Amanda Scott (26 page)

“Seems to me them French peasants was what begun that there Revolution hereabouts, m’lady,” Darby said, frowning. “Don’t hurt t’ keep a weather eye peeled. Didn’t think rightly back there, bein’ glad to make journey’s end, so t’ speak, ’r I’d a paid more heed. Lucky it were just one old crone.”

“I’m sure that’s all we’ll find here, too. Probably Milice’s wife and maybe a child or two, is all. That old crone, as you call her, didn’t precisely give me a full description of his family when I asked her about them.”

Darby chuckled. “She were a one, right enough, but I’ll jest come along o’ ye now, mistress.”

She didn’t argue with him but turned to approach the stone stoop. Hearing someone singing inside, she knocked on the door with less fervor than she had knocked on the old woman’s. The singing stopped, and a moment later a young woman near Diana’s own age opened the door. She wore an apron over a laced bodice and full skirt very like the ones Diana wore under her cloak. The young woman’s hands were dusty with flour. She wiped them carefully on her apron.

“
Oui, madame?
”

“Good day,” said Diana in the same language. “I seek the family of Monsieur Milice.”

“I am Pétrie Milice,” said the young woman, frowning slightly. “My father, he is dead for a long time. Also, my mother,” she added conscientiously.

“I am sorry your father is dead,” Diana said, “for I have come a great distance to speak with him. I come from the Comte de Vieillard.”

The young woman frowned. Her lips formed a tight, straight line. “Do you indeed, madame?”

Diana grimaced. This was not going to be easy. Still, she was safe enough. Looking past Pétrie Milice, she noticed dough on a floured board sitting upon a long wooden table. “You are making bread,” she said conversationally. “I do not wish to inconvenience you. Perhaps, if my man remains outside, you would allow me to come in and speak with you while you work. There is much to explain, and I hope you will agree to help me.”

Pétrie Milice looked at Darby. The sailor’s cheeks turned rosy and he looked away. The young woman’s lips twitched. “You may come inside, madame. It is true, the bread must be kneaded. My brother is away to Deauville, but he will return tomorrow and he will want his bread.”

Diana nodded to Darby, who moved away, patting the dagger in his belt as if to say he would protect them both. Then she followed Pétrie Milice inside, glancing around with interest. The cottage consisted of the one room only, but it was neat and tidy, the furnishings plain but serviceable. The young woman was not an ordinary peasant girl, for her accent was cultured. She had been trained to speak her language well, no doubt, Diana decided, by her father. The news of a brother alarmed her, for she had been hoping that the girl would be able to tell her what she needed to know. It was quite possible, however, that she would not know the answers to Diana’s questions. The information might have been passed on only to the son. Nonetheless, Diana had to try. She watched, fascinated, as Pétrie Milice turned her attention to the thick lump of brown dough on the long table. The muscles in her forearms rippled with each turn and push, as she kneaded with a practiced rhythm.

“Talk, madame. I am listening.”

“Very well. I come from the comte, as I said. I do not know how to convince you of that fact,” Diana added honestly, “nor how to make you trust me. All I ask is that you listen to what I say. It is of prodigious importance that you help me. Mademoiselle Sophie’s life and that of madame la comtesse may well depend upon your helping me.” She paused, regarding the young woman carefully to see if she was making any impression.

Pétrie continued to knead her bread.

“I know you expect someone who carries the comte’s signet,” Diana said frankly.

There was expression in the girl’s gray-green eyes now. They widened slightly. But she was cautious. “I do not know of what you speak, madame. Of what concern to me would be monseigneur’s signet ring?”

Diana took a step toward her, but when a flicker of fear crossed the other’s face, she backed away again, taking a seat upon one of the room’s straight-backed chairs. Its woven straw seat gave comfortably beneath her. She leaned forward intently. “Please Mademoiselle Milice, you must trust me. Other lives, possibly even your own, depend upon it. Monsieur le comte told me about the emeralds. He explained to me that they had been entrusted to your father, who was his major domo, that your father was to surrender them only to one who came for them bearing monsieur le comte’s signet. My husband’s brother, who is in love with Mademoiselle Sophie, carries the signet. Unfortunately, he, mademoiselle, and madame la comtesse have all been arrested. My husband goes now to effect their release.”

