Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4

by R. A. Steffan

  “It could work,” Aramis said thoughtfully. “It simply depends on how well known our mystery man is, and if he is even in Paris in the first place.”

  Earlier that morning, after Constance had left with the twins, Milady requested paper, quill and ink from Aramis. After drafting a vague, innocuous missive in neat penmanship, she crossed to the ewer and washbasin by the bed and dropped the paper into the water, swishing it back and forth until it was completely illegible. Afterwards, she put it near the fireplace to dry for an hour, and, when it was no longer damp to the touch, she carefully folded it and sealed it with their purloined crest.

  Once the wax was cool, she cracked the seal and went to find Aramis.

  “Sir,” she said, blinking up at him with big, wide eyes, “I received this missive the other day, but unfortunately the messenger boy was caught in the rain and it was ruined. I was hoping you might recognize the seal, so I could write back to the sender and inform him that his message was lost.”

  Aramis raised an eyebrow, a speculative look crossing his sharp features. He nodded and invited her to come dine with him, expressing his tentative approval of the plan as they ate.

  “Have you been much in the salons of late, Milady?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied. “Motherhood and Her Majesty’s court have taken up most of my time these past several years.”

  Aramis pushed away from the table, leaning his chair back precariously on two legs to regard her. “You would have to use an assumed name, obviously. Even so, would you not be in danger of being recognized by some acquaintance or another?”

  Milady shrugged. “There is always a risk,” she said. “I could dye my hair and change the style to reduce the chance of casual recognition. Getting invited to the salons in the first place is honestly a larger concern at this point.”

  “Idle gossip has it that you maintain a network of spies in Paris to rival the Cardinal’s own,” Aramis said, watching her intently. “Assuming there is some truth to that, surely someone there could be of assistance.”

  Milady shook her head, lifting the wine to her lips and taking a sip. “Idle gossip overstates the matter considerably. While I might, in fact, have a contact or two who could be of use in the normal course of things, the fact is that the Cardinal is well aware of the details of my... network, if you insist on calling it that.” She set the cup down and picked up a piece of bread, shredding it systematically rather than eating it. “I have no way of knowing that they would not run immediately to His Eminence upon discovering I had returned, and share the details of my plan with him.”

  “Our plan,” Aramis said, pinning her with his dark gaze. “I believe you meant to say—our plan.”

  “What, is the religious life not offering you enough in the way of challenges, Aramis?” Milady said, raising an eyebrow at him.

  “Teaching Latin to a gaggle of Parisian youths who had never cracked the spine of a book before they arrived at the seminary is challenge aplenty, thank you very much,” Aramis said. “But still, I find it’s best to keep one’s hand in.”

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Milady said.

  Aramis let his chair fall forward with a thunk. “Well, there is the small matter of one of my closest friends being slated for execution and my goddaughter being missing.”

  Milady had always harbored a small amount of admiration for Aramis’ ability to project, at will, the aura of a cold killer through a voice kept mild as a summer’s day. He spoke now with that voice.

  “Very well,” she said, since there was no other logical reply. “Your assistance in the matter is much appreciated.”

  “In which case, who are we to be, and how are we to gain access to the people and places we need?”

  Milady thought about it for a moment. “A married couple, I think. It carries more weight than lovers or even brother and sister, and people won’t question it if we seem somewhat cold or distant with each other.”

  Aramis nodded, ever practical, for which she was grateful. Milady could only imagine the level of blushing and stammering that would have ensued, had it been one of the others. “So... bourgeois, do you think?” he suggested. “Successful merchants up from Blois, perhaps?”

  The nouveau riche were a growing part of French culture these days, much to the aristocracy’s consternation. After the plague, opportunity had been rife for those bold enough to grasp it. Many a cloth merchant, gunsmith, or dealer in metals had found himself suddenly afloat in wealth as demand for manufactured goods soared among France’s survivors.

  “A fair plan,” Milady said. “Is there any industry about which you know enough to pass in polite company?”

