Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4

by R. A. Steffan

  “Charlotte! René!” she called happily, meeting them as they approached the marble staircase leading up to the grand entrance of the Duchesse’s residence. “What a lovely surprise. I didn’t expect to see you both again so soon.”

  She accepted a kiss on the cheek from each of them, and immediately took their arms in hers, chatting away amiably. “Are you feeling better tonight, Charlotte? I must say, you look divine.”

  Milady forced herself into character, smiling back at the young woman. “Yes, thank you, Ninon. I fear poppy tea does not agree with me. I shall probably be better off avoiding it, in future.”

  “A wise choice, if you wish for my opinion on the matter,” Ninon said. “I never touch the stuff, myself.”

  Milady looked at the girl with renewed respect. Ninon, she suspected, would become a force to be reckoned with in Paris in the coming years. They allowed her to lead them into the Duchesse’s domain, their association with the young woman gaining them effortless access to the salon.

  “Let me introduce you to a few more people,” Ninon said, flitting from one group to another and drawing people over to speak with them.

  The Duchesse d’Aumale’s salon was a much more sober and staid affair than Mme de Sévigné’s. Neither musicians nor giant beds were in evidence, and the tone seemed much more political than philosophical. The Duchesse herself—a younger woman than Milady would have expected—greeted them warmly and accepted a kiss from Ninon. There seemed to be a preponderance of women in the room, mostly in their late twenties and thirties. The males ranged from youths to white-haired old men, and it was apparent from the tone of the conversations surrounding Milady that everyone here had an opinion on every subject.

  She and Aramis girded themselves with a silent, shared look, and split up to join the fray.

  Forcing herself to utilize every bit of charm at her disposal despite her queasy stomach and melancholic mood, Milady inveigled herself into different groups and, whenever there was even the sliver of an opportunity, offered the fake letter with the mysterious seal for her fellow guests’ perusal. Every shrug and shake of the head lowered her spirits further, but she persevered.

  Eventually, she found herself once again in Ninon’s company. The young woman was watching Milady with her bright, too-intelligent eyes, and beckoned her over.

  “Charlotte,” she said, “I understand you’ve been seeking help unraveling a small mystery.”

  Milady smiled, though she felt a faint sense of unease—people were obviously starting to talk about her behavior. That wasn’t good, in a setting such as this one. All she said, though, was, “Yes, that’s right. It’s a silly thing, but I’m afraid it’s been driving me quite mad.”

  “Mysteries can certainly do that,” Ninon agreed. “Now... I gather it’s something about a letter?”

  Milady berated herself for not having thought to ask Ninon earlier. The girl was a social butterfly; no doubt she knew far more people in Paris than most.

  “Indeed,” she replied, daring to feel a glimmer of hope. “I received it on the night of that terrible rainstorm last week, but the boy let it get soaked. I can’t read a word of it. There’s a fairly distinctive seal, though... I thought someone might know who it came from, so I could write back.”

  She pulled out the much-abused missive and handed it to Ninon, who looked it over briefly before focusing on the seal. Her face cleared immediately. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I recognize this. It belongs to the Vicomte de Castres. A horrible man, I’m sorry to say... he sent me an invitation a few days ago to a party he’s hosting, so his seal is fresh in my mind. I definitely shan’t be attending the gathering, though.”

  Milady felt suddenly light-headed at the unexpected breakthrough. “Thank you!” she said, barely managing to keep a normal tone. “That’s incredibly helpful. I don’t suppose you know where he lives, so I can let him know his message was lost?”

  “The address was included in the invitation, though I’m afraid I don’t recall it right now,” Ninon said. Her eyes became shrewd. “I can find out for you, though, and let you know tomorrow. I assume you and René are staying with Lord Lavardin?”

  Milady hesitated an instant too long, and Ninon’s expression became triumphant. “You’re not, though, are you?” she said. “Ah! I knew it!”

  “No,” Milady said, recovering quickly. “We are staying with... other friends.”

  Ninon took her arm, urging her toward an interior door. “Walk with me for a moment, Charlotte.”

