The Adventurer (7 page)

Yours, le Comte de St. Germain

Isabella glanced at the clock. It read a quarter hour before midnight.

She knew very well she should not be meeting a man alone, let alone meeting a man she’d only just met alone and at midnight. Still, something about the comte intrigued her and she found herself glancing across the room to where Idonia lay snoring softly in the shadows of the bed. A sound sleeper, she would never notice if Isabella slipped from the room for a brief stroll through the palace. And she wasn’t going all that far. Only to the
Galerie,
a floor below and in the wing adjoining their apartment. She would be back long before her aunt ever took notice.

Isabella skimmed the note a second time, then folded it and started quickly to get dressed.

She wouldn’t have the time to lace into her stays, so she simply slipped on her skirts and the jacket of her traveling habit that she had already laid out for the following day. Her hair was down, freshly brushed for the night, and she left it that way, spilling over her shoulders in a twist of dark curls that wound its way nearly to her waist. She slipped her feet into a pair of shoes with a soft sole and a low heel that would allow her to move quietly across the palace’s marble floors. Then, with a last glance behind, she headed for the door.

Isabella gathered the bulk of her skirts in her hand as she made her way along the quiet corridor. There was no one about, not even the footman who had brought her the message. Only darkness, shadows, and the pale, pale moonlight shining through arched and mullioned windows.

Her feet scuffed softly on the steps as she descended the marble staircase. Somewhere, from behind the cover of a closed door, she heard a woman giggle seductively.

Isabella passed through a door at the end of the hallway, descending into a curving stairwell. Then through another door and along another corridor. Within minutes, she was standing at one end of the lengthy and elegant
Galerie des Glaces
—Versailles’s renowned Hall of Mirrors.

The sight that met her eyes had her stopping, standing, and staring.

The moonlight glittered on myriad crystals that danced like fairy lights along the twenty or so chandeliers that hung from the ceiling overhead. The lights reflected in the seventeen arched windows, and the equal number of magnificent mirrors that lined the wall across for which the room was named. Looking at it all at once made her feel quite as if she were standing in the midst of a star shower.

The room itself was empty.

Isabella walked quietly along the polished parquet floor, studying the various works of art in the moonlight.

There were ceilings painted by Le Bran celebrating the reign of the Sun King, and LeMoyne sculptures carved in the figures of the gods. When she had arrived at the palace earlier that day, the room had been so crowded with courtiers, she hadn’t been able to truly appreciate the elegant gilding and rich marble that graced the celebrated room. Standing there now, alone in the near darkness, the vast chamber was resplendent in the moonlight, whispering with the ghosts of masked balls and stately processions from an earlier era.

There was a bust of Louis XIV, the man whose vision had created the palace. She could just close her eyes and picture him, all that glorious majesty, holding court in that same room. Although they had called him the Sun King, she found the moon suited him more, cloaking his regal face in mystery and shadow.

When the comte stepped suddenly from those same cloaked shadows, Isabella gasped out loud.

“I didn’t see you there.”

Isabella took a slow breath to steady her pounding heart. He had been standing so still, she had thought him just another of the Roman statuary that stood tucked in the shadowed alcoves.

“Mademoiselle,” he said softly. “I am pleased you decided to come.”

He was dressed as she’d left him hours earlier, in his suit of rich silk and velvet.

“Oui, monsieur.
Your message seemed quite urgent.”

“Indeed, it is. Come, mademoiselle. Let us walk together.”

The comte took her hand and led Isabella away from the light of the windows, drawing her farther into the shadows. “You see, I have been waiting for you for some time, mademoiselle. Many, many years.”

Isabella’s skin prickled at his touch, still, somehow, she wasn’t afraid of this man. He was mesmerizing, like the flickering of a flame to the moth.

“But how can that be possible, monsieur? You did not know me before today.”

“This is true. I did, however, know
of
you. I have always known of you, Isabella.”

Isabella ...

When he said her name, his voice was smooth like warm cream. It gave her gooseflesh.

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Perchance this will help to explain it.”

