The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) (24 page)

D’Oronte’s face twisted again, but he looked around at all the nosy bystanders. “I did not cheat! And congratulations, de Cantière, on defending a cheap whore. You should watch your food, though. It seems she favors arsenic.”

Unwilling to punch the vicomte in front of a crowd, and unable because his punching arm was hurt, Manu glared for several seconds before darting his foot forward, hooking it around the other man’s calf and shoving him with his left hand. He turned his back on d’Oronte and heard him land hard on his posterior, with a hoot of laughter from many of the men.
I should have stayed and spat on him.

He hoped he hid the weakness in his legs as he strode along the banister of the terrace, bypassing the crowd that turned to watch him go. Catherine hurried next to him, her hand on his left arm, calling for people to get out of the way and for a footman to alert a surgeon. As they approached the side door of the palace, he heard running feet behind them and glanced back—his head spun when he turned his head—to see his nephews and niece chasing behind, his father and Henri encouraging them to catch up.

Indoors, he leaned against the wall in the entryway, catching his breath, cradling his throbbing arm to his stomach. Catherine’s worried face loomed in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

“None of this is your fault.” She placed her warm hand on his back, and it gave him strength.

“He might not have been cruel about you if I’d stayed away.”

She glowered. “You saved me from him more than once. I apologize for making you a target.”

He nodded. “He would have targeted me anyway, since I challenged him right from the start. I am happy to protect you from someone like him.”

“Manu, you’d better keep walking, or this crowd is going to run over you like a herd of wild horses.” His father was trying to joke, but his voice and his smile were strained.

Henri silently sheathed his dagger in his boot and ducked under Manu’s left arm, taking his weight and marching him along the corridor.

“Straight to the surgeon, boy. Do not faint, or you will frighten the lady and the children.” Henri glared at him. “Show no weakness.”

Manu laughed. His ears were ringing, but he didn’t think he was going to faint. Of course, if the darkness in the corners of his eyes was anything to go by, he might be wrong.

Chapter Eleven

“I hear you made quite a spectacle of yourself.” The baronesse was sitting up in a cushioned chair in her bedchamber, looking healthier than she had in weeks, her face hard and disapproving.

Catherine paused and looked down, her natural instinct being to hide. She’d had time to calm down a little, sitting with the baron outside the surgeon’s quarters as they awaited word on Emmanuel’s injury. The unfairness of the baronesse’s words churned through her for only a few seconds before she raised her chin and glared at her benefactress. “I believe it was the Vicomte d’Oronte who made a spectacle of himself. I sincerely hope he goes and lives in shame and obscurity.”

The baroness did not like to be contradicted. “His grandmother denies he would do anything wrong. She came here wishing to find out what I knew, which was almost nothing. I had to find out from my friends.”

So the baronesse was more worried about being behind on the latest gossip. “Madame Philinte? She refuses to believe evil of anyone, most especially her grandson. She would not think he did anything wrong if she witnessed him committing murder. Which he very nearly did.”

Mme de la Brosse looked less sure of herself. “He says it was an accident.”

“He nearly murdered your son by using an unsafe sword and striking after the bout was over. He can claim it was an accident, but there are dozens of witnesses.” Catherine shuddered at the memory of blood soaking Emmanuel’s sleeve and dripping to the ground. “He announced to half the court that I am a whore and a poisoner. Over the past week, he has tried twice to compromise me. D’Oronte is a liar and a cheat. And now others finally see him for what he is. He deserves much harsher punishment than having to live in exile for a while. You may tell his grandmother I said so.”

The baronesse’s lip wobbled. Was she going to cry? Catherine didn’t think she could stand it. “It’s so rare nobles are truly punished. Gossip and ostracism seem to be effective enough in most cases.”

Catherine shook her head.

“Dom and Aurore’s attackers were last seen in the Netherlands.” The baron’s voice came from the doorway. “Though there have been more reliable sightings in Sweden.”

Catherine turned toward him, startled. “How is Monsieur Emmanuel?”

The baron smiled at her, his face old and weary. “He is well. The court surgeon doesn’t think anything important was cut. It was the outside of his arm, not the tender inside, which would have bled more. He’s pouring
eau de vie
into the wound and down Manu’s throat. He says it will keep the wound from suppurating and keep Manu’s mind off it.” He chuckled, but it sounded forced. “At least he’ll have an interesting scar.”

