He stepped toward her chamber, pausing to lean in the doorway. He smiled. She blushed. Belle dames in the escadron volant did not blush. He casually rested his hand near his scabbard, not that he expected that sort of danger, but with the masked messire and recent events, he, a Bourbon, could not be trusting.
He pushed the heavy wooden door aside wide enough to glance inside. He saw no one else in the chamber, and it did not appear to be a trap.
His gaze came back to hers.
“Did the Queen Mother tell you to invite me to your
chambre à coucher
, Mademoiselle? A plan, perhaps to search my mind and heart by the application of your charms?”
She sucked in her breath.
“Granted,” he said, “I find your charms alluring, ma cherie, but your plan will avail you of no information. I have no political secrets to share; my loyalty is sworn to King Francis.”
“Monsieur de Vendôme, I blush for shame that you would think such of me, I assure you. I confess I have gone about this task most foolishly. I must appear very bold.”
“Hardly bold, Madame.”
“Mademoiselle,” she said with uplifted chin.
He gestured his head in brief nod. “An error, Mademoiselle,” he said indifferently.
“A grave error, Monsieur, I promise you.”
He looked at her again, noting her discomfiture, but a quick f lash of anger as well. His interest only grew. He wondered about her motives and was now at a loss, even experiencing a faint prick of conscience.
Surely this one was as fresh and untouched as any I’ve seen.
“Though I quite understand your suspicions, I assure you,” she said. “The Queen Mother has not sent me, nor does she know we planned to talk to you.”
“We,
Mademoiselle?”
“Madame Henriette — my grandmother. Ah,” came her relieved voice. “Madame is here now.” She turned, looking across the chamber. He followed her gaze.
Fabien, now thoroughly curious, saw an elderly woman wearing an elegant but plain black dress with a touch of white lace.
“Marquis de Vendôme happened to be passing in the outer salle, Grandmère,” the younger mademoiselle explained. “And I did not need to seek an audience at his chamber. Though I fear I have caused him . . . um, some confusion.”
Fabien hid a smile at that.
Madame Henriette bowed with grave dignity in his direction. “Monsieur de Vendôme, merci. I see you have met my younger grand-
daughter? Mademoiselle Rachelle Dushane-Macquinet. We are here at court as couturières, Marquis, called here from Lyon by royal summons from the Queen Mother herself.”
Fabien began to understand. He had heard of the Macquinets, the famous silk couturières.
“Bien sûr, Madame.”
Madame came toward him now. “My daughter, Clair, is not here, but she met you before in Paris, Monsieur, but you may have forgotten her? Clair Dushane-Macquinet, the mother-in-law of Comte Sebastien Dangeau. His wife, Madeleine, is my eldest granddaughter. She remains in Paris.”
“Ah, but yes, pardone, Madame.”
It was clear to him now that he had misjudged the mademoiselle with the magnificent auburn brown hair. One thing was settled; he would not forget meeting Rachelle. He looked down at her again, tasting her name as he studied her once more. She turned away. He found her pro- file exquisite . . . yes, this one must be watched before some duc snatched her. A duc or a greedy comte like his cousin Maurice Beauvilliers. That, he suddenly decided, he would not permit.
The Macquinets of Lyon were known for their silk. Now that he was inside the chamber he saw their bolts of material. But of course! He vaguely recalled that Margo had mentioned having new gowns made here at Chambord.
Fabien offered a deep and elegant bow. “The pleasure is mine, Madame Henriette. Dushane, is it not, Madame?”
He saw the slight sparkle of pride show in her dark eyes. “Oui, Marquis. Madame Duchesse Xenia Dushane is a distant cousine of mine.”
“A woman of merit, to be sure. I have met her on many occasions at court through the years.” He wondered if this meant that Rachelle could be in line for a title. He thought, however, it was Comtesse Claudine Boisseau who would inherit.
Fabien would not admit he but vaguely remembered having met Madame Clair in the royal appartements of Sebastien at the Louvre some two years ago.
“I knew your père, Marquis Jean-Louis,” Grandmère said. “A galante of the highest order. I grieved when he was slain in the war with Spain and le Duc de Guise took his position as France’s general.”
He thought his smile might have frozen at the mention of his father and Guise. His main reason for disliking the duc was rooted in the death of Jean-Louis.
Fabien bowed but kept silent.
