Murder at Fontainebleau (19 page)

But if d'Emours could have, so could anyone else. Kate mentioned that thought to Celeste.

Celeste shook her head. “D'Emours's name has long been plagued by scandal. He wouldn't want more.”

“His birth? The duel over Amelia?” Or perhaps the duel had been about his birth, the old story of secrecy and bastardy. That would be worth killing for.

“
Exactement
. The Guise are his patrons, his source of power at court. If he found out about Amelia's work, would he not seek to protect them against her?”

“Or if the Guise found out about the affair with Amelia and Amelia's true work . . .” Kate was not sure why she would doubt d'Emours's guilt. He seemed a cold, ambitious man who had not managed the affair well. He certainly seemed the likely killer. But, like Amelia herself, he was changeable. He could easily have hired an assassin, yet his feelings for Amelia did not seem entirely feigned.

“How shall we discover him for sure?” Kate asked.

“There is only one way. We must confront him before he can find us.”

“Really?” Kate exclaimed. “After what happened to Amelia?”

“I am accustomed to danger, Mademoiselle Haywood, as I am sure are you. It is around us every day.
And we have some advantages
pauvre
Amelia did not. We are not blinded with love for d'Emours, nor will we be alone. Your handsome friend Monsieur Cartman? He works with you, too, does he not? I have often seen you whispering together.”

Kate nodded. With Rob there, she
would
feel safer, for he was quick-minded with a strong sword arm, though she feared he might lose his cool head too often. Rather against her more prudent side, she found herself curious and, aye, even excited at the thought of drawing d'Emours into confessing to his evil deed. “We could certainly trust Rob to help us.”

“
Très bon
. A man with a gift for fighting, even stage fighting, is always most useful.”

“Is there also no one else here at Fontainebleau you could call on for help?”

Celeste shook her head. “I trust none of the French; I know too many of their secrets through Queen Catherine. Sir Nicholas and Sir Henry are surely too doubtful to be of help to a mere woman, and I do not trust Monsieur Domville. He is charming, but has some strange friends.”

Kate thought of Monsieur Domville, seemingly so eager to show Kate around the French court, friends with everyone. But surely he, too, had connections and alliances. He was kinsman to the Guises' rival Montmorency.

“Then you are right. How shall we do it? It must be soon. Sir Henry sent word we are to leave for England at the first opportunity.”

“Tomorrow is Queen Catherine's gathering at her dairy, her Mi Voie. D'Emours will be there. He knows Amelia and I were friends, but I hope he does not yet know I worked with her. I will write him a message telling him I have learned a frightful secret about Amelia's death and that I fear he may be in danger himself. I will say I can only tell him in person and ask him to meet me at the queen's farmhouse. There is a chamber where you and Monsieur Cartman can be concealed while I talk to him.”

Kate liked the way Celeste schemed. “Do you think he will confess to you? Or tell you whom he suspects or would cast blame on?”

“I hope he will tell us much indeed. Men, even ones as cold as d'Emours, can be susceptible to a lady's wiles. And you and Monsieur Cartman will be there to hear it all. . . .”

K
ate hoped Celeste would discover all they needed to know very soon. Her nose itched, and she dared not sneeze.

She crouched in the tiny closet, peering through the knothole to the chamber beyond. She was very glad Rob was next to her, his body warm and strong in the tiny space, or she would scream from being shut up in there. He held her hand, and she felt herself grow calmer.

She could see Celeste there, sitting at the round table with a book open before her. It was the same octagonal closet where Queen Catherine had staged her séance, but today the fine tapestries were gone, the crystal stone nowhere to be seen. The window was partially open, letting in the sound of laughter from the courtiers about to depart for the queen's
laiterie
.

“He will surely answer my message soon,” Celeste had said. “He can't be away from the rest of the Guise party too long, but I know he cannot resist finding out my purpose in invoking Amelia's name.”

Kate prayed she was right, prayed she could truly
trust Celeste Renard. Amelia's death was an injustice that had to be answered, but her legs were becoming cramped from kneeling in the closet. Surely it was easier to be a man, to address wrongs with a sword in a straightforward duel.

Celeste slowly turned a page in her book, and Kate shifted on the cushion beneath her. Her breath sounded too loud in the hot, stuffy space, and she hoped fervently that no one else could hear it except Rob, who sat so close beside her. She wondered at the great fortitude and dedication of Queen Catherine's own spies, and thought of the ways she could carry such methods back to England.

If she lived to see England again, of course.

At last, the door to the chamber opened, and Jacques d'Emours appeared. He looked the very portrait of a fashionable French courtier in his dark blue velvet and satin, his golden hair shining in the sunlight, his short cloak tossed back over his shoulder. It was fashioned with a diamond pin, yet Kate could not see what it was.

He frowned, his face showing nothing but impatience. “What is this about, Celeste? There is no time for idle chatter today.”

Celeste looked up at him with a sweet smile. Kate was impressed with her coolness, her stillness. She was also glad she had learned French in her childhood, for they spoke very quickly. “It will not take long, Jacques. I merely wanted to talk with you about Amelia, whom I know we both cared about a great deal. I am sure you wish to find her killer as greatly as all her other friends do.”

