Written on Silk (52 page)

Nenette and Philippe huddled together in the archway adjoining the servant’s antechamber, speaking in urgent whispers.

Rachelle ceased her pacing and looked across the chamber. “What is it, Nenette?”

Nenette’s eyes were round and glinting with fear. “Philippe says someone nears the chamber. Oh Mademoiselle!”

Rachelle’s impulse was to flee for the opposite door, but what good would that do her when guards were everywhere? Even if she made it as far as the courtyard, she could never escape if the guards were alerted.

“Shh, quick, into the antechamber and close the door. You will say you know nothing about what I have been up to,
c’est bien compris
? When you can — find your way to Duchesse Dushane and take shelter there.”

Nenette burst into tears and knelt beside Rachelle, wrapping her arms about her skirts. “Non! I will not leave you! If you go to the Bastille, I shall go with you!”

Rachelle stooped and threw her arms around her. “I love you dearly for such a thought, but if I am imprisoned, they will not keep us together. The best thing you can do for me now is to protect yourself and Philippe.”

The door from the outer corridor opened into the antechamber; there were footsteps. The summons had come. Rachelle stood, clutching the sides of her skirts, but she was determined to keep her dignity.

A formidable figure in black paused in the doorway of the antechamber, then entered the salle de séjour.

A little moan nearly escaped Rachelle’s lips.
Fabien!
She wanted to cry with joy, and fought back the desire to run with relief into his arms. If anyone could help her now, it was the marquis, but she dare not run to him to show the delight she felt at his presence, for that would assume the familiarity she had so boldly discarded. Still, she could not help the growing excitement in her heart that maybe she was the reason he had chosen to return to Paris. But was she rushing to conclusions? His unexpected presence was no proof he had come for her, nor that he would not be leaving again.

Was it possible that Sebastien and her sisters were escaping to England on
his ship
? Her hopes sprang anew. But how would he know that Sebastien even had plans to escape the palais of Catherine de Medici? He could not — unless Sebastien had contacted Fabien in London.

The marquis swept off his hat and bowed. “Mademoiselle,” he said too gravely.

She dipped her head with restrained dignity. “Monseigneur.”

She read a challenge in his violet-blue eyes, one that she could do without under the circumstances. A suggestion of a sardonic smile showed on his lips before he turned and spoke to Nenette and Philippe. They bowed and scattered into the next chamber. As Nenette was closing the antechamber door, and Philippe was peeking from under Nenette’s arm, a look of relief and excitement showed in the glance she cast to Rachelle.
This is your opportunity
, Nenette seemed to say,
ask him for help!

Rachelle was alone with the marquis. She saw that he stood watching her with affected seriousness. “Are you not going to ask the reason for my unexpected arrival?”

“That, Monseigneur, is assuredly your private concern.”

“How cool and indifferent you are, Mademoiselle.” He tossed his hat and cloak aside, taking her in with a glance that suggested he did not accept it.

Rachelle looked away, turning her shoulder toward him. She pressed her palms together tightly. This was maddening. Her nerves curled inward.

“I have risked my head, left my ship and buccaneers to come to Paris, and this is your response, Mademoiselle? I am gravely disappointed.

Which sorely tempts me, Mademoiselle, to prove your manner false!”

She slipped behind the crimson velvet chair with gold tassels and held to its back with a dignified stare.

His smile was disarming. He folded his arms.

“Your head, Marquis?” she asked with raised brows. “I wonder who would wish to have your most noble head?”

He bowed. “Philip of Spain, to name one. But as he remains at
El Escorial
in Spain on his throne, he has sent the Duc d’Alva here to France demanding action from the Queen Mother against me. I will doubtless hear from her soon on the subject of the duc’s galleon. We sent the scoundrels of the sea to a watery grave.”

She was alarmed. “You sank the Duc d’Alva’s galleon?”

“Among others. It was gloriously satisfying, I assure you. We gave no quarter. You may be heartless enough to take some satisfaction in the fact that I honorably drew sword against those who empower the Duc de Guise to war against your fellow Huguenots.”

Rachelle’s alarm was now not for herself but for him. He was in more danger than she, and yet he had risked coming to Paris.

“Do you not know that Duc d’Alva is in France and will be entertained by the king and Queen Mother at Fontainebleau? He may be there now.”

“I have word that he is.”

“You have walked into a trap!”

“One that I entered with full understanding. Sebastien also knows about it.”

“Oh! Then you know about Sebastien?”

He lifted a brow. “Know what?”

“Not now, please do go on with what you were saying.”

“It is indeed a trap, plotted by the Queen Mother to lure me here.

I sometimes think Catherine de Medici is the greatest intriguer in all Europe.”

She was appalled, but perhaps she should not have been by anything Catherine did to further her aims at Court. “Then did the Queen Mother lure you here to hand you over to the Duc d’Alva?”

“Non. I have come to duel your fiancé.”

She stared at him. Was he serious? From the hard gleam in his eyes, he appeared so.

“Where is the dashing Comte Maurice Beauvilliers?” he asked wryly. “I went to his chamber, but the fastidious rogue is not there. A pity, for I should have had him pinned to the wall then and there and been done with it.”

Shaken, her lips parted and she stared at him. How outlandish — her whirling thoughts came to a crash. Duel Maurice!

She came swiftly from behind the chair. “Surely you do not think that Maurice and I — ”

He stepped toward her, caught her hands, and lifted one to his lips, kissing her wrist. The romantic challenge in his violet-blue eyes did not relent.

She stepped back, hands behind her skirts. “Did Sebastien tell you the Queen Mother promised Maurice that she would arrange my marriage to him?” The very thought left her appalled.

