Then there was the question of getting out of the house. The doors would be locked. Leonie could not imagine her captors taking a chance on her beginning to scream for help if someone accidentally walked in. The keys would not be in the locks. Even if the man she killed was the one who carried the keys, she would need to search for them, run down the stairs, open the door… Again, unless the man she killed was the only one guarding her, it would not work. The first necessity then, was to be sure there was only one man in the house with her—and of course, keeping the fact that she had the pistols a secret.
It was so unusual for a woman to carry a pistol at all that no one would think of searching her. But finding out how many men were in the house, Leonie feared, might be very difficult. If she were to be kept locked in the room, for example, there might be no need for more than one guard. But how would she know? She sighed. It would not be possible to act at once. She would have to discover how strictly she would be watched, by whom, the routine of the household—one man might regularly go out to fetch food, for example. It would also be useful to try to find out where she was.
Leonie shooed Fifi off the bed and got up herself. It was very dark in the room, but she could make out the window. Could she get out the window? She shivered again. It would be better to escape without killing anyone. She went to look out and saw only a walled garden with a high, wrought iron gate—and the window, she saw, was nailed shut. Even if she could get the nails out, tear up the sheets, and climb down, there would still be the wall to get over—the gate would certainly be locked. There were spikes on the wall too. Leonie sighed again. If she was locked in the room with no chance to find out who else was in the house, she might have to try that route, but it would be best to explore other possibilities first.
One thing was immediately apparent—she was closely watched. Someone had heard her get out of bed. While she still stood at the window, the key turned in the lock. Leonie whirled to face the door, but to her surprise there was a scratch and Danou’s voice asked permission to enter. That was a pleasant relief. Leonie remembered the repeated adjurations not to be frightened and the assurances that her wants would be fulfilled as quickly and completely as possible, but she had not been sure whether that was only to induce her to enter her prison quietly. It seemed, however, that courtesy toward her was still the order of the day.
“Yes? Come in,” Leonie called.
Danou entered carrying branch of candles, his face wreathed in smiles. “I hope you are feeling better, citoyenne,” he said, “but I have here something which I am sure will make you well, even if there are some lingering effects of the mistake.” He held out a folded sheet of paper. Leonie could not imagine what it was and did not move at once. “Take it,” he urged. “It is a letter from your husband.”
“From Roger?”
Danou nodded, but Leonie still did not reach out. She could not, would not, believe that Roger had arranged this abduction. Yet how else could he know where to send a letter? Even if he had done it to keep her safe… No, Danou had said Chaumette. Could Roger have made some agreement with Chaumette?
“I swear I will not touch you, citoyenne,” Danou was urging. “Do not be afraid of me, I beg you. Come and take your letter.”
He could not decide whether to tell the stupid woman that his master would have him killed if she did not stop being afraid of him. He thought the delivery of the letter would solve all his problems with her, but the little ninny seemed to be afraid even of the sheet of paper. And women were so unpredictable. Some would rush to his defense, if they knew his danger; but others would take a spiteful delight in getting him into trouble.
Leonie was hardly aware of him as her mind raced over the possibilities. She came to the conclusion that the letter could not be from Roger. Possibly Chaumette did not think she could read, or perhaps he thought she was fool enough not to recognize Roger’s handwriting. Finally what Danou was saying penetrated her brain. He was apologizing again for the “accident” in which she had been hurt, but then he went on in a positively tearful voice to tell her that she was to choose he own keeper and that, if she did not choose him, his master would have him killed.
“Please take the letter. Please do not be afraid,” he urged.
Slowly Leonie came toward him, considering what he had said. She took the letter but did not look at it. “When can I see Citizen Chaumette?” she asked.
“He came while you were asleep, citoyenne. We did not wish to disturb you because—because of the accident to your head. He will come again tomorrow to take your answer back to your husband.”
“I may write to my husband?” Leonie asked incredulously.
“Yes, indeed, only—only you may not describe the house or what you see outside it. You may say anything else, anything at all.”
“How nice,” Leonie said flatly, but then she smiled, trying to wipe out the sardonic inference. For now she must be stupid and docile—especially stupid. “But I cannot read in the dark,” she complained.
“No, of course not. I will leave the candles if you like. And I have a meal for you—but it may be a little overcooked because you slept so long. Shall I bring the food up, or would you prefer to come down?”
“I may come down?” Leonie sounded tremulous and hopeful, but her heart sank.
“Yes, indeed, citoyenne. I have told you and told you that we want you to be comfortable and content.”
If she were to be permitted the freedom of the house, there had to be more than one jailer. Leonie swallowed her disappointment. She had better find out just what the situation was as soon as possible. “I will come down. May I come down now?”
“Certainly.”
Danou stepped out and held the candles high, Leonie followed, glancing around curiously. There were three other doors in the small hallway into which the stairs rose. One was open and a man, whose regular features would have made him very handsome except that they were spoiled by a self-conscious leer and filthy garments, was sitting on a chair in the doorway. He rose when Leonie stepped out of her room and followed her down the stairs, a few steps behind but quite close enough to grab her if she should try to push Danou and make a break for freedom. He murmured something under his breath, but Leonie was too wrapped in her own thoughts to make out what it was. The closeness with which she was guarded confirmed her disappointment at being given the freedom of the house, but her spirits lifted a little when Danou guided her into the parlor on the left of the stairs. The lower floor had an “empty” feel to it. If there were only the two men, something might be managed.
