As they all moved toward the vicomte’s room, Ned happened to glance up at the coat of arms in the carving over the door and noticed the rosette. It was the same design as Marguerite’s brooch—seven petals surrounding three petals around a single center.
That suggested that Marguerite’s brooch might really be very old. An heirloom indeed. He would have to tell her.
Marguerite approached the bed feeling uncomfortably shaken. Lord Edward’s nearness should not affect her this much. He had barely touched her. A slight brush of the fingers against her throat when he had lifted the brooch—that was all. It should not have felt as if he’d set her skin aflame.
He had defended her against Delphine’s silly outburst of greed, but she should not read anything into that. It was the normal reaction of an adult to a childish tantrum.
She should be paying attention to the vicomte and his condition instead.
Was the doctor lying? It appeared to her that change was visible when they lined up as usual beside the bed. The shriveled old man was once more propped up against the pillows, half sitting, half reclining. He was neatly shaven, dressed in a pressed night gown with a cap on his head, but today his mouth was not quite closed and his eyes were not quite open. His hands lay on the brocade of the coverlet with the fingers curled, almost as if he clawed at it.
Every time she saw him there seemed to be less of him, as if he were drying up and shriveling away.
Those hands held her eyes almost hypnotically. Each slight movement of the fingers seemed weighted with meaning. In the silence of the room, the scraping of his fingers on the brocade seemed preternaturally loud.
She forced her gaze aside and tried to think. This could not go on much longer. The vicomte was fading away. Soon he would shrivel up and vanish completely. There would no longer be any excuse for them to be here.
Things were getting more complicated. Lord Edward’s presence, his very existence, was making them so. He was a distraction, and she could not afford any distractions. Why did he have to come here? Why couldn’t he have stayed in England where she would never have even seen him?
For a while, things had been under control, but not any longer. She had to get away from this place. She had to get Delphine away. The girl was getting worse here. There had to be a way to get them all away.
Antoine gave an irritated wave of the hand that drew her attention back to the presence. His impatience was showing. He seemed to be holding himself still through sheer force of will. “Well, doctor, your patient appears to be asleep. Did you call us in here so that we could bear witness to that?”
“You have somewhere more important to be?” Doctor Fernac sounded dismissive.
Antoine exploded. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. This pointless daily attendance on a dying man who does not even know we are here…” He halted, shocked into silence when the old man’s eyes suddenly opened and stared at him.
Then the vicomte turned those eyes on Marguerite. No, she realized, not on her. On her brooch.
“You have it still, Marguerite.” His voice was surprisingly strong.
She was not sure what he meant, but she put up a hand to cover the brooch. Still, a response seemed necessary. “Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte.” She never knew quite how to address him. None of them did, really. She could hardly call him uncle. He was a complete stranger to her. Until a few months ago, she had not known that he existed. Antoine referred to him as “the old man” and simply avoided addressing him directly.
The vicomte frowned slightly and one of the hands on the coverlet fluttered slightly. In some sort of protest? Or was it confusion? Did he know who she was? Who any of them were? But he seemed to be speaking directly to her. “You never told me what it means. Do you know? The priest, Abbé Seznec, did he tell you? Where did he hide it?”
She did not know what to say. All she could manage was to stammer out, “I don’t know.”
He looked away, and his voice grew querulous. “It wasn’t my fault. There was nothing I could do. So many of them, and Léchelle leading them. I could not stop them. Everyone feared Léchelle. But he would not tell them, the abbé. Even when Léchelle struck him down. They left then. The others did not like it that he killed a priest.”
In the silence it seemed as if everyone was holding his breath. Was he telling them about the treasure? Something a priest had hidden? If the priest had been killed by this Léchelle right after hiding it, then perhaps it really was still hidden. Perhaps there really was something.
Perhaps there would be enough to buy safety.
A wave of dizziness swept over her. She might have fallen had not an arm caught her around the waist to steady her. Lord Edward. He was right beside her, looking concerned, keeping her safe. Again. It was so tempting. She wanted to smile and lean against him.
No! She must not. A polite smile of thanks was all she could allow herself. That, and then she must keep herself erect and rely on no one. Before he came, there had been no difficulty in remembering that. She had to be strong. A few kind gestures could not be allowed to get under her guard.
The vicomte was looking at her again, but he seemed to have mistaken her for someone else. “Did you tell our father before he died? He didn’t tell me. Why didn’t he tell me? Why won’t you tell me? I should have been the one who was told about the treasure. I was the heir. Not you.” His voice faded to a whisper. “Not you.”
His eyes closed, and the hands on the coverlet relaxed. He was asleep once more. The doctor leaned over to check his patient’s pulse, nodded to himself and shooed the visitors out.
They all stood about in the corridor, not quite ready to leave and go about their business. It was an uncomfortable silence. Delphine spoke first. “I don’t understand. He called you by name, but he was talking as if you were someone else.”
“I don’t understand either,” Marguerite said. “I didn’t think he even knew my name. He never used it before.”
