Tender the Storm (59 page)

"Fate," she whispered.
'

"Which means?"

"America."

He laughed. "So be it," he said. "America it is."

The moment he entered the foyer, he sensed that something was very much amiss. It was not Samson who was on duty, but one of his underlings, a young footman who generally waited on table. The murmur of voices came to him from Zoë's yellow
salle.
Rolfe threw down his walking cane and strode purposefully toward the door.

At his entrance, three people turned to face him. Salome was wringing her hands. Samson hung his head. And Francoise, Zoë's friend, was dabbing at her eyes with a balled handkerchief. Three voices started to speak at once.

Rolfe cut them off with the wave of one hand. "Where is she?" he demanded.

There was a silence,
then
Francoise, with a look of acute trepidation, forced herself to her feet. "It's
all my
fault," she said, her voice low and scarcely audible. Her eyes dropped away from Rolfe's riveting gaze. She swallowed convulsively. "If I hadn't agreed to go with her, none of this would have happened."

"You know where she is?"

Her eyes were brimming with tears. "I do. And I have a message for your ears only."

Over Salome's protests, Rolfe ordered the servants to clear the room. Having closed the door firmly upon them, he moved to a small commode. From a
crystal decanter, he poured a generous splash of amber liquid into a glass and thrust it into Francoise's trembling fingers.

"Drink it," he said with so much sternness in his expression that Francoise took a long swallow in mute obedience before she realized the glass contained strong spirits.

It took some minutes before she could find her voice. "I don't know where to begin," she said and stared miserably at the liquid eddying in her glass.

In a tone of strained patience, Rolfe said, "You have a message for me?"

Francoise nodded.
"From Paul Varlet.
He has Zoë, you see. You are to go alone. He said that this was between the two of you and that if we involved others, you would never see Zoë again." She bit down on her lip and fresh tears started to her eyes. "Oh yes, and I was to tell you that you are to come unarmed, and that the house is being watched. He'll know if you try to trick him. Oh God, there isn't much time." She cast a despairing look at the clock on the mantel. "He gave me two hours to find you, and, oh God, there's barely an hour left. If I don't take you to him before sunset, something dreadful will happen to Zoë. Please . . ."

He silenced the spate of words with a look. "You have seen Varlet in the last two hours?"

She nodded,
then
sniffed. "If anything happens to Zoë, I shall never forgive myself."

"It's not your fault," he said grimly. "I should have expected that Varlet would try something like this. I did expect it. That is why I gave orders that Zoë was not to leave the house. You can fill me in on the details as we go."

He took the glass from her shaking fingers and set it aside. "What address?" he asked.

"That's just it. I don't remember. It was in the letter, and Zoë still has it in her possession. But I know the house. It's on the road to
Picpus
, in the St. Antoine district. The house stands in its own grounds. I shall recognize it once I see it again."

Rolfe strode to the door and summoned Samson. When he turned back, Francoise looked at him curiously.

"You look different," she said. "What happened to your cane?"

"I'm not Ronsard," he answered. "I'm Zoë's husband." He studied her carefully. "You don't seem surprised?"

"I was beginning to suspect as much."

"My disguise didn't fool you?"

"Not latterly, no. And I thought that your limp might be a relic from the injuries you sustained in that attack in London."

Samson entered at that moment and Rolfe gave orders for the carriage to be brought round.

Though she was trembling in her shoes, Francoise countermanded the order. "It won't do," she said. "You are to come in an open carriage, one that you can drive yourself. There must be no coachmen."

"It would seem that Varlet has thought of everything," observed Rolfe. "Very well, Samson. We shall take the curricle. You may follow in the carriage.
But at a safe distance.
I won't take chances on anything happening to Zoë. And Samson, once we find the house, you are to fetch help at once. Do you understand?"

"Aren't you going to at least alert the authorities
to what is going on?" asked Francoise in an agitated tone.

"To what purpose?" asked
Rolfe.
"If they rush in before I have a chance to speak to Varlet, anything might happen to Zoë."

"I suppose you know what you are about," she
answered,
though it was evident she was far from satisfied with the steps Rolfe was taking to protect her friend.