There was a stove giving out a comfortable heat. Leonie realized that the pipe from it must have gone up to the roof through the room in which she slept and warmed that also. This room, then, was also at the back of the house, and there could be no question of getting to the front window. After the candles on the table and in the wall sconces had been lit, Danou went out. Panel remained in the corridor by the open door, watching. Leonie had expected that from the way he had followed her down the stairs, so the she felt no additional disappointment and was able to give full attention to the letter Danou had handed her. What leaped to her eyes was Roger’s gunsmith’s mark on the wax that sealed the folded sheet. Leonie barely suppressed a cry. She had convinced herself that the letter could not be from Roger, but that conviction was badly shaken. Would Chaumette think of using the tradesman’s mark? How could he get it? That was one tool Roger locked away most carefully. It was the symbol of his pride in his craft.
Hastily, with trembling fingers, Leonie tore open the seals. It was Roger’s handwriting! Had he… No. First read it, she admonished herself. Having done so, Leonie stared blankly at the wall for a few minutes, more frightened than she had been since she regained consciousness in the carriage. What he told her exactly confirmed what she had deduced for herself, but the stiff, careful phrasing, the strict admonitions to be obedient—that was not Roger.
Anxiously she scanned the writin
g itself. It seemed uncertain, a bit tremulous, as if his hand had been shaky. He must be under restraint, Leonie thought. Perhaps Chaumette had hurt him or threatened him—both most likely. Her lip drew back in a snarl. She would kill them! Somehow, she would manage to kill them. Sooner or later one of the men would have to leave the house. She would kill the other, hide the body, reload her guns and kill the second when he came in. No quiver of reluctance disturbed her now. These monsters obeyed Chaumette, who had given the order to hurt Roger. They deserved to die.
“Citoyenne?” Danou’s voice held shock.
Leonie turned her head away sharply and covered her face. All she could do was pray that the man would take her expression of hate as a grimace of weeping.
“Here is your dinner, citoyenne,” Danou said, struggling to keep his voice smooth while his fingers twitched in a desire to beat the lachrymose bitch silly. “And a sheet of paper and a pen and ink. You will wish to write to your husband. Citizen Chaumette would like to bring him the letter before noon tomorrow. You would not want him to worry now, would you?” he wheedled.
“Yes, I will write, but please leave me alone,” Leonie whispered.
It was apparent from Danou’s expression that he was not pleased with Leonie’s attitude. Nonetheless, he complied, setting down the tray he carried, which bore the writing materials as well as the dishes. The new evidence of obedience to her wishes in anything that would not facilitate her escape calmed Leonie somewhat. It must be of importance that she should seem satisfied with her situation—at least as satisfied as possible under the circumstances. Then she must seem so, to allay suspicion. Leonie went to the table and began to eat her rather dried-up dinner, feeding Fifi what she could not get down her own throat, while she considered what to say to Roger.
Finally she drew the writing things to her. “My dearest beloved,” she wrote, “I received your letter. Do not worry about me. I have been well treated and no one has threatened me or done me any harm. I was very frightened at first, but now that you have explained why I was stolen away, I am more at ease. I do not wish to remain here and be parted from you, but since you say I must I will try to endure it with patience. Fifi is here with me and keeps me company.”
At that moment, Fifi rose and pawed Leonie’s knee, whining softly. Leonie looked down at her, puzzled, and then realized that the poor creature had not been out for many hours. She got up from the table and went to the door. Panel blocked the exit, smiling.
“My dog must go out,” Leonie said to him.
He seemed a bit disappointed by what she said, which was puzzling, but after a brief hesitation he shouted, “Danou! The citoyenne says her dog must go out.”
This time when Danou appeared from a room a little farther back and on the other side of the corridor, Leonie smiled at him. “Please,” she said softly, “the dog must be let out to relieve herself.”
“How is that to be managed?” he asked irritably.
“I saw a garden from the window,” Leonie suggested. “Can she go out there?”
“Very well. Come, Fifi,” Danou called.
But naturally Fifi would not go with him, although she whined and ran back and forth. At last Leonie asked if she could come to the back door. “My husband has told me I must stay here,” she assured Danou. “I will not try to run out or make any noise.”
The men were not enthusiastic about the idea, even with Leonie’s assurances, but Fifi began to bark and Leonie continued to plead, and finally they agreed. With a man on each side holding her by the arms, Leonie was allowed to go to the back door. Fifi followed, and when the door was opened, ran out readily. She sniffed here and there, trotted about, and then suddenly slipped through the bars of the gate. Danou uttered an obscenity.
“It is not my fault if she gets lost,” he said angrily to Leonie. “You told me to let her out. And you need not ask to go after her or expect either of us to chase her.”