Madame Henriette smiled, yet he noted gravity in her eyes. Maybe she too was aware of the arrival of le Duc de Guise and Cardinal Lorraine.
Fabien bowed over her small, veined hand, then turned as she said. “My granddaughter Rachelle is working with me here at Chambord gain- ing further training as one of my grisettes and as a future couturière.”
Rachelle was dignified now, showing there was Dushane blood in her after all, but some color remained in her cheeks after their misunder- standing.
C’est charmante
, he thought. Her manner was refreshing for a change.
He lifted Rachelle’s hand and bent over it. “
Mille pardons
, Mademoiselle.”
Her eyes came up to meet his and a spark showed in their depths over her vindication.
Ah,
he thought.
Mademoiselle has a penchant for stand- ing up for herself.
That too he liked.
“Merci, Marquis,” she said with a sudden elegance.
He restrained a smile and affected gravity, willing his gaze to silently speak of his respect and growing interest. He wondered if she knew the confusion of their meeting had made her unforgettable. Had she done so on purpose? No, and in thinking so he realized he had become accus- tomed to the belle dames at court. He was cynical.
Madame Henriette spoke as Idelette entered: “My other granddaugh- ter Mademoiselle Idelette, also in training.”
Another beauty,
Fabien acknowledged her sober curtsy. He thought
her wan compared to the f lushed liveliness of her younger sister, like a serene lily.
“Honored, Mademoiselle.”
Inside the chamber his gaze fell on bolts of crimson, gold, and blue silks, burgundy velvets, gilded brocades of verdant greens and rose pinks. There were smaller bolts of lace in various shades of the rainbow beside the staple ivory. He took in the cutting instruments, spools of silk threads, and then — across the chamber, he saw gowns in the process of being finished. The burgundy silk over cloth of gold he particularly found attractive.
“I would not have requested my daughter to ask you here were it not that I have important news, Marquis, and it is a matter of trust.”
“Am I to assume your reason for placing trust in me rests on the repu- tation of Jean-Louis?”
“Sebastien and Madeleine have spoken well of you, Marquis.” “Knowing you are related to Sebastien gives you my undivided atten-
tion, Madame.”
“Merci, Monsieur. We are pleased the Bourbons have risen to defend our cause as Huguenots at court, for we of the Protestant belief have many enemies.”
“You speak of my kinsman Prince Louis de Condé, also Admiral Coligny,” he said, for he did not wish to include himself as a swift defender of Calvinism.
“Yes, Monsieur. We know you are a kinsman of Antoine de Bourbon, now King of Navarre.”
Navarre was the mostly Protestant realm under Queen Jeanne who had married his kinsman Antoine.
“You too, Monsieur, are a Huguenot, are you not?” Rachelle spoke for the first time.
He turned to look at her. He would not be trapped into saying he was a Calvinist.
“Au contraire,
I am a Catholic, Mademoiselle, as I think you already
know.”
“I did not know. I thought . . .”
Madame Macquinet stepped in quietly. “Ah, so be it, Marquis de Vendôme, we already know we can trust you and that you are a good Catholic.”
“Merci, Madame.” He bowed casually, then continued in a quiet voice. “You may confide in me your troubles, Madame, I will do all I can to help you. What is it you wish to tell to me?”
Madame Macquinet released a breath and her shoulders sagged. He took her arm.
“Do sit. Are you certain we can talk freely here?”
Rachelle had come swiftly to her Grandmère, assisted her to a chair, then stood behind her, resting her hands on the backrest.
“Yes, it is safe. This chamber has no listening holes.”
He tilted his head. “Is there something, Madame, you have learned, that I should know?”
“Madame Xenia Dushane has imparted to us information of utmost interest, Monsieur Fabien. She has also intimated you are trustworthy.” “Ah, the duchesse,” he said. “Yes, that explains this meeting well enough then. She has proven herself a friend on many desperate occa-
sions. I pray you proceed without further delay.”
Madame Henriette sat straight in the high-backed chair, hands folded in her lap. Rachelle looked on with f lashing eyes, while Idelette stood to the side with her hands calmly folded before her skirts, also watching him.
“It concerns the masked figure le Duc de Guise brought here to Chambord this day to meet with the Queen Mother,” Henriette said.
He narrowed his gaze. “Yes?”
“Duchesse Dushane fears Sebastien is involved in something that may put his life at risk if it is known.”
