sharp edges dug into her hip, and then clapped her hand hard to her mouth to prevent herself from shrieking with laughter.

Her pistols! She was still wearing the pistols she always carried. Pain and shock had blanked them from her mind. A whole series of emotions chased across her brain—gratitude that there was obviously no woman in the house, for surely a woman would have tried to remove her clothing to make her more comfortable; amusement that the men who had abducted her had never thought to search for weapons; exultation at the knowledge that she could escape any time she wanted.

Then the thrill faded. The pistols made escape possible but certainly did not assure it. She could fire them, but her ability to aim was nonexistent. They were useful as a threat or as a defense against a crowd—if you did not hit one you were likely enough to hit another, and no one could be sure at whom you had aimed. However, the threat was useless against two men who could come at one from different directions. For a woman alone, who was not skilled with pistols and whose captors were desperate to keep her, the guns were no certain key to freedom.

Leonie lay quite still considering what she really had and the odds she faced. She did not wish to move around for fear she would make some sound that would attract Danou or the other man—Panel, Danou had called him—until she had decided what to do. Admittedly each pistol carried extra balls and powder, but she was so slow at loading that when both guns had been fired she would be virtually defenseless.

If there were only one man in the house, it might be enough. She could call and, most probably, he would come and unlock the door. If she stood close by with the pistol hidden by her skirt, she could almost certainly raise it and fire point-blank, too close to miss, before he realized what she was doing. Even if the first shot did not kill, the second would. Leonie shuddered. It was one thing to fire into a raging crowd. You never really saw the person you hit, and you had never known that person either. It was quite another thing to contemplate killing in cold blood a man who, although he had abducted you, was himself acting out of fear on the orders of another. Danou had been as gentle and considerate as possible, under the circumstances.

Leonie struggled with the thought for a while and then remembered with some relief that Danou was not alone in the house. That other man had wanted to kill Fifi. Where was Fifi? A whisper settled that question. The little bitch crawled out from under the bed and leaped up to lick Leonie’s face. She tucked the creature into the curve of her arm and went back to her problems. If both men were still in the house, the plan would not work. The sound of the first shot would warn the other man. He would either get help or find some way to deal with an armed prisoner. Certainly he would not walk up to her and let her shoot him too, and she could not aim well enough to shoot him at a distance.

Then there was the question of getting out of the house. The doors would be locked. Leonie could not imagine her captors taking a chance on her beginning to scream for help if someone accidentally walked in. The keys would not be in the locks. Even if the man she killed was the one who carried the keys, she would need to search for them, run down the stairs, open the door… Again, unless the man she killed was the only one guarding her, it would not work. The first necessity then, was to be sure there was only one man in the house with her—and of course, keeping the fact that she had the pistols a secret.

It was so unusual for a woman to carry a pistol at all that no one would think of searching her. But finding out how many men were in the house, Leonie feared, might be very difficult. If she were to be kept locked in the room, for example, there might be no need for more than one guard. But how would she know? She sighed. It would not be possible to act at once. She would have to discover how strictly she would be watched, by whom, the routine of the household—one man might regularly go out to fetch food, for example. It would also be useful to try to find out where she was.

Leonie shooed Fifi off the bed and got up herself. It was very dark in the room, but she could make out the window. Could she get out the window? She shivered again. It would be better to escape without killing anyone. She went to look out and saw only a walled garden with a high, wrought iron gate—and the window, she saw, was nailed shut. Even if she could get the nails out, tear up the sheets, and climb down, there would still be the wall to get over—the gate would certainly be locked. There were spikes on the wall too. Leonie sighed again. If she was locked in the room with no chance to find out who else was in the house, she might have to try that route, but it would be best to explore other possibilities first.

One thing was immediately apparent—she was closely watched. Someone had heard her get out of bed. While she still stood at the window, the key turned in the lock. Leonie whirled to face the door, but to her surprise there was a scratch and Danou’s voice asked permission to enter. That was a pleasant relief. Leonie remembered the repeated adjurations not to be frightened and the assurances that her wants would be fulfilled as quickly and completely as possible, but she had not been sure whether that was only to induce her to enter her prison quietly. It seemed, however, that courtesy toward her was still the order of the day.

“Yes? Come in,” Leonie called.

Danou entered carrying branch of candles, his face wreathed in smiles. “I hope you are feeling better, citoyenne,” he said, “but I have here something which I am sure will make you well, even if there are some lingering effects of the mistake.” He held out a folded sheet of paper. Leonie could not imagine what it was and did not move at once. “Take it,” he urged. “It is a letter from your husband.”

“From Roger?”

Danou nodded, but Leonie still did not reach out. She could not, would not, believe that Roger had arranged this abduction. Yet how else could he know where to send a letter? Even if he had done it to keep her safe… No, Danou had said Chaumette. Could Roger have made some agreement with Chaumette?

“I swear I will not touch you, citoyenne,” Danou was urging. “Do not be afraid of me, I beg you. Come and take your letter.”

He could not decide whether to tell the stupid woman that his master would have him killed if she did not stop being afraid of him. He thought the delivery of the letter would solve all his problems with her, but the little ninny seemed to be afraid even of the sheet of paper. And women were so unpredictable. Some would rush to his defense, if they knew his danger; but others would take a spiteful delight in getting him into trouble.