“No, no,” Leonie said as calmly as she could. “She won’t get lost. She will return in a little while. You can close the door. She will bark or scratch on it when she wants to come in.”
The spurt of excitement that Leonie was struggling to control had nothing to do with fear of Fifi being lost. In a strange place, the bitch never went far. If she had not gotten lost during their trip to Paris or because of the moves they had made in Paris, she would not get lost now. However, Leonie had been stuck by an idea the moment she realized Fifi could get through the gate. She was by no means sure it would work because she had no idea over how great a distance the little dog could find her way. However, it was worth a chance. Tomorrow, after Chaumette had come and gone, she would tell Fifi to “find Roger”.
A few minutes later the dog came back, and Leonie docilely allowed herself to be led back to the parlor. There she seated herself at the table and finished her letter to Roger, telling him how much of a comfort Fifi was, how she had licked her tears away and been so well behaved, had gone out and come back quite faithfully without getting lost, so clever was Fifi she never got lost. It all seemed innocent enough, but Leonie hoped that the emphasis on Fifi and her powers of remembering where she belonged would convey some meaning to Roger. If the dog showed up at the house after the letter had been delivered to him, surely he would understand that she could lead him back to her mistress.
In the end Leonie had barely enough room to answer the question that was supposed to confirm her identity and that the contents of the letter were genuine. What was behind the warped cask? For a moment Leonie could not remember any warped cask. Then she realized it must be the one that hid the entrance to the tunnel in the château. She considered and rejected the idea of a false answer. There was no sense in making Roger frantic, he might do something desperate.
“There was a broken jug half filled with water left behind the warped cask,” Leonie wrote. That was true. Roger would remember they had left the water jug in the tunnel, and she need say nothing of the hiding place, which might bring unwelcome ideas to the minds of whoever read the letter before it was delivered.
When she had folded this missive and handed it over, Leonie professed herself ready to go back to her room. “I wish I had some sewing or some knitting,” she said to Danou on the way up the stairs. “When Citizen Chaumette comes tomorrow, do you think I could ask him to allow you to bring me something to sew?”
Danou perked up at this clear implication that she expected him to continue guarding her and assured her that he would be happy to get anything she wanted, if Chaumette agreed. With that Leonie was quite content. She smiled at Danou again when he pointed out that there was clothing for her in the sack lying on the chest in the corner, and he readily agreed to leave her some candles so that she could put it away. When the door was locked behind him, Leonie smiled again. She continued to smile as she hung up her dresses, even though the idiot who had grabbed her clothing had failed to bring any extra underlinen or nightdresses. Danou would not have been so content with this smile if he had been clever enough to read the expression, for there was a deep satisfaction in her eyes that boded no good for her captors. Once Leonie had sent Fifi out so that Roger could find her, she intended to separate the guards—she was now sure there were only the two men and herself in the house—and disable or kill them. If one device did not work, another would.
While Leonie made plans, Roger crouched in the attic of the house sweating with anxiety and waiting to hear Pierre on the roof so that he could open the trapdoor and let him in. Pierre had remained only a few minutes in the shop, just long enough for Roger to tell him it was not safe to stay, that he was being watched, although not as closely as before, it seemed. Pierre had not argued, only asked, “How can we talk?”
Roger had stared at him blankly. Too many shocks and too much worry were slowing his normally quick wits. He had shaken his head helplessly. “I dare not. They have my—Mademoiselle de Conyers. If I do anything suspicious, they will kill her.”
Pierre had gri
nned. “In a mess again, eh? I knew it. That is why I came. But it is not like you to let yourself be trapped. Surely you have a bolt-hole.”
“Hole!” The word had reminded Roger of the trapdoor in the roof, and he had described it quickly. “I can get out, but—”
“No, Pierre had corrected. “It will be better f I come in. Here we can talk and plan.”
“But how will you get to the roof?”
“Do not be a fool.” Pierre grinned at Roger again. “If I can climb a mast or a line in a storm, will I have trouble with a house or the roofs in between?”
With that, the smuggler had left before Roger could protest. In the two hours that had passed, he had plenty of time to imagine a hundred things that could go wrong, but the truth was that he had seen none of Chaumette’s watchdogs for some time. It seemed that the surveillance had been considerably lessened since Leonie had been taken hostage. Apparently it was assumed that Roger would do nothing to jeopardize her safety.
Still, Roger waited anxiously until he heard a tapping. Then he climbed on the stool he had brought from the bedroom and lifted the door. It was fortunate that he had accompanied Pierre on his “deliveries” or he would not have recognized him. In fact, he hardly saw him; blackened hands and face melded into black garb, all scarcely visible in the unlighted attic. However, he was immediately enveloped in a warm embrace.
“Eh bien, mon vieux, what sort of trouble have you fallen into now?”
“None of my own choosing, I assure you,” Roger replied, but when Pierre laughed, he laughed too.
It was incredible how his spirits lifted, not because he thought Pierre could help but because he would at least be able to talk. He led Pierre into the bedroom, where he had previously tacked a blanket over the curtains on the window so that they would be sure no gleam of light would show, and told him what had happened.
The English Heiress Page 36
