No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (34 page)

“But—but why?” Jean-Jacques nervously flicked his tongue over his lips.

“Oh, all sorts of reasons,” Pascal replied. “The French keep a close eye on him as well. He’s loyal to no one but himself and his own interests. Which brings us back to you.”

“But I am no one—I mean, I have a title, and now I have money, but what use is that to him? As you just said, I have no political connections other than him and his friends.”

Pascal considered. “He must be planning to use you as a pawn in some game of his, and for that, he needs you to be wealthy and under his thumb.” Pascal’s eyes narrowed. “Wait—was this ongoing house party your idea or his?”

“His,” Jean-Jacques said. “He knows I hate the country, but he said that inviting people to Saint-Simon would create the right impression with the right people.”

“And the invited guests?”

“His suggestions. He said he wanted to help me into a small but influential circle, and this was the best way.”

“Their names?”

Jean-Jacques reeled off a list.

Pascal listened with dawning understanding. He might have retreated from the world for two years, but Nicholas had kept him well informed by letter. One of the things Nicholas had mentioned was the small and very quiet group of French who supported Bonapartism—although Passy’s name had not been among their number.

Yet more than half the names Jean-Jacques had just mentioned were part of that select group. Louis-Napoléon, currently exiled in England, was probably planning another coup d’éat against the Bourbon government, and Passy was somehow behind it.

“What is it?” Jean-Jacques asked nervously. “Why do you look at me in such a calculating manner?”

“You, Jean-Jacques, are being used as a front for a very dangerous game,” Pascal said. “I begin to see why Passy chose you. You’ve been out of the eye of society for three years, yes? Invisible. Now after a brief reappearance you’re back out of the eye of society, but you have Saint-Simon and enough money to entertain lavishly.”

“Yes?” Jean-Jacques said. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What it means is that Passy and his friends are up to no good. They’ve been conspiring right under your nose, knowing no one would look to you for political intrigue.”

“Conspiring? What about?” Jean-Jacques asked, appalled.

“I’d rather not say. Not yet, anyway.” Not until Passy was well out of the way and Jean-Jacques was off opiates-opiates that Passy had been feeding him to keep his wits dulled. It was diabolic—and worth every franc it had cost Passy to fund Jean-Jacques, for should King Louis-Philippe come to hear of a plot, they’d all be thrown into jail, if not executed for treason.

But in the state Jean-Jacques was in at the moment, Pascal could not trust him with such dangerous information.

“Listen to me, and listen very carefully,” Pascal said, measuring his words. “Passy is using you. He has exploited your vanity, your desire to be important, and he is now addicting you to opiates, so that he can control you completely. Eventually all he’ll have to do is withhold the drugs from you, and you’ll be on your knees, willing to do anything at all. Anything, Jean-Jacques.”

Jean-Jacques colored deeply, unable to disguise his embarrassment. “How did you know about the opiates?”

“A trained eye,” Pascal said. He nodded toward the glass of cognac. “How long have you been drinking laced wine?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Jean-Jacques said, trying to remember. “Two months, perhaps?”

“How much of it a day, then? One glass, five, ten?”

“Perhaps as many as five,” he admitted.

Pascal assessed him, noting the pallor of his skin, the slight shake of his hands. “If you stop taking it now,” he said, “I can give you something to make the withdrawal easier on you. I will guarantee that if you go on like this, it will become very much worse for you, and you’ll never get out of Passy’s clutches.”

Jean-Jacques nodded, looking acutely unhappy.

Pascal gazed out the window at the countryside. The vineyards ran down the hill, backlit in the deepening afternoon light. Here and there men moved among the rows, doing the work of every day. It was a simple and peaceful sight. Conspiracies had no place here, nor did filth like Passy.

“Speaking of Passy’s clutches,” Pascal said, “I’d make some plausible excuse to get rid of him and his friends as quickly as possible. You’re in danger, and you could well end up being the lamb led to slaughter. Should something go wrong, Passy wouldn’t hesitate to use you to save his own skin.”

“I—I feel like an idiot,” Jean-Jacques whispered. “But it never occurred to me … I was flattered to be part of their inner circle.”

