Petty Treason (33 page)

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Authors: Madeleine E. Robins

BOOK: Petty Treason
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“I came—” He appeared to consider what was wise to tell her.
“I came to reclaim something of mine that Madame Touvois was … holding for me. And to give her some news I thought she would be glad to know.”
“It appears that she had already heard your news, sir. If what you meant to tell her was that Mr. Boyse was in custody and had implicated you—and thus herself—in the plot to incriminate Anne d’Aubigny.”
Beauville stared at her blankly, then began to laugh. “A plot to incriminate the little widow? Is that what you thought?”
“There is more, of course,” Miss Tolerance said coolly. She watched Beauville closely; his face was turned to her, but his eyes were moving around the room. Seeking something, she thought. Seeking something very urgently.
Public opinion will not suffice to control Pr. E
. The words danced in her memory. The note had been addressed to “B.”
“You will not find the letters here, Mr. Beauville. Were you working with Madame because she was blackmailing you, or did she keep the letters as insurance of your continued loyalty?”
Beauville’s eyes snapped to Miss Tolerance. His laugh was hard and without humor. “What do you think?”
“I think, sir, that Madame Touvois was working for the French as a spy, and that you were her cat’s-paw. I think that Etienne d’Aubigny learned of Madame’s plots against the Duke of Cumberland—I presume to discredit the War Support Bill and his bid for the regency?—and was blackmailing
her.
Did you kill d’Aubigny for the letters?”
Beauville took a step backward. “You don’t know—”
“Oh, I think I have at last pieced it together, sir. You will tell me where I err, of course. Madame Touvois was a spy, and had been given the task of discrediting the Duke of Cumberland. She threatened Sellis, the duke’s valet, with harm to his family in Corsica if he did not brew up some scandal—we know how that turned out. And then she needed some other plan. So poor Josette Vose broke with d’Aubigny a-purpose to seduce Cumberland. And you throttled her, did you not? Was the plan always to murder her and attempt to pin the blame upon Cumberland?”
“You cannot prove it,” Beauville said hoarsely.
“Perhaps you should sit down,” Miss Tolerance offered. “I
would suggest a glass of wine, but it appears that Madame took all with her.”
Beauville again looked around the room.
“You may search the entire of the apartment, sir. You will not find the letters Madame Touvois wrote to you.”
“The Devil,” he muttered. “You have them?”
“They are safe,” Miss Tolerance said noncommittally.
“Where were they?”
“In the chevalier’s box. The one we spoke of.”
Beauville stared at her for a long moment, then began to laugh so hard that it appeared to Miss Tolerance that he was in danger of choking. “The box. The bloody box. And I was too dainty to look inside!”
“They were indeed very well hidden,” Miss Tolerance said sympathetically. “It took me some time and diligence to discover them.”
“I congratulate you. I suppose you will find it necessary to give the letters over to the authorities?” Beauville’s tone was pleasantly regretful. His eyes did not leave her face.
“I have already done so.” Miss Tolerance’s tone matched his. “I know that you attempted to burn my house down, and me with it. I believe that Mr. Boyse’s attack on me was his own idea—”
Beauville gaped at her.
“He admitted as much to Mr. Heddison, who I suspect is eagerly looking for
you,
sir.”
“Bitch,” Beauville said, low. “Christ, which of you is the worse? At least Camille was as honest as a woman can be. She was vicious and made no secret of it. She enjoyed having power and she enjoyed using it. And—”
“And it appears that she has left you to bear the blame and take the punishment. High treason in a time of war. If you wished to lose your head, sir, you might as well have stayed in France.”
Beauville paled for a moment, then recovered himself. “You speak metaphorically, mademoiselle. England does not use the guillotine.”
“No, sir. But hanging leaves one just as dead. I do hope the money you and Madame Touvois realized was worth your life.” Miss Tolerance kept her eyes on the man’s face. He was again looking over the shoulder; likely calculating how much force
would be necessary to push past her and make his escape. She put her hand lightly on the hilt of her sword.