Isabella watched, afraid to blink, as the comte reached inside his coat, removing something, something that hung from the length of a silver chain.

It was a stone, a crystal encased in crisscrossing bands of engraved silver. It was uncut, in its natural state, yet deep within, it glowed with a milky fire that even the darkness of the night could not subdue. When Isabella looked at the stone more closely, she felt the oddest sensation, as if it were familiar, as if she’d seen it sometime, somewhere before.

But that wasn’t possible.

“Do you know what this is?”

“No,” she said, even as she took it, feeling the weight of it against her hand. It was cool, as ice, to the touch.

“This stone was once the property of the kings of the Gaels, more ancient than anyone can accurately trace. It was given to the MacAoidh, to the Sons of Fire, centuries ago by
an maighdean mhara.”

Isabella had an ear for most languages when spoken, could usually identify them. This one, however, wasn’t one of them.

“Mahj-een ...” she attempted.

“It is Gaelic, mademoiselle. Man’s most ancient tongue. It means ‘mermaid.’ It was the mermaid who enchanted the stone.”

“Enchanted it?”

“Aye. Its powers are many, both healing and mystical. As such it is sought after by many who would abuse it. It has been missing from the MacAoidh for some time. And since then, all has not been right. A great unrest has descended, and continues to seethe even now. The stone, it must be returned, very soon, else all hope will be lost forever.”

Legends.

Enchantments.

It was just the sort of story that Isabella could get lost in.

“It is a fascinating tale, monsieur, indeed, but what does any of this have to do with me?”

“In each age, mademoiselle, there are powers at work, powers higher than anything we of this earth can command. Some credit them as God, others the work of a darker entity. Still others believe they are the forces of nature. Whatever your belief, you must know this. For each transgression, there is a virtue. For each evil, there is good. It is the natural order of things which keeps the balance between the elements—wind, water, earth, and fire. All four of these elements came together to create this mystical stone. A terrible transgression was committed when it was taken. As such there must be a virtue to restore it. And I believe
you
are that virtue, Mademoiselle Drayton.”

“Me? But, how ...”

“You must take this stone, and you must return it. You must restore the balance. The rightful MacAoidh awaits.” He looked at her closely. “There is, however, a complication.”

“Isn’t there always?” Isabella asked, at once fascinated and frightened of the comte’s ominous words.

“There are two of the Sons of Fire, very much alike, yet very different, too. It is your task to choose between them. Choose rightly, and all will be as it should. Choose wrongly, and you shall shift the very course of history.”

Isabella had been so engrossed in the comte’s evocative words, she hadn’t even noticed when he slipped the chain around her neck.

Now, suddenly, the stone weighed upon her.

“Wait ... no ... this is not—I don’t even know who—”

Her words fell silent as she lifted the stone up by its chain, staring at it in the moonlight. It was mesmerizing, as if it were filled with thousands of sparks of brilliant light. As soon as she touched it, wrapped the weight of it in her fingers, the stone began to glow, lit by a fire deep inside. First blue, then a pale, pale red. It was no trick of the light, no sleight of hand. It was real, for the stone had grown warm, almost hot against her skin.

It was as he had said. The stone was enchanted.

“You see, even the stone tells you. Heed the stone, mademoiselle. It will lead you to where you must go. It will lead you to Caledonia. Once you are there, all will come to you. Until then—and please heed me well—you must not let loose the stone. Guard it with your life, with your last breath, until you have found the real MacAoidh. Only then must you release it. And only unto him.”

“So it is a man ... ?”

And then, as if he’d been a trick of the moonlight, the comte turned, and vanished.

“Monsieur? Monsieur le comte? Where have you—?”

But she was speaking to the shadows.

Isabella stood there, alone in that brilliant room, trying for some time to decide whether the past several moments had truly happened.

Had it been a dream?

Had she walked in her sleep to find herself there in the
Galerie
alone?

But, she couldn’t have because the weight of the stone was heavy around her neck and her heart was pounding even now.

