The first task she had set for herself this morning was seeking out the Comte de Renard. A stable lad had returned Miri’s pony to Belle Haven this morning with Monsieur le Comte’s compliments. When Ariane had inquired after Renard, asking if he had left the island, the boy had been able to assure her that milord had not.
As the farm cart lumbered away, Ariane adjusted her marketing basket over her arm and marched toward the Passing Stranger. Although traces of a headache lingered behind her eyes, she felt far more in command of herself today. She meant to have the truth from Renard, regarding his murky past and his reasons for wanting to marry her. And if he evaded her questions, she was going to remove his ring, hand it back, and firmly inform him their pact was at an end.
But as she strode into the taproom, and inquired after the comte, she was met by the unwelcome intelligence that Renard was out. He had gone into the town and no one knew when he would return.
Ariane struggled to conceal her chagrin. Not because she was that eager to see Renard. She merely wanted this confrontation over with while both her courage and resolve were still high.
Leaving a message requesting that the comte should call upon her at Belle Haven later that afternoon, Ariane strode off in the direction of the main street. Many of the shops were nearly a century old, sagging against one another. The bottoms of horizontal shutters were let down to form counters displaying wares while the upper ones formed awnings. Through the open windows, both apprentices and masters could be seen hard at work in their shops. Or more often mistresses.
Many of the artisans were widows or daughters who carried on their husband’s crafts, while others were spinsters who had found in Faire Isle a strange unique place where a woman might practice some trade other than being wife or prostitute. As Ariane progressed down the street, she was greeted warmly.
She was heartened as always by the affection and respect she received from the folk of Faire Isle, but her own replies were a trifle distracted. When she traversed the entire street with no sign of Renard, she was rather astonished by the depth of her disappointment.
Ariane at last reached a squat cottage that appeared at odds with the other, taller buildings. A sign creaked in the breeze, the three gilded pills proclaiming it as an apothecary’s establishment. At least that was what Madame Jehan dared to call herself. But with her straggling white hair and the wart on her chin, she fitted the image of what most mainlanders would have called a witch.
Madame Jehan took full advantage of the fact, doing a brisk trade selling love ointments and virility potions to credulous sailors. Adelaide Jehan was in fact a wise woman, well versed in the ancient science. She would have certain ground powders that might be useful to Ariane in deciphering the mystery of the gloves and in brewing a restorative medicine for Captain Remy as well.
Beside being a skilled herbalist, Madame Jehan was a master storyteller. Her shop was often crammed full of the island children clamoring for her tales. Ariane and her sisters had been no exceptions when they were young. She could remember how eagerly they had looked forward to visiting the apothecary shop. While Maman had made her selections, they had all been held spellbound by Madame Jehan’s stories.
Gabrielle had been particularly fond of hearing the blood-curdling adventures of the legendary Melusine. Madame Jehan’s voice had always dropped to a sinister whisper as she recounted the witch’s evil deeds.
“And Melusine was right beautiful to look at, but her heart was colder than the murky dark bottom of a well. She had made up her mind, you see, that the daughters of the earth should rule over France. Not men or kings.”
“What is wrong with that?” Gabrielle had piped up. “It sounds like a grand idea to me.”
“Ah, but Melusine went about pursuing her dreams in the cruelest, wickedest way, my pretty one. She sought to bring the great lords to their knees by attacking their lands, putting a blight on their crops, cursing their livestock.”
“Even the—the little lambs?” Miri had quavered, her eyes waxing large in her small face.
“Oh, especially the poor little lambs, my pet. It was a terrible sight to see what that wicked Melusine did to them.” And Madame Jehan would commence to twitch, baaing plaintively and lolling out her tongue in a terrifying imitation of a sheep perishing in mortal agony.
Her eyes filling with tears, Miri would shudder and bury her face in Ariane’s skirts. At this juncture, Evangeline Cheney would intervene, gently but firmly requesting Madame Jehan to stop before her girls were afflicted with nightmares.