  Milady had a choice to make, and no real time to make it. She could resist, and try to extricate herself from Ninon now that she had de Castres’ name, or she could follow and find out what Ninon had to say. Trusting her instincts, she nodded, and followed.

  When the two women were out of sight and hearing of the other patrons, in a quiet room off the hallway leading deeper into the Duchesse d’Aumale’s residence, Ninon turned and looked up at her.

  “You, my new friend, are not who you claim to be,” said the courtesan.

  Chapter VII: November 20th, 1640

  “AS YOU SAID YOURSELF, unsolved mysteries are maddening,” Ninon continued. “So, pray, will you tell me who you are and why you are looking for the Vicomte de Castres? For I assure you, I was not exaggerating when I called him a horrible man.”

  “What makes you so certain that I am not who I say I am?” Milady asked, genuinely curious.

  “You and René are not married, for a start,” Ninon said readily. “There are two kinds of married couples—those who love each other and those who do not. The kind who do not wouldn’t bother to play at being affectionate with each other when visiting a place like Mme de Sévigné’s salon... what would be the point? They would merely find company more suited to their individual tastes and enjoy their respective evenings.

  “On the other hand, when you woke from your opium dreams in René’s arms, you were very obviously in the throes of passion. If you were in love, you would have turned to him in your need, or he to you. Yet you did not. You showed no interest in him, and he treated you like a sister under his protection.”

  “I see,” Milady said, mentally berating herself. She had known Ninon was intelligent and perspicacious. She should have seen this coming. And she and Aramis should have played at being cold with each other rather than loving, because of course Ninon was completely correct.

  Ninon was watching her with a perceptive gaze. “You’re here because you thought someone could help you identify the seal, aren’t you? What has the Vicomte done?”

  Making another split-second decision, Milady said, “I don’t know what he’s done. I cannot tell you my real name, or René’s. But my daughter and I were abducted from our home. I managed to escape later, but I was injured, and have no memory of where we were held, or by whom. René is an old friend—he agreed to help me. When I arrived at his home, I had de Castres’ seal concealed on my person... the only clue as to what had befallen me.”

  Ninon’s eyes were huge. “My dear Charlotte!” she said. “That is an incredible story! But, tell me—what of your daughter?”

  Milady felt her expression grow hard. “I have no way of knowing. But I will find her and free her, or I will die trying. By recognizing the wax seal, you have just given me a place to begin looking for her.”

  “I’m going to give you more than that,” vowed Ninon, her own expression becoming sober. “Am I correct in thinking that my invitation to the Vicomte’s party would be of use to you? If so, I will give it to you. I certainly have no need of it for myself, and if it could help you to rescue your daughter, I would be a rather terrible person if I withheld it.”

  “It would indeed be of use,” Milady said with relish, her mind already turning with the possibilities. “Considerable use.”

  “Very well, then. I will send it along to you by messenger in the morning.” Ninon cocked a delicate eyebrow. “Though that does raise the question of where I should send it. Obviously not to the Marquis de Lavardin.
..”

  Milady thought quickly. It would not do to give Ninon the address of the seminary, nor did she want to make the whereabouts of d’Artagnan and Constance’s residence known while the girls from the brothel were sheltering there. Having it sent to the Captain of the Musketeer Guard also seemed indiscreet. However...

  “You may send it to Mme Coquenard, on the Rue Béranger. Have the messenger ask her to pass it onto Monsieur P.”

  Viviénne Coquenard was Porthos’ longtime mistress. The recently widowed wife of an attorney, it seemed likely that she and Porthos would marry once she finished her period of mourning. Viviénne would see that Porthos received the invitation promptly, and Porthos would get it to Aramis.

  Ninon grinned suddenly. “Forgive me,” she said. “I understand what a serious matter this is, but I can’t help relishing the idea that I might be part of some secret plot to bring the Vicomte de Castres low.”

  “Tell me more of him, please,” Milady said. “You obviously harbor a strong dislike for the man.”