The comte was right. It was no ordinary stone. As she climbed the dark stairwell leading back to her room, it held a glow that couldn’t be explained, lighting her way.

Heed the stone ... it will lead you to where you must go ...

Who was this MacAoidh he had charged her with finding? And why had he chosen her?

As she made her way slowly back to the apartment, Isabella wondered if she should just take the chain from around her neck, give the stone to a palace footman to return to the comte the next morning after she’d gone. She could forget all about this meeting and this night. She could go back to her life, to her future in England.

But something he’d said, the subtle danger in the comte’s mystical words, gave her pause.

It must be returned, else all hope will be lost forever.

Forever.

Isabella had wanted an adventure.

Little did she know, the adventure had only begun.

* * *

Captain Jeremiah Grange scanned the northern horizon with the keen eye of a lifelong sailing man.

It was a dreary day, the skies dull and gray, the wind brisk, slapping at the sails on his sleek new sloop as they cut through the restless churn of the North Sea.

It was the sort of day that kept sailors sharp about their wits. At any moment, a sea squall could burst from behind the sagging clouds and buffet them off their course. But Grange had been traversing these waters between England and the Continent for nigh on thirty years. He knew every stretch, every stream, and every pull. It was how he made his living, and he was proud to say he’d weathered more than his fair share of sea gale with ne’er a man of his crew lost.

It was that sort of success that gave a man his confidence, a sense of ease in the way his gnarled hands rested upon the spokes of the ship’s polished wheel. But it also served to give him another sense, the
sailor’s wisdom
they called it, that mysterious gift that allowed him to look out at the empty expanse of water and wind and sky stretching before him and know, just know something was brewing.

“Ahoy!” he called to Davy who sat high in the crow’s nest on the foremast. Davy had the best eyes of his crew, like a hawk, that lad, and he took to his duties with a true sailor’s pride. “Eyes wide, lad!”

“Aye, Cap’n!” a voice called from above. “She’s thicker’n coal smoke, she is, today.”

“Bloody fog ...” Grange muttered to himself, and pulled the collar of his coat closer against his ears to stave off the biting wind.

He’d be easier, he knew, if he were only making the short crossing from Calais to Dover. It would be five, six hours at most and he’d have sight of land at most all times, not this changeable, inscrutable enigma of the open North Sea.

Had he his choice, he’d like to turn the ship along shore of England, particularly in such a fog, but knew his timetable required the open sea, away from the fishing trawlers and other smaller craft that peppered the shallower waters of the coast. He’d be forced to slow, likely doubling his sailing time, and he rather doubted his passengers were of a mind for a pleasure cruise. And he’d promised his wife, Hester Mary, for whom his ship was named, that he’d be back at home in Harwich in time for their wedding anniversary.

It would be five-and-twenty years this year, and Hester set great store by that sort of thing. For weeks, she’d been planning a big supper with their daughters, Anne and Jane, and all the little ones, and had even splurged to buy the ingredients for an iced cake. The thought of the cake reminded Grange that he had yet to stop at the haberdashery to buy her a pretty bonnet for her gift. Hester would like that. She was a good woman, patient and understanding when it came to most things—and it certainly wasn’t easy being the wife of a sailing man—but if he had any intention of celebrating six-and-twenty years with her, he had better keep to sailing out on the open sea ...

Where anything, or anyone, could be lurking.

“Good morning, Captain Grange.”

The arrival of the lady Isabella chased thoughts of foggy seas and pretty bonnets straight from the captain’s thoughts. Aye, he’d been faithful to his Hester for all of those five-and-twenty years, and would carry on that same course, but it certainly didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a pretty face when he saw one.

Grange turned, tipped his hat. “Mornin’ to you, Lady Isabella. A mite bit early in the day t’ be about, no?”

She smiled and just the sight of that smile seemed to warm the brisk sea air.

“I don’t mind the wind. I just couldn’t stay belowdecks with all this to behold.”

“Naught much more than the mist and the water today, I’m afraid, my lady. Even the sea terns stayed at home.”