Tender the Storm (60 page)

"There was no asylum," she said.
'Just Paul Varlet and a couple of his cohorts.
At first, we thought the house was deserted. They grabbed us in an upstairs chamber. Turn here."

Rolfe obediently turned into a lane. "But Varlet let you go," he said.

"Yes, so that I could carry a message back to you."

The carriage which was following stopped at the end of the lane.

"That's it," said Francoise, pointing.

The curricle rolled to a halt. Rolfe gave the reins into Francoise's hands. He jumped down. His eyes quickly scanned a house of recent
Paliadian
vintage. One comprehensive glance told him that it was a rich man's house. A second glance informed him that the house was standing empty. The gardens had an air of neglect.

He waved to the carriage at the end of the lane, and Samson dutifully made a turn, directing his team towards the city

"This is it, then, Francoise," said Rolfe. "Give me ten minutes. If I am not out by that time, I suggest that you get the hell out of here." And without subterfuge, he advanced toward the avenue of limes which led to the front entrance of the house.

Bracing herself against the elegant lady's escritoire, Zoë pulled herself to her knees. The dull ache in her head blazed to life and she let out a gasping cry. She waited a moment or two till the pain had dulled, then she pushed to her feet. Gingerly, she touched her hand to the back of her head. It came away sticky with blood.

Think. She must think. Her last recollection was of Paul Varlet's evil smile of triumph as he advanced upon her. And while she had stood there like a terrified rabbit, someone had struck her from behind with a fair force.

"Francoise!" she cried out, and looked around wildly, fearing the worst for her friend.

She was alone in an upstairs chamber. The first rush of relief subsided. Oh God, she thought, what had Varlet done to Francoise?

As she forced herself to take slow, careful steps toward the door, the pain came at her in waves. She had to fight back the nausea. For a moment, she rested her aching head against the cool, painted surface of the door. This was more than a hoax, she thought. This was a trap which had been set by Varlet. Rolfe had been right to warn her against
him. The man was obsessed.

He had known exactly how to lure her from her safe lair. It had all sounded so reasonable. The note was in Claire's hand. But this was no asylum for the insane. This house was a showplace, some rich man's retreat. The elegance of the fine furnishings had astonished her from the moment she and Francoise had stepped over the threshold. Claire was not here, had never been here. Hadn't Rolfe told her that, in all probability, Claire was in America? But when had she ever listened to Rolfe?

"Rolfe," she sobbed.
"Oh Rolfe."

He would not know where to begin to look for her. And it was
her own
fault. She'd left the house in a fit of temper after Francoise had told her about the duel. She had decided, then, that her husband was not to be trusted. He was a barefaced liar. Though not in so many words, he had given her the erroneous impression that she had hours in which to devise some means of putting a stop to the duel. And that both gentlemen had survived the ordeal without so much as a scratch did not mitigate her sense of ill usage one whit. As was his habit, her husband was treating her as the
veriest
child.

And like a sulky schoolgirl, she had taken matters into her own hands. Not that she had believed that there was any danger to
herself
. Claire needed her. Francoise was there to offer her support. And that she was acting against Rolfe's express wishes, in that moment of defiance, did not weigh with her. Rolfe was not there.

No, there could be no hope of rescue. She had deliberately tricked her servants. She had given no one her direction. No one would know what had
become of her. If there was to be a rescue, she must
effect
it herself.

"Oh Rolfe," she sobbed again. She did not know if she had the courage to brave what must be braved on the other side of the locked door. Only the certain knowledge that Paul Varlet would come for her sooner or later strengthened her resolve.

She tried the door, knowing before she did so that it must be locked. Sinking down to her knees, she peered through the keyhole. As luck would have it, the key was in the lock. It would be mere child's play to retrieve the key. It was a trick Leon had taught her years ago, when, as children, they had sometimes been locked into their respective chambers for some prank or other.

Having made her decision, Zoë soon assembled the necessary articles to achieve her object. With great concentration, she pushed the blotter she had removed from the escritoire under the door. This done, she inserted the thin blade of a letter opener in the keyhole. After a few jabs, she heard the soft thud as the key landed on the blotter on the other side of the door. Carefully, slowly, she pulled the blotter with the key upon it towards herself. She used her fingers to angle the key through the small gap under the door.

When she came out onto the landing, she paused. She did not know where to begin to look for Francoise. There was only one thing to do. She must make her escape and go for help.