  “Ammunition,” Aramis said promptly. “I have an acquaintance who came up with an improvement to the process for casting bullets. We have written each other extensively on the subject.”

  “And, of course, you have a soldier’s expertise on weaponry as well,” Milady added. “That sounds ideal.”

  “In that case, I will leave the remaining details of our identities to you. You always did have a flair for that sort of thing,” Aramis said. “What will you need to... er, grease the wheels, so to speak? Because there is still the matter of legitimizing our aliases to gain entrance to the homes of the great and the good.”

  Milady pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Give me an hour to think about it, and ask me again.”

  * * *

  An hour later, she had a pounding headache and a workable idea.

  “I need the addresses of the three most disreputable brothels in the immediate area, and enough money to bribe two people,” she told Aramis. “Also, safe haven for one girl—possibly more—who has been abused and ruined by men at a young age.”

  “You shall have it,” Aramis said immediately. He hesitated before adding, “though the safe haven may need to involve the Carmelite nuns. Will that be acceptable?”

  Milady tamped down her first reaction of distaste, which was an emotional one and therefore unhelpful. After her own ruination at the age of sixteen, her embarrassed and deeply religious parents had carted her off to the nearest convent, leaving her alone and without support when she was at her most vulnerable. Though her lot in life had ended up a surprisingly happy one given such a beginning, the invisible scars still ached and pulled.

  “As long as the girl is given a choice in the matter,” she said eventually.

  “Of course,” Aramis replied. “And, if it would help, I will pledge to oversee the girl’s care myself, offering whatever support to her that I can.”

  It did help. Aramis was a dubiously reformed libertine and philanderer of long standing... yet, paradoxically, there were few people Milady would sooner trust with the soul of a damaged child.

  “That is acceptable,” she said. “How long will it take to acquire the money? I must get started as soon as possible.”

  Rather than answer directly, Aramis turned to his desk and rummaged in a drawer. He pulled out a cloth purse and tossed it to her. Milady caught the pouch out of the air reflexively, an expression of surprise crossing her face at its promising heft.

  “I had no idea religion had become so lucrative for its earthly foot soldiers,” she said dryly. “Not the honest ones, at least. Do I want to know where this came from?”

  “Ah, you wound me deeply,” Aramis said, not sounding particularly wounded as he raised a hand to his heart. “Most of it came from Porthos and d’Artagnan, though I did add my own meager contribution. It didn’t take a strategic genius to guess that coin would be required in the coming days.”

  “Selfless idiots, the lot of you,” Milady said, to cover her surprise. “Constance will have d’Artagnan’s head for giving away his lieutenant’s salary.”

  “On the contrary,” Aramis replied, “Constance heartily approves. Perhaps one day you will come to more fully appreciate your worth to us, Milady.”

  Milady only just managed to stop herself scoffing openly, aware that to do so under the circumstances
would be utterly crass. Still, in the privacy of her own mind, she thought, Or Charlotte and Olivier’s worth, at any rate.

  “Hmm,” was all she said. “In that case, I will endeavor to thank them by making the best possible use of it.”

  “You intend blackmail, then?” Aramis asked, and she nodded.

  “I think it’s the quickest solution. Not enough time to build a legitimate relationship with anyone meaningful who can help us,” she said. “Speaking of which, I would like to get started immediately. All I lack is the addresses of some brothels nearby that might cater to men with unhealthy appetites for young girls.”

  “Porthos will have an idea, or know someone who does,” said Aramis. “There’s not much that goes on in Paris’ underbelly that he can’t ferret out. I’ll send Bazin with a message for him. You can rest tonight and start the plan in motion tomorrow.”

  “On the contrary,” Milady returned. “I will start tonight, assuming Porthos gets us the necessary information in time.”

  Aramis looked at her, assessing. “I needn’t remind you that you were barely able to stand unaided due to a serious head injury at this time yesterday.”