Although Madame Jehan’s horrific tales of Melusine had often frightened them out of their wits, Ariane reflected ruefully, that certainly had never stopped her or her sisters from begging Madame Jehan for more. Nor had it deterred any of the island children since.
But when Ariane entered the shop, she found the place empty this afternoon except for the old woman herself. When she placed her order, Madame Jehan nodded and bustled to fetch several vials from her well-stocked shelves. Powders for detecting poison or powders for healing, it was all one to Madame Jehan. That was what many people found so comforting about dealing with the old woman. She never asked awkward questions.
As she tucked the small bottles inside Ariane’s basket, she inquired pleasantly instead, “How are those two pretty sisters of yours, dearie?”
“Oh, er—quite well,” Ariane murmured, although she feared Gabrielle and Miri were anything but. Miri had been pale and withdrawn this morning in the wake of her nightmare, not touching a bite of her breakfast. She had disappeared at once into the barn to take solace from her animals. As for Gabrielle, she had been cool and aloof, cutting off any reference to the words that had passed between her and Ariane the night before. But despite Gabrielle’s chilly demeanor, Ariane had seen the unhappiness shading her sister’s eyes.
As she paid for her purchase, pressing a few coins into Madame Jehan’s withered hand, she felt the old lady’s shrewd eyes upon her.
“What all three of you girls need is a little romance, a lusty young lover.”
Ariane rolled her eyes, having heard this opinion before. Madame Jehan voiced it every time Ariane entered the shop.
“Now, madame,” Ariane scolded. “I hope you are not trying to sell me one of your love potions.”
“I should say not. Fancy me attempting to impose such nonsense on the Lady of Faire Isle. All I am saying is that a woman’s bed can be a lonely place at night without a man to warm it. I should know. I’ve outlived four husbands, rest their souls.”
“F-four?” Ariane exclaimed. She knew the apothecary had been widowed, but she had never guessed as many times as that.
“Aye, fine strapping fellows the lot of them. Guess I just wore them out. But I did adore each and every one of them.”
“So . . . so many loves,” Ariane could not help murmuring.
Madame heaved a gusty sigh. “Aye, and I wouldn’t say no to a fifth if the right man ever came wandering into my shop, some bold fellow with a ready laugh, quick hands, and a roving eye.”
The old woman tweaked Ariane’s chin, peering affectionately into her eyes. “I fear you will never love so easily, but when you do fall, it will be hard, deep, and forever. You will give your heart but once, just like your dear maman.”
And just like her mother, she might well end up with a broken heart. Ariane gave a stubborn shake of her head.
“I don’t intend to surrender my heart at all. I have too many duties as the Lady of Faire Isle to go searching for a lover.”
“Maybe he’ll find you,” the old woman suggested slyly. “I hear tell the Comte de Renard has returned to Faire Isle.”
“He has.” Ariane tried to look supremely indifferent.
“Now there’s a man for you. All brawn and bone, but nobody’s fool either. Not handsome perhaps, but I have always preferred a man with a lived-in face and a bit of the devil about him.”
“Too much of the devil perhaps,” Ariane replied. “Madame, you have so much expe
rience of men. Have you ever met any of them who had mastered the old ways? Who were skilled in sorcery?”
The old woman’s eyes twinkled up at her. “Well, my third husband was a bit of a wizard between the sheets.”
Ariane gave a wry laugh, but persisted. “Seriously, madame, one hears so many troubling rumors about the present comte. He could be a complete scoundrel, plotting who can imagine what sort of mischief.”
Madame Jehan shrugged. “So marry the man and keep him out of trouble.”
“I doubt I would be up to the task. I cannot even read Renard’s eyes. I never know what he is thinking.”
“Oh, likely what most men think about. How soon he will be able to get you into bed and what’s he going to be served for dinner.”
Ariane was assailed by a sudden image of Renard tangled in her sheets, lean, hard, and naked. She drew in a sharp breath and fought down a blush.
