A Lady Betrayed (Secrets of the Musketeers Book 2)

by Leda Swann

  Before she had done more than draw a few deep breaths, he was back again, pressing a glass of cool white wine into her hands. She gulped down a mouthful of the tangy liquid. The tiny bubbles fizzed for an instant on her tongue before going straight to her head. After a couple of mouthfuls, she felt as though her head was so full of bubbles that it would float out of the windows, up into the evening sky, and away into the clouds.

  When her glass was empty, he set it down on a low table and took her arm in his. “Shall we walk?” he murmured, gesturing at the courtyard, bathed in the last golden rays of the departing sun.

  Courtney stepped carefully down the wide stone steps that led to the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. “You are determined to have me to yourself tonight.”

  “As I told you before - I am a Musketeer in the King’s Guard. We always get what we want in the end.”

  She peeked at him from under her lashes. “Always?”

  “Always.”

  She sat on the edge of the stone fountain and looked admiringly at the finely waxed curls of his black moustache. She had always thought Justin so handsome, but he could never grow such a fine moustache. The one time Justin had tried to grow a beard, it had been sandy red and so thin and straggly that he had shaved it off again in less than a month.

  Monsieur de Tournay’s face, including his moustache, was perfect in every way. He was just the sort of lover she had fantasized about in the dark of the night, when no one else was around to laugh at her imaginings. Her phantom lover would be dark, mysterious, romantic. He would fall madly in love with her at first sight and sweep her off her feet – away to his castle in Spain, where they would live together in mutual adoration for the rest of their lives.

  Monsieur de Tournay was perilously close to her phantom lover in the flesh. He needed only to fall desperately in love with her for her dream to come true…

  She smiled at him, laughing inwardly at herself for the direction her thoughts were taking. “Well, you have my company – for now.” She arranged her skirts tidily on the stone edge of the fountain, making room for Monsieur de Tournay to sit beside her. “What else could you possibly want?”

  He took her hands in his and leaned forward so that his sweet breath tickled her cheeks. “A kiss from a beautiful woman.”

  She felt the pit of her stomach curl in excitement. She had been hoping he would try to steal a kiss from her. She was not a complete novice when it came to kissing. Several of her suitors had tried to snatch a kiss from her in the past, but she had sent most of them away with a most unladylike box around the ears. She would make an exception for this handsome Frenchman though. He could kiss her all he wanted and welcome.

  She pretended to misunderstand him. “You may kiss my hand,” she said, raising her hand partway to his lips.

  He caressed her fingers with his own as he raised her hand to his lips and planted a row of gentle kisses on each finger. “You have beautiful hands,” he said, when he had kissed every inch of her hand, “but that is not what I wanted.”

  She laughed. “It was not?”

  “Pleasant though it was, I did not want to kiss your hand.”

  She made a face of mock disappointment. “I am not a beautiful woman?”

  He twirled one finger round a lock of her blonde hair. “On the contrary - you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  “Then why do you not want to kiss me?”

  “I do want to kiss you. I want it very much - but even more than that I want you to kiss me.”

  His tactics were sneakier than those of her previous suitors had been. They had been content to steal a kiss from her. He wanted her to give him one willingly. She lifted his hand to her mouth and gave it a brief peck. “There. Your wish is granted,” she said as she dropped his hand back into his lap.

  He shook his head with a rueful smile. “For such a beautiful woman, you are a miserly kisser indeed.”

  She raised her nose in the air, miffed at being accused of miserliness. “I do not kiss every man who asks.”

  “I am not every man. One of these days I will show you just how different I am from every other man you have ever known.”

  So he said, at any rate. She was unsure whether she ought to believe him or not. “I shall look forward to the day.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Look at me, Miss Ruthgard, Courtney.”

  Her name was a sweet, soft caress on his tongue. She knew she should not look at him, but she could not resist the temptation.

  His deep brown eyes held her gaze in a grip so potent that she could not break it. She felt as though she was drowning in their depths. “I dare you to kiss me.” His voice was deep, compelling. It was the voice of a spirit who urged her on to seal her doom. She could sense its fatal power over her, and yet she could not resist it. She could not turn her head away.

  Without her willing it to, her head inched closer to his. Their faces were close, almost touching. The tip of his moustache tickled her cheek like the wisp of a feather. His nose bumped gently against hers. She could feel his breath intermingling with her own as their faces inexorably drifted together.

  The softness of his lips against her own formed an unlikely contrast with the sharp prickling of his moustache against her upper lip. The hairs tickled her nose and she suppressed a giggle. Her first proper kiss was nothing to laugh at.

  His kiss was tender, yet insistent. She knew she was falling under his spell, but she had no desire to break it. She was content to be entranced as they sat by the fountain together, his hand around the back of her neck, clasping him closer to her.

  The soft summer breeze played about her shoulders, stirring her hair in its gentle grasp. Crickets chirruped. As if from far away, she could hear the sounds of revelry inside, at the celebration for her birthday. None of it mattered anymore. Her only reality was the man who held her in his arms.

  So this, she thought to herself as she finally broke off their kiss and looked deep into the soft brownness of his eyes, is what falling in love feels like.

