The Courtesan

  Like an animal gone to ground in her lair, Cassandra Lascelles huddled in her underground chamber. She had no idea if it was day or night or even how much time had passed since that fateful evening at the Cheval Noir. Her temples still throbbed as she nursed the lingering effects of the worst hangover of her life. But not nearly to the degree that she nursed the hatred in her heart.

  Cerberus pressed close to her, attempting to thrust his head in her lap for perhaps about the hundredth time. Cass had lost count. He pawed at her skirts and whined, clearly unable to understand his mistress’s coldness to him.

  Cass kneed him hard in the chest, driving him away from her. “Go lay down.”

  The dog slunk away, whimpering. It was the height of folly to vent her displeasure upon a dumb brute who had no idea what he had done to offend her. But she had already exhausted herself exorcising her wrath upon the only other object available. She could hear where Finette crouched in the far corner of the room, snuffling quietly as though terrified to remind Cass of her existence. And well she should be. Cass had nearly pulled the girl’s hair out by the roots, hanging onto Finette while she laid into her with the fireplace poker.

  The miracle was that Cass hadn’t killed the stupid wench, beaten her to death. She didn’t know why she hadn’t done so, perhaps some small whisper of reason reminding her she still needed Finette. Though little use the unreliable chit had proved so far. She had failed Cass when she had needed her the most. Just as Cerberus had failed her. But that didn’t rankle so much as Cass’s realization that she had failed herself.

  It was that thought that made her want to claw out her own useless eyes. Bad enough she could not see, but what must she do but dull her wits by diving back into the bottle, succumbing to the old demon. And on the most important night of her life, when she was at last taking the first step toward her great destiny, the conception of the child she had dreamed of for so long.

  How could she have been such a bloody weak fool? How could she have surrendered to temptation? Of course it wasn’t as though she hadn’t had help, she reflected bitterly. That waiter with his persuasive voice, so assiduous in his attentions, so honeyed with his compliments, wafting the brandy under her nose, all but pressing the glass to her lips. Cass had no idea who he was, but she was certain he was no servant of the Cheval Noir.

  She had no trouble guessing who he served. Gabrielle Cheney. That selfish, conniving, double-dealing bitch. No doubt she and that wretched man were having a good laugh, congratulating themselves on how they’d gotten the better of the poor, weak-willed blind woman. Cass bit down on her lip so hard, she tasted blood. Well, she would show them how weak and helpless she was. But the edge of Cass’s fury was dulled by despair that made her want to whimper like Finette and whine like her dog.

  Gabrielle, how could you do this to me? Cass had had no desire to harm Nicolas Remy. She would have kept her word. She would have given Gabrielle the medallion. She had only needed Remy for one night. One miserable night.

  Now instead of her child being sired by a man as magnificent as the Scourge, some nameless nobody had fathered her babe. Cass pressed her hand over the region of her womb, her uncanny sixth sense leaving her in no doubt that conception had occurred. That her child was growing there and she wanted to take steps to rid herself of it. But she couldn’t. Nostradamus’s prophecy had been quite clear. Last night had been her only chance. She would simply have to pour enough of her own steel and dark will into her daughter that it would never matter who her father was.

  Oh, but he was going to pay for what he’d done. This cunning rogue, this lone wolf. Cass would figure out who he was, track him down if it took her the rest of her life. And when she did, he would beg her to die. Death would be a blessing compared to what awaited him. In the meantime, there was an object more worthy of her vengeance, one she didn’t have to go searching for, her erstwhile friend, the woman she had offered everything, the use of her dark magic, her sisterly devotion.

  Gabrielle deserved a fitting punishment for her treachery and fortunately Cass didn’t have to wrack her brains very hard to think of one.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The windows of the town house were locked up tight, most of the servants gone, the costly furniture shrouded in ghostly covers. It was as though the house had been put to sleep, cast under a spell like a castle in a fairy tale, awaiting the arrival of the next princess to come seeking her dreams. Gabrielle’s footsteps made a lonely echo as she took one final look around the place that had been her home for the past few years. No, never a home, she corrected herself. Only a glittering shell that had housed her equally empty ambitions.