“It was odd. All of it was odd.” Antoine tugged at his little beard.
“Is there another Marguerite in the family?” asked Lord Edward.
Antoine and Marguerite shook their heads and shrugged, but Delphine burst out excitedly, “But of course! Our great-grandmother—his sister—she was called Marguerite. He must have thought you were his sister.” Then her face fell. “Why you? Why would he mistake you for his sister and not me? That is not right. I have seen her portrait. She was fair and dainty, like me. Not dark and strange like you.”
“Don’t distress yourself,” said Marguerite in soothing tones. It was so hard to be soothing all the time. “His mind was wandering, and his eye fell on me. I’m sure that’s all it was. Doubtless next time he will think you are his sister.”
“The brooch,” said Lord Edward. They all looked at him.
“That’s what he was staring at,” he explained. “You said that it was a family piece, an heirloom. Perhaps he recognized it as something his sister owned, and that is why he thought you were Marguerite—his Marguerite, that is.”
“Possibly. Quite possibly,” said Antoine.
A very French moue appeared on his face, and it amused Marguerite to think that her cousin was becoming more and more French these days. It was a relief to find something amusing.
“He seemed to think she would know where to find the treasure,” Antoine continued. “But since she has been dead for half a century, that is no help. It’s a pity that he did not tell us something more useful.”
“Perhaps he did.” Lord Edward looked thoughtful. “He mentioned Léchelle. I know the name. He was one of the more brutal enthusiasts of the Revolution, and he was only in this area for a short time in ’94.”
“Ninety-four?” Antoine frowned. “That was when the last of the family fled to England—the old man and his sister and their father.”
Lord Edward was frowning. “When was that? Do you know?”
“I know,” said Delphine, holding out an arm in a dramatic gesture. “It was in February, in the
bitter cold. They fled in a small fishing boat, carrying almost nothing with them. Hélas, the poor old vicomte was wounded and had died by the time they reached England.”
“Fortunately they had sent most of the family fortune to England when the Revolution began to look serious,” said Antoine dryly. “They were not among the penniless aristocrats offering to teach dancing to the English.”
“I am not certain of the dates, but I think that Léchelle didn’t arrive here until January or February,” said Lord Edward. “That would mean that the murder of the priest would have taken place very close to the time of their departure.”
“I don’t see how that is of any help to us.” Antoine shook his head.
Lord Edward ignored him. “And not long after that, Léchelle himself was assassinated. It all makes a kind of sense. If the priest died before he could tell anyone where the treasure was, and if Léchelle did not live long enough to find it for himself, it may still be hidden.”
“Fine.” Antoine still looked disgruntled. “But that doesn’t tell us where it is, or even what it is.”
Lord Edward’s eyes shone with enthusiasm. “Think about it. We do have some clues. The old man said that he saw the priest come out to wherever he was captured, so the hiding place must be somewhere inside the chateau. And it must be someplace where a boy could see what was happening without being seen himself.”
“And it must be in the other part of the chateau,” said Antoine, straightening up and looking attentive, “because this part was not in use then.”
“We will find it. I am sure of it!” Delphine’s eyes were shining, and she quivered with excitement.
The others all looked eager to get on with the search. Marguerite feared she was the only one who had difficulty responding with enthusiasm. What was wrong with her? If they found the treasure, surely the vicomte and Antoine would allow her a share in it, even if it was only a small share. Money could buy them some measure of security.
Why did she not share the eagerness of the others? Had worry become so much a part of her that nothing could make her feel hopeful?
Chapter Thirteen
Delphine insisted that they enter the baroque—and uninhabited—section of the chateau through what would have been the principal entrance. As they all trailed along after her, Ned realized that she was the only one who was actually familiar with this part of the building. He, at least, had never been here before.
Traces of the broad gravel drive that had once led visitors to the door were still visible despite almost a century of neglect. The steps were mainly intact, though mossy at present and covered with dead leaves. As for the door, or rather, the doors, a pair of them beneath the lofty marble pediment, they may have been cracked and stained with age, but they still looked formidable enough to keep out invaders.
Ned was about to suggest that they try a different entrance, one that might offer easier access, when Delphine pulled a massive iron key from one of the urns flanking the doors and dealt with the lock. It turned easily, and the doors swung open without a creak of complaint. She waved them to enter with a flourish.
He was about to obey when he realized that Marguerite was not moving. What was wrong? He started to reach out to her, but she didn’t seem to see him. Her eyes were fixed on Delphine and her mouth was pinched in annoyance. When she spoke, it was as if the words had to fight their way out. “You said you had not been visiting this part of the chateau. You gave me your word.”
“Oh fiddle-faddle. Don’t fuss. There is no reason I shouldn’t use this door as well as any other.”
Marguerite looked as if she would be pleased to argue, but Tony hurried toward the house. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Why shouldn’t she play in here if she likes? I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” He paused in the doorway to look around, then nodded. “Yes. You can still see where the drive must have been. This is where people would have entered. And you have seen to it that the lock and hinges are oiled? Good girl.”
