Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4

by R. A. Steffan

  “I think Athos has gone mad,” d’Artagnan said, looking like he wanted to fidget but restraining himself with some difficulty. No doubt Olivier’s inexplicable protestation of guilt was weighing heavily on the younger man, who still more or less worshipped the ground her husband walked on, even after all these years.

  “Right now we must find out what has happened to Charlotte,” she said. “Olivier will have to wait.”

  The three men shared a look that made Milady’s skin prickle with disquiet, but before she could pursue it, Aramis said, “You told me you’d remembered something new?”

  For a moment, she was once again poised on the landing above the staircase, feeling her stomach drop as if she was the one tumbling down the stairs like a broken doll, not her husband. She swallowed, dragging herself back to the present.

  “We were hosting the Flemish ambassador and his aides for dinner. Afterward, Olivier invited them up to his study for brandy. I was readying Charlotte for bed when half a dozen men broke into the house. There was fighting—when I ran out of Charlotte’s room, Olivier was taking on two armed men with a fireplace poker. Another of the intruders overpowered me; I saw Olivier fall down the stairs right before my assailant knocked me unconscious.”

  “Two of the Cardinal’s guards went to the house the following day when the ambassador failed to arrive at the palace as expected,” Porthos said. “They found Athos just inside the front door with a broken leg. He must’ve crawled there from the bottom of the staircase and passed out from the pain before he could reach the door. Other than him, the house was empty expect for your servants and the Flemish delegation—all of them dead.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath upon hearing of the deaths of their two young servants.

  “How did they die?” Milady asked, forcing herself to focus on the facts that they had, rather than thinking of the light fading from Reinette and Frédéric’s eyes, or of Olivier pulling himself across the marble floor inch by inch, his twisted leg dragging behind him.

  “Two had their throats cut,” d’Artagnan said. “All the others were run through.”

  “The Cardinal’s got it into his head that Athos only invited the ambassador to dine with him so he could get him alone and kill him,” Porthos said, “which would be bad enough if Athos weren’t proclaiming to the skies that it happened exactly that way.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Milady. “The ambassador had four aides. Three of them were young, fit men. Was he supposed to have murdered them all single handedly—as well as his own servants—only to trip and break his leg attempting to flee the scene of the crime?”

  “They’re saying he hired accomplices to help him, but they ran off afterward when he was injured,” Porthos said.

  “No. The man who attacked me spoke Spanish,” Milady said. “This is part of a larger plot.”

  All three of them appeared very interested indeed at this new revelation, once again exchanging looks that spoke volumes.

  “I know you’re all hiding something,” she said, feeling exhaustion wash over her even though she’d only been awake for a few minutes. “You might as well tell me and get it over with.”

  Porthos cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “As far as the outside world is concerned, the Flemish ambassador was just assassinated by Queen Anne’s Secretary of State of the Maison du Roi. Flanders is under Spanish control, so as you can imagine, King Philip isn’t taking it too well. France and Spain are teetering on the brink of war... a war that France is in no position to fight, or even to pay for.”

  Of course. With her mind still so muddled, she hadn’t stopped to fully consider the wider consequences of Ambassador van Claes’ death. Her companions still seemed far too worried, however.

  “And...?” she prompted.

  D’Artagnan broke first, as she had suspected he would. “And... Spain is demanding Athos’ immediate and public execution as a traitor,” he said, all in a rush. “The Queen is resisting, of course.”

  Oh.

  She realized that she had been staring at the three of them for several seconds without saying anything, as their expressions faded deeper into worry. She swallowed, trying to return some moisture to her throat.

  “Well,” she said with admirable steadiness, “I did say there was a wider plot involved.”

  “We must plan our next move,” Aramis said, thankfully moving the conversation forward again. “Right now, circumstances make it appear as though you were aware of the supposed plot, and fled at Athos’ behest to escape the consequences. I don’t think we dare make your return public knowledge. It’s likely that you would be summarily arrested and thrown into the Bastille right along with your husband.”

  “One of us can still try to get in to visit him, though,” Porthos added quickly. “Let ’im know you’re back safe. Maybe we could figure out some way to disguise you. Smuggle you in somehow so you can see him in person.”

  Milady quailed at the thought of presenting herself to Olivier and telling him that she had not only failed to protect their child, but had chosen to flee and save her own skin, leaving Charlotte behind. She clenched her right hand until the nails bit into her palm painfully. If only she could remember what happened after the attack.

  “No,” she said vehemently. “I can’t return to him alone. We must assume that both Charlotte and I were abducted by the men who killed the ambassador. If Olivier discovers that I sacrificed our daughter’s safety so I could escape alone, he will never forgive me. Please, you mustn’t even tell him you’ve seen me. Not until I’ve had a chance to find and rescue Charlotte. I ask this of all of you, on the strength of whatever history the four of us share.”

  Her words reduced the three men to shocked silence. Finally, Aramis approached her cautiously and crouched in front of the chair, forcing her to meet his eyes.

