Undone (33 page)

She shook her head. Softly, she closed the door and leaned against it. There was nothing more to ask. She crumpled the note in her hand and let it fall to the floor.

She’d asked him to commit to her before they reached France.

And he had not.

He’d had many opportunities to voice words of love and marriage and forever. Yet he’d uttered none. He was carrying on with his original intentions of returning her to Beaulieu and retreating from her life, even after weeks of indescribable bliss.

Any illusions she may have entertained during the voyage, that he would change his mind and not let her go in the end, shattered. How much clearer could he make it?

He was
not
going to stay with her.

He left knowing how she would interpret his departure, and he hadn’t even had the courage to tell her in person that he was leaving the ship. She swiped away a tear off her cheek.

She refused to add to her grief. No matter what was done about her stepfather, she could never,
would never
, step foot in Beaulieu again. Not after what had happened to her there.

Simon might have left orders for her to stay on board, but she didn’t take orders from him. It would be unbearable to hear the words of rejection. She wouldn’t survive hearing him tell her good-bye. He must have felt assured that she would stay put, obey his instructions. After all, where could she go?

Gripped by grief and anger, she marched up to her chest, holding back the tears she wouldn’t shed for him.

She opened the lid.

At the bottom of one of her trunks, she had a simple valise already packed. Though she’d prayed she’d never have to use it, she was prepared, in the event this horrible day would come.

The valise had some necessary items, clothing, and money. She’d saved every bit she’d earned as the schoolmistress. Fortunately, Simon had been generous with her pay. In addition, Gabriella, Sabine, and Suzette had insisted on providing her with a tidy sum collectively.

As she moved around her clothing to locate the valise, she stopped, realizing she was touching the fine gowns Simon had insisted on purchasing for her. Prior to their departure, he’d made certain that all four had been completed. Now she understood the true reason why. It was so she could dress the part when he returned her to her social standing.

The realization was a stab in the heart. It hadn’t been a gift after all. Not really.

The dresses would remain behind. She could never bring herself to wear them again. Her fingers touched upon the book of love sonnets. Picking it up, she ran her thumb tenderly over its leather cover. A lump formed in her throat. Before she succumbed to the emotions welling up inside her, she put the book down on the dresses and closed the lid.

She had enough money to make it to her destination. There was one man in the realm she could turn to. He’d been her father’s friend and had a château not far from Paris. Although her father had seldom seen his friend, she remembered the fond way he spoke of him. Always with high regard. This man had once been an officer in the King’s Navy. Was he still alive? She prayed yes. Would he be in residence? She’d no idea. In fact, she knew little about him.

But her father had trusted him, and she had no choice but to do the same.

She would seek out Robert d’Arles, Marquis de Névelon. She would go to his home, Château Névelon.

*****

Late afternoon, Simon heard hooves approaching. He and his men had just stopped to rest the horses. Watching the bend in the road, he waited for the riders to appear from behind the trees. The riders were many, and with a mission in mind, given the pace.

In a country of desperate people, one never knew what to expect. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. His men were immediately on their feet. He heard the collective whisper of their blades being unsheathed.

The first riders came into view. Simon was surprised when he recognized the group.

“Simon!” Jules jumped down from his horse almost before the animal came to a complete stop. “Angelica is gone!”

The words froze Simon’s blood.

“What do you mean, gone?” he demanded. “She has nowhere to go!”

“We’ve searched both ships from top to bottom. She is not on board either. What’s worse is that the other two ships have already set sail for Château Arles.”

“
What
? Are you suggesting she’s on one of those ships?”

Mathieu Godeau stepped forward. “Captain, I fear this is my fault. Your lady demanded to know your whereabouts, and I mentioned the party of men heading to Beaulieu. She paled at the very utterance of the name.”

Simon felt sick inside. He’d sent a small party to Beaulieu to learn Angelica’s stepfather’s name, yet no doubt she thought he was proceeding with his original plan to eventually return her there, instead.
Merde
!

