Louisa Rawlings (11 page)

“Tea, Mademoiselle Véronique? Or would you prefer chocolate?”

“Véronique, I think Madame Le Sage is addressing you.” Lucien’s deep baritone.

Topaze turned from the window. To her surprise, Lucien stood there in a dressing gown—a padded silk morning robe—covering what appeared to be a long nightshirt.

His bare feet were slippered. He looked rested. The cottage was at some distance from the coast. More than a full day’s ride. Perhaps Lucien only feared his pirate captain near a harbor.

He seemed amused by her searching examination. He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “
Véronique
? Tea?”

“Oh!” He was speaking to
her
. “Yes, please, Madame Le Sage. Tea.”

“Eh?” Madame Le Sage cupped a dimpled hand around her ear.

“Tea, if you please.”

Madame Le Sage nodded. The lace ruffles of her cap bobbed cheerily.

Topaze took a chair opposite the older woman, watching in pleasure as the tea was prepared with a fine service. Silver spoons, lovely blue cups and pots and pitchers. Meissen, she guessed, though she couldn’t quite recall how she knew that. One of Madame Benoîte’s rich lovers, no doubt, had once invited them to tea.

Despite the isolation of this farmhouse, Madame Le Sage was clearly a woman of some means. From what Topaze could see at the window, there were half a dozen small buildings connected to the main farmhouse—stable, barns, a dovecote—with lofts and storage spaces under the eaves that were reached by sturdy ladders. There seemed to be a cook as well as a maid, and Topaze had noted two or three farmers and stableboys when they’d arrived last night. The farmhouse itself—a solid granite building—was quite large: kitchen and sitting room on the main floor, four good-sized bedrooms on the floor above.

“There you are, my dear.” Madame Le Sage’s pink cheeks glowed as she handed Topaze her cup. “I hope the dressing gown was to your liking. I haven’t worn it in years. How clever of little Henriette”—she beamed at the maid who was just leaving the room—“to have remembered where it was stored.”

“Yes, thank you. It was kind of you.”

“You can imagine my surprise to see Martin again. It must be six years. And then to see him
twice
in the space of a month…! Tea, Monsieur Renaudot?”

“Lucien.”

“Eh?”

He raised his voice. “Lucien. Please call me Lucien. Chocolate, if it’s not too much trouble. It’s very kind of you to welcome us again, madame.”

“Well, after all, my own brother’s child…who knows how long it will be before he returns again to France? Véronique, will you hand Lucien his chocolate?”

Topaze took the cup and crossed to where Lucien stood at the hearth. “Why does she call me Véronique?” she murmured under her breath.

His mouth twitched in amusement. “I believe that’s what Martin and I told her last night, after you’d gone to bed,” he said quietly. “You’re Véronique. We didn’t bother with a second name. You’re an actress, preparing a part. With your upbringing, it should be a simple matter for you to pretend that. And it explains why we’re here, our need to ‘rehearse’ you for your role.”

“Good morning!” Martin stood in the doorway. He too was clad in morning
déshabillé
: embroidered velvet robe worn over a matching waistcoat, with breeches, stockings, slippers. He nodded graciously. “Aunt Louise. Véronique. Lucien.
Dieu
, Lucien! What a state of undress!” He frowned at Lucien’s bare legs and nightshirt. “Show a little respect for Aunt Louise, if not for your wife!”

“Eh? What? Wife?” Madame Le Sage’s eyes were round saucers.

Lucien laughed. “Put on a waistcoat for this chit?”

Topaze smiled tightly. “Would you do so for Adriane de Ronceray?”

Lucien eyed her with bored indifference. “Of course.”

“Why then, damn you,” she said softly, and crossed to Madame Le Sage, who had heard nothing but the word “wife”. The older woman smiled expectantly at them, her eyes dancing from one to the other as she waited for an answer. “Yes, madame,” said Topaze. “I’m his wife. But I’m quite vexed with him this morning.”

“Then I shouldn’t speak to him, if I were you. It’s what I always did with my late husband.”

Topaze grinned. “Ah, but you see I much prefer to speak to him. To torment him.”