“Naturally you were, but you don’t belong with people like that, Jean-Jacques. You never will, and thank God for it. You’re a man who enjoys his pleasures and the company of his friends. These people—they know nothing about friendship.”

“I was never comfortable with them,” Jean-Jacques said shakily. “The opium helped with that. How do I make them go away?”

Pascal thought, then grinned as an idea occurred to him. “How would you feel about an outbreak of diphtheria? I’m sure it could be arranged.”

Jean-Jacques stared at Pascal. “Really? How?”

“I have any number of friends who would be willing to oblige,” Pascal said, thinking that he really had come to enjoy the world of men. Intrigue, counterintrigue; it was good fun. He began to understand why Nicholas derived such enormous pleasure from his work, which was rife with this sort of thing.

“I’ll start the rumor,” he said, “and word will spread up here fast enough through the servants. From the servants it will then go to the valets and the ladies’ maids. And voilà. You will have a mass exodus by tomorrow afternoon—the following day at the very latest.”

“Very clever,” Jean-Jacques said.

“Thank you. And—this is important—when Passy comes to you tomorrow to find out if you know anything about the epidemic, tell him that you don’t believe a word of it, even though I warned you of an outbreak today.”

“Yes, all right, but Passy is hard to fool,” Jean-Jacques said, looking nervous again.

“Nonsense,” Pascal said. “Beat him at his own game. Pretend you are desolate at having your friends desert you. Then rub your throat, cough a little, and say you think you might go along to Paris with him.”

Jean-Jacques nodded. “You are the one who is diabolic, I think.”

“I begin to think I might be,” Pascal said, “for here’s another idea. You ought to be pale and sweating by tomorrow, maybe shaking a little. I’ll come up in the morning with something to help you through the withdrawal, but I’ll announce that I’ve come about your throat. If that doesn’t alarm them, I’m useless.”

“No, not useless. I don’t know how to thank you for your help.”

Pascal smiled. “That’s simple. Be happy for your sister. Lily is in her element here, and well loved, not only by me. I think it’s time you saw her in a new light—and offered her an apology, perhaps?”

Jean-Jacques reddened, but he nodded.

“Good. You are welcome at the cottage anytime, although I’d wait until your guests leave. You ought not be seen leaving your sickbed once you’ve taken to it.”

He gestured toward the books. “You might write those bank drafts now. By the way, you will have a harvest this year, and a good one, if the weather holds. You will also have a profit, Jean-Jacques, and it should be substantial.”

“What?” Jean-Jacques said, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “What are you talking about?”

“I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you haven’t had time to notice the vineyards. They’re bursting with fruit, healthy fruit. It has taken a tremendous amount of work to get them that way, and you have nearly every able-bodied man in Saint-Simon to thank for that.”

“Fruit?
Healthy
fruit?”

“Your vintage should be excellent, if everything continues as it has. You will definitely need a wine-maker, Jean-Jacques.”

Jean-Jacques rose and walked over to the window, and Pascal came up behind him. “With a little time your red wines will become known again, admired and appreciated,” he said.

“You truly think this is possible?” Jean-Jacques asked. He half turned to look at Pascal.

“Yes, I do. But first you must pay your bills.”

Jean-Jacques went back to his desk and started to look the books over. But after a moment he passed his hand over his eyes. “I can’t seem to concentrate on the figures…”

Pascal sat down opposite him. “If you will trust me this far, I’ll fill everything out for you. All I need is your signature on the finished drafts.” He quickly made out the necessary forms and handed Jean-Jacques his pen.

Jean-Jacques dipped it into the ink and signed everywhere he was told.

Pascal was quiet that night, although in a fine enough humor. Lily knew that it was no good to try to make him talk when he was in a silent mood, and since there had been no patients, she put dinner on the table early. He ate it, his thoughts elsewhere.

Lily washed up the meal, while Pascal dealt with the daily books, but from the way he was going about it, it was obvious that his mind wasn’t on his work. She walked up behind him and rested her hand on his warm cheek, and he absently covered it. That having failed to get his attention, she leaned down and kissed him.