  George Charent crossed his legs in front of him, sucked on the end of his pipe and blew a cloud of foul-smelling smoke out into the room. “You have done well. The girl likes you right enough.”

  Pierre de Tournay leaned against the windowsill scowling. His eyes were watering from the smoke and he wanted badly to cough. “What can I say?” He didn’t care that his irritation with his commanding officer showed plainly in his voice. “I’m well-known to be irresistible to women. Isn’t that why I was chosen for this mission?”

  Waving his pipe in one hand, Charent held up his glass with the other. It was filled with wine the deep red color of blood. “I must toast to your success so far. I did not think it would be so easy even for a man of your reputation.” He took a large swallow of his wine and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  Pierre felt uneasy about his partner’s crowing – as if they had done something to be proud of already. He had been sent on an important mission for the King of France, but all he had done so far was to make love to a young girl too sweet and inexperienced to see through his fakery. What was so damn fabulous about that? “I have not done anything yet. This is only the beginning.”

  Charent gave a fat belch. “An auspicious beginning nonetheless.”

  A prickle on his conscience made him speak up. “I do not like using the girl as a pawn. She is innocent of this affair.”

  Charent’s eyes narrowed as he sucked again on his pipe, giving his face a suspicious cast. “You have cold feet all of a sudden?” he sneered. “Are you scared?”

  Pierre gave an uneasy shrug. He was used to Charent’s unpleasant gibes by now, but they still rankled on his soul. Heaven knew he was no coward, yet his conscience misgave him about the part he was expected to play in this affair. He had thought his part was to be one requiring bravery and skill with the sword, not one needing deceit and trickery. “You know me to well to believe that I am scared of anything. But I like the girl �
� and she is a real beauty to boot, with her golden blonde hair and her soft white skin. I had not expected to find her so… so young and so untouched. She had never even been kissed properly before.”

  Charent gave a great belly laugh. “You are complaining that the girl is handsome? There’s no pleasing some people. That just means your task of making love to her is less onerous then, doesn’t it? Or would your tender conscience give you less trouble if she were old and fat with a face like a toad? Would you like making love to her better if she were ugly?”

  He hated his officer at that moment – hated him more than he could ever have imagined. He wanted to put his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until his face turned purple and the life was choked out of him. With some difficulty he swallowed down his bile and composed his features into a mask of bland dislike. “And if I refuse to go any further?”

  “Then your beautiful blonde sweetheart with the soft white skin will no doubt be desolate at your sudden departure, and ready to fall like a ripe peach into the arms of another man who can commiserate with her in her time of sorrow.” Charent gave an evil grin. “She is a tolerably attractive young woman. I would enjoy playing your part if you foolishly decided to relinquish it.”

  He shuddered at the thought of Charent’s fat lips kissing Courtney’s sweet face, his greedy hands pawing at her breasts or reaching beneath her skirts to fondle her thighs. Charent would have no scruples about abusing his position to ruin the girl – he would enjoy making love to her all the more knowing that he was working to betray her all the while. “I will not relinquish it.”

  Charent’s satisfied smile showed that he knew he had won. “Don’t worry about the future for now, Pierre,” he said, as if he were giving away a great boon. “Win the girl’s trust, and the rest will follow easily enough.”

  Pierre felt sick to his stomach as he turned on his heel and stalked out of his officer’s chamber. He was caught – and he and Charent both knew it. Whatever he did now, whatever protests he made, Courtney Ruthgard was destined to be a pawn in the high-stakes game they were playing – a pawn to be knowingly sacrificed for the greater good. He could not save her – he could only keep on playing this damned game and try to make sure that she was hurt as little as possible when, as was inevitable, she got in their way.

  Chapter 2

  Courtney nibbled absentmindedly on one fingernail as she checked over the household accounts one more time. To her utter frustration, they did not tally correctly and she could not find the error in her accounting. Still, she had to persevere. Her father would not accept anything but perfectly tallied household accounts. “Let a little error slip by, and before you know it, it has compounded into a big one,” he was fond of saying. She knew he was right, but at times like these it only added to her frustration.

  She was proud of the way he had taught her to cipher so well. None of the other girls of her acquaintance could tally so much as the money they spent on ribbons and laces, whereas she looked after the expenses for their entire household. She was quicker at it by far even than Justin. She suspected that was why Madame Legros was so keen on her marrying her son – she would stop Justin from lazily fribbling away the wealth that his father had earned with his diligence.

  She wished she could be a merchant like Justin, but her father would not let her help him in his business. He had plenty of clerks, he said. She did not need to labor over the books like a common apprentice. Thankfully he was happy to let her run the household, and if she was able to economize on soap or candles to free up an extra few sous to buy ribbons with, he only chuckled at her ingenuity and admired her fresh-trimmed bonnet.

  Ah, there it was. At last she had spotted her mistake. She had tallied up the cost of the candles for her birthday celebration incorrectly – fourscore wax tapers at five sous apiece, but she had forgotten to take account of the discount of seven and a half percent on top of the total that she had personally negotiated for being a good customer who always paid her bills on time. She did a few sums quickly in her head, scratched out the incorrect figure and substituted the right one.