  The smile faded instantly, leaving Ninon grim. “He is a predator. He preys on women, brutalizing the bodies of those who are poor and powerless, and the reputations of those from the upper classes. His position means he can destroy their lives with impunity. His attractive face and charming manner allow him to lure in new victims despite his reputation.”

  “He sounds a dangerous man,” Milady said. “I can hardly wait to meet him.”

  “You must be careful, though,” Ninon warned. “Promise me you will have René with you, at least. I think that René is also a dangerous man... and not merely in the way Mme de Sévigné implied.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I doubt I could keep him away if I tried,” Milady assured her.

  “Good,” Ninon said, with relief. “Now, I fear I will be missed if I do not return to the salon. I will send the invitation to Mme Coquenard first thing tomorrow. In case I do not see you again, I wish you God’s blessings and all the luck in the world with retrieving your daughter.”

  “Thank you, Ninon,” Milady said. “Perhaps someday I will be able to seek you out and tell you the entire story, as unlikely and outré as it is.”

  Ninon smiled the slow smile that made her face turn radiant and her eyes shine. “I look forward to it, my friend,” she said sincerely.

  Milady accepted her embrace and brief kiss. She allowed the courtesan a few moments’ head start before following her back to the salon, so the two of them would not be connected by the casual observer. It took several minutes of circulating from group to group before she found Aramis.

  “René, my dear,” she said, taking his arm and smiling politely at the others nearby. “Forgive me—I fear I have a headache coming on. I hate to drag you away so early, but would you mind terribly if we left?”

  Aramis scanned her face, evidently seeing something of her success there. “Of course, Charlotte,” he said easily. “Do you still have that powder the doctor gave you?”

  “Yes, there is some back at the Hôtel,” she said, playing along.

  “Very well,” he said. “Why don’t you get our cloaks, and I will give the Duchesse our excuses.”

  The two of them extricated themselves from the salon with minimal fuss. The night was sharp and cold with a brisk wind whistling through the narrow streets. Without the benefit of opium to warm her body, Milady huddled into the enveloping folds of her cloak and hurried along next to her companion, letting her eyes flick over the shadows between the buildings.

  “You have a name, then?” Aramis asked in a low voice once they had turned the first corner.

  “I do,” she replied, just as quietly. “It is the Vicomte de Castres.”

  Aramis glanced over his shoulder and took a second turning in quick succession, following a different route than the one they’d used to get here. Milady stuck close to him, watching and listening to their surroundings closely.

  “You’re aware that we’re being followed, I assume?” Aramis asked a few moments later.

  “Two men,” she said. “They were waiting outside the salon for us.”

  “Hired by Lavardin, do you think?”

  Milady nodded. “Probably. The Cardinal’s men would be stealthier than this. Hmm. I had Lavardin pegged as too much of a coward to act. I must be slipping.”

  “Out of practice, I suppose,” Aramis chided with a brief, sunny grin. “You have weapons?”

  “Two daggers,” she said, her fingers already creeping into the folds of her dress to retrieve them. “Do you need one? You’re not wearing a main gauche.”

  “Keep them both. I’ll manage with the rapier.”

  “I should’ve brought those little pistols,” she berated herself. “Stupid.”

  “It would have been helpful, yes,” Aramis agreed. “Though I don’t honestly know where you could have put them in that dress.”

  “Oh, well. Spilt milk at this point,” she said. “Do we, by chance, have any sort of plan?”

  “Duck into an alley and try to take them by surprise?” Aramis offered.

  “Since they have a perfectly clear view of us, that isn't a terribly good plan,” she said dryly. “Didn’t you used to be better at this?”

  “Not really,” Aramis said, taking her elbow and slipping them into the dark space between two buildings, quick as a flash. “I mostly left that sort of thing to Athos and de Tréville.”

  They skirted the wall, moving a few steps deeper into the alley. Milady flung her cloak off and tossed it away. Aramis removed his as well, wrapping the heavy fabric around his left forearm to use as a rough shield. Metal sang as he drew his rapier from its scabbard.