Delphine smirked at Marguerite before following him into the building.
The tension between the two women was palpable, but Ned had no idea of the reason for it. There was no point in asking Tony—he understood machinery but had no interest in what made people tick. Delphine was obviously rebelling against Marguerite’s authority. Understandable in one way, but he doubted that Marguerite was simply trying to impose her will on the younger girl.
Delphine’s flights of fancy, her play-acting—was it possible that these were indications of something more serious than childishness? He’d seen that they were odd and could be tiresome. Was there more that he had not noticed?
Marguerite’s hands were clenched tightly at her waist, and a small sound of distress escaped her. Ned could not help himself. He reached out to touch her. “What’s the matter? Can I help?”
Immediately her face assumed its frozen mask. “It is nothing. Why should anything be the matter?” She began walking into the chateau, but he refused to let go of her arm, walking beside her.
Something obviously was the matter, and he wished she would tell him what it was. “Would it not be better to tell me what has you upset? It cannot be simply that Delphine has been wandering through this part of the chateau. She might get her gowns dusty, but that hardly warrants your distress.”
“I am not distressed,” she snapped.
She did not say any more, and he did not ask again. He simply looked his disbelief.
She stopped and drew a deep breath. “Really, it is nothing.” Then she turned to look at him, and the frozen mask slipped slightly. “There is nothing you can do. Please do not ask any more.”
He waited, but when she said no more, he inclined his head. “As you wish. But please remember, if at any time I can be of assistance, you have only to ask.”
“For that I think you.” A brief smile slipped across her face before vanishing behind the mask.
He tucked her hand under his arm to escort her into the chateau. At least the stubborn creature did not refuse that much assistance. Pride was all very well and good, but it could veer into danger. If she needed help, and it was fairly obvious that she did, it was foolish not to ask for it. Couldn’t she see that he wanted to help her? There was no need for her to shoulder her burdens alone.
Then again—the thought struck him suddenly and unpleasantly—it might not be pride that kept her from confiding in him. It might be that she simply did not trust him. There had been that outburst against aristocrats. Surely she couldn’t think that he looked down on her in any way. He refused to believe it.
Did she think he was one of those arrogant wastrels who hovered about in theatrical Green Rooms? His family would howl with laughter at the suggestion. He had never been in a Green Room in his life. At a ball, he was always the one partnered with the shyest young debutantes so they would feel comfortable. He almost laughed, but he held it in. He doubted she would appreciate the joke.
Being mistrusted was a new experience for him. For a moment he toyed with the idea of playing the dangerous rake. It might be fun. Then he remembered something Delphine had said about some French comte who wanted Marguerite to be his mistress. He glanced at Marguerite’s tense face and decided that the last thing she needed was someone joking about a situation she had found deeply insulting.
One of these days he might be able to tease her, but not yet. He still needed to earn her trust. Finding out what was troubling her was far more important than playing games.
They stepped through the door into a square room that was large for a vestibule, but too small for a hall. It must have been impressive once, before the black and white tiles on the floor had been turned to a dull gray by the dust, before the ceiling plasterwork and cornices were draped with cobwebs.
Dust also covered the Holland cloth that had been laid over all the furniture. Looking around with fastidious distaste, Tony picked up the corner of one piece of Holland and raised it high enough for them to see that it had been shrouding a table. He st
arted to speak but dropped it abruptly to pull out a handkerchief to cover his sneeze. “Good God! Is the whole place like this?”
“Do not be difficult,” said Delphine with a playful smile. “We shall order the servants to clean it, and soon it will be…” She paused, and then clasped her hands at her breast. “Magnificent!” She breathed the word out slowly, a look of ecstasy on her face.
“We will do nothing of the sort.” Marguerite spoke with cold finality.
Delphine spun around, ready for battle, but Marguerite ignored her. “First of all,” she said, holding up a finger, “bedridden or not, the vicomte is master here. He chose to leave this wing untouched. It is not our place to ask his servants to countermand his orders.”
“But he is dying! He will not even know.”
Marguerite ignored the protest. “Second, if there really is a treasure hidden here, it will not do to have servants swarming all over the place. If it is here to be found, it must be found without help from the servants. Unless you are willing to share it?”
At the look of horror on Delphine’s face, Marguerite smiled sardonically.
Tony grimaced. “I suppose you are right. Secrecy will be required. But this place is enormous. It could take us years to go through it all.”
Ned had been wandering around and found himself in the next room. “We might do well to think of this as the starting point. Come look.”
He was standing in the middle of a perfectly round room. Curved staircases led to a balcony that circled the room at the level of the next floor. High above, a dome roofed the space, with small oval windows spaced closely at the base of the dome. Dust and grime dimmed the light coming in, but it was enough to see what must have been a magnificent hall once upon a time.
Tony peered up at the dome. “A good piece of construction, that, if it’s undamaged after all these years.”
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