"Fifty thousand francs."
The Parisian tough had no trouble reaching a decision. "Half now," he said, "half when I hand the child over to you."
"No," Jerome brusquely returned. "I don't want the child. I want him taken to the country. I'll pay you one third now, a third when you have the child, a final third when the child is deposited in the country. But time is critical. This must be accomplished with all speed." Magistrate Clouet had required surety that the money would be paid to Gericault's son within the month.
"Then I'll be taking that third and be on my way." Scheffler rose from his chair. His suit fit his large body superbly. He could have passed as a member of the Bourse.
"You'll get the initial installment only when you've located the child."
"Fair enough. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon at the latest." The ruffian put out his hand. "It's a pleasure doing business with you, Monsieur Clouard."
Jerome hesitated briefly, but thought better of antagonizing a man of Scheffler's profession. He clasped his hand. "The pleasure will be mutual once the boy is abducted, Mr. Scheffler," he gruffly said.
Jean-Paul was waiting for Trixi in the Watteau drawing room when she woke. "We meet again, my lady," he said with a cordial smile. "I hear the Clouards have disrupted your life."
"Very seriously, I'm afraid. They tried to abduct my son. I was hoping Pasha would be here… or Charles."
"We should be able to deal satisfactorily with the Clouards despite Charles's absence. Pasha spoke to him before he left." Jean-Paul went on to detail the legal procedures that could be used to stop the Clouards. "In the meantime, I'd suggest you not venture outside the grounds. Until we see the Clouards imprisoned or adequately censured, you'll be safest within the walls. But don't be alarmed," he hastily added when he saw her expression. "Pasha's staff is large and very capable."
Trixi tried to smile, but managed only a tight grimace. "I keep telling myself it's impossible that people are out to harm my son. I try not to be alarmed, but the memory of their attempt is too fresh in my mind, and the Bow Street runner they hired indicates their continued pursuit. I've even considered carrying a pistol."
"There's no need for that, my lady. But as added insurance, I'll have Jules give orders that no strangers, no unfamiliar tradesmen, be allowed on the premises."
"Can they actually be stopped?" she fearfully asked, wanting an end to the ghastly terror.
"Yes, of course. I'm on my way to see Judge Clouet immediately after I leave you. We will stop them, madame, I assure you."
"Thank you so much. I hope some day I can repay all your kindness." She felt terribly beholden.
"Please, everyone is more than eager to help. Your concern for repayment is unnecessary. Pasha's a friend and you're a friend of his." He smiled, gracious and charming. "Leave this to me."
How wonderful, she thought after he'd gone; all one had to do was be Pasha's friend and the world was at one's disposal. She winced slightly at her role as Pasha's
friend
but she couldn't deny it, nor did she wish to take back the glorious days of his visit. So if she was paramour to him in the eyes of the world, so be it. He would bring her safety now even in his absence.
The evening was relaxed and homey, if such a state existed in a city residence of forty rooms with a staff of sixty. But the petite dining room with the painted birds and butterflies and small fire in the fireplace was as near to cozy as Richelieu's architect could conceive. Over dinner, Chris described in detail all the rooms and servants, already on a first-name basis with most of the staff. Pasha's housekeeper had immediately taken Chris under her wing and during the meal he kept up a steady chatter, filling his mother in on the below-stairs lives. He'd adapted to his new environment with the ease of childhood, lightening Trixi's worries.
She slept peacefully that night for the first time in days, as if the cares of the world were lifted from her shoulders. And when she woke, no sudden fear sprang into her consciousness. Jules had seen to her new tranquility, and Jean-Paul. And Pasha from afar.
"I talked to a young servant girl from Duras's household at the greengrocer's this morning. She was buying strawberries for their new guests. Young servant girls are blissfully naive," Paul Scheffler informed Jerome Clouard. "Apparently their guests arrived yesterday. Is the boy's name Christopher?"
"Well done," Jerome muttered, already begrudging the money he'd have to spend for such an easy task. He should pay the ruffian by the hour. "I suppose I could have located her myself."
"But you didn't, now, did you? And you were in a hurry if I recall."