The young woman continued her kneading, but Diana was certain now that she was listening. More than that, she had been shocked by the news of the arrest. Diana built upon that shock, insisting that no matter how successful Simon was in his endeavors, the danger remained to them all because of the emeralds.

“My husband discounts their importance,” she said. “He does not intend to allow my brother-in-law or Mademoiselle Sophie to come for them. But others will come if they do not,” she added quickly. “The Vidame de Lâche”—Pétrie Milice winced—“knows of them, but he does not have his father’s trust.”

“I remember him, that one,” said Pétrie. “A hateful little boy, cruel and deceitful. One who tells not the truth. My father said he would come.”

Diana expelled a breath of relief. Pétrie Milice knew about the emeralds. She had not been certain before, but she was now. The girl had merely gone on with her kneading, reacting little, as though she were only hearing an interesting fairy tale, until Diana had mentioned the vidame. But now Pétrie admitted she had expected someone to come.

“The comte,” Diana said carefully, “does not trust his son. He is afraid he will give the emeralds to Napoleon Bonaparte in exchange for Château Beléchappé. The comte believes Bonaparte will agree to the trade, but that he will then take the emeralds and de Lâche will be heard from no more.”

Pétrie nodded. “Not a bad thing, that.”

Diana had made an error. She recognized the fact immediately, but nothing she said seemed to make any impression. She continued, nonetheless, while Pétrie wiped lard around the inside of an iron pot, then set her though inside it to rise, covering it with a damp cloth. Diana continued to argue, calmly, matter-of-factly, and to no avail. Pétrie offered her a cup of coffee, and she accepted, hoping to build trust by simple things. She talked of her childhood, of her husband—making him sound even to her own ears like a knight from a fairy tale—and of her long journey after hearing all the comte had had to tell her.

“You are English,” Pétrie said at one point, as though the phrase explained many things.

“And you are French,” said Diana with a smile. “Our countries have warred with one another, but now they are at peace.”

“My brother says the peace will not last.”

“My husband says the same thing,” Diana acknowledged, “but you and I, we are not at war. We want peace, not violence. But the emeralds will lead to violence, Pétrie.”

Darby knocked on the door some moments after that, asking how much longer she intended to be. “Cap’n will git t’ worryin’, m’lady.”

“I cannot go without what I came for,” she said in English. “I cannot come so far for nothing. A little more time, Darby, I beg you.”

“Right enough, m’lady. I’ll jest take a turn o’ the watch, as they say. The birds ’ave gorn all silent. Mebbe a storm brewin’.” He glanced at the sky. “I’d ’a thought them clouds was a mite too high fer it, but ye never know wi’ the weather. Best we git back soon.”

She nodded, shutting the door on him and returning to her chair. Pétrie was bent over the fire, banking it so that only coals were left. She lifted the cover from the iron pot, poked an exploratory finger into the round mound of dough peeking over the rim, and nodded her satisfaction.

“
Bien.
”

Diana watched as the young woman carefully set the pot, covered now with an iron lid, into a clear space she had made among the coals. The coals were stacked in hills surrounding the pot, but there was an airspace. None actually touched the pot. So that was how one made bread without an oven, Diana thought. Not, she admitted silently, that she knew how to bake bread
with
an oven, but all the same…

“Pétrie, I beg of you,” she said when the woman turned from completing her task, “you must help me. Where are the emeralds?”

Pétrie Milice straightened her shoulders, letting her gaze meet Diana’s directly. “I regret to have to say, madame, that I cannot be of assistance. I know of no emeralds.”

“But you said—”

“I regret, madame,” she repeated, finality in her tone. “I will tell my brother of your visit to me when he returns. I will tell him all you have said to me. More than this I cannot do.” She took off her apron and shook her dark blue skirts. Then her gaze returned to Diana’s face. “You will return, madame. Perhaps you will conduct to this cottage your good brother with the so important ring,” she added softly, suggestively.