He smiled, looking up at her. “Like that, is it, duchess?”

“Not necessarily,” she said, stroking his hair. “I wouldn’t want to distract you any more than you already are.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I know I haven’t been the best of company tonight.”

“It’s all right, Pascal. I don’t need to be entertained. I can tell that you have something on your mind. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes, but not just at this moment. I’ve been formulating a plan to stop the nonsense up at the chateau. I spoke with your brother this afternoon.”

“You did?” she said, surprised.

“Yes, and he paid the outstanding balance in full. He has also decided he no longer wishes to entertain his friends.”

“He what?” She gave Pascal a suspicious look. “All right, what did you do? Did you go probing?”

“No,” he said, all innocence. “We had a nice long talk, and I explained about his vines. He was very happy. He saw the sense in investing in them.”

“I thought that was the plan all along,” Lily said.

“It was, but Jean-Jacques had temporarily changed his mind. He has now decided that he needs to concentrate on business, and concentrating on business is difficult to do with a houseful of noisy, badly behaved people.”

Lily’s lips twitched. “Devil,” she said, and Pascal pushed his chair out a little and drew her onto his lap. “You must have done something to force his hand,” she prompted.

“Well, I did use a little friendly persuasion,” he said, nestling her against his chest. “Actually, I was quite rude to start with, but then Jean-Jacques saw the light—”

“I knew it.”

“No, not that sort of light.” He nuzzled her throat. “It was the light of reason. Sweet, clear reason, presented by your very clever husband.”

“I see,” Lily said, snuggling closer. “What else did my very clever husband do?”

“I called up a diphtheria epidemic,” he said.

“What?”
Lily sat bolt upright, just as a knock sounded at the door.

“That should be the beginning of it,” he said with a grin and went to open the door. Father Chabot stood there, wearing a puzzled expression.

“Michel,” Pascal said with satisfaction. “Do come in.”

“I received your note,” the little priest said, entering. “What is all this about bringing down a coup?”

“May I first offer you a glass of wine?”

“I have a feeling I’m going to need it,” Father Chabot said dryly.

Lily put out three glasses and opened a bottle, then sat down, just as mystified as Father Chabot. Pascal appeared to be very pleased with himself, like a small boy who was about to stir up some real mischief.

“All right,” he said, when they were settled. “I should start at the beginning, although it’s a miserable story.”

He began with Julien and the Comte de Passy and worked all the way to the end of his conversation with Jean-Jacques, leaving out nothing.

Lily listened in appalled silence, but she didn’t interrupt and neither did Father Chabot.

“And so,” Pascal said, “I’m going to run the lot of them away, and both of you are going to help me do it. Now, Michel.” He pulled a list from his pocket and handed it to the priest. “I need you to visit the houses of the supposed victims starting first thing in the morning and continuing throughout the day—or for as long as it takes the chateau to empty. I’ve spoken to Pierre, and Charles, and the others on the list, of course. They’ve all agreed with enthusiasm.”

Lily propped her chin on her fist, regarding Pascal with amusement. “Just how are you going to go about this?”

“Marie is to succumb during the night. Emelie is already in a state of terrible illness, as of late this afternoon. I made sure I was seen going in and out of the house with my bag. Naturally, tiny Joseph-Jean will be next to fall. So there must be a quarantine on all of these houses, and you, Michel, have to be seen going to offer comfort.”

“It is not often I am called to God’s more solemn services in complete jest,” Father Chabot said, “but a finer cause I cannot think of.”

“Excellent,” Pascal replied. “I’m sorry to have to alarm those people not in our confidence, but we can’t take the chance that Passy will work out the truth of the matter. That would compromise Jean-Jacques.”

“About Passy,” Father Chabot said with a frown of concern. “Does he happen to be a large, red-faced gentleman, imperious of manner?”

“Yes,” Pascal said, surprised. “Why?”

“He was poking about the fields late this afternoon, asking questions of the men—questions about you, Pascal, and also about Lily. I’ve had three people come to me already this evening, troubled.”

Lily looked at Pascal with worry. “He can’t have remembered you from before?”