Lucien threw up his hands. “Spare me your sharp tongue.” He laughed ruefully. “I surrender. Tomorrow morning will find me dancing attendance upon you,
wife
. And in proper attire.”

“Well, then.” Martin seemed pleased to have the matter settled. “What shall we do today?”

A gust of wind blew the rain against the casement, rattling the small panes. It stirred a shadowy memory in Topaze’s brain. “I remember days like this. We used to blow bubbles.”

Martin laughed. “Soap bubbles? Name of heaven, I haven’t done that in years. What say you, Lucien?”

Lucien’s eyes were focused on a distant tree. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. Véronique liked to blow bubbles.”

“Damnation,” muttered Topaze. “What does Véronique have to do with it?”

He smiled. “Another cup of chocolate, if you please, Madame Le Sage.” While the older woman busied herself with her pots and cups, Lucien turned to Topaze. The smile was still on his face, but the eyes chilled her. “Once and for all,” he said, his steely voice pitched below Madame Le Sage’s hearing, “
you
are Véronique. I want you to think like her, to remember her memories as we fill you with them. And Véronique wouldn’t swear.”

She shrugged. She refused to be frightened. “I forgot. And Véronique wants to blow bubbles today. May she?”

“Not if you ask like that.”

She turned away from Madame Le Sage’s view and stuck out her tongue at him. “You black-hearted devil. May
I
?”

He laughed, relenting. “You’re an unruly chit. Very well. This afternoon. If you show yourself worthy this morning, by learning your lessons.”

She grinned at Martin. “I knew I could persuade him. He aren’t such a devil after all!” She turned to the door. “I’ll be dressed in a cat’s wink.”

Lucien frowned. “He isn’t a devil.
Isn’t.
”

She nodded, acknowledging the correction. “But of course he is,” she added, giggling, and skipped out the door.

Madame Le Sage had given Martin a large bedchamber that overlooked the rolling hills of the countryside. They assembled there when they had dressed. Though Martin’s aunt was hard of hearing, she was also warmly hospitable; if they worked downstairs, the woman might hear little, but they’d be subjected to her well-meaning intrusions.

Lucien laid out paper, ink, quill pens. “If you want to write anything down,” he said, “do so. I’ll expect you to destroy all your notes before we leave here. But, in the meantime, if you’re so inclined…”

“Let me listen first,” said Topaze. “There’ll be time enough to make notes later.”

“Good. I think it would be wise to tell you only those things that Véronique would be expected to know. As far as possible.” He strode to the window and stared out at the bleak day, his hands behind his back. “Château Grismoulins is in the Vendée hills. Do you know the region?”

“No. I don’t think that Madame Benoîte, my mother, ever played there.”

“It’s scarcely surprising. It’s an isolated region. The people are quite provincial, closemouthed, hostile to strangers. You may find it more difficult to win over the servants than the family itself. I tell you this only to prepare you for an unfriendly reception. There will be time enough to draw plans, to take you through the many rooms of the château, but I think you should learn about the people first. To begin, Grismoulins belongs to Comte Simon de Chalotais.”

Topaze nodded. “Véronique’s…
my
father.”

He turned from the window. “No. Mine.”

Martin stiffened in surprise. “
Dieu!
Then who are you?”

“As far as Véronique knows, I’m Lucien-Armand, Chevalier de Chalotais, and heir to Grismoulins.”

“Name of God, Lucien, I thought…”

Lucien’s face twisted into a devil’s leer. “That I was a bastard? Not at all. My parents were married.”

Martin shook his head. “Frankly, my friend, I thought your claim to the estate was”—he looked uncomfortable—“the resentment of an illegitimate son.”

Lucien laughed. “Did you? A foolish mistake. Pity I never told you the story.” He smiled at Topaze. His eyes were cold. “At any rate, Véronique, Simon de Chalotais is your uncle. His wife’s name…your aunt…” He turned back to the window. His hands were clenched at his sides. “Her name is Marie-Madeleine,” he said at last.