  She knew Remy still feared a part of her would miss all this, the gowns, the jewels, the elegant house, the excitement of the French court. But Gabrielle regretted nothing she was leaving behind. None of it seemed as real as the strong, silent man who had claimed her heart.

  It was difficult to remember now how hard she had fought to possess this property, even to the point of severing all ties from Ariane. This house that had come at such a painful cost no longer meant a thing to Gabrielle. She supposed the crown would confiscate it. That was what usually happened to the possessions of those who displeased members of the royal household and there was no doubt that the Dark Queen was going to be mightily displeased.

  Remy’s plans for the rescue had finally fallen into place. The French king, after the excitement of the tourney, appeared to have grown restless and bored. He intended to remove the entire court to Blois. The royal train of courtiers, servants, horses, baggage, and wagons would be immense, the expedition’s progress slow and cumbersome. There were many places en route where a diversion might be created, enabling Navarre to wheel his horse away from the guard and gallop off to lose himself in the French countryside.

  The Dark Queen had not been herself of late, her usual watchful gaze vague and distracted. Perhaps because of the presence of the witch-hunters in Paris, although Simon Aristide had not made a single arrest as yet. By all reports, the man was doing nothing more than gathering evidence and taking statements.

  Citizens of Paris who had been all agog for the sensation of witch trials and burnings were keenly disappointed. The dread Le Balafre was behaving more like some attorney’s clerk than a real witch-hunter, they grumbled. Gabrielle, however, was left with the disagreeable impression of a cat, crouching for hours at a mouse hole, patiently waiting until it was secure of its prey. Simon’s inactivity made her nervous and no doubt Le Balafre was having the same effect on Catherine, rendering the Dark Queen far less vigilant in the matter of Navarre.

  Never would Remy find a more propitious moment for the rescue of his king. He had gone to complete the purchase of another pair of geldings, which would provide Remy and the king a swift change of horses. Gabrielle and Miri were to leave Paris by a separate route, meeting up with Remy, Wolf, and Navarre at a prearranged rendezvous. Gabrielle hated this part of the plan, the idea of being separated from Remy while he placed himself in such danger. But Remy had been adamant. He would bring off the rescue more easily if he knew Gabrielle and Miri were safely out of the way. For once Gabrielle had meekly acquiesced.

  Perhaps because she was still feeling guilty over the deception she had practiced in the matter of the medallion. Remy had been puzzled when after making him promise to wear the amulet always, Gabrielle had been just as eager for him to be rid of it. But he’d handed it back to her with a laugh and kiss, muttering, “Women.”

  Gabrielle still had not found the courage to tell him the truth. She was ashamed to admit that a cowardly part of her hoped it would never be necessary. She had not heard a word from Cass since that terrible night. Perhaps Cass had come to her senses and abandoned her mad ambitions or she had accepted her defeat. But Gabrielle didn’t believe that for a moment. It was just as well that they were leaving Paris today.

  Taking one last look around her bedchamber, Gabrielle gathered up the final item she intended to take away with
her, the small locked chest that harbored her most guilty secrets. The signet ring that the Dark Queen had given her and both of the medallions were nestled in the box’s silk lining. Tucking the casket beneath her arm, Gabrielle wended her way downstairs. Her fellow conspirator awaited her in the lower hall. Gabrielle could not help perceiving the change that had come over Wolf since the night he had stolen the medallion from Cassandra.

  He seemed older and far more subdued, as though the events of that night had left some indelible mark upon him. The thought troubled Gabrielle and she tried to tell herself she was only imagining things. They would all be on edge until the rescue of the king was complete. When all danger was past, when they were long gone from Paris, Wolf would be his jaunty self again.

  “The carriage is ready, mademoiselle,” he informed her as she descended the stairs. He frowned at the wooden chest she carried. “You are going to bring that?”

  “It would hardly be safe to leave it behind,” she said, and Martin was forced to agree with her, although he looked deeply troubled. Disposal of the medallions had posed an unexpected problem. Gabrielle’s first impulse had been to throw them out, but they were far too dangerous to be lightly discarded. Their mysterious power even made her nervous of attempting to melt them down.