“He mentioned it in his lettre. The facts were brought to me by the French ambassador to the English court. Before the Queen Mother flagrantly arranges the marriage, I will have an understanding with her that will disappoint Maurice. He will become so angry he will demand of me an
affaire d’honneur
. And then?” He sighed with mock regret. “I will need to grant his boastful request and teach him some humility.”

“And I have nothing at all to say about this absurd situation?”

“Non. You are like all the daughters of nobility at Court, to be bartered for the best political prize to enhance the power of the throne of France.”

“I see. And who does the Queen Mother wish to win this romantic battle?”

“Your servant, Mademoiselle, of course.” He bowed lightly. “I am of more use to her than Maurice. He is but the unsuspecting pawn; so aptly used because of his vanity.”

She felt the heat grow in her face. “I do not see what I possibly can bring the Queen Mother.”

“It is not what you bring her personally, chère; it is what she wants of me. It is not a flattering thing to say of one so belle as yourself, but you are the bait for the trap, the one thing she knows will bring me back to deal with her. So perhaps I shall play along with her and make a bargain. I will tell her I want the silk couturière with the honey brown eyes and the dimple by her mouth . . . And she will say, ‘Anything you want is yours, all you need do is murder the Duc de Guise.’ ” He stood back and looked at her gravely through narrowed dark lashes, one hand on his hip.

She trembled. So that was it. This was the horrid reason for Maurice’s recent confidence toward her. The Queen Mother had indeed implied the marriage could come to fruition to lure Fabien to Paris. But that would imply she believed the marquis cared enough to take her bait. Rachelle glanced at Fabien, then turned away, distraught.

“It is atrocious — kill the Duc de Guise? And have the House of Guise forever plotting your death in revenge? It is unthinkable.”

“It would fit her plans very well, I assure you. I would rid her of her chief enemy, and in turn be killed by the Guises. She would be rid of two enemies. Quite Machiavellian, her most cherished style of plotting.”

She turned to search his face and found it momentarily inscrutable, deliberately, or so she believed. “You — would not cooperate with her. It is foolish of me to even ask.”

“If I refuse, chérie, she will arrange your marriage with Maurice.”

She tossed up her hands in frustration and paced. “I will not marry him.”

“You will have little choice if she insists. King Francis will do whatever she expects of him. You cannot turn down the king’s choice. So you see my dilemma, do you not?”

She paused and looked over at him. What was he thinking?

“Your dilemma?” she asked uneasily.

“The dilemma over cooperating with Catherine. Tell me, you have not led Maurice in any way to let him think you will oblige him in this marriage?”

“How can you imply I would be so foolish? I would never lead him on, nor want him for a husband!”

As you well know
, she could have said but kept silent.

He folded his arms, and his direct gaze and slight smile brought a flush to her cheeks. She turned her head away with more indignation than she felt. She was hardly able to control her anxiety.

“As matters now stand for me, your dilemma, Marquis, may already be of no consequence. I have even more dangerous matters to contend with than Maurice and his notions of amour.” She whirled and faced him openly. “I could be sent to the Bastille. Then what will become of your duel with Maurice?”

He looked at her as though trying to weigh whether she was serious. The look on her face must have alerted him. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, and something changed in his manner as his gaze became perceptive.

He walked up to her, taking her by the shoulders so she was forced to look up at him.

“What is it, Rachelle?” His voice was quiet, but not what she would call gentle; rather, it demanded the truth.

“It is Sebastien and my sisters. They escaped. They left France late last night or early this morning for England. No one knew of Sebastien’s secret plans until Nenette brought morning tea for Madeleine and found them all gone. My sisters left me a message, but I’ve burned it as requested.”

After she explained what Madeleine had written and about Sebastien’s plans, she wondered that Fabien did not seem surprised.

“I knew of his plans to leave France,” he said, “but I expected it in the fall, during the religious colloquy at Fontainebleau.” He looked off toward the window, frowning to himself and apparently forgetting her for the moment. He said as if speaking to himself, “He must be nearing Calais now. His secret must be kept at any price lest Catherine discover it and send elite guardsmen to overtake him at the port.” He looked at her. “Who else knows of this other than yourself and your maid?”

“No one that I know of, just little Philippe.”

“The boy I saw?”

“Yes. He lost his family in the attack in Lyon and I — we have taken him in as an apprentice in my work. But Fabien, there is more, for me, the worst.”

His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “Go on.”

“I played recklessly with the Queen Mother — ”

She paused and bit her lip. His jaw clamped. He was upset with her, and she loathed having to tell him.

“I was so sure she murdered Grandmère — that when Philippe told me about the poison shops on the wharves and how the Queen Mother is said to masquerade herself as a shopping woman, I knew I must follow her.”

She heard his breath escape. His gaze narrowed. “Rachelle!” he gritted.

“I know, I know, and well, this morning the opportunity came and I followed her to the wharf, to the shop of the Ruggerio brothers. I overheard her demand poison from them. She plans to murder someone else now — ”

He swiftly put his fingers to her lips, restraining her. He glanced toward the door. “Not so loud.” He looked at her. “So she saw you?”

“Madalenna did. How did you know?”

“What else could go wrong?” he said fiercely. “Why did you do it? Did I not warn you to stay away from her? You are no match for her diabolical wits!”

Then suddenly he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, stroking her hair gently. “This complicates matters. Tell me everything. Leave nothing out,” he ordered quietly, his mood completely changing. “When did this happen?”

She tried to pull her thoughts out of the warm mesmerizing pool she found herself in with his arms around her possessively. She buried the side of her face against his fragrant jacket. “This morning, about an hour ago. It was Madalenna who saw me.” She looked up quickly. “Do you think she will inform Catherine?”