“Tell me this story of d’Oronte deliberately switching swords is a lie.” The baronesse glared at her husband.

He shook his head. “All I know is what I saw, which was an unsafe weapon and a deliberate strike after d’Oronte had already lost the bout. I think the Mousquetaires are looking into it, or will be soon, if Dom has anything to say about it. He feels his own honor is on the line as he was supervising the bout, besides that Manu is his brother-in-law.”

“Poor Dom is also cross because after all those years of teaching Manu to block a jab to the gut, he goes ahead and uses his arm instead of his sword.” Monsieur Cédric stood in the bedchamber door, his face falsely cheerful. “Still, it’s a little tiring to be the family that has to watch its members almost die all the time.” He approached and bowed over his mother’s hand. “Bonjour, Maman. I did not get a chance to speak to you this morning. Are you well?”

The baronesse nodded crisply. “Much recovered, thank you, Cédric.”

The man paused for a moment, staring at his mother in consternation. Catherine realized she had never heard her patroness call her sons by name, except as a way to single them out for criticism.

“We do have some other family business to discuss,
ma chère
,” said the baron. “If you would excuse us, please, Mademoiselle de Fouet.” He did not seem able to meet her eyes.

She went out to the sitting room, and he closed the door softly behind her.

Marie, the maid, rushed at her, eyes wide and frightened. She glanced nervously at the Swiss guard and curtsied. “Would you like to change out of your morning gown, Mademoiselle?”

Catherine opened her mouth, about to say she hadn’t planned on changing until dinner, but the girl rushed into Catherine’s small bedchamber, so she followed.

“What is it, Marie?” Catherine was distracted with worry about Emmanuel and whatever the baron and baronesse were discussing.

Marie stared at the floor, her hands clenched together. She spoke in a single rush of words. “It’s Anne, the baronesse’s maid. She came out of your room. When I asked her what she had been doing in here, she said she had found a bottle of poison among your things and she was going to fetch the Mousquetaires.”

Catherine staggered back, her hand to her chest. “In my room? Why would she say that?”

Marie shook her head. “I don’t know. Someone must have put it here. It was not long before you came up. She will be back at any moment. You must hurry!”

Catherine looked around. Her things were out of her trunk, shifts and shoes piled on her bed. “What happened here?”

“I’ve been searching, Mademoiselle. I thought if I could find it, I could take it out and throw it away. But I can’t find it! Maybe she took the bottle with her and is showing it to the soldiers now.” Her voice ended on a hiccup.

Catherine’s thoughts spun. She couldn’t focus. First, Emmanuel’s injury, then the accusations d’Oronte was trying to spread, and now a direct accusation.

She would leave. Before the Musketeers came up and arrested her and began to search her room. “Quick, Marie, help me with my riding skirt and pack me a few undergarments. And my…my things. Tell them…” What could she say to the baronesse and her family? “Tell them I would never hurt anyone, especially not the baronesse. Tell Monsieur Emmanuel…” She was leaving him? After their kisses and after he had fought d’Oronte? He hadn’t fought specifically for her, but it had felt like he was defending her honor.

“Tell Monsieur Emmanuel I send my best for his quick recovery.” She couldn’t pass more of a message through a maid. Through anyone. Maybe she should write a note.

A door opened and closed in the outer room and she scurried to Marie, who was holding out the riding habit.

“Where will you go, Mademoiselle?” The little maid’s hands were shaking.

“I don’t know.” And she probably shouldn’t tell the maid, in case Marie was questioned. And she didn’t know. She could take all her coins and jewelry and make her way to Normandy. The Musketeers would soon know to look for her there, but she would have a head start. She could gather up the gold she kept in the bank near her home, her mother’s diaries from the safe, and take a boat…somewhere. Into exile. England. She spoke a little English. What would she do there?

She sat on her bed as Marie packed her small bag. What would she do? Most of her savings were tied up in investments. She didn’t have time to arrange for the sale of her land and her available gold in Paris was locked away. She dropped to her knees by the cupboard and dug through her shoes, but the little purse with her extra money and her mother’s brooch was gone.

“Marie! My purse!”