  “How fortunate that I can stand unaided today, in that case,” Milady said, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing if you were the one injured, and it was your family at risk.”

  “It is my family at risk, and of course I would,” Aramis said with a sigh, even as he pulled paper and ink within easy reach and started writing. “And, like you, I would look something of a fool if I subsequently fell over in a dead faint by the side of the road at some vital juncture. Merely something for you to keep in mind.”

  He shot her a sharp glance from under heavy brows as he wrote, and she huffed out a breath of frustration. “Very well, I will rest until we hear back from Porthos. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Eminently,” Aramis said, signing the short missive with a small flourish.

  * * *

  The reply came three hours later, as late evening was sliding into night. Quiet voices woke Milady from an old dream of being chased and caught like an animal in the hunt. As her heart slowed from its staccato rhythm, she recognized Bazin’s worried tone followed by Aramis’ patient one.

  “It isn’t proper, Father d’Herblay!” said Bazin, his voice muffled by the closed door. “None of this is proper! First you're asking me to tell the Bishop that you're ill and can't attend Mass when I know that's not true. And now, sending me to collect information about houses of prostitution—”

  “Bazin,” Aramis said, sounding weary, “I’m not intending to make use of the brothels. I merely need to know where they are. Just give me Porthos’ letter, and tell me what else he said to you.”

  “He said the brothel on the second floor of the alleyway off the Rue du Cherche-Midi has the worst reputation for... that sort of thing,” Bazin answered reluctantly, “but the one on the Rue Vavin was pretty bad as well.”

  “Thank you,” Aramis said. “That information will, perhaps, go some way toward saving a life or two. Maybe even a soul or two, if we’re lucky.”

  “I only wish you would leave such worldly matters to worldly men, sir,” Bazin said.

  The young man, whose employment as Aramis’ servant these past years was, apparently, the culmination of his lifelong dream to serve the church, sounded miserable and afraid. Milady privately thought that Bazin had found the wrong man to follow, if supporting a life of quiet, spiritual contemplation was truly his goal... though, to be fair, Aramis had already lasted far longer in the priesthood than any of his friends had ever suspected he would. Now, however, the former musketeer put his silver tongue to good use in reassuring his worried servant.

  “Bazin,” he said, “you must learn that the worldly affects the spiritual as much as the spiritual affects the worldly. Evil must be fought, regardless of its provenance.”

  “But, Father, why must you be the one to do it?”

  The young man’s mournful tone made Milady wonder, for the first time, about the nature of Bazin’s regard for his master, and she raised an eyebrow. Certainly he would not be the first man with... certain proclivities... to be drawn to the Church, and Aramis was undeniably a magnetic individual. She wondered if he was aware of the degree of Bazin’s devotion to him.

  “Peace, Bazin,” he said. “I am merely helping out some good friends in their time of need. It may necessitate a few days’ worth of upheaval, but I assure you there is nothing involved over which you need worry yourself. Now, why don’t you go finish preparing the lessons for tomorrow’s classes, and get some sleep. There is no cause for concern.”

  With a final murmured exchange too low for Milady to make out, Bazin left. A moment later, Aramis’ knuckles rapped lightly against the door.

  “Come in,” she told him. When he entered, she added, “I can only imagine what sort of state he’d be in if he realized you had a woman hidden in your rooms.”

  “I’m sure he does realize I have a woman hidden in my rooms; no doubt that’s a large part of what is fueling his concerns,” Aramis said wryly. “He is my servant, after all, and not remotely a fool. I’ve practically banished him from my presence these past couple of days, and the hint of perfumed clothing is noticeable enough to anyone who walks in.”

  Milady frowned. “You trust him not to betray you?”

  “He is not Grimaud, Milady,” Aramis said pointedly. “He’s a young man with lofty ideals who has finally had a taste of what he wants out of life and fears losing it.”

  “And, perhaps, losing you,” Milady prodded. “His regard for you appears very deep, as can sometimes happen between an impressionable young man and his mentor.”