His frown flickered. “Her killer? You have been reading too much of Queen Catherine's blood-soaked Italian poetry. Amelia drowned, which is indeed very sad, but hardly a theatrical tragedy. She had too much wine that night.”

“Did she indeed? Dr. Folie has other ideas—as do Amelia's family members.” Celeste slid the book she had been perusing across the table—it was the herbal Mistress Berry had given Kate. What was it doing there? Kate remembered all the warnings she had been given not to trust anyone at all. “You see here? Something was perhaps slipped into her perfume, which weakened her when she was attacked. I am sure it was
meant
to look like an accident.”

D'Emours sank down onto the stool opposite Celeste's, watching her carefully, his handsome face giving away nothing. He talked of Celeste's theatricality, but Kate thought he was just as good.

“Why do you think this?” he asked hoarsely. “And why summon
me
? I could do naught to help her before—how can I do so now?”

“That is just the thing: She loved you, and I am sure you cared about her as much as you are able. You would not wish to see someone who hurt her go unpunished. But I fear there are those who would say that
you
are the one who wanted to hurt her.”

D'Emours reared back as if he had been hit. “Who says such vile falsehoods?”

“Too many for you to challenge them all to duels, I fear. Everyone knows what occurred between you and
Amelia, and that your Guise allies would help you to be rid of her when she became troublesome.” Celeste reached across the table and caught his velvet sleeve as he tried to stand. “Please listen to me, for Amelia's sake. I am in Queen Catherine's household. You know I hear many things there. You must be very careful at the
laiterie
. They are watching you.”

“I have nothing to fear,” d'Emours said tightly. “Amelia was most foolish beneath her great beauty. She had many lovers—surely any one of them could have hurt her. Perhaps that is why Monsieur Ridley has been confined to his chambers?”

There was the sudden clatter of steps outside their little chamber, a burst of laughter, and Celeste quickly stood up. They would not be alone there for long. “You know as well as I do the English are capable of ruses, no matter how clumsy they prove to be,” she said. “But we French are cleverer; we are always better at hiding things. Yet even you cannot hide forever. It seems we cannot talk now. If you wish to know more, meet me at the
laiterie
.”

D'Emours looked down at the book for one long, silent moment. Celeste gave him a serene smile, and gracefully swept out of the room in a swirl of green damask. She shut the door softly behind her.

Kate held her breath as she watched d'Emours. He stood as still as one of the marble statues in the garden for a long, tense moment. Suddenly he shouted out an oath and swept the book onto the floor with a crash.

His shoulders heaving, he stared down at the volume, its pages fanned out. His frown returned. He picked up the book and rushed out of the room. The door swung shut behind him, leaving a thick, heavy silence.

Kate waited a few more moments to be sure he would not return. Carefully, she unfolded herself from the cabinet and took Rob's hand as he helped her out. Her legs were shaky for a moment.

“We should hurry,” Rob said. “We can't let everyone get ahead of us.”

Kate nodded and followed him down the back staircase. She wondered what d'Emours thought of being accused, whom he would summon for assistance—and what he saw in that book that she had missed.

Hopefully it would be only a small matter of time before those questions were truly answered.

 • • • 

By the time Kate and Rob arrived at Queen Catherine's dairy, the Mi Voie, most of the guests were already there. Lady Barnett had decided at the last moment that she would attend the fete after all, hoping for some distraction from her tears, and Mistress Berry at first could not be found to help her dress. Lady Barnett was so unsure of everything, the maidservants were in despair assisting her and sent for Kate.

Mistress Berry at last returned to the Barnetts' chambers, just in time to help Lady Barnett pin her veiled cap to her curled hair and soothe her with another posset.
But after the two ladies set off in one of Queen Mary's own covered carriages, Kate and Rob barely found the last of the carts to carry them to the dairy.

Like the boats at the pond, the carts meant to convey the guests to the rustic party were festooned with wreaths and ribbons and set with striped satin cushions. The ponies that drew them had large velvet bows decorating their bridles, and the drivers wore wide-brimmed hats pinned with greenery. More ribbons fluttered in the trees along the lane leading from the palace grounds to the gates of the dairy.

It was all most whimsical and beautiful, but Kate could take no pleasure in the fine day. She could think only of Amelia's body floating in the cold water of the pond, and Monsieur d'Emours's simmering anger.

“Kate, are you sure you are quite well?” Rob whispered. “You look pale.”

She flashed him a small smile. “I only want all this to be over. Poor Amelia . . .”

“Then let me go alone. You have already put yourself in danger too many times over this matter.”

“Nay,” she murmured. “I must see the end of it now.”

He studied her for a long moment, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes dark. “I know you well enough to be sure now I cannot talk you out of it. But you will stay very close to me?”

“Of course.”

