Daughter of Silk (9 page)

She went to the desk and searched quickly to make certain he had not left a message.

She paused, lifting her head from the desk, whiffing a fragrance com- ing from somewhere. Musk? The smell filled her nostrils and prompted her to a shudder. She did not find it pleasant —

Hesitant footsteps came from one of the other chambers. She turned swiftly.

From an inner chamber door, a slim, dark-haired monsieur stopped and stared at her. A pleased look came across his dark saturnine face, like a cat approaching a trapped mouse. With graceful movements he came toward her, holding a goblet of wine in one hand, the other laid against his frilled silk shirt.

Maurice Beauvilliers.
She tightened her mouth and straightened

from the desk, throwing back her shoulders.

“What bonne luck. So we meet once again, Mademoiselle Macquinet. May I suggest, ma cherie, I call you Rachelle and you call me Maurice?”

She lifted a brow. “I think not, Monsieur le Comte.”

His sensuous lips turned upward in a narcissistic smile, his almond- shaped eyes wandered over her. “I am devastated, Mademoiselle.”

“I hardly think so, Monsieur.”

Rachelle could not fathom why the belles dames at court found him attractive. She was sure the attention he received harmed him, and with his mother, Marquise Françoise Dangeau de Beauvilliers, adding rein- forcement, Maurice expected that such attention was wholly deserved and should be returned by all mademoiselles, including herself.

“You do not approve of me, Mademoiselle. Why?”

“I assure you, Monsieur, I have not considered one way or the other

— I have too many important matters on my mind to attend to such thoughts.”

“Mon Oncle Sebastien is someone we share in common, is that not so? Then should you not be ma petite amie?”

Rachelle ignored the underlying suggestion. “I am looking for Comte Sebastien. Is your oncle resting perchance?”

Maurice sprawled into a brocade chair and sipped his wine. He held up the goblet and peered at the ruby color through the light.

“Non. He is not here, I confess. I do not know where he is.” How much did he know? Was he aware of Maître Avenelle?

He looked at the hat she was returning to Sebastien. He grimaced. “Such weak taste in fashion, do you not think so, Mademoiselle

Macquinet?”

She did not particularly like Sebastien’s hat, but she would not agree with Maurice. “Who can say? It is for him to choose.”

Maurice touched lean, tanned fingers glittering with jewels to the Alençon lace waterfall at his throat. His gaze roved over her.

She narrowed her eyes. “Then, Monsieur, since you do not know where he is, or when he shall return, I shall bid you my
adieu
.”

Maurice straightened swiftly from his chair.

“Na, na, na. Ha, m’amie la belle, do not run away.” He waggled his long fingers, his polished nails catching the light. “I have my suspicions of where
our
Sebastien may be. I may confide them in your petite ear, ma cherie, if you will but trust me.”

“
Ah, ça non
! Monsieur, I bid you adieu.” She whirled on her heel and made her exit, shutting the door firmly behind her.

That rapscallion Maurice!

The news that Sebastien appeared to be missing evoked consternation when Rachelle returned to Grandmère and Idelette.

“The fact that Monsieur Maurice is also looking for his oncle does not bode well,” Idelette said.

Grandmère turned again to Rachelle. “You are most sure Monsieur Maurice gave no hint of what may have happened to his oncle?”

“He admitted his suspicion, but he would not speak plainly. He does not appear to take the matter seriously, I assure you. He is a wastrel.”

“Where might Sebastien be?” Idelette said.

“And what if he has already been arrested by le Duc de Guise?” Rachelle said.

Grandmère clasped her hands as though in anxious prayer. “We can- not risk sending a message to Duchesse Xenia. She will hear of this soon enough, but somehow we must notify Prince Condé.”

“Prince Condé is in Moulins at the Bourbon palais,” Rachelle said. “Or even as far north as Chatillon with Admiral Coligny. Even if we managed to send a messire with a letter, it would take many days.”

“Still, we must do something. Who could go to Moulins without detection? Perhaps Andelot?” Idelette looked from one to the other.

Rachelle’s heart warmed affectionately at the thought of Andelot Dangeau, whom she knew from the silk chateau at Lyon. Andelot was also a nephew of Sebastien, but one in poor stead with the Dangeau family due to the scandal surrounding his mother, a harlot who had fol- lowed the French soldiers to war. She had died giving birth to Andelot on the field. For reasons unknown, Andelot had been brought here to Chambord to meet “secret” kinsmen that he would not divulge to her. Most surprising of all was that Marquis Fabien had befriended him.