“There are other ways of discovering what a man has on his mind,” Madame Jehan said. Rummaging beneath the counter, she produced a small vial of a rust-colored liquid. When Ariane’s brows rose questioningly, Madame leaned closer, speaking in a conspiratorial tone.
“L’essence de verité.”
“A—a truth potion?” Ariane exclaimed.
Madame nodded. “When the reading of the eyes fails, this is the next best thing. Place a few drops of this in Monsieur le Comte’s wine and I guarantee you he will tell you anything that you want to know. I had to use this potion frequently on my second husband, the rascal.”
Ariane touched the vial, both intrigued and appalled. “But madame, this—this is black magic.”
“Not black magic, dearie,” Madame said soothingly. “Only a little gray.”
“Maman considered anything dark magic that tampered with another person’s mind or threatened his free will.”
“Your maman, bless her, was too much of a saint, far too good for this world.” Madame Jehan closed Ariane’s fingers around the vial. “Take the potion and use it on your young man, dearie. With my compliments.”
Ariane stared down at the small bottle and for a moment, she was horribly tempted. She was holding in her hand the one thing that might finally give her an advantage over Renard.
But Ariane knew Evangeline Cheney would have disapproved. Bad enough what she had already done last night, dabbling in the forbidden realms of necromancy.
With a heavy sigh, Ariane returned the vial to Madame Jehan. “Thank you, madame, but no. I admit there is much I am anxious to discover about Renard, but I will stick to more straightforward methods.”
Madame Jehan shrugged. “Suit yourself, dearie. I only hope Monsieur le Comte plays as fairly with you.”
Ariane fingered the ring, already having doubts on that score. She watched as Madame Jehan squirreled the potion away again, then bade the old woman farewell and hastily quit the shop, removing herself from any further temptation.
As she emerged into the sunlit street, she walked head-on into Monsieur Taillebois. He emitted a startled oath. But as Ariane staggered back, the man’s lean hands shot out to steady her.
As Ariane regained her balance, she stared up at the merchant, her stomach dipping to her toes. He was a tall man, with black hair, a blade-like nose, and high cheekbones. Most women found him handsome and Ariane supposed that he was in a lean, arrogant sort of way. The fur-trimmed robe that draped over his slender shoulders bespoke all the trappings of a wealthy burgher. He had a soft insinuating smile, but his eyes always seemed to Ariane as hard as the business that he practiced.
“Monsieur Taillebois. I—I do beg your pardon.” Ariane forced a polite smile to her lips. “I fear I was not watching where I was going.”
“No need to apologize, Mistress Cheney. It is always a great pleasure to see you, even when you tread upon my toes.” Taillebois made an effort to jest, but unlike Renard, he was far too stiff about his teasing.
“You so seldom grace the mainland with your fair presence these days.” Was that a faint trace of accusation? His fingers lingered on her shoulders and Ariane squirmed away.
She felt the beginnings of a flush steal into her cheeks. Monsieur Taillebois was perhaps justified to voice some complaint. Ariane had been steadfastly avoiding him.
“I am sorry, monsieur. There—there has been so much to do at Belle Haven. I have been most preoccupied, but I have been meaning to come speak with you about my father’s note.”
“No need to worry yourself about that, milady,” Taillebois said. “Although I must admit I had expected repayment long ere now.”
“Yes, well I am sure my father is going to return any day—”
“I have no wish to shatter your hopes, mademoiselle, but many have been known to make the voyage to Brazil within six months. Chevalier Cheney has been gone over two years. One must begin to assume the worst.”
“If you thought my father’s voyage so perilous, I wonder that you ever advanced him the money for it.”
But when Taillebois’s eyes narrowed, his brows snapping together, she hastened to amend her tone. “Your pardon, monsieur. But I have not given up hopes for my father yet and if you could just be generous enough to allow me a little more time—”
“I could be very generous, Mistress Cheney,” Taillebois interrupted, his hand resting lightly on her arm. “I believe I have made it quite clear that the debt would be entirely forgotten if only you would—”
“Marry you or else you will take legal action against me?”