  Yes – now the expenses for the month tallied correctly. Her father would be content with her efforts.

  She sighed a little as she laid down her quill pen, sprinkled sand over the ink to dry it, and blew it off again on to the table. She was far from satisfied herself. Three days had gone by since her birthday celebration – three whole days – and Monsieur de Tournay had not come to call on her as he had promised he would. She had been expecting him the following morning to pay his respects, but he had not appeared. To let three whole days go by without a word spoke either of utter confidence, or complete indifference.

  She did not think it could be indifference. Surely it could not be.

  She shivered as she remembered the touch of his lips of hers. He had kissed her tenderly, reverentially, as if he were falling in love with her just as she was with him. He had called her his lovely Lyons lily as he danced with her in the garden under the moonlight. He had gazed at her with adoration in his eyes, which she knew was reflected in her own. So, where was he now?

  She had even succumbed to the temptation yester eve of asking her father where his two Parisian friends were. He had chucked her under the chin and told her not to worry her pretty head about them and that there were plenty more and handsomer men in Lyons for her to work her wiles upon - such as young Justin Legros, a catch worth having if ever a man was.

  She had not wanted to ask him further. She doubted he would have told her any more even if she had.

  He’d hardly even seemed to hear her when she was talking to him. Indeed, he had been unusually abstracted in the last couple of days. She hadn’t heard any bad news recently – none of his convoys had been attacked by robbers, none of his ships had been wrecked in the treacherous waters of the South Seas or raided by Turkish pirates, but it was clear that something was worrying him.

  She nibbled again on her fingernail. Whatever it was that was disturbing his peace of mind, it would not help for her to sit and fret over it herself. Now that the accounts were complete, there was nothing to keep her inside on such a beautiful day. If Monsieur de Tournay had not come to see her by now, there was nothing she could do about it. She could not go and visit him in his lodgings, even if she knew where they were, and she wouldn’t go there even if she could. He knew where to find her if he wanted to see her again. She would not waste her youth and a fine summer’s day on waiting for her errant suitor.

  She tied the strings of her bonnet underneath her chin. She would fetch Suzanne and the two of them would go for a walk in the park. Maybe they would even stop by at the milliners and buy a few ribbons or yards of lace. She would not go into mourning simply because the most attractive man of her acquaintance was faithless and fickle in his attentions to her.

  She was stepping out of the front door, followed closely behind by Suzanne carrying a wicker basket for any chance purchases they might want to make on their wanderings, when a carriage stopped in front of the house. Her heart leaped into her throat as a dark-haired man alighted – the very man she had been longing to see.

  He stepped up to her and swept off his hat in a low bow. “Mademoiselle Ruthgard. I am delighted to see you again.”

  She made him a small curtsey. Pleased as she was to see him, she did not want him to think that she could be so easily charmed out of her sense of neglect. “And you, Monsieur.” She pretended she had never held him tight or kissed him under the moonlight in the garden. She pretended he had never made her heart beat faster with the merest touch of his hands on her bare shoulders. She pretended that he was nothing more to her than a chance acquaintance, met in the street. She was proud of her pretense. Her voice came out perfectly civil enough, but devoid of warmth.

  He was visibly taken aback at her lack of welcome. “You are just going out, I see. I suppose I must not detain you.”

  He looked so crestfallen that she could not help but forgive him on the in
stant and take pity on his disappointment. “I have no particular errand. I merely thought that a walk in the park on this fine day would be a pleasant way to spend the time.”

  “Then may I be so bold as to ask to join you?” He offered her his arm, looking more hopeful than expectant.

  She took it with a feeling of delighted satisfaction. Pretending she was indifferent to him was hard work when in reality she would like nothing better than to have him escort her around the park. “We would be glad of your company.”

  He matched his step with hers as they wandered up the street. “That makes me a very happy man. You have quite charmed me with yours.”

  She knew he was flattering her, but she could not resist him. He seemed so earnest and sincere, his Parisian sophistication adding a note of worldly elegance to his demeanor. He made her feel as though she, too, would thrive and shine in his world of glitter and glamour. When she was with him she did not feel like a simple merchant’s daughter from the country backwater of Lyons, she felt like the Queen of France herself.

  Arm in arm they walked down the street and into the park-like grounds of the city cathedral. Tall oaks dotted the grass, and a row of weeping willows bordered the small stream that wound its way lazily through the green.

  Suzanne handed her a scrap of bread from her basket and she crumbled it in her hand and threw it on the grass at her feet. A pair of cheeky squirrels raced up to her, chattering and scolding away as they squabbled over the crumbs. Their noise attracted a trio of sparrows, who darted in to steal what they could.

  She crouched down and held out her hand with a few crumbs on it. One of the squirrels darted up to steal the bread right out of her hand. She laughed with delight as it grabbed the crusts and ran off again to a safe distance to munch them safely down.

  She looked up to see Monsieur de Tournay looking down at her with a smile on his lips. She rose to her feet in haste, feeling her face grow hot. “Country pleasures,” she said, with a self-deprecating smile. “I suppose I must seem terribly childish to you.”