“I do not think Andelot is the one to help us now,” Grandmère said thoughtfully. She rubbed her temple as Rachelle had seen her do so many times when considering the outcome of a worrisome matter. She arose and walked about again.

“I think . . . oui, it is to Marquis de Vendôme we should turn at this moment.”

Rachelle managed a demure expression.

“The marquis is the highest Bourbon at court, related to Prince Condé by blood and to Sebastien by marriage. It may be that Marquis

Fabien can allay our fears on this matter. He may even know of Sebastien’s whereabouts. And if Marquis Fabien believes the information Duchesse Xenia gave us on Maître Avenelle is wont of Prince Condé’s attention, then the marquis is the one to contact his kinsman. We must inform him at once, but without drawing undue attention from the court spies.”

Grandmère exchanged bright glances with Rachelle and Idelette. “We will invite the marquis to tea. Here, we may speak to him freely,

and who will suspect?”

“To tea!” Rachelle cried, embarrassed.

“But yes. Why not? I assure you such behavior is most naturel. What ambitious French Grandmère with two marriageable granddaughters at court would fail to hope that the marquis’s heart would not give birth to amour? She would wish to invite him to a
soiree.
”

“But the marquis knows what it is to dine with King Francis and sit in royal presence,” Rachelle said. “Whereas a mere tea — ”

Grandmère’s lips quirked with amusement, but her dark eyes studied Rachelle with sympathy.

“Ma cherie Rachelle, and how would it appear if we, without title of our own, should invite a Bourbon to anything
but
a simple tea? It is what the
courtiers
would expect of us, surely not a banquet!”

Idelette drew her fair browstogether above her trim nose. “Grandmère is right, Rachelle. But Grandmère, could we not send a message to the marquis by way of Nenette?”

Rachelle turned to her sister. “Nenette is sweet, but unreliable; you know it as well as I. What if Grandmère’s message fell to the wrong hand?”

“It would only be an invitation to tea,” Idelette protested.

“Non, if that is all Grandmère tells him in the message, he would ignore the invitation. He must receive dozens of them, I assure you.”

“Think you so?” Idelette asked with a bit of a smile, her eyes teas- ing. “One wonders if he would ignore it. He may have seen you with Princesse Marguerite.”

“C’est sotte.
Non.” Rachelle turned to Grandmère, feeling the f lush

on her cheeks. “Marquis Fabien will come if he knows of the danger of Maître Avenelle and that Sebastien is missing.”

“Yes, we must not neglect Duchesse Xenia’s warnings,” Grandmère said. “I know such a task will pain you, ma cherie, but do take Nenette with you, for two are better than one, and I would not have you risk your reputation going to his chamber unescorted.”

Idelette laughed. Rachelle ignored her.

Grandmère looked at the desk, her expression serious and deter- mined. “Yes, this is best,” she murmured, as if to reinforce her decision. “I shall write him at once. I never thought the day would come when I would be urging my granddaughter to take such a bold initiative. Ah, well. The gravity of the times . . .” She walked to the desk, pulling out the cherry seat and sitting gracefully. She drew stationery and inkwell toward her. “You have asked your sister Madeleine about the marquis so many times in your letters. Now fortune has it you are given a respectable opportunity of meeting him,” Grandmère said lightly. She looked over her shoulder at Rachelle who felt her gaze go deeply. “Your grandmère herself sends you to him. And, it is favorable to us all.”

So Madeleine had informed Grandmère of the questions she was asking about le Marquis.
Just wait until I correspond with Madeleine again
.

Rachelle convinced herself it was worry that caused her heart to beat so quickly and not the feminine excitement of confronting the marquis face-to-face, alone, for the first time. She straightened the Alençon lace on her bodice. Ah, lace . . . how she loved to run it through her fingers.