  Two large men stepped into the mouth of the alley a few moments later, silhouetted by the street lamps at their backs. The flickering glow reflected off the barrels of their drawn pistols and swords.

  Firearms as well as blades, Milady thought, pressed into the shadows next to Aramis. Wonderful.

  The two of them waited, silent... barely breathing.

  “Come out where we can see you,” called the man on the left. “We know you’re in there.”

  Neither of them so much as twitched. Moving very slowly, Milady grasped the blade of one of her daggers between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

  “Stupid toffs,” muttered the man. “C’mon, then—we’ll have to go in and get ‘em if we want to get paid.”

  Leading with their pistols, the two hired thugs eased forward into the alley. Once they were out of the light from the street, the second man jerked his gun toward them and cried, “There they are!”

  Milady leapt forward and raised her left arm, releasing the dagger in an over-arm throw even as the gun barrel moved to point at the center of her chest. The slender blade embedded itself in the base of the thug’s throat an instant later. He jerked and fired wide, blood spurting from his neck as he fell with a gurgle.

  Startled by the sudden noise and movement beside him, the first thug’s attention wavered for a critical instant, and Aramis lunged forward, sword in hand. The thug parried clumsily and tried to get his pistol into position to fire, but Aramis blocked it with his free arm.

  Milady transferred her remaining dagger into her left hand in case she got an opening to throw it, moving deeper into the alley to give the struggling men more space. Aramis’ attacker roared and lunged forward, plowing his shoulder into the smaller man. Aramis gave ground rather than trying to meet the charge head on, letting their combined momentum twist them around each other. The thug stumbled, his pistol going off accidentally. Milady cried out and staggered as a line of fire lashed across the fleshy part of her hip.

  Aramis jerked around at the sound, his eyes seeking hers, and the thug took advantage of his distraction to slam the back of his head into the wall behind them. Aramis collapsed into a heap, dazed.

  “You fucking bitch!” yelled the hired gun, advancing on her. “You killed my partner!”

  Milady blinked, trying to steady her swirling visio
n, and let the second dagger fly. It bounced off the thick leather covering the thug’s shoulders and clattered onto the cobbles. An instant later, his meaty hand was around her neck, forcing her backward until she thumped against the wall opposite where Aramis had fallen.

  Blood pounded in her ears and red flooded her sight as she tried to claw and kick, but the shock of the bullet wound sapped her blows of strength, leaving her weak and ineffectual as a kitten against this muscular bull of a man. Her vision was narrowing down to a black tunnel as the ache in her lungs increased, her heartbeat throbbing painfully in her temples and hip.

  Just as she was about to lose consciousness, the hand on her throat jerked and loosened. Air burned its way down her throat and into her lungs, causing her vision to return sufficiently to see the look of surprise on the thug’s face in the dim light. He choked and scrabbled at his chest, where the metal tip of a blade protruded through his ribcage.

  With a wet scraping noise, the blade withdrew and her attacker collapsed to the ground, revealing Aramis standing behind him like some kind of avenging angel, his eyes wild, blood coating his rapier.

  His face was pale and his breathing heavy as he stepped over the corpse to grasp her shoulders—his grip all that kept her from sliding down the wall.

  “Don’t try to speak yet,” he said urgently. “Just nod. Can you breathe?”

  Milady, continued to gasp—great, whooping breaths—and nodded weakly.

  “Are you shot?” Aramis asked, and she nodded again, her hand straying toward the fiery brand on her hip. He caught her wrist gently, stilling it before going to his knees in front of her and pressing his own hand to the tear in the fabric of her dress. She groaned in agony, the noise scraping her throat like broken glass.

  “Sorry,” Aramis said, “I’m sorry. I can’t see worth a damn in this alley, but there isn’t very much blood here. I think it’s a graze.”

  She nodded, still trying to breathe through the pain. Aramis stood and retrieved her discarded cloak, easing her away from the wall and wrapping it around her to hide her torn, bloodstained dress. He took her arm across his shoulder, placing his own arm across her back to support her.