  “Perhaps we could weight the box with chains and sink it to the bottom of the Seine,” Wolf suggested.

  “I have thought of that, but I think it will be better done in the sea off the coast of Faire Isle.”

  Wolf scowled but nodded. “Mademoiselle, do you not find it odd that we have heard nothing more from her? That she returned to her cursed house and left us alone?”

  There was no need for Gabrielle to ask whom he meant by she. Since that night, Gabrielle and Martin had never spoken Cass’s name aloud, not even to each other.

  Gabrielle sighed. “Yes, I am afraid I do find it odd. Although I suppose it is no stranger than witch-hunters who bide their time or the Dark Queen going into retirement.” She smiled ruefully. “I fear you and I are unquiet sort of people, Martin. When we are granted a spate of calm, we don’t seem able to appreciate our good fortune.”

  Martin smiled, a pale semblance of his old wolfish grin. “I mistrust calm, milady. I prefer storms. At least when the thunder roars and the lightning flashes, one has enough warning to seek shelter. We had best be out of here, the sooner the better.”

  He strode ahead to fling open the door for her and Gabrielle left the house without another look back. She followed him to the stableyard, where the coach was waiting, the team hitched in the traces. Bette and Miri were already settled inside.

  Besides her maid, the only other servants that Gabrielle had retained were her coachman and two footmen to act as outriders. The stalwart young men sprang to attention, one of them hastening forward to relieve Gabrielle of her burden.

  Wolf waved the man aside, taking charge of the wooden chest as carefully as he would have handled a pistol with a hair trigger. He stowed the casket inside the coach, then turned to hand Gabrielle up the steps.

  One of the footmen had just hastened forward to fling open the gate that led to the street when it was wrenched out of his grasp. Gabrielle stared in dismay at the riders who barred their coach’s path, hard-faced men in helmets and tunics with stark white crosses. As in the old Greek tale of the deadly army sown from dragon’s teeth, they seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere.

  “Nom de Dieu, mademoiselle,” Wolf muttered in her ear. “It appears our weather has taken a turn for the worse.”

  He started to draw his poniard. Gabrielle seized his wrist to stop him, staying the gesture with a warning shake of her head. There were six of Aristide’s brutish witch-hunters blocking the way, far too many to fight, especially since neither Wolf nor her footmen possessed Remy’s warlike skills.

  Miri’s pale face appeared at the coach window as the leader of the troop nudged his way forward. For her sister’s sake, Gabrielle was relieved to see it was not that damned Aristide himself. With a show of calm that belied her pounding heart, Gabrielle stepped forward. She angled her face up to the leader of the group and said in accents of icy politeness. “Your pardon, monsieur. But we were on the verge of departing and you appear to be in our way.”

  The witch-hunter subjected her to a stone-like stare. He was an older man with deeply creased features, his gray shock of hair doing little to disguise the fact he was missing an ear. “Mistress Gabrielle Cheney?”

  “And if I am?” Gabrielle replied with a haughty lift of her brows.

  “Monsieur Le Balafre would like a word with you, mademoiselle.”

  “At any other time, I should be only too delighted, but today is most inconvenient. Tell monsieur I will be happy to wait upon him as soon as I return to Paris.”

  The witch-hunter grinned and spat, his men drawing their swords. “Monsieur Le Balafre would like to see you. Now.”

  Wolf swore, making another attempt to surge forward. Gabrielle barely caught him in time. “No, don’t.”

  “But mademoiselle, there is no way I will allow you to be taken anywhere by these—these devils.”

  “I will be all right.” Gabrielle insisted, praying it was true. “Please, Martin. There is only one thing you can do for me. Go and find Remy.”

  The shadows lengthened across the taproom. No doubt the Charters Inn had once been a cheerful, bustling place before witch-hunters had commandeered it. Now the fading light cast a gloom-ridden atmosphere over tables empty save for the one where Gabrielle sat waiting. Two of the witch-hunters mounted guard at the door while the rest milled about the yard. There seemed to be so many of them, Gabrielle regretted her decision to send Wolf to fetch Remy. But he had to be informed of the delay to their departure. She just prayed her Scourge would not be impelled to do anything rash.