With every instinct alive to her danger, she descended the wide sweep of the marble staircase. Again, she was struck with the unnatural silence of the place, as though the house were empty. But the house was not empty, she reminded herself. She had come upon Paul Varlet in one of the upstairs chambers, and someone had struck her from behind.

She was crossing the marble foyer toward the main entrance when something, some faint sound, some slight movement, arrested her attention. The door to her right, leading on to the bookroom, was ajar. She had an impression of papers on a desk fluttering in the draft of an open window.

The house was oppressive with silence. It was an uncanny moment. Almost against her will, Zoë was drawn to that open door. On the threshold, she halted. Slowly, she pushed the door wide. She had a clear view of a man. He appeared to have fallen asleep. His head was resting on the flat of the desk. She recognized the man as Paul Varlet.

She could hardly breathe. With halting steps, she advanced upon him. And then her eyes became riveted to the pool of red ink which had spilled onto the blotter beneath his bent arm. In horrified fascination, she extended her hand and touched the blotter.

This was how Rolfe found her a moment later when he entered the bookroom.

"He's dead," quavered Zoë. She held up one hand. "And this is not ink. It's blood."

Rolfe quickly crossed the distance between them. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She looked up at him with dazed eyes.

His hands clamped on her shoulders. His voice became rougher, more urgent. "Did he touch you? Did he harm you?"

Comprehension gradually dawned. She shook her head,
then
winced. "Someone hit me on the head. No, really, I'm all right.

But she wasn't all right. She sagged against Rolfe, trying to get her bearings. "He's dead! Varlet is dead, isn't he?" she asked brokenly.

He left her then, and went to examine the man at the desk. "It's Varlet all right. And someone has blown a hole in his head." He picked up one of the papers on the desk, quickly scanned it, and replaced it before returning to Zoë.

She was close to panic. Rolfe could see it in her eyes. And there was not the time to reason with her.

"You're to leave here at once, do you understand?" There was a leashed violence about him that made her quail. "I want you out of here.
Now!
There's a lane. When you come to it, you are to hide yourself until Samson returns with the carriage. Have you got that, Zoë?" He was propelling her none too gently to the open window.
"The closed carriage, Zoë, not my curricle.
And whatever you do, keep clear of—"

Suddenly, she pulled out of his arms. Though she swayed alarmingly on her feet, she glared into his face. "I'm not going anywhere without Francoise," she said. "Oh God, Rolfe, I'm so afraid that something terrible has happened to her! And it's
all my
fault."

"Nothing has happened to Francoise."

"Then where is she?"

"I'm here, Zoë, right behind you."

With a start of surprise, Zoë turned toward the door. Her brows knit together. Francoise shut the door quietly and turned the key in the lock, all the while pointing the muzzle of a wicked-looking pistol straight at Rolfe's broad chest.

"You are armed, I believe you told me," she said softly. "If you would be so kind, place your weapon on the floor and kick it toward me."

A pulse beat in Rolfe's cheek as he obeyed Francoise's command. "There is no necessity for this," he said. "What I did not tell you was that my pistol is not loaded. It's useless."

"We shall soon see," said Francoise, and picked it up with her left hand. "Sit down, Zoë, before you collapse," she went on in a voice so devoid of expression that Zoë scarcely recognized it. "Sit," she said again, and gestured with the pistol in her right hand.

"Do as she says, Zoë," said Rolfe quietly.

As if in a dream, Zoë obediently moved away from Rolfe and sank down into the leather armchair Francoise had indicated. "I don't understand," she said, looking imploringly from Rolfe to her friend and then back again.

"I don't suppose there is any point in asking you to let Zoë go?" drawled Rolfe.

"Hardly!"

Rolfe leaned one hip against the desk. He folded his arms. "There are two of us," he said. "And as I told you, my pistol is useless. It would be a grave mistake on your part to think that Zoë would succumb without a fight."

Zoë felt as if her brain was frozen. "Will somebody please tell me what "is going on," she said plaintively.

Francoise addressed Zoë, but her eyes and the pistol never wavered from Rolfe. "I never wanted to
hurt you, Zoë," she said. "In point of fact, though I used you as the bait for my trap, I made sure that you were safe. I locked you in that room upstairs. If you had only stayed there, it would not be necessary now to do what must be done."

Zoë closed her eyes momentarily, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. She could not believe that Francoise meant to do her harm. Francoise was her friend. And Rolfe was too much at his ease. It did not seem as if he was taking Francoise's threats seriously.

As though the same thought had occurred to her, Francoise said, addressing Rolfe, "No one is going to help you. I made sure that Samson followed your orders. By the time the authorities get here, it will be all over."