Beauville shook his head. “I made a good sum, of course. Camille did better, but it was never a matter of money for her.”
“What, then? Loyalty to la Belle France? I should not have thought it of her.”
“Loyalty? Camille?
Control.
This employment gave Camille the upper hand with a number of powerful men; she could make them dance to her tune. She enjoyed that.” Beauville smiled. “But I see you have a sword, mademoiselle. I hope you will not think to use it on me.”
“Only if you plan to escape, Mr. Beauville.” Miss Tolerance returned his bantering tone, but did not take her hand from her weapon.
“I should hate to have to offer violence to a lady, however peculiarly dressed.” Beauville had shifted his stance, moving to the balls of his feet as if poised to move suddenly in one direction or the other. Miss Tolerance altered her own stance. “You are intrepid, my dear. I should hate to kill you.”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “Indeed, sir, I should hate to—”
She had no time to finish. Beauville rushed at her, clearly intending to startle her into dropping back, giving him a dear path to the door, the street, and escape. She did not oblige. With the distance between them so small, Miss Tolerance had not room to draw her sword; instead she ducked under the path of Beauville’s attack, head down and right shoulder lifted, forcing the man to roll forward over her back, landing with a painful thud behind her. Miss Tolerance spun around and stepped a few paces ahead of Beauville as he scrambled to his feet, putting the door to the street behind her again.
Beauville was panting, more from surprise than exertion. Miss Tolerance had drawn her sword and held him
en garde.
He eyed the point of her blade, which hovered on a level with his heart.
“That was not what I expect from a lady,” he said at last.
“But I am no lady,” Miss Tolerance scoffed. “I hope you will not force me to more unladylike behavior.”
Again Beauville looked toward the door beyond Miss Tolerance’s shoulder, and then back at her blade.
“I do not suppose that you would yield to bribery?” he asked politely. “No, I suppose not. It seems we are at a standstill.”
“Do you think so, sir?” Miss Tolerance stepped in, the point of her blade rising until it just touched the folded linen of Beauville’s neckcloth. Beauville did not look down, but kept his eyes upon Miss Tolerance’s face, compelling her own gaze to meet his. Then his eyes flicked over her shoulder and widened in surprise. Miss Tolerance’s own eyes went for a moment to the side.
Beauville swept her blade aside with his left hand, stepped back, and drew his own blade. He had cut the meaty outer edge of his hand in throwing off her sword, but he ignored the welling blood of the wound and made his attack upon her.
Miss Tolerance found herself on the defensive for a moment, parrying rapid thrusts to her shoulder and hip and beating his sword away from her own throat with a determined hand. Then she returned the attack. Beauville was a flashy fencer who could not resist flourishes Miss Tolerance had long ago discarded from her own style as extraneous. The overall effect was an ornamented style with less power than precision. Still, he was strong and, over the course of the first few exchanges, abandoned the notion that his opponent would offer no challenge. Beauville made a series of thrusts to Miss Tolerance’s shoulders—left, right, right—which she parried easily. She made her own cut to his right shoulder, was parried, and thrust to the left. He beat her sword away and thrust for her throat, stepping sideways in a circle which would have put him again closer to the door. Miss Tolerance, to counter him, threw his blade off to the left and stepped right, again interposing herself between Beauville and the door.
They broke for a moment, breathing heavily. The fluted cuff of Beauville’s shirt was soaked with blood from his initial injury. He looked at the wound thoughtfully. “May I bind this up?”
“Certainly, sir. If you put your weapon up,” Miss Tolerance said politely.
“That is hardly sporting, mademoiselle.”
Miss Tolerance’s smile hardened. “I do not fence as a gentleman’s sport, sir. If I draw my sword it is in earnest. Nor will appeals to womanly delicacy help you; I should prefer not to kill you, Mr. Beauville, but if I must do so I shall.”
“Kill me, Miss Tolerance? Do you really think you could?”
“I have killed a man, sir. ’Tis not an accomplishment I prize, but I am a practical woman.”