He waved a hand and the jewels sparkled. “Sebastien is a secret Huguenot, Madame; I am aware of it. You need not tread cautiously where he is concerned. I have known him and Madeleine since I was but twelve.” And he could have added that they had introduced him to the Reformation which, had Fabien not found worthy of the highest intel- lectual pursuit, could easily have landed them in the Bastille dungeons. “I am no ami of Guise, nor of his fanatical zeal.”
“There is more to Duchesse Dushane’s fears, Marquis. Sebastien is missing. We fear his absence is connected with le Duc de Guise and the masked messire he brought here this morning. He is a spy — the duch- esse is most sure of this — and a betrayer of the Huguenots.”
There was a momentary silence.
He looked at her sharply. “How do you know this?”
“La duchesse saw his face — she was not supposed to, but he removed his cowl and mask as she was stepping out of her chambers. He and the duc were entering another chamber nearby.”
“And who is he, Madame?” “Maître Avenelle.”
“
Mille diables
! She is certain of this?”
“She vows it, Marquis.”
Maître Avenelle came from the Bourbon districts, near Moulins and Berry. Moulins was the very seat of Bourbon authority in the days of Duc Charles de Bourbon. Many of Fabien’s kinsmen lived in the Bourbon Palais at Moulins. The forested area of Berry was not far away, nor was his marquisat at Vendôme.
“Avenelle . . .” he repeated, trying to piece together reasons for his being with le Duc de Guise. “What more did la duchesse tell you?”
“She is most certain that Maître Avenelle, a Huguenot, has become an ally of Duc de Guise.”
“Madame, you are certain you did not perhaps misunderstand the duchesse?”
“Ah, Monsieur, I vow it.”
“There is more,” Rachelle spoke up. “Madame sent me to Sebastien to warn him of all this, but Sebastien is not in his chambers. Neither has he been seen by others. Your cousine, Comte Maurice Beauvilliers, told me so.”
Fabien looked at her. “You have met Maurice, Mademoiselle?” “I found him in Sebastien’s chambers. He was seeking him also.”
Fabien paced, one hand on his hip, the other tapping his chin. “If this Avenelle is to take counsel with the Queen Mother, one could ardently wish to hear what he has to say about the House of Bourbon.”
Madame Henriette leaned forward anxiously. “Our fears are as yours, Monsieur, that some doom may be planned against the Bourbon- Huguenot leaders.”
Rachelle said urgently: “And this Maître Avenelle knows all the nobles who secretly support Prince Condé. What if he names Sebastien?” Her eyes f lashed as she boldly looked up to meet his gaze. Then she lowered her eyes to her Grandmère.
“If Sebastien is missing,” Idelette said, “could it not suggest he has already been named by Maître Avenelle? And who may be next at court?”
“We must find Sebastien, Monsieur Fabien. My granddaughter, Madeleine, is
enceinte
,” Madame Henriette said with delicate pronun- ciation. “If anything should happen to Sebastien — she is most delicate. She might lose the
bébé
.”
“Forbid, Madame. Do not fully despair. There may yet be something we can do.”
He felt Rachelle’s quick, appreciative glance.
Idelette tried to comfort her Grandmère who appeared to have suc- cumbed to anxiety. Fabien pondered the information, his chin resting on his doubled fist, pacing slowly. He knew Avenelle could endanger the Huguenots at court. There were others, including the king’s royal physi- cian and surgeon, Ambroise le Paré. But how could Avenelle be a danger to his Bourbon kinsman?
“Knowing Guise as I do, there is more to Avenelle’s betrayal than having individuals at court exposed as sympathetic to the Reformation. There was a reason for Guise needing to disguise Avenelle. Guise will not be easily content with merely apprehending a Huguenot duchesse like Dushane or Sebastien or even the royal physician. Despite caution, I assure you that many of us already know of their religious leanings. Le Duc de Guise, though scornful, has more on his mind. In my opinion, there is some matter of greater importance.”
But why would Guise need to bring Avenelle here to Chambord to have
audience with Catherine?
“Maître Avenelle must know something important. Somehow, I must discover what it is before I contact my kinsmen.” His pondering stride had brought him to the burgundy silk dress on the mannequin. He reached absently and lifted a fold of silk, feeling it.
“If there is some wayto learn what Avenelle and Guise told Catherine,” he murmured to himself.