  “Milady,” he began, “I believe you to be laboring under several misapprehensions. We have no way of knowing the circumstances under which you were taken, or under which you escaped—”

  “It doesn’t matter!” she said. “Charlotte is my daughter; it was my responsibility to keep her safe. Yet here I sit, warm and safe by your fire, while she languishes who knows where.”

  “And I’m sure you had an excellent reason for your actions,” Aramis said, his continued calm making Milady’s blood boil.

  She shot to her feet unsteadily, forcing Aramis to scramble back in surprise. “I’m her mother!” she cried. “I was supposed to protect her!”

  Porthos and d’Artagnan were staring at her like one might watch a particularly unpredictable wild animal, shrinking back slightly as if they would rather be elsewhere. Aramis alone held his ground, having regained his feet during her outburst and now standing a couple of steps away.

  “I think you’re being far more critical of your own actions than your husband will ever be,” he said. “Surely knowing that you, at least, are safe would be a great comfort to him at this difficult time.”

  Milady wrapped her arms around herself, holding tightly. “You don’t know him like I do.”

  Aramis frowned. “I assure you I do know him,” he said, “and I am confident you are mistaken about his likely reaction.”

  She could only shake her head, still hugging herself as she dropped back into the chair. In her mind, she returned to the dark days of the plague when Olivier had discovered her duplicity about her own criminal background, so soon after losing the rest of his family. She remembered his grief and cold rage at the betrayal—it seemed that he might as easily abandon her to face the Black Death alone as continue to nurse her. Her utter relief when, after disappearing for almost a day, he finally returned and collapsed weeping on her sickbed as she lay half-delirious, begging her not to die and leave him alone.

  She had made a solemn vow to herself that night, never to disappoint or fail him again. And could there be any failure greater than this?

  “Please don’t tell him,” she repeated. “Please give me a chance to fix t
his first. I beg of you.”

  They continued to stare at her with something close to dismay, obviously torn. Finally, Porthos cleared his throat and said, “It might be a moot point anyway. Athos has been refusing to see anyone for the last two days since he got pissed off at us for trying to make him see sense.”

  “And possibly about Aramis repeatedly calling him an idiot to his face,” d’Artagnan added glumly.

  “He is an idiot,” Aramis said. “Milady, it’s true that we haven’t been able to see him recently. Why don’t we agree to give him a bit of time to cool off before we attempt to meet with him again, and perhaps by then we’ll have answers.”

  She nodded, knowing it was the best she could hope for from them. “How long do we have, though?” she asked. “I assume the Cardinal is pushing the Queen to agree to the execution, since it might well avert a war that France can’t possibly win.”

  “Of course he is,” Porthos said. “The Cardinal is a snake in the grass.”

  “He’s merely a pragmatist,” Milady said—rehashing an old argument between the two of them.

  Milady could appreciate Richelieu’s devious and labyrinthine intelligence. In fact, the two of them had been getting along quite well back when she was pretending to be his mistress... right before he publicly betrayed her to Isabella of Savoy in order to salvage Queen Anne’s plan for regaining the throne. Funny how that particular betrayal had felt far less personal than this one did.

  “So,” Aramis said, deftly redirecting them once more, “our next move?”

  “How can we even plan a next move when we have no clues whatsoever as to what happened?” Milady asked, still feeling raw and hopeless. “Unless my thrice-damned memory returns—“

  “There’s the brass seal,” d’Artagnan said. “That would be a good place to start.”

  She glared at him. “What brass seal?”

  Aramis crossed to a desk in the corner of the cramped front room and picked up a small metal cylinder of the kind used to mark sealing wax.

  “This seal,” he said. “We were just discussing it when I heard you in the bedroom, breaking my chair. It was hidden in your bodice—I discovered it when I was removing your wet clothing so I could warm you up.”

  Porthos and d’Artagnan both found other things to look at, visibly blushing.

  “My apologies for the impropriety, by the way,” Aramis added as an afterthought.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Milady snapped, gesturing for him to hand her the seal. “I’ve seen you skewered by swords and so sick you were practically puking up your own toenails. Do you think I’d rather have lain around in chilled, soaking wet clothing while I caught my death of cold?”

  “Exactly my thoughts.” Aramis passed her the metal cylinder, which was cast with an intertwined lowercase d and uppercase C, decorated with cleverly designed vines and flowers. It was heavy, obviously of good quality, and old enough that the brass was significantly tarnished.

  “Do you remember how you came by it?” d’Artagnan asked, having evidently recovered from his brief bout of embarrassment.

  “Not even a flicker,” she said in disgust. It was as if she’d never seen the object before in her life. She resisted the sudden urge to throw it against the wall, instead forcing herself to try to make connections. “It’s better quality than most commoners would use.”

  “Too fiddly and flowery for a businessman,” Porthos said.

  “Probably at least minor nobility, then,” Milady decided. “Do we know of anyone with the letters d and c in their family names?”

  “Several,” Aramis said, “although I can’t think of anyone in Paris off the top of my head.”

  “Are we certain they would need to be in or even near Paris?” d’Artagnan asked.

  “The horse you were riding was exhausted,” Aramis said to Milady, “but—and I mean no offense by this—it seems unlikely you could have traveled any truly great distance, given your injuries.”