“Ariane,” he chided gently. “It is only that I worry so much about your welfare. I care for you deeply, my dear. If only you would allow me to show you.”
Taillebois bent closer. Usually, Ariane would have discouraged his boldness, but this time she found herself appraising him with a surprising detachment. Physically, he was not repellent and she studied the smooth outline of his lips with frank curiosity. She thought back to last night, her overwhelming response to Renard’s kiss, and wondered again if it might all simply have been owing to her own lack of experience.
Consequently, instead of wrenching away, she forced herself to remain still. Taillebois’s eyes widened with surprise and gratification at this unexpected compliance. Leaning closer, he pressed his lips to hers. Ariane felt the warmth of his mouth, but that was all she felt.
Monsieur Taillebois drew back, smug and pleased with himself. Ariane doubted that he’d even noticed her lack of response. Renard would never have settled for such a tame reaction.
“My dear Ariane,” Taillebois began, then stopped, inhaling his breath sharply at a strange harsh sound. The metallic scraping noise made Ariane flinch as well and want to cover her ears. Seeking the source of it, she twisted to glance behind her.
The Comte de Renard leaned against the side of Madame Jehan’s shop, idly sharpening a large sword. How long he had been there, how much of her conversation with Taillebois he might have overheard, Ariane had no idea.
Certainly he had been present long enough to have witnessed the kiss, Ariane thought, her face flooding hot with dismay. Damn the man. How like him to turn up now at the worst possible moment.
Monsieur Taillebois looked as disconcerted as she. Only Renard appeared unperturbed. He made a great show of inspecting the steel, testing it for its sharpness before giving a satisfied nod.
Straightening away from the fence, he ambled toward Ariane, in his usual lazy fashion. Although smiling, there was a dark glint in his eyes.
“Good afternoon, Mistress Cheney. A fine fair afternoon for visiting the shops, is it not?”
“Well, I—I—yes,” Ariane stammered. Yet it was none of Renard’s affair whom she kissed. Still, she had a sinking feeling that the comte would not see it that way.
Resting the hilt across his palm, Renard displayed the formidable weapon. “Observe the magnificent workmanship, especially on the blade. Who would have ever imagined I would find such a splendid sword here on your tiny island? And fashioned by a woman, too. Mistress Paletot also makes some fine n
eedles and pins.”
“Yes, I—I am aware of that,” Ariane said.
“I know most men these days prefer the rapier, but there is nothing like an old-fashioned broadsword for properly lopping off heads or any other body part one finds inconvenient.” Renard added with a significant glance at Taillebois’s hand, still resting upon Ariane’s arm.
The merchant made haste to withdraw it as Renard stepped closer.
“And what about you, monsieur?” Renard asked. “Do you not think this is a most splendid weapon?”
“I have little interest in swords.”
“What a great pity, Monsieur . . .”
“Taillebois.” The man managed a stiff nod. “Andre Taillebois.”
“Ah, the moneylender,” Renard purred.
“Certainly not. I am no usurer.” Taillebois drew himself up indignantly. “I consider myself a merchant banker.”
“A fine distinction, monsieur. I would also wager the tax collector prefers to think of himself as a civil servant rather than a thief.”
Taillebois quivered with outrage. Ariane hastened to intervene.
“You must not mind Monsieur le Comte. He is fond of making jests. Er—have you met the Comte de Renard?”
“No, but I have heard of him.” Taillebois attempted a sneer. “The reputation of the Deauville family precedes him.”
Renard’s mouth flinched, the expression so slight Ariane was certain only she had noticed. She experienced a curious urge to fly to his defense.
Not that he needed it. As he loomed over Taillebois, Renard’s heavy eyelids lowered to dangerous slits. “I am glad you have heard of me, monsieur. That saves so much time. Then you must be aware that I am the man who is going to marry Mistress Cheney.”
“Renard!” Ariane’s protest went ignored as he closed in on Taillebois. He continued to smile at the merchant, but it was difficult to say which looked more deadly, the blade in Renard’s hand or the glint in his eyes.