“Ladies and their accomplishments! It appears that your life has been far more exciting than mine,” Beauville said dryly. He bowed and returned
en garde.
Poised upon the moment, both fencers hesitated. Then Beauville moved to attack, mixing thrusts with sweeping cuts with a speed which allowed Miss Tolerance no time for thought, only instinctive response. She parried each cut economically, beating a cut to her hip away strongly; she thrust, and caught her blade along Beauville’s side. He reeled away from the scratch and, enraged, slapped the flat of his blade against Miss Tolerance’s left arm. It stung like a whip. Miss Tolerance pulled her blade back, out of the entangling folds of Beauville’s coat, and shook her left arm, which was numb with pain. For his part, Beauville gingerly tested the wound on his side with his bloodied left hand.
“We must finish this,” he said. He had abandoned amused condescension. “Give way or I will kill you.”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I regret I cannot, sir.”
“Very well.” Beauville swept a cut at her head; Miss Tolerance parried and returned the cut with one to his shoulder. Beauville danced to the side, seeking to maneuver Miss Tolerance away from the door. Miss Tolerance stepped in to his attack and kept herself between him and his escape. When one of the rugs rucked beneath her feet Miss Tolerance kicked it blindly away. Beauville was distracted for a moment, then snapped his eyes back to Miss Tolerance’s face. He swung his sword in a wide, elegant moulinet which, unfortunately for him, telegraphed his intent to slice his opponent’s head off. Miss Tolerance ducked beneath his blade and lunged, making an upward thrust which came in under his guard. Beneath her foot the carpet slid again, just enough to give her arm extra momentum. The sword pierced Beauville’s coat and waistcoat, stopped for a second upon a rib, then slid in deep. As she felt the sword slide into resisting flesh Miss Tolerance knew it for a mortal wound.
Beauville made a sighing noise of pain and surprise.
Miss Tolerance pulled back at once and tried to support Beauville as he slumped forward.
“Lie back, sir. Here, let me make you more comfortable.” Miss Tolerance eased Beauville’s weight onto the floor and, after a glance around the room, pulled one of the drapes from the window, rolled it up, and put it under Beauville’s head. She took up the cloak she had seen before—brown with sable trim—and covered him with it.
Beauville gasped; there was a wet, sucking sound to his breath.
“I should—should have believed you,” he said.
“Hush, sir. Don’t try to talk. I will summon someone—”
Beauville shook his head. “By the time they come I will be dead, I think. Who taught you to fence? I should like to give him my compliments.”
Miss Tolerance was winded and near tears. “‘Twould be difficult, sir. He died some years ago.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps not so difficult after all.” Beauville coughed. “What was his name? If I see him in Hell I will tell him you do him credit.”
“His name was Charles Connell, sir. Lie quiet; you do yourself no good to keep talking.”
Beauville ignored her warning. “You will use this to free the little widow, mademoiselle? My death?”
“She is already free, sir. With Mr. Boyse’s testimony exploded and the link to you—”
Beauville gave a ghastly, coughing sound Miss Tolerance realized was laughter.
“I had Boyse lie, it is true, but—”
“But?”
“Mademoiselle, I am much of what you think of me. I set the fire in your little house. I killed Josette—Camille demanded it, and Josette could have linked me to d‘Aubigny’s death. She went there that night a-purpose to leave the door open for me, all by Camille’s design. I do not think she cared to be in another’s power—she preferred to be the one holding the reins. She paid him one time, visited him another, hoping to steal the letters away then. But no—” Beauville paused and gave a long shuddering sigh. “I was to kill him and retrieve the letters. But d’Aubigny was
occupied”—he gave the word a peculiar emphasis—“when I arrived. I heard him, and the woman’s noises. So I waited in the hall, behind a cabinet. I—” another horrible laugh. “I fell asleep for a time. When I woke, all was quiet. She was gone, Etienne was dead. The bloody box.” He laughed again. “The one place I would not look.”

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