“What do they look like? How old are they?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. They’re dead. Both of them. But Véronique shouldn’t know that. Do you understand? When you go to Grismoulins, you should expect to see them. As the Comte and Comtesse de Chalotais. You’d naturally ask for them.”

“By Saint Mathurin, the patron saint of idiots and fools! Then why tell me they’re dead?”

“How charmingly you put things. Only so that you don’t go mistaking the stableboy for my father.”

Stableboy?
she thought.
What a peculiar comparison.
“Then who is
my
father?”

“Your father is long dead. You never knew him, and your mother never speaks of him. It was a loveless marriage; he died in a duel. I’ll give you his name, but if you forget it, it won’t matter. No one remembers him, least of all Véronique. No one cares. Your mother’s family, however, is important. De Marcigny.”

“The
wealthy
de Marcigny? The source of Véronique’s inheritance? Of
my
inheritance?”

“Quite so. A rich prize, the Marcigny connection. Rich enough so that my father’s brother, Hubert de Chalotais, quickly married your mother and adopted you.” He smiled sardonically. “The Chalotais men always try to marry well.”

“But if your father is dead, then who is now the Comte de Chalotais?”

“My uncle, Hubert. My father’s brother.”

“Why not you?”

“Yes,” said Martin, “why not?”

The blue eyes were clear and blank. “It’s best you don’t know. Véronique vanished before…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, never mind. Ask your ‘mother’ at Grismoulins.”

“Why are you called Renaudot?”

“It was my mother’s name.”

Martin laughed softly. “How little I know of you, my friend. Your mother wasn’t titled, then?”

“You’re getting to ask as many questions as the chit. No, my mother wasn’t titled. Only rich. Can we get on with it? As I told you, Véronique, you wouldn’t know that Hubert is now the comte. You must think of him only as Monsieur de Chalotais.” He laughed, a sharp dry bark. “Or, as he prefers to be called, Monsieur le Baron de Marcigny. He was very ambitious, and jealous of his brother Simon. It’s improper, of course, but since your mother is the last of the Marcigny line, Hubert appropriated the name and invented the title for himself. It’s done all the time.”

Topaze frowned. “I don’t think I like him.”

“In point of fact, you don’t. Though he’s been married to your mother since you were three, you’ve never called him Papa. Only Beau-Père, stepfather. Or Monsieur le Baron, when you want to mock him.”

Topaze began to laugh. “Wait a moment. If Hubert is the Comte de Chalotais, I can expect more than the Marcigny inheritance,
n’est-ce pas
? Won’t I inherit Grismoulins as well?”

Lucien’s mouth curved in scornful amusement. “You may have Véronique’s face, but you haven’t lost Topaze’s guile. Stop licking your chops, you greedy little hoyden. You’ll have to settle for the Marcigny money. Hubert has a son.”

“My brother?”

“Stepbrother. Older than you.” He tapped his chin, thinking. “Let me see. Léonard must be twenty-one by now.”

Martin smiled in encouragement, his brown eyes on Topaze’s face. “So many names and facts to remember. Will it daunt you?”

He really was very kind. “Not in the slightest. Léonard. Twenty-one. And… Cousin Lucien? How old?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“A very grown-up cousin. You couldn’t have paid much attention to me.”

“I didn’t.”

“And how old are you, Martin?”

“Lord!” exclaimed Lucien. “Martin had nothing to do with Véronique or the family.”

“Oh, pooh,” she said, waving him aside. “Véronique doesn’t want to know. Topaze does.”

Martin lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. “Charming Topaze. I was born the year after Louis the Fourteenth died. In 1716. I’m twenty-three.”

She smiled back. “Just the right age.”

He laughed. “Name of God, Lucien, but I’ll steal your wife if I can.”

Lucien scowled and rubbed at his scar. “You can
have
her. But not until we have the money. Now, we were speaking of Léonard. You call him
Moucheron
. Little Gnat. You have a fondness for nicknames.”

“
Moucheron.
Is he small?”

“Not at all. He’s…rather large. Even as a child. But, while his body has grown, his mind hasn’t. He’s somewhat helpless and simple. And he stutters when he’s upset.”