Within moments, Simon was racing back to his ships, intent on catching up with the two already sailing to the south of France. Near Genoa.

She’s heading back to the convent…

He prayed he was right.

*****

Nicolas Fouquet stood before his massive desk scowling as he watched Pellisson, his paunchy gray-haired secretary, enter the library in his newly completed palace, Château Vaux-le-Vicomte.

“My lord, you wished to see me?”

“What took you so long? Never mind. I don’t care. Take those brown ledgers and see that they’re put in the
safe place
in my library at Beaulieu. See to the task personally, Pellisson. I want no mistakes.”

“Of course, my lord,” his trusted assistant responded. “It shall be done immediately.”

“I’ll have the black ledgers delivered to the king by Bruno.”

“As you wish.” Pellisson picked up the brown ledgers off the ebony side table.

Exasperated to the limit, Fouquet sat and slammed his fist down on the desk. “Have I not done an excellent job for France, Pellisson?”

“Absolutely, my lord!”

Fouquet rose to his feet, only mildly appeased by the answer. Walking around his desk, he stopped in front of the window to gaze out at his gardens. This château and its splendor was no less than he deserved. It stood as a testament to his success and skill in finance. Over the years, he had turned the impoverished treasury around and built Louis a financially sound kingdom.

“Yet Louis wishes to review
my
accounting,” he growled, still reeling from the sting of such an insult. “Why does he question me at all? After all I have done… He should be indebted to me. The young fool has no idea how to run this country without me.”

He turned to Pellisson. “Have I not always made certain that there were enough funds to pay for Mazarin’s wars and the king’s whims? Have I not done everything Louis and Mazarin have asked of me? And more?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Since Mazarin’s death, Louis’s demands are unceasing, and he gives the appearance that he does not trust me. It’s intolerable!”

He began to pace across the rush mats that warmed the stone floor. For years, he’d worked tirelessly, enduring the demands of his post, enduring Mazarin. He’d shown the nobles—everyone—that he belonged in his exalted position. Without his accomplishments, the treasury would be bankrupt. “I intend to do something to remedy this situation, Pellisson.”

Pellisson, holding the brown ledgers, stared at him with rapt attention.

Fouquet halted his steps, eager to share his intended course of action with his loyal servant. “Let Louis review the black ledgers all he wants. If he is looking for ways to flex his newly realized power, to answer the
cries of corruption
from the downtrodden”—Fouquet rolled his eyes—“then I shall serve up the perfect diversion until he forgets his ridiculous idea of ruling France by himself,” he stated dryly, wishing that Louis was still engrossed in his ballets rather than affairs of state.

“A diversion, my lord?”

“A scapegoat.”

“Who, my lord?”

“Someone who Louis could be made to believe is enough of a threat to him to gain his attention. There’s a man who is the perfect choice. He’s no more than a peasant who has tried to rise above his rank. He has been useful to us in the past, but now with the realm at peace, he’s totally dispensable. No one of any significance would protest the arrest and ultimate execution of Simon Boulenger and his group of rebels, except perhaps the Marquis de Névelon, but that can be dealt with too. We shall serve Boulenger’s head to Louis in a most convincing way. We’ll dangle our carrot, and when Louis bites, we will have deflected the attention from ourselves. Then the king will stop obsessing with my accounting ledgers. I, of course, will see to Boulenger’s capture. Louis will be grateful that his Superintendent of Finance has once again demonstrated his value and indispensability.”

Fouquet sat back down behind his impressive ebony-and-gold-inlay desk. “I have the nobles in line, and the king will fall into place too. Since he is easily distracted, perhaps we’ll find him a new mistress to occupy his time as well. One way or another, I intend to gain the position as First Minister and rule over France just as Mazarin did.
I’ve more than earned it
. Besides, it’s about time someone capable and
French
rules this nation, don’t you think? Everyone was sick of that Italian pig, Mazarin. See to the ledgers, Pellisson. Simon Boulenger’s ships are due to arrive soon. Do inform me the moment he returns to France.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Tired, dressed in men’s clothes and a large hat with a long blue plume, Angelica followed the servant through the grand home of Robert d’Arles.