“No,” Pascal said. “I don’t think so. He was probably more concerned with my lack of respect toward the sacred duke. My mistake, but I was so angry with Jean-Jacques that I didn’t stop to think. I’m sure Passy only wanted to find out if I had any influence over your brother. Did anyone answer his questions, Michel?”

Father Chabot blew out his cheeks. “I’m sorry to say one loose-lipped fool did, but I’ll decline to mention his name. Passy now knows your wife is Jean-Jacques’s sister. He knows how and where you live, and he knows about the rumor. I worry that he might try to find a way to use it against you.”

Pascal shook his head. “If you’re talking about little Joseph-Jean, that rumor has long since been dispelled.” He looked over at Lily with a smile. “My wife took care of that.” “No, I don’t refer to that. I’m afraid this one is a bit more awkward,” Father Chabot said uncomfortably.

“What could possibly be more awkward than counteracting talk of miracles?” Pascal asked cheerfully, but abruptly sobered. “What is it, Michel? You look unusually serious.”

“You really haven’t heard, then? Or you, Lily?”

Lily frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Father Chabot rubbed a hand over his shiny scalp. “I thought you must have heard and dismissed it as nonsense.”

“Michel,” Pascal said impatiently, “will you get on with it? Rumors run rife through the village. What is it now?”

“It will sound odd to you, no doubt. It’s about your parentage.

“My
parentage
?” Pascal said, perplexed. “What about my parentage? Do you mean that I was adopted by an English family? Who would care—who would even know?”

Father Chabot raised his eyebrows. “I certainly didn’t. When—ah, when was that? I thought you said you lived in Paris?”

“I did. My parents died when I was ten. For the love of God, Michel, why are you fumbling about like this? Whatever it is can’t be that bad.”

Father Chabot pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what you will make of this, but they are saying … they are saying you are the sixth duke’s bastard son.”

Pascal stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am very serious.”

“No—that has to exceed the limits of even these people’s superstitions.” He met Lily’s puzzled gaze and shrugged. “I suppose it has to do with the land coming back.”

“Yes,” Father Chabot agreed. “That has something to do with it.”

“Ah, well, it’s not the first time someone’s called me a bastard,” Pascal said, grinning at Lily. “Although a duke’s bastard—now there’s a step up in the world. I suppose I should be complimented. I imagine they attached my name to those past LaMartines and cooked up an affair between the duke and madame?”

“For your information, Henri LaMartine was the last
regisseur
at Saint-Simon,” Father Chabot said, rubbing his finger on the table.

“Was he? How interesting. Yes … I suppose I can see why they might have put the pieces together, although it’s ridiculous.” Pascal laughed. “Stop looking so serious, Michel. Let them think what they will. It doesn’t matter to me—why should it?”

“I’m pleased you find this so diverting,” Father Chabot said.

“Why not? After this, they’ll be disappointed to find out that my parents were ordinary working people like themselves. Anyway, I’m afraid that my mother was devoted to my father. She would never have looked at another man. I’m certain of it.”

“Tell me,” Father Chabot said, “what happened to your parents? If you don’t mind talking about it, that is.”

“I don’t mind. They died during the influenza epidemic that swept through Paris during the winter of 1819,” he said grimly. “I was ten.”

Father Chabot looked down. “How dreadful. What happened to you?”

“The authorities put me in an orphanage, but I escaped after a month.” He glanced over at Lily. “You were right about the sewers of Paris, duchess.”

“Oh, Pascal—I’m so sorry,” Lily said with true remorse, her hand slipping to her mouth. “I was just being horrible when I said that.”

“I know,” he replied. “You hit your mark, not that I was going to let you see it.”

Lily gently touched his arm. “How did you survive?”

“Oh, a little begging, a little thieving. It wasn’t all bad, and there were a number of other street urchins. We banded together. We had some good times too, mostly at the expense of the police.” He shook his head.

“Did they catch you in the end?” she asked, her imagination sketching pictures of a miniature Pascal evading the entire
gendarmerie
of Paris.