Diana, feeling victory sliding away before she had even touched it, nearly groaned in dismay. “You cannot have been attending,” she said desperately. Lord, she thought, Simon would kill her. She couldn’t go back empty-handed. The captain would never dare conceal this escapade from his master. She didn’t even have any money left with which to bribe him. She had given her last groat to Darby to purchase her clothes. For that matter, she couldn’t even expect Darby to keep silent, although he would very likely reap disaster from his assistance to her. She had to make Pétrie Milice understand the urgency of the situation. “Please, Pétrie—”

“I regret, madame,” was all the young woman would say. Her face had closed in, as though she feared to give information by her very expression. Her features now were stony. She averted her eyes.

“My brother cannot come here. It would be to risk his life. Others want the treasure. Can’t you understand that?”

“I very much hope,” said a smooth voice behind Diana, “that Mademoiselle Milice understands that fact very well, else it will perhaps be her own life that is at risk.”

Pétrie Milice gave a cry of dismay and clapped a hand to her mouth, and Diana whirled, coming face to face with a tall, narrow-faced man wearing a black chapeau bras, a dark green jacket, buckskin breeches, tan gloves, and black topboots with a long, golden velvet, double-caped cloak over all. He stood in the open doorway, and beyond him, senseless on the hard ground, lay Darby.

The man turned, his gaze following Diana’s, and when he turned back, he drew a lace-edged handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed at his lips with it. “I regret the inconvenience to your servant,” he said, still in that thick-liquid tone. He lifted the quizzing glass that hung on a black ribbon about his neck and surveyed her insolently from head to toe. “Very beautiful. I confess that although I have heard a great deal about you,
madame des frédaines
, which has made me long for closer acquaintance, I cannot for the moment recall whether or not we have been formally introduced.” The quizzing glass shifted toward Pétrie, and the voice went on, “I am certain, however, from the expression on her lovely face that Mademoiselle Milice retains pleasant memories of my younger self. Do you not, my dear little cabbage?” He paused, then shook his head in mock sadness. “You do not answer, Pétrie? Never mind, you will answer all my questions presently, will you not?” He turned away from the wide-eyed, trembling girl and bowed elaborately to Diana. “Bertrand Beléchappé, Vidame de Lâche, at your service, Lady Andover.”

D
IANA HAD RECOGNIZED DE
Lâche at once, but shock held her speechless. As she collected her wits, her first thought was for Simon. Where was he? Did he know that de Lâche was no longer either at Versailles or in Paris? For that matter, would he even think about de Lâche, or consider his disappearance important? Simon had discounted the importance of the Beléchappé treasure, had he not? Not that any of that mattered now. He was not really, after all, the knight on a white charger that she envisioned from time to time. He couldn’t help them now.

She faced the tall, thin man squarely, noting for the first time that he wore a sword beneath his golden cloak. The expression in her eyes was one of glacial contempt.

“You waste your time, Monsieur de Lâche,” she said, hoping she sounded more like the haughty Lady Jersey than like the twittering Lady Sarah Fane. “Mademoiselle Milice does not possess the knowledge you seek. Her brother holds the key to your fortune, and he does not return from Deauville until tomorrow.”

Pétrie’s eyes widened a little at Diana’s tone, and she licked her lips nervously, but she did not take her gaze from de Lâche.

He was watching Diana. “You were most foolish to come to this place, madame,” he said smoothly. “Indeed, I cannot think why you have come, unless perhaps my father entrusted his ring to your keeping. I had thought the so charming Lord Roderick Warrington carried it, but my friends could not find it when they searched him, so perhaps I was wrong.”

Diana’s face blanched. “Lord Roderick? You have seen him?”

“Indeed, he came to Paris demanding madame, my mother’s, release. Also, that of my sister. The First Consul ordered him clapped up for his insolence.”

“But he lives,” Diana said tightly. “Tell me he lives, monsieur.”

De Lâche hesitated, and she felt her stomach knot in fear that he would tell her Rory had been killed by the dreadful Bonaparte. But then the man smiled. His upper teeth were crooked, she noted absently before giving herself a shake and demanding that he answer her question.

“He lives, madame. At least, I trust he does. I lost sight of him on the road just before reaching Louviers. I had thought perchance to find him here.”

“Here! On the road? Then Bonaparte has released him?”

“He escaped,” de Lâche said with an odd look. “Was that not so very clever of him?”

Something in his tone, as well as the strange expression, warned Diana. “He would not have left your mother and sister,” she said slowly.