As the curricle pulled out of the courtyard, Francoise covertly studied her companion. His hands were steady on the reins. Not a flicker of emotion showed on his handsomely chiseled profile. She shook her head.

"You're very cool," she said, "and yet you must know that Paul Varlet hates you. You could be walking into a trap."

"What choice do I have? Besides, I shall tell Varlet at the outset that I have sent my man to fetch the authorities. He'd be a fool to try anything, and he knows it. No, it's not my own skin I am worried about. But, my God, if he has touched one hair of Zoë's head . . ."

Such a look blazed in his eyes that Francoise flinched involuntarily. At length, her confidence returned, and she said, "Nevertheless, you surely won't enter that house unarmed? If anything should happen to you . . ."

"You may be sure that I am not such a fool!" Rolfe patted his coat pocket with one hand. "And now, Francoise, I wish you would tell me how Paul Varlet got hold of my wife. I'm still very much in the dark."

It had all begun, so Francoise told him, when a
406

letter
came by hand to Zoë's own door. No one knew who had delivered it. The letter purported to be from Zoë's sister, Claire.

"And you were with Zoë when the letter arrived?"

"I was."

"And was the letter from Claire?"

"Zoë seemed to think so. She recognized the writing."

"Go on"

Francoise continued with her story. The contents of the letter had upset Zoë greatly. Claire, it seemed, was an inmate of an asylum for the insane. The name she went by was not her own. She suffered from terrible fits of madness. At the moment, she was lucid. She had begged in vain to be released. No one would listen to her. Zoë was her last hope.

"None of this makes sense," cut in Rolfe, striving for patience. "How could Claire have known that Zoë had taken up residence in St. Germain? How did she know that Zoë was no longer in England? Surely you must have asked yourselves these questions? There are other things that must have made you wonder, if you had thought about it."

"That's just it," said Francoise, her voice and expression betraying her anguish. "We did not take time to think about it. We acted on impulse."

"I cannot understand why Zoë did not send someone to fetch me. I warned her, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to leave the house."

Francoise hung her head and said miserably, "That is something else that you may lay at my door. I told her about the duel, you see."

Rolfe uttered something very explicit and very

Anglo-Saxon.
He flung questions at Francoise in quick succession. In very short order, he had a clear idea of the sequence of events.

With a verbosity which was most unbecoming in a gentleman, Charles Lagrange had spilled the whole story of the duel to his wife. She, in her turn, made
postehaste
for the house in St. Germain to relate the same story to her friend, Zoë.

Rolfe could well imagine Zoë's frame of mind. The fragile trust which he had taken such pains to establish had shattered. On top of this first shock, almost immediately, came the shock of the letter from her sister —an almost certain counterfeit, in Rolfe's opinion. But Zoë, he knew, would clutch at straws.

And while he had been closeted for hours with first Housard and then Tallien, tying up all the loose ends of the assignment he had just completed, Zoë had given her vigilant servants the slip. Oh yes, he could well imagine Zoë's frame of mind when she set off with Francoise to chase down this lead on Claire. His credibility must be nonexistent. She would be heedless with anger.

They edged into the
Faubourge
St. Antoine and Rolfe chanced a quick look over his shoulder to ensure that Samson was following in the carriage. That act cost him dearly. The reins slipped from his fingers. He made a grab for them. His team felt the sudden jolt on the bit and went plunging and snorting to the right, almost overturning the curricle into the ditch. Francoise was flung half out. Only Rolfe's quick thinking saved her. One hand closed around her arm, dragging her back. Somehow his action sent her reticule flying out of her hands.

"My reticule," Francoise cried out. "It's in the ditch somewhere."

She made to alight but Rolfe prevented her. "Hold the reins. I'll fetch it," he said.

This was soon done, and they were on their way again, as if nothing had happened.

"You have yet to finish your story," said Rolfe. "What happened when you arrived at the asylum?"

Francoise felt in her reticule and withdrew
a
handkerchief. She mopped her face. The sun was low in the sky. The houses on this lonely stretch of road were few and far between. She looked over her shoulder. Samson, she noted, was keeping the carriage at
a
respectable distance. She became conscious that her companion was waiting for her to reply to his question.