"Yes, yes, you want your money I suppose."
"And I suppose you want the boy out of your way. Which is why we're partners, monsieur," Scheffler silkily replied. "Sixteen thousand, six hundred sixty-six francs if you please."
"You can
do
this now?" Jerome leaned forward across his desk, his brows beetled.
"Better than you, I expect, or you wouldn't be out looking for an accomplice in this dirty deed," Scheffler lightly returned, sure of his abilities. "Tell me where you want the boy taken."
"There's a lady near Aries. I'll give you the address."
"That's a long way."
"She's discreet."
"I'll have to drug the lad to transport him that distance, or he'll bring the gendarmes with his screams."
"Do what you have to do," Jerome curtly said. "I'm not interested in your mode of operation. Just take care of it with dispatch. Today, preferably." He'd received a message from Clouet earlier, disturbingly early in the morning. He wondered how much Lady Grosvenor's appearance in Paris had to do with Clouet's timing. The magistrate was giving him until Friday afternoon to give evidence the transfer of funds had been accomplished.
Scheffler recognized nerves. In his profession one became a specialist in discerning degrees of panic. And while Jerome Clouard was too iniquitous to have a conscience, something else was causing him a high degree of consternation. Money, he supposed, for a man of his stripe. Taking advantage of the situation, another of his specialties, Scheffler said, "If you want the boy snatched today, it'll cost you more."
"Impossible."
"Sorry, then."
"I'll find someone else."
"Be my guest." He'd be hard pressed to find someone else on such short notice.
"Damn your extortion!"
"Now if we're going to trade insults," Scheffler smoothly murmured, "I could think of a few choice words for a man who pays to have young lads snatched and sold away."
"This is a business matter."
"So is mine."
"How much, damn you?"
"A hundred thousand francs, half now. I'm not sure you're a trustworthy man. The other half before I leave Paris. I'll have a friend come and pick it up—in case you
get
any ideas that don't appeal to me. Just remember I have the boy and he could turn up again at his mum's as easy as not."
When Jerome had resentfully counted out the money and pushed it across the table toward him, Paul softly said, "This boy must be worth a fortune to you. Sure you don't want the mum, too? I could give you a sale price on two."
"Just the boy, thank you," Jerome ground out, fury in every syllable. "Now get out of here and do your work."
The walled garden that opened from the drawing room offered fresh air and sunshine after a morning of indoor activities for Trixi and Chris, and soon Chris was helping the old gardener plant begonia starts in the shade of the stone wall. Trixi admired her son's handiwork a dozen times, each new planting requiring additional words of praise and encouragement. How pleasant all the staff were, she thought, watching the elderly man guide Chris's awkward attempts at horticulture. And the housekeeper let Chris eat in the below-stairs dining room that morning—a thrill he was still bubbling about hours later. His world had greatly expanded in a house with such a large staff, and he was thoroughly enjoying the liveliness.
"Mama, Mama, we're going to plant new roses back
here
," he shouted a short time later, waving his dirt-covered hand in the direction of the small toolshed tucked into a corner of the garden wall. Seated under a flowering apple tree, Trixi looked up from the book she was reading, smiled, and waved back. It would be very easy, she thought, to let herself be taken care of by Pasha's retinue. Every need or wish was anticipated and taken care of by one of the numerous staff; she couldn't even open a door for herself.
Jean-Paul had stopped by again that morning and given her news on Judge Clouet's message to the Clouards. Jules had offered her carte blanche in running the household, if she wished. Staggered, she wondered if all Pasha's paramours were treated so lavishly. But she'd declined Jules's offer, which brought a smile to his reserved face. He was obviously relieved. And she'd wondered for a moment exactly what instructions Pasha had left.
Thoughts of Pasha brought back sweet memories of their enchanted time together and, lost in her reverie, she didn't at first notice the absence of childish chatter. When she became aware of the curious silence, a moment more passed before she became fully alert and looked around.
An ominous quiet hung over the garden; even the trilling birdsong had stopped.