  “If that is, in fact, the case,” Aramis replied, “it’s his business and God’s, no one else’s.” The deceptively mild tone was back—a subtle warning—and Milady let it drop. There were, after all, more important things to discuss.

  “Of course,” she said. “Forgive my presumption. Now, let me see Porthos’ letter.”

  Aramis cracked the seal and laid the paper out flat on the desk, near the candle flame. They both leaned over it to read. In Porthos’ broad, slightly uncertain handwriting were written three addresses with brief descriptions of how to find the establishments’ entrances—nothing more.

  “Very good,” she said. “I’ll begin on the Rue du Cherche-Midi. If that yields nothing useful, I will proceed to the Rue Vavin, and finally, if necessary, to the Rue de Fleurus.”

  “Do you wish me to accompany you?” Aramis asked.

  “No, I’ll work better on my own for this part. You might ready whatever weapons you’ll wish to have with you during our ruse and arrange for some suitable clothes for yourself. If my hunt tonight is successful, I’ll need your assistance to beard our prey in his den tomorrow.”

  “As you wish,” Aramis agreed. “The horse you were on when you arrived is in the mews next door if you would care to ride tonight rather than walk.”

  It was tempting, but it would be easier to melt into the shadows and observe things while on foot.

  “Not necessary,” she said, and shooed him out so she could straighten her appearance for the night’s work.

  When she slipped out twenty minutes later, hidden under a heavy cloak from the palace stores, it was clear but cold. The streets were still rank with muddy filth from the torrential rain that had heralded her arrival on Aramis’ doorstep, but she breathed in deeply anyway, letting the familiar surrounds of Paris suffuse her lungs and aching body.

  Heading north on the Rue d’Assas, she allowed the sights and sounds of the night to flow through her. The area near the old convent that now housed the seminary was quiet at this hour, when all the godly people were abed. By contrast, she could hear the distant sounds of revelry coming from the streets beyond, where commerce—both savory and unsavory—dragged long into the night.

  Even on a cold November evening the taverns were lit and bustling with customers. However,
it was not the hard-working denizens indulging in a drink and a meal who interested Milady. No... her targets would look down on such common pastimes, choosing instead to scratch a deeper, more insidious itch that forced them away from their rich homes and sumptuous beds, into the dark warren of the Parisian backstreets.

  The Rue du Cherche-Midi crossed the Rue d’Assas at an angle, and Milady turned left sharply, heading to the southwest. The alley she needed was just beyond the Rue Saint-Placide, between two ramshackle buildings that leaned into the narrow space like a pair of drunkards seeking to hold each other up as they staggered home.

  For now, the darkened doorway of a rag merchant across the road would offer the perfect vantage point to watch the comings and goings from the unsavory alley. After a chilly hour of observation, Milady wrapped the cloak tighter around her body and slipped away, unnoticed. The coarsely dressed clientele scurrying furtively into and out of the brothel here would not provide what she needed. Sparing a thought for those hopeless young souls who would remain trapped within its walls, she headed south toward Rue Vavin.

  It was nearing midnight by the time she arrived at the yellow door beyond the down-at-heel apartments on Rue Vavin. The surroundings here had a more of a sense of faded grandeur, compared to the grubby collection of falling-down buildings from which she’d just come. Feeling her hopes pick up, she found another spot where she could watch events from the shadows, and was soon rewarded with a smattering of clients who were just as furtive as their fellows on Rue du Cherche-Midi, but far better dressed.

  This, she could work with. She settled to wait until all but the staunchest of clientele left to go home for the night. When the road had quieted, silent and empty, she detached herself from the darkness and crossed to the brightly painted doorway, knocking on the rough wood with a gloved hand.

  The door opened a few inches, and a tall man with a shaved head and a scar running in a ragged line from one corner of his mouth stared down at her impassively.

  “I need to speak with the Madam of the house,” said Milady. “Tell her I will make it well worth her while.”