Leonie was hardly aware of him as her mind raced over the possibilities. She came to the conclusion that the letter could not be from Roger. Possibly Chaumette did not think she could read, or perhaps he thought she was fool enough not to recognize Roger’s handwriting. Finally what Danou was saying penetrated her brain. He was apologizing again for the “accident” in which she had been hurt, but then he went on in a positively tearful voice to tell her that she was to choose he own keeper and that, if she did not choose him, his master would have him killed.

“Please take the letter. Please do not be afraid,” he urged.

Slowly Leonie came toward him, considering what he had said. She took the letter but did not look at it. “When can I see Citizen Chaumette?” she asked.

“He came while you were asleep, citoyenne. We did not wish to disturb you because—because of the accident to your head. He will come again tomorrow to take your answer back to your husband.”

“I may write to my husband?” Leonie asked incredulously.

“Yes, indeed, only—only you may not describe the house or what you see outside it. You may say anything else, anything at all.”

“How nice,” Leonie said flatly, but then she smiled, trying to wipe out the sardonic inference. For now she must be stupid and docile—especially stupid. “But I cannot read in the dark,” she complained.

“No, of course not. I will leave the candles if you like. And I have a meal for you—but it may be a little overcooked because you slept so long. Shall I bring the food up, or would you prefer to come down?”

“I may come down?” Leonie sounded tremulous and hopeful, but her heart sank.

“Yes, indeed, citoyenne. I have told you and told you that we want you to be comfortable and content.”

If she were to be permitted the freedom of the house, there had to be more than one jailer. Leonie swallowed her disappointment. She had better find out just what the situation was as soon as possible. “I will come down. May I come down now?”

“Certainly.”

Danou stepped out and held the candles high, Leonie followed, glancing around curiously. There were three other doors in the small hallway into which the stairs rose. One was open and a man, whose regular features would have made him very handsome except that they were spoiled by a self-conscious leer and filthy garments, was sitting on a chair in the doorway. He rose when Leonie stepped out of her room and followed her down the stairs, a few steps behind but quite close enough to grab her if she should try to push Danou and make a break for freedom. He murmured something under his breath, but Leonie was too wrapped in her own thoughts to make out what it was. The closeness with which she was guarded confirmed her disappointment at being given the freedom of the house, but her spirits lifted a little when Danou guided her into the parlor on the left of the stairs. The lower floor had an “empty” feel to it. If there were only the two men, something might be managed.

There was a stove giving out a comfortable heat. Leonie realized that the pipe from it must have gone up to the roof through the room in which she slept and warmed that also. This room, then, was also at the back of the house, and there could be no question of getting to the front window. After the candles on the table and in the wall sconces had been lit, Danou went out. Panel remained in the corridor by the open door, watching. Leonie had expected that from the way he had followed her down the stairs, so the she felt no additional disappointment and was able to give full attention to the letter Danou had handed her. What leaped to her eyes was Roger’s gunsmith’s mark on the wax that sealed the folded sheet. Leonie barely suppressed a cry. She had convinced herself that the letter could not be from Roger, but that conviction was badly shaken. Would Chaumette think of using the tradesman’s mark? How could he get it? That was one tool Roger locked away most carefully. It was the symbol of his pride in his craft.

Hastily, with trembling fingers, Leonie tore open the seals. It was Roger’s handwriting! Had he… No. First read it, she admonished herself. Having done so, Leonie stared blankly at the wall for a few minutes, more frightened than she had been since she regained consciousness in the carriage. What he told her exactly confirmed what she had deduced for herself, but the stiff, careful phrasing, the strict admonitions to be obedient—that was not Roger.

Anxiously she scanned the writing itself. It seemed uncertain, a bit tremulous, as if his hand had been shaky. He must be under restraint, Leonie thought. Perhaps Chaumette had hurt him or threatened him—both most likely. Her lip drew back in a snarl. She would kill them! Somehow, she would manage to kill them. Sooner or later one of the men would have to leave the house. She would kill the other, hide the body, reload her guns and kill the second when he came in. No quiver of reluctance disturbed her now. These monsters obeyed Chaumette, who had given the order to hurt Roger. They deserved to die.

“Citoyenne?” Danou’s voice held shock.

Leonie turned her head away sharply and covered her face. All she could do was pray that the man would take her expression of hate as a grimace of weeping.

“Here is your dinner, citoyenne,” Danou said, struggling to keep his voice smooth while his fingers twitched in a desire to beat the lachrymose bitch silly. “And a sheet of paper and a pen and ink. You will wish to write to your husband. Citizen Chaumette would like to bring him the letter before noon tomorrow. You would not want him to worry now, would you?” he wheedled.

“Yes, I will write, but please leave me alone,” Leonie whispered.

It was apparent from Danou’s expression that he was not pleased with Leonie’s attitude. Nonetheless, he complied, setting down the tray he carried, which bore the writing materials as well as the dishes. The new evidence of obedience to her wishes in anything that would not facilitate her escape calmed Leonie somewhat. It must be of importance that she should seem satisfied with her situation—at least as satisfied as possible under the circumstances. Then she must seem so, to allay suspicion. Leonie went to the table and began to eat her rather dried-up dinner, feeding Fifi what she could not get down her own throat, while she considered what to say to Roger.

Finally she drew the writing things to her. “My dearest beloved,” she wrote, “I received your letter. Do not worry about me. I have been well treated and no one has threatened me or done me any harm. I was very frightened at first, but now that you have explained why I was stolen away, I am more at ease. I do not wish to remain here and be parted from you, but since you say I must I will try to endure it with patience. Fifi is here with me and keeps me company.”