No Longer a Gentleman (4 page)

France, 1813

Madame Leroux was right, and Cassie did a brisk business at the small market in the village square. She rather enjoyed being a peddler. Since she didn’t depend on selling to support herself, she could be flexible on prices. It was a pleasure to be able to sell a pretty ribbon to a girl who had never owned anything pretty.

The thieves’ oil was popular, too. With winter illnesses rampant, buyers would try anything that might help. Customers were also interested in news, as isolated villagers always were. Yes, the news from Russia was bad, but the emperor had escaped safely, and wouldn’t this length of lace look lovely on your daughter’s wedding dress?

By noon there were no more customers, so it was time for the castle. Cassie ate a bowl of thick bean soup at La Liberté, thanked Madame Leroux for her help, and left St. Just du Sarthe. Instead of heading for the next village, she drove up to the castle. The narrow road was bleak and windy, and the castle was equally bleak when she reached it.

The castle proper was surrounded by a looming wall that had never been mined for stone. The massive gates stood open so people and vehicles could come and go easily, but the gates looked as if they could still be closed in an emergency.

She drove through the gates unchallenged. The walls cut the bitter wind once she was inside. Not seeing anyone, she drove around to the back of the castle and left pony and cart within the shelter of the mostly empty stables. Then she slung her peddler’s bag over one shoulder and went hunting for the entrance to the servants’ area.

After two locked doors, she found one that opened under her hand into a short passage leading into the castle kitchen. The long room was warm and there were pleasant smells, but there was no one in sight. Cassie called, “Hallooo! Is anyone here?”

A hoarse woman’s voice replied, “What do you want?”

A heavy-set woman pulled herself from a wooden chair by the fire and limped toward Cassie. Her round face looked designed for smiles, but she was wrapped in shawls and coughed every few steps.

“I’m Madame Renard, a peddler, and I see that you’re a candidate for some of my throat lozenges. Here, a sample.” Cassie fished a packet of honey and lemon lozenges from her bag. They tasted good and did help soothe a cough.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The woman removed a lozenge from the packet, then sank onto a bench. “Merci. I’m the cook, Madame Bertin.”

“I was told most of the people here at the castle were ill.” Cassie glanced around the kitchen. A pot hung on the hob by a fire that had burned down to embers. “You look like you could use some help. Shall I build up the fire for you?”

“I’d be most grateful,” the cook said. “There’s chicken broth in the pot there. Could you get me some?” She coughed wrenchingly. “Everyone is sick in bed, can’t even manage stairs. I’ve got hot food for anyone who wants it, but no one has made it this far and ’tisn’t my job to wait on other servants.” More coughing.

“I hope no one is dangerously ill?” A ladle hung by the fire, so Cassie scooped warm broth into a porringer on a nearby table.

“The housekeeper died early on, but she was old and sickly already. I don’t think anyone else is in mortal peril, but this winter’s influenza makes a body weak as a kitten for days.” Madame Bertin sipped the hot broth appreciatively. “I kept the fire from dying and managed to make this broth, but now I’m too tired for anything else.”

Seeing an opportunity, Cassie asked, “Would you be willing to pay a bit for some help, madame? I could carry trays of bread and broth to the servants who are ill, and perhaps do some chores around the kitchen.”

“’Twould be a real blessing. Let’s see, who lives in …” The cook thought. “There are six maids in the attics and two men in the stables. The stairs are just through that door, but it’s five long flights of steps to the attic. Can you manage that much?”

“I’m spryer than I look. I’ll be happy to help out. When people are ill, they need something warm.” She stirred the broth with the ladle. “And I’ll be glad to earn a few coins, too. Where do you keep the bread? Cheese would also be good. Strengthening.”

“The pantry is there.” Madame Bertin pointed. “A good thing Citoyen Durand isn’t here. He’d be raging and whipping people to do their jobs even if they’re too ill to stand. But what is going to happen in a quiet place like this in the dead of winter? We can all rest a day or two until we’re ready to work again.”

“Fortunate,” Cassie agreed. She filled mugs, cut bread and cheese, and carried a tray out to the stables, where she was gratefully received. After returning to the kitchen, she prepared more trays for the maids. With six of them, she needed to make two trips up the narrow stone stairs. No wonder Madame Bertin hadn’t even tried.

As the cook said, no one seemed at death’s door, but all the servants lay limp in their beds, weak, tired, and very glad for sustenance. Cassie made a silent prayer that the thieves’ oil would protect her. Becoming that ill while traveling would be very bad.

She returned to the kitchen, where the cook was drowsing in her chair by the fire. Cassie tucked a knee robe around her. The time had come to learn if there really was a dungeon with prisoners. “Is there anyone else I should take food to?”

Madame Bertin frowned. “There are the guards and the prisoners in the dungeon. The head jailer, Gaspard, usually sends a man up for food, but one is ill, Gaspard is off somewhere, and the one there now wouldn’t dare leave his post.”

“So the guard and the prisoners need feeding? How many prisoners are there?”

“Only two. With everyone ill, they’re being neglected.” The cook crossed herself. “One of the prisoners is a priest. ’Tis very wrong to lock up a priest, but Durand would be enraged at the impertinence if anyone told him so.”