The cream lace on the cuff of the blue velvet sleeve of Marquis Fabien de Vendôme was not Alençon but Burgundy lace, with woven threads of gold and purple representing the blood royal. This lace originated in the region of Burgundy that had once been the powerful duchy of his kinsman of two generations ago, Charles de Montpensier, le Duc de Bourbon, one of the most powerful men in France whose rights to the throne equaled, if not exceeded, those of the present Valois royal family. Fabien’s late mother was Marie-Louise de Bourbon, and his father, Marquis Jean-Louis de Vendôme, had been the Duc of Bourbon, until his death —
assassination
, Fabien thought coolly. Fabien had lost the

title of duc to a kinsman, Prince Antoine de Bourbon, the brother of Prince Louis de Condé. Antoine was presently the king of the Huguenot kingdom of Navarre. In respect to Fabien’s ancestry, however, he was granted the marquisat in Vendôme, also his mother’s family estate and some of his father’s lands.

Now within his chamber in the palais chateau of Chambord, Fabien stood before a Venetian mirror mulling over the arrival of the cowled stranger who had been ushered into the palais beneath his very nose. He was angry with himself for not having expected the arrival of le Duc de Guise and his brother, le cardinal. They had followed the Queen Mother from Paris with a rather belligerent attitude. Due, no doubt, to the fact that their blood niece Mary of Scotland was married to King Francis

II. Francis and Mary were as much under their influence as the queen regent herself. A matter that Fabien knew infuriated her.

Something unpleasant was hatching. He sensed it had something to do with the arrival of le Duc de Guise and the messire in the hooded cowl and face mask. Fabien decided to discover more about both.

Le Duc de Guise, known as
le Balafré
for the military victories he

had led for France, had more recently turned his relentless hatred against those of the religion, the French Protestant Calvinists or Huguenots.

Thinking of Huguenots brought Fabien’s master swordsman to mind. Chevalier Nappier was a secret Huguenot, an expert with the rapier, and Fabien, from his youth, had befriended him. Fabien knew a man of iron when he met one. He admired men of conviction, for most could be trusted once they had made the decision of loyalty. He had a number of such Frenchmen serving him. There was much about Nappier that reminded Fabien of the stern French pirate, Capitaine l’Olivier, who with one swipe could remove a head.

Now there was an arrogant galante for you! The cold-blooded Protestant liked to hunt and capture Spanish galleons and take no quar- ter. It was said he had his reasons for hating Spaniards, not the least of which was that he had been a prisoner under their torture for several years. That Fabien was baptized a Catholic and attended Mass with the king’s royal household each noon in no way altered Fabien’s respect for the pirate, though l’Olivier would certainly find that plaguing.

Had Nappier noticed le Duc de Guise and the messire with the mask riding into the courtyard? Guise’s men-at-arms would of necessity take food and rest near the armory and barracks where Nappier might catch a snatch of verbal exchange between them that would prove interesting. Fabien made up his mind to go there as soon as he located Sebastien.

Fabien straightened his light blue velvet jacket and tried on his hat, the wide-rimmed style so fashionable at court, this one with a white feather. He had heard women describe his hair as the color of sun-ripened wheat, his eyes the hue of violets. He was admirably handsome, he knew this by the response cast his way from delectable feminine creatures who, if he chose to, he could collect like sweet plums on a silver plate. Ah . . . but he was no fool. He had seen the fall of his kinsmen, the Princes Antoine and Louis de Condé. He knew the biblical story of Samson well.

He drew his straight brows together. He had his doubts the ladies at court would be able to capture Capitaine l’Olivier with their schemes as they had attempted with him. Several ladies-in-waiting and maids-of- honor had set about to trap him with their allurements. Not that all the belle dames at court wanted marriage. Nor did age matter to many. He had been but sixteen when the wrinkled old Duchesse la Belangée had tried to bribe him into an affaire d’amour while her husband was away from court on business. La Belangée had shown him a large ruby which had been given her when she was young and beautiful by Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire.

“It is yours, mon petit. Just lie with me this night.”

Fabien had acknowledged the ruby as fair but admitted he had too many rubies and diamonds already. The duchesse had not appeared offended or embarrassed by his inadequate refusal.

“Are you then a sober Calvinist?” she had inquired suspiciously.

He had offered a deep, elegant bow. “No, I am a Catholic, Madame.

Am I to assume there are no Catholics sober?”

Her silver brows had lifted. Then she had thrown back her head and laughed.

It was well-known that the recent
maitresse
of King Henry, Diane de