The cart rolled to a halt in a large cobblestone courtyard. Its raked gravel pathways were crowded with courtiers dressed as shepherds and shepherdesses in
pale silks and wide hats, with beribboned crooks and walking sticks. For a moment, Kate was sure they must have been transported into a different world entirely from the gilded formality of the palace. The chimneys and dark gray slate roofs of Fontainebleau could be glimpsed beyond the trees, not really far away at all, yet it all seemed like something in a dream.

Queen Catherine's beloved dairy, her great building pride, the symbol of her nurturing motherhood and care for her adopted French home, had a plain facade of pale stone with slate roofs that mirrored those of the palace, crisscrossed with rough-hewed beams. As she climbed down from the cart, Kate saw a farmhouse before them with a stable and the dairy itself at one end. A wooden fence beyond the stable held back a clutch of fluffy white sheep with black-and-pink ribbons around their necks, peeking out doubtfully at the arriving crowds.

“We should find Celeste,” she said as they followed the crowd along a shady allée that led between the farmhouse and the dairy itself. They emerged into a walled garden where maidservants waited to give each guest a little sheep formed of fluffy silver wool. Kate clutched at hers as if for reassurance.

In the summer, surely the garden was a haven of roses climbing over the stone walls amid little nooks of trees and wooden swings. Even in the midst of winter, it was pretty. A dais was at the far end of the garden pathways, draped in great swaths of green and gold satin. The queen's small children capered there,
tiny shepherds and shepherdesses declaiming poetry under the strict eye of their mother. “She restored us to our fields and our woods . . . She made us to return to our former pastures,” little Princess Marguerite, the loveliest of the royal children, with her ivory complexion, sang. Feathers bobbed in the waves of her dark brown hair.

Queen Catherine sat on a throne in the center of the stage with little King Charles on one side and Queen Mary on the other. She nodded at their pleasant honor of her, smiling.

The Duc de Guise stood behind the queen, whispering in her ear, but d'Emours was nowhere to be seen. Kate went on tiptoe and glimpsed Lady Barnett standing with her husband and Sir Nicholas, her face pale and tearstained under her gossamer veil, but she was smiling as if court life itself had the power to rejuvenate her.

Kate heard a flutter of silvery laughter and spun around to see Celeste hurrying toward her, as light and smiling as if she hadn't just threatened Jacques d'Emours. A gentleman was on each arm, both of them staring at her as if she were a sun goddess. She stepped away from her escorts and leaned in as if to greet Kate with an airy kiss on each cheek. “He has agreed to meet me at the small chamber of the attics in the farmhouse. No one will be there while the royal children are performing. Everyone must be seen by Queen Catherine to exclaim over the charms of her rather toadlike children.
You can hide as you did before, this time beneath the bed. You and Monsieur Cartman should be able to see and hear all from there. You will find the room at the top of the back stairs. It is the only one on that story. Don't be late.”

“We certainly will not,” Kate murmured as Celeste drew away. She caught a glimpse of fear in Celeste's eyes, a disconcerting flash of uncertainty, before she laughed and strolled on with her admirers.

Rob offered Kate his arm and they made their way slowly around the edges of the garden. There was naught to do for a while but wait. And Kate was not good at waiting. She studied the people around them, Queen Catherine's beautiful ladies, Queen Mary's Maries walking with Lord James Stuart's Scots attendants, giggling with them. It seemed Toby had not appeared, nor had Charles Throckmorton.

The clock above the stables chimed the hour, and Kate realized it was time for the next part of their scheme. She and Rob made their way up a narrow flight of wooden steps to the large attic room at the top of the house, tucked beneath the slate roofs. It was a stuffy room, obviously seldom used. Bundles of wool lined the whitewashed walls, the smell greasy and sharp.

She and Rob found a niche behind the bundles, a small shelter where they could watch the door from the small crack between tufts of wool.
It is as cramped and itchy as the wardrobe, but at least it has a soft place to sit,
Kate thought ruefully as she tucked a pelt beneath her
skirt. She held on to the toy sheep the maidservants had handed her and waited for Celeste and d'Emours to arrive.

Please,
she begged silently.
Let this not be a chase in vain!

She was glad of Rob beside her. He was large, warm, and strong, and had brought several daggers, one of which now nestled in its holster on her wrist, beneath the folds of her silk sleeve. The smile he flashed her was reassuring, and she leaned back against the wall of wool, stroking the little silver sheep toy.

She couldn't relax for long, however. The door opened, and she shot up to sit straight, peeking between the bundles. It was Celeste, by herself. She leaned against the wall beside their hiding place, watching the door herself. Her fists opened and closed in the folds of her skirts, crumpling handfuls of the rich fabric.

“I got the message to him,” she said.

“Are you certain he will come?” Kate whispered back.

“Of course. He won't be able to resist finding out if I have proof he did away with Amelia.”

“And do you?” Rob demanded.

Celeste gave a harsh laugh. “
Non
, certainly not. Men like him are not often so careless. But I am sure that between us we can find a way to force the truth out of him.”

Kate was not quite so confident. D'Emours seldom let his cool mask slip away, not even in the burial chapel of his parents. She rested her arm, with the weight
of its small dagger, against the tiny sheep and held her breath.