“Shocking!” Cassie agreed. “What is the other prisoner?”

“They say he’s an English lord, though I’ve never seen him, so I can’t say for sure.” She shook her head sadly. “No doubt an Englishman deserves a dungeon, but surely not the priest. He is old and frail and needs hot food in this weather.”

“I’ll take food down to all of them.” Cassie started to assemble a tray. “You say you’ve never seen the prisoners. They are never brought up for exercise in the yard?”

“Oh, no. Citoyen Durand is very strict about his prisoners. They are never released from their cells, and the guards never enter. Food is put through a slot.” Madame Bertin crossed herself again. “The poor devils must be half mad by now.”

Cassie’s lips tightened as she prepared the food. After ten years of uncertainty, Kirkland’s search might be about to end. But his long-lost friend might be broken beyond any chance of mending.

Castle Durand, 1805

Grey regarded the sparrow that perched on his sill. “Enter, Monsieur L’Oiseau. I’ve kept a bit of bread for you. I hope you appreciate what a sacrifice this is.” The bird cocked its head, undecided, so Grey whistled his best imitation of sparrow song. Reassured, it glided from the sill to the floor and pecked at the bit of bread Grey had saved.

He enjoyed talking to the birds. They never contradicted, and he was amused by their saucy willingness to approach. “Cupboard love,” he murmured, tossing another crumb. “Not so very different from being an eligible prize in the marriage mart.”

He’d been old enough to experience some of that in London before his disastrous decision to visit Paris. Kirkland and Ashton, who paid more attention to politics, had both warned him to keep his trip short since peace wouldn’t last, but he’d characteristically brushed them off. He was the golden boy, heir to Costain, to whom nothing evil could happen.

Two years later, here he was, slowly going mad with boredom and grateful for the fleeting companionship of a sparrow. But at least he was stronger and more fit than before, and his singing voice had improved.

He tossed another crumb. The sparrow seized it, then cocked its head for a moment before flying up and out the window. Grey watched the bird leave with an envy so deep that it was pain. Oh, to be able to fly free! He’d wing his way over the channel and home to the beautiful hills and fields of Summerhill.

Since his company had left, he rose and began running in place, calling up images of his childhood home. Those had been happy days at Summerhill, which was blessed with a mild south coast climate. Fertile fields and plump, happy livestock. He’d loved riding the estate with his father, learning the ways of a farmer without even thinking about it. His father had been a good teacher, challenging his heir’s mind and curiosity.

The earl had also talked government and the House of Lords and what would someday be expected of Grey when he became the Earl of Costain. But that had been unimaginably far in the future. His parents were young and vigorous, and Grey would have many years to sow wild oats before it would be time to settle down.

Which was the attitude that had led him here. Tiring, Grey slowed his pace to a walk before settling on his rocky chair. He placed it so that the sunshine would fall on him. What subject would he contemplate today? Natural history, he decided. He would try to recall every bird he’d ever seen in Dorsetshire.

His list had reached twenty-three when he heard sounds in the passage. It was too early for dinner. He stared at the door, wondering if Durand was paying one of his brief visits. The minister no longer taunted his captive face-to-face, not since Grey had thrown his captor to the floor and almost inflicted lethal damage.

He’d have succeeded if Durand hadn’t had a guard with him. Grey had been beaten savagely, but it had been worth it. Since then, Durand contented himself with sneering through the window in the door. The coward.

Grey prepared himself for whatever might come, but the steps stopped short of his cell. Snarling voices, a bang of the cell door next to his. Then retreating footsteps and a return to silence. Good God, could there really be another prisoner only a wall away? If only Grey could speak to him!

But the wall was too thick for sound to penetrate. Perhaps it was possible to stand at the door and shout, but the door was also thick and its two openings were covered from the outside. If Grey shouted, he would attract the evil attentions of Gaspard long before he could make himself understood by the new prisoner.

He paced the common wall restlessly, running his hands over the solid surface. If only there was some way to communicate! He wanted to howl with frustration.

He dropped to the floor, his back against the common wall, fighting the temptation to bang his head against the stone. And heard a voice, soft and low and regular. He froze, wondering if he really was losing his mind.

No! The sound came from the sewer hole in the corner of his cell. With rising excitement, he knelt beside it and listened. Yes! The words were clear now. Latin. A prayer? The cell next to him must have a similar hole that joined with his and allowed wastes to fall into some subterranean hole.

Frantic with hope, he called, “Monsieur! Monsieur, can you hear me?”

The Latin stopped and a soft, cultured voice said in French, “I can. You are another prisoner?”

“Yes! In the next cell!” Grey swallowed hard, fearing he might dissolve into tears. “My name is Grey Sommers and I’m English. I’ve been here over two years. Who are you?”

“Laurent Saville. I’m called Père Laurent.”

Father Lawrence? “You’re a priest?”

“I am.” A note of dryness entered the calm voice. “My crime has been to love God more than the emperor. And you?”

“Durand …” Grey hesitated, uncomfortable with admitting his sins to a priest. But priests were supposed to be forgiving, weren’t they? “Durand found me with his wife.”