With each step she took, her stomach balked, still suffering the effects of her trip to the marquis’s home. She’d traveled the distance from Simon’s ship to Château Névelon on a rickety gravedigger’s cart with the putrid smell of rotting flesh emanating from the wooden box it carried. With each new breeze, the stench had assailed her nostrils and oozed down her throat. It had taken considerable effort to hold down the contents of her stomach.

But she couldn’t complain.

The gravedigger was the only one she’d come across who seemed trustworthy enough to take her to her destination. During the entire nauseating trip, Angelica had to force herself not to think about the deceased or wonder, given the relaxed rate at which the gravedigger traveled, how much worse the foul odor would get.

Thankfully, the gravedigger hadn’t questioned her attire; he had taken her for a lad and not a woman traveling alone. She’d held her tongue for most of the trip, afraid to open her mouth while she fought down the bile. He seemed quite content to speak with little participation on her part, telling her just how many bodies he’d buried during the week, month, year.

Seeing the courtyard ahead, Angelica pushed aside the memory of her trip on the gravedigger’s cart. Pushing aside the incessant ache for Simon wasn’t so easy.

Dressed in oversized breeches tied at the waist with rope and an oversized doublet wasn’t how she had wanted to present herself to her father’s friend, but at the moment, her choices were limited, her circumstances dire.

She was relieved to learn from the majordomo that the marquis was very much alive and in residence, and she’d felt hopeful when the head servant returned to advise that the marquis would see her.

Entering the courtyard, the servant announced, “Angelica de Castel of the late Comte de Beaulieu.” He bowed and stepped away.

Angelica swiped the hat from her head.

Seated at a stone table was a striking older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and broad shoulders. He was staring at her as if he were seeing a ghost.

“Sir, forgive me for this intrusion, and for my mode of dress,” she began.

He struggled to rise, waving off the assistance of a servant. He grimaced, then straightened. Standing, he was nearly as tall as Simon, yet he leaned heavily on his cane.

“Come closer,” he ordered.

She approached, wondering for the thousandth time what she would do if he cast her out.

His gray eyes scrutinized her face for what seemed an eternity.

“I thought Étienne’s only daughter had been dead for some time now. Yet, I see in you a striking resemblance to the late Louise Fourché.” His tone was incredulous. “You have her unforgettable eyes. Can it be that you are truly Angelica?”

At the mention of her parents, her losses suddenly felt overwhelming. She’d lost them, and Simon. She was alone. Destitute. Tears threatened to spill. She fought them back, refusing to break. Not now. Not in front of the marquis.

Lifting her chin a notch, she looked him directly in the eyes and said, “I swear, I am who I say I am. I know it is shocking, my sudden appearance, dressed in this fashion… But you were my father’s friend. He spoke highly of you… I have nowhere else to go…” Her predicament was truly desperate, for she was placing her trust at the feet of a man of whom she had only a vague recollection.

“
Dieu
, you even have her melodious voice,” he said. “I’ve never turned away from a woman in distress. However, I have a question. Tell me, out of the many fine attributes Louise had, what was the one that Étienne loved so—that first drew him to her on the day they met?”

“Her voice, sir. My mother sang that day, thinking she was alone in the gardens. Throughout the years, she sang to both of us, often at my father’s behest.”

He smiled then, his eyes shining warmly at her.

“Have I passed your test?”

“You have.”

Thank God…

He shook his head in disbelief. “I cannot believe Étienne’s daughter lives. Where have you been all these years?”

“In a convent, outside of France. I’ve been hiding from my stepfather.”

The marquis’s eyes filled with concern. “Why? What has he done?”

She’d come a long way in a short time, thanks to Simon. He’d taught her to confide in others. “The worst thing a stepfather can do to a young stepdaughter. A shameful act that disgraced her and forced her to flee.” She would have never voiced this to the marquis or anyone months ago.