A sudden wave of panic engulfed her, the faces of her enemies flooding her mind. "Chris!" she screamed, tossing her book aside. Scrambling to her feet, she raced toward the toolshed. Her shrieks for help, for Jules, for Hippolyte, echoed from wall to wall to wall in the small enclosed garden, shattering the afternoon calm. Her heart thudded in her chest, and the most terrible fear ate at her soul. Praying she wasn't too late, she turned the corner of the small shed and suddenly came upon a large man in a gardener's smock hauling Chris's limp body up the garden wall. Even in the horrifying circumstances a wave of relief washed over her.
He'd not yet taken her son from her.
With Chris slung over his shoulder, the man was standing on a rain barrel, reaching for the top of the wall to pull himself up. Trixi leaped at him, attacking like a maddened lioness, clawing at him to bring him down, knowing once he scaled the wall he'd disappear. She clutched at his trouser leg, found a grip, and yanking with all her might, she screamed for help.
The kidnapper struggled to free himself but she held on with the superhuman strength of extremity, jerking hard on his leg, trying to tumble him down.
Tottering for a split second, he almost lost his balance, but regaining his equilibrium, he savagely kicked back, slamming his heel into her chest.
A crushing blur of pain eclipsed her consciousness, radiating outward from the point of impact, briefly swamping her hold on reality. But she maintained her grip, some subconscious level of instinct still operating beneath the corrosive agony, directing the signal from her brain to her fingers. Hold on, don't let go, the primal message commanded—no matter what, don't let go. If she let go, she understood, her son would be gone.
She clung to his leg with all her strength, waves of nausea washing up her throat, lights dancing before her eyes, her knuckles white with the strain. You'll have to kill me to
get
my son, she thought, a gut-level, stubborn tenacity holding her upright. Or carry us both up that wall.
She drew a shallow breath through the raw, excruciating pain. Keep breathing, hold on, keep breathing, hold on, she silently intoned in a singsong rhythm that seemed to come from a great distance. She no longer had the strength or capacity to scream, nor the mental acuity to gauge the length of time since she'd last cried for help.
Was it a second, a minute, five? Had anyone heard her in the immense house? Had her cries penetrated through the stone walls, up the long staircases, through the labyrinth of corridors?
"Damn it all, let me go."
She looked up toward the sound, and she met the cool gaze of her son's kidnapper. "Here, lady," he gruffly said, easing Chris from his shoulder and sliding the boy to the ground. "Take my advice. Find a better hiding place. You've some determined enemies."
She didn't release her grip until Chris was free and then, falling to the ground, she gathered him close and cradled him in her arms, not even noticing the kidnapper disappearing over the wall. Chris was too still, she frantically thought. Pale, motionless like the dead.
"He's not breathing," she whispered, as Jules suddenly appeared at her side. Heart-stricken, she stroked Chris's ashen cheeks, desperately searching for some sign of life.
"He's alive," Jules assured her, his fingers on Chris's pulse. Gently searching through Chris's hair a moment later, he found the swelling node where he'd been struck. "He was knocked out." Leaning forward, he lifted the boy's eyelids, surveyed his pupils. "Let's get him inside," he said, rolling back on his knees, "and call the doctors."
Trixi didn't let Chris out of her sight, staying at his side as he was transported into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom. Three doctors were brought in and they confirmed Jules's diagnosis. Refusing help for her injuries, Trixi sat beside Chris's bed, keeping watch over him, offering silent prayers of thanksgiving for having him safe. And when his eyelids first fluttered, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. A faint smile formed on his mouth, although his eyes remained closed. But she was reassured. He recognized his pony's name.
A short time later, his eyes opened and he said, "My head hurts."
"We'll put ice on it, darling," Trixi said, touching his cheek with her fingertips.
"Why are so many people in here?" he asked, his gaze taking in the array of servants and doctors ranged around his bed.
"We were afraid you were hurt."
"That new gardener wasn't very nice. I like Louis better."
"You can talk to Louis tomorrow," Trixi promised, the old man a victim of the kidnapper as well. He'd been found tied and gagged in the toolshed.
"Could I have some chocolate cake?"
Ten servants jumped at his request and Trixi smiled, relief flooding her. Her son was on the mend.