  She waved off his apology. “Probably not,” she agreed. In fact, the injuries in question were starting to drag at her once more, making it difficult to think clearly.

  “I’m afraid our next move is going to have to involve you getting some more rest, Milady,” Aramis said, watching her closely.

  “I’ll put a word in Her Majesty’s ear and let her know that new information may have come to light,” Porthos said. At Milady’s sharp look, he added, “Nothing specific, of course. But as long as she knows that there’s a possibility of proving Athos’ innocence, she’ll stand firm against Richelieu. You know she will.”

  “I’ll send Constance and the twins here with some fresh clothes for you in the morning,” d’Artagnan said. “She can say she’s dropping off clothing donations for the seminary.”

  It was difficult to control the surge of gratitude she felt at knowing these men stood behind her. Rather than betray herself, Milady only nodded in reply. She did not resist as Aramis helped her from the chair and began to chivvy her back toward the bedroom. When they reached the doorway, however, she paused.

  “Thank you,” she said, without turning around. “All of you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Porthos replied. “You should know by now that we never abandon our own.”

  She nodded, still not looking back. “Yes. I know,” she said quietly.

  Chapter II: November 17th, 1640

  WHEN CONSTANCE ARRIVED the following morning with the orphaned twins who were nominally employed as servants to the d’Artagnan household, but were essentially their adopted children, the three of them were carrying a truly staggering amount of bagged cloth. Much of it was, indeed, donated remnants from the palace, intended for use by the faculty and students at the seminary. Hidden among the bolts, however, were several dresses of fine quality, along with jewelry and hair ornaments, shoes, gloves, and a fine winter cloak.

  No one would think twice at a respectable lady from the Queen’s retinue and her children stopping for a visit with her husband’s good friend while they were in the area. As excited cries of “Uncle d’Herblay! Uncle d’Herblay!” echoed through the small suite of rooms, Constance opened the door to Milady’s bedroom and quietly entered.

  “I thought you and Athos were finished with getting caught up in these kind of scrapes,” Constance greeted, placing her remaining bags in the corner. She eyed the poorly mended chair with visible distrust, and settled her hip against a corner of the bedside table instead.

  Milady was sitting propped up against the headboard, where she had been gazing out the window at the busy quadrangle beyond. Her arms were wrapped around her middle, trying to squeeze the empty space left by Charlotte’s absence closed.

  She looked up at the younger woman, knowing that her emotions were uncharacteristically visible in her eyes. “This is bad, Constance,” she said. “This is so big—bigger than just my family—and yet so personal at the same time. I honestly don’t know what to do.”

  Constance moved to sit on the edge of the bed and gently drew one of Milady’s hands into her own. She used the grip to pull Milady into a reluctant embrace, no longer as intimidated by the older woman’s sharp exterior as she once had been.

  “You let us help you find your baby girl,” Constance said, “and then you clear your husband’s name. Let countries and armies take care of themselves.”

  Milady ruthlessly clamped down on the tears that threatened to burn their way free from her bloodshot eyes. “But how?” she asked angrily, easing herself back from Constance’s arms. “We don’t even know where to start looking!”

  “D’Artagnan and I were thinking about that last night,” she said. “He told me about the brass seal, and I thought, just because we don’t recognize it doesn’t mean someone else wouldn’t. So the question becomes, in what sort of circles might a minor nobleman tend to travel? If you can frequent those same circles, and find some sort of pretext to ask about the seal, maybe you could find out about the owner.”

  Milady blinked.

>   “Constance,” she said, staring at the younger woman as her mind began to turn in ever widening arcs, “that’s brilliant. When someone in the lower classes wants to dabble in intrigue, they go to back-room meetings at taverns. When someone in the upper classes wants to do so, they go to the salons.”

  “Well, there you are, then,” Constance said, ever practical. “Now, I tried to get you a fairly wide selection of clothing from the royal wardrobe. I think there should be one or two dresses here that would be appropriate.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “You stole dresses from the royal wardrobe?” Milady asked, feeling a hint of amusement creep over her for the first time since she’d arrived on Aramis’ doorstep two days ago. “Constance, I’ve underestimated you.”

  “Borrowed,” Constance corrected. “I borrowed dresses from the royal wardrobe. I mean... have you seen the place? It’s not like she’s going to miss them.”

  “I suppose not,” Milady said, still faintly amused.

  “But,” Constance added, biting her lower lip and looking suddenly unsure, “that said, please do try not to damage them. It might be a bit hard to explain.”

  They were interrupted by a knock.

  “Yes,” Milady called, “come in.”

  Aramis opened the door, and two curly-haired, olive-skinned six-year-olds were through like a shot, clambering onto the bad and immediately worming themselves into Milady’s arms.

  “Auntie Anne!” said Corinne excitedly. “Uncle d’Herblay says Charlotte is away on an adventure!”

  “Can we go with her?” Alexandre asked, wriggling to get a more comfortable position.

  Milady gathered them both close, once again fighting tears.

  “I’m afraid not, mon petits,” she said, “but I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it as soon as she gets back.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, Aramis and Milady sat together at his small table, eating brown bread dipped in vegetable stew from the seminary’s refectory.