“And you live?” Laurent said in amazement.

“He thought death too merciful.” Grey’s words tumbled over each other. “Tell me about yourself. Where are you from? Where have you studied, what subjects do you know? Please, talk, anything!” Fists clenched, he forced himself to stop. “I’m sorry. It has been so long since I’ve had a normal conversation with another man.”

The low chuckle was deeply soothing. “I was born and raised near here. We will have all the time we need, I’m sure. Tell me what life is like in Durand’s dungeon.”

The priest was right. They had plenty of time to talk. Till one of them died.

Though Grey valued the occasional exchanges with the servants, having a regular companion made a huge difference. And he couldn’t have done better than Père Laurent, who was kind and wise and learned, and as willing to share his knowledge as Grey was to learn it. Sometimes they sang together.

The food improved, too. Grey guessed that someone up in the kitchen was a good Catholic who thought a priest deserved to eat decently, and Grey benefited by that.

Laurent was older, his health more fragile. One terrible winter, he seemed on the verge of dying from lung fever. That was when Grey learned to pray.

Father Laurent survived. And together, they kept each other sane.

France, 1813

Since the guard and prisoners weren’t known to be ill, Madame Bertin provided a hearty sausage stew rather than broth. Carrying three meals, Cassie carefully descended the treacherous stone steps. She didn’t want to break her neck when she was so close to an answer.

The stairs ended in a short corridor with a door at the other end. A locked door. Since her hands weren’t free, Cassie kicked the door. “Monsieur? I have your dinner!”

A key rattled in the lock and the door was opened swiftly by a burly man. “Come in, come in! I was wondering if I’d been forgotten.” Getting a look at her, he said suspiciously, “I don’t know you.”

“Everyone else is ill with the influenza so I’m helping out,” Cassie explained. “Shall I put the tray on your table?”

The guard nodded and stepped back, relaxing when he saw that his visitor seemed to be a fragile old lady. “Gaspard will be back soon, but we’re under orders to never leave the prisoners unguarded, so I couldn’t come up to the kitchen.”

It said much for Durand’s temper that he was obeyed even when he was a hundred miles away and his guard was hungry. As she set the tray on the end of the table, she surreptitiously studied the guardroom. There were several chairs and cards on the other end of the desk, where the guard had been playing some form of solitaire. This job must be insanely boring.

As soon as Cassie set a steaming bowl down, the guard sat and dug into the stew. She poured wine from the decanter she’d brought. “I have meals for the prisoners as well. Are they through that door?”

The guard nodded and slurped some wine. “The cells are there, but don’t worry. Leave the tray and I’ll take their food in after I’ve eaten.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If there’s any left after I eat! I’m that hungry, I am.”

So if he was feeling greedy, the prisoners would starve? Concealing her anger, she said amiably, “If you need more food for them, I’ll bring it down when I come back for the bowls. And maybe a little more wine for you, eh?”

The guard gave her a gap-toothed smile. “You understand what a man needs, grandmère.” He ripped off a piece of the bread and dipped it into the stew.

A ring of keys hung from a nail by the door that led to the cells. Though Kirkland had sent Cassie only to verify his information, there would never be a better chance to free Wyndham if he was here. Even if he wasn’t, Cassie would release any other poor devil languishing in this hellhole.

The guard was paying no attention to her, so Cassie stepped behind him and applied hard pressure to two carefully chosen spots in his thick neck.

“Merde!” As the blood flow was cut off, the guard jerked and started a protest, then slumped forward into his dinner. Cassie maintained the pressure long enough to ensure that he was thoroughly unconscious.

After releasing the hold, she efficiently bound his wrists and ankles and gagged him. Another moment to stow him behind the desk so he wouldn’t be immediately visible if anyone entered, and then she snatched up the key ring. If Gaspard was going to be back soon, she needed to move fast.

It took a few moments to find the right key. The door swung open, and she was almost flattened by the stench in the passage on the other side. Dear God, what was it like to go ten years without a bath?

Trying to ignore the rank scent of unwashed bodies, she headed down the ill-lit passage. The right wall was plain stone; the left had four doors. Her nose confirmed that the occupied cells were at the far end. Which one held the man she sought?

As she paused, she heard the sound of a male voice behind the last door. She blinked. He was singing! He had a fine baritone.

She listened to the words, and smiled involuntarily when she realized that he was singing a French song so scurrilous that even she didn’t know all the obscenities. Probably not the priest, then.

Now to find out if it was Wyndham. Hoping to God he hadn’t been driven mad, she found a likely key and attempted to open the cell on the far end. It took three attempts to find the right key. She opened the door and found herself face-to-face with a monster from a nightmare with filthy hair and beard falling over ragged garments.

They both froze in shock, staring at each other. Was this Kirkland’s golden boy? The prisoner was broad shouldered and gaunt as a starving wolf. Hard to tell what color his hair was under the filth. Not really dark, but certainly not blond. His only distinctive feature was startlingly intense dark-ringed gray eyes.

The moment of surprise ended—and he launched himself at her with murder in his crazed gray eyes.