“Certainly not,” Pascal said disdainfully. “But by the time the next winter rolled around, I decided that I needed proper shelter and steady food. I signed on with a British merchant vessel. I couldn’t cook, but I figured the position would keep me close to the food supplies.”

Father Chabot chuckled. “Very resourceful.”

“Too resourceful,” Pascal said ruefully. “It was nearly my undoing.”

“Did they catch you stealing food?” Lily asked.

“No.” He twisted his glass back and forth, his eyes hazy with memory. “The ship went down.”

“Oh …” Lily said, dismayed. “Oh, how awful for you.”

“It was,” he agreed, glancing up at her. “The captain misread the strength of a storm blowing in off the coast of Sussex, and we were caught right in the middle of the worst of it. It swept us onto the jagged rocks off Pevensy and smashed the ship into bits.”

He shuddered. He would never forget the noise—the howling wind, people screaming and shouting, the sound of wood splintering against stone, the furious, unrelenting pounding of the huge waves.

“I was so scared,” he whispered. “So damned scared.” He covered his eyes with his hand for one brief moment, then shook his head as if to dispel the memory.

Lily’s eyes filled with tears. “You don’t have to go on, Pascal—not if it’s too painful to remember.”

“No, it’s all right. You once asked me how I met Nicholas. I couldn’t answer you then for a number of reasons, but this seems like a good time to tell you about it.”

An enormous knot formed in Lily’s throat. Maybe someday when there is trust between us, I’ll be able to speak of it with you. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Pascal looked at her, his dark eyes filled with love, and she knew he too was remembering that night.

“Would you like me to leave?” Father Chabot asked tactfully.

Pascal glanced over at him. “No, Michel, that’s not necessary. Anyway, it’s a story you might be interested in hearing, given the line of work you’re in. You’ve been so tolerant about everything else that I don’t think you’ll have trouble with this. I admit, I’ve only ever told the full story to three other people, Nicholas and Georgia being two of them. They’re my adoptive parents, by the way. The third person was Dom Benetard.”

Father Chabot nodded, his face solemn. “Then I am deeply honored.”

“Please, don’t be that,” Pascal said lightly. “I’m in a storytelling mood, and I consider you my friend.”

Despite Pascal’s easy words, Father Chabot appeared shaken. Lily had the strong feeling that Pascal was about to say something that was going to shock the good priest to the depths of his soul, and Pascal was carefully laying the groundwork to prepare him. He didn’t seem at all worried about her, but then he knew that she wasn’t prone to being shocked—at least not by him.

“What happened next, Pascal?” she asked, resting her chin on her fist.

“Well,” Pascal said, pushing that untrainable lock of hair off his forehead, “we all went overboard. Unlike many other poor souls, I was fortunate enough to avoid the rocks and was swept out to sea.”

“Could you swim?” Lily asked.

“Yes, but it made no difference, not in that sea, duchess. All I remember is being on the deck one minute, high up in the air the next, and then pounded down on the surface of the water so hard that the breath was knocked out of my body.”

He ran a thumb over his lower lip in a gesture Lily had come to know well, a sign that he was thinking, collecting himself.

She waited. The room was hushed, filled only with the ticking of the clock and the snuffle of Bean’s little snores coming from under Pascal’s feet. Father Chabot sat with his hands folded together on the table, his head bent as if he were in prayer.

“The water was very cold,” Pascal said softly into the silence. “After a few minutes of freezing and being unmercifully pounded around, I gave up fighting. It was nice—I felt as if I’d gone to sleep. Everything was suddenly peaceful and quiet, and there was the most beautiful light—brilliant white, much more appealing than the heaving sea. I went straight into it.”

He met Lily’s eyes and held them. “Do you remember how you felt when you watched Joseph-Jean coming back?”

Lily nodded.

“It was like that, only more powerful. It was like
being
the light. Well, not exactly, but that’s the closest I can come to describing it. My mother and my father were there in that light, although they were too far away for me to reach. There were others, too. I wasn’t sure who they were, because I could hardly see through the brightness, but I knew they loved me. It was wonderful—I wanted to run toward them as fast as I could.”