Marie gasped. “I haven’t touched it, I promise! I didn’t notice it was missing, but I haven’t seen it.” She swiped at her tears. “Anne. Anne has to have it. I have never liked her.”

Catherine sighed. She would have to ride quickly to Normandy, as she only had a few coins. She could sell the land no matter where she went. Then she would have to keep moving. If the de Cantière family was still tracking the movements of the men who had masterminded a plot against the de Bures, they would surely keep looking for the person accused of poisoning their matriarch.

When Marie handed her a satchel, she passed the maid a coin—a small, cheap coin. “Please find Monsieur Emmanuel right away and tell him I am sorry to leave, but I am going to be falsely accused.”

She stepped out of the door, hiding her bag in the folds of her skirts and trying to act natural. The Swiss guard bowed politely and let her pass, asking if he could summon a footman to go with her. She didn’t want to make him think anything was odd, so she agreed. A young man led her down to a side entrance and called for her horse before entrusting her to another man. The wait felt endless, but a groom finally rode up, leading Flamme. In spite of all her fears, her heart leapt to see the beautiful chestnut mare seeking affection and carrots. She had no time for the first and hadn’t thought of the second.

The groom from the stables—not the baronesse’s usual man—helped her mount without comment about the bag he buckled behind the saddle. He asked if she wanted an escort, which she declined, saying she planned to stay within the park. He glanced at her bag, but as she didn’t volunteer any information, he nodded and bowed her off.

She rode slowly, her head high, to the north gate, glanced back to be sure no one was watching, and left the palace grounds.

****

Manu had refused more
eau de vie
after the first three swigs had caused his lips and cheeks to go numb. Almost two hours after the cheating bastard d’Oronte had tried to kill him, he was finally returning to his father’s apartments, his arm throbbing again and his head aching as he sobered. Henri hovered at his side, as if Manu were going to fall over, but declared, “I’m just taking care of you because Papa said to.”

If Manu had learned anything over the past day, it was to not believe most of what Henri said. Papa hadn’t asked Henri to point a dagger at d’Oronte. He hadn’t made Henri swear he would protect Manu and half-carry him through the palace to the surgeon. Awkward silences were not condemnation.

“You should have let me fetch you a litter.” Henri grumbled when Manu needed to rest halfway up the stairs.

“I would have preferred the palanquin Maman rode in this morning. So much shinier.”

Henri smiled slyly. “Did you see the bearers? All those muscles.”

Manu stared at him. Henri had never even hinted at his own homosexuality in front of him before. The remnants of the brandy in his brain made him say, “I’ll tell Fourbier you said that.”

Henri chuckled. “I was appreciating the art of it. Much as you appreciate the white mounds of a lady’s breasts spilling out of a bodice.”

Manu sighed. Catherine’s gowns weren’t low-cut enough and her breasts not lifted enough to spill over the top of her bodice. He ached to see those breasts.

Still too much eau de vie.

Henri opened their father’s door, and the blast of noise from inside made Manu’s ears throb. Immediately, the boys rushed forward, shouting over and shushing each other, but shoving and trying to be first. “Does it hurt?” “Can I see the bandages?” “Can I see the cut?” “How did it happen?” “I hardly saw anything.” “Did they arrest d’Oronte?” “What did the surgeon say?”

Henri stepped in front of Manu and held up one hand until the babble stopped. “The surgeon said your Uncle Emmanuel should listen only to the voices of those members of the family who are over twenty years old.”

The boys and Françoise looked hurt, all except Marcel, who, apparently used to his uncle, smirked and bowed. “Please, Tonton Henri, could we do anything to assist you and Tonton Manu?”

Henri smiled. “Much better. Clear a path for your Uncle Manu to the couch and let him sit. Stop shouting. He’s had a difficult morning.”

The door behind Manu opened suddenly, startling him.

“Oh good, all here.” The baron entered. “Cédric’s getting Sandrine.”

“Just arrived, Papa,” said Manu.

“Sit down before you fall down,” murmured Henri.

Manu made his way to a chaise longue, his coat slipping from his shoulders to the floor, leaving just his damaged, bloody shirt, a loose waistcoat, and a sling. The boys gasped and muttered and craned their necks. Françoise stood in front of him, staring avidly.