  She was in no immediate danger unless it was perishing from a mix of tension and boredom. She slumped back in her chair, resisting the urge to drum her nails upon the table. For someone who had been in such a blasted hurry to have her detained, Le Balafre was taking a long time to put in an appearance.

  Gabrielle had no idea how long she had been left to cool her heels in this wretched taproom. Of course, she understood his tactics. This delay was nothing more than a pathetic attempt to demonstrate his importance and power. To increase her fear by suspense. It had worked for a while. Now Aristide was simply making her angry. Who the devil did he think he was? Just some upstart who had once been no more than one of Vachel Le Vis’s flunkies, the perfidious wretch who had wounded Miri’s heart.

  Gabrielle could have endured this ordeal much better if she had been able to persuade Miri to remain behind with Bette and her cat. But she doubted that the entire squad of witch-hunters could have dragged Miri away from her. The leader of the troop had not even really tried, merely shrugging his beefy shoulders and remarking it was no skin off his hide if the girl wanted to tag along.

  Miri sat across from Gabrielle looking composed, but very quiet and withdrawn. Gabrielle could only imagine the painful memories that must be racing through her sister’s mind, of the time Miri herself had faced accusations of witchcraft, of the way Simon Aristide had betrayed her trust in him. Gabrielle reached out to her little sister, wanting to offer comfort. But it was Miri who squeezed her hand, saying bracingly, “Don’t worry, Gabby. Everything is going to be fine. Truly. Simon is not like his old master, Le Vis. He does not resort to torture. He—he tries to be fair and reasonable.”

  Gabrielle was heartsick to see how hard Miri still struggled to believe in that wretched man, to find some trace of good in him. “Miri . . .”

  But as though sensing what Gabrielle meant to say, she drew her hand away. “Simon will not hurt you. I won’t let him,” Miri added fiercely.

  Gabrielle had no idea why Aristide had brought her here, what information he sought, what charges he might be prepared to level. But he was a witch-hunter and she knew reason would have nothing to do with it. The last thing she wanted was Mir
i trying to be her champion.

  Before she could say anything more she was distracted by one of the inn’s servants shuffling down the stairs. She would never have noticed him had he not stumbled on the last riser. His hand clutched the rail to halt his fall, his thin fingers far too white and well manicured for someone who had spent a life in menial servitude.

  As he edged past their table, he ducked his head, his face lost behind a straggling fall of white hair. She studied him narrowly before experiencing a start of recognition.

  Bartolomy Verducci.

  At great pains to avoid Gabrielle’s gaze, the man scurried off toward the kitchen. Despite the wig and his hunched gait, there was no mistaking Catherine’s favorite hound. But what the devil was Verducci doing here? The answer was obvious. Spying for Catherine. It made perfect sense that the Dark Queen would keep apprised of the doings of her enemy. She had been far wiser than Gabrielle, who had let herself be caught off guard. Maybe Catherine was even plotting to have something slipped into Simon’s wine.

  Much as she deplored the Dark Queen’s methods, that would not exactly break Gabrielle’s heart, but she knew someone whose heart it would. Wrapped in her unhappy thoughts, Miri had not even noticed the old man, nor would she have recognized the possible danger to Simon if she had.

  Gabrielle squirmed, wondering if she should say something. Before she could decide, the guards at the door snapped to attention, their gazes shifting to the gallery above them. How long Aristide had lurked there in the shadows, quietly watching her, Gabrielle could not have said. He descended the stairs with a slow, measured tread. Gabrielle rose to her feet, although she scarce knew why. Perhaps because to remain meekly seated gave far too much an advantage to such a man. Aristide certainly knew how to create a presence. She had to give the devil that much.

  He was clad in unrelenting black from boots to doublet, his close-shaved head adding to the aura of menace. His eye patch mercifully concealed the worst of the damage to his scarred face. As he reached the foot of the stairs, his steely gaze flickered over Miri.