“Perfect,” Forli declared, reaching for the pan of warm water he’d demanded earlier. Wetting his fingers thoroughly, he ruffled them through the spikey hair, then toweled it briskly with the square of rough linen provided by the housekeeper. As if by magic, the ugly spikes softened into a becoming cap of silken curls.
Forli grinned. “Voilà, milord. Your handsome boy!”
Tristan felt a smile creep across his face that was echoed by the priest and the housekeeper, and even Madelaine Harcourt lost a touch of her grimness when Forli handed her a mirror.
She ran her fingers through the soft curls framing her face. “My head feels so light,” she said wonderingly. Her gaze lingered for one brief moment on the tresses at her feet; then she squared her shoulders and raised her chin in the same haughty gesture that had intimidated her Bonapartist neighbors. “It looks much better than I had anticipated. Perhaps playing the part of a boy will not be so unpleasant after all. Je vous remercie, Monsieur Forli.”
Forli’s gargoyle grin widened until it spread from ear to ear. “You are welcome, mademoiselle. But I feel I must warn you that if you wish to successfully impersonate a paysan, you will have to relinquish the more formal speech of the aristocracy in favor of the simple merci of the lower classes.”
“A point well taken, monsieur,” Madelaine said gravely and with a dignity Tristan could not help but admire, she gathered up the homespun shirt and sturdy pants and jacket the housekeeper had found for her and retired to the adjoining room. A few minutes later she emerged, the picture of a handsome young paysan.
Tristan donned the cassock provided him, and slipped the accompanying chain and cross over his head and his pistol into his pocket. He looked up to find Forli watching him, a thoughtful frown puckering his brow. “What is wrong?” he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“Nothing is wrong…exactly. But I must admit to having second thoughts about this disguise of yours. You might fool some men, but I doubt any woman who views you will be taken in. Yours are not the eyes of a priest, milord.”
“And yours is not the mouth of a prudent man,” Tristan said, dryly, leveling a look on the diminutive Italian that had been known to reduce men twice his size to quivering blobs of blancmange.
Forli merely shrugged it off. “Ah well, the church has survived the Spanish Inquisition and the excesses of a Borgia pope; it will undoubtedly survive a priest with the eyes of Lucifer.”
Tristan gritted his teeth. The little Italian’s raillery over his “devil’s eyes” was no worse than what he’d encountered time and again in the years since he’d been old enough to be noticed by the opposite sex. He’d grown accustomed to the stares and the giggles and the lewd comments his odd-colored eyes evoked. He’d even managed to live up to the reputation they’d earned him in both Paris and Vienna.
But Forli’s timing was unfortunate if Madelaine Harcourt had taken note of it. Spending days—and nights—alone with his brother’s bride-to-be would be awkward enough; it could become a nightmare if the lady got it in her head he was a threat to her virtue. He dared a single glance in her direction and, to his relief, found her at the far end of the room, busy packing a knapsack with bread and cheese.
He turned back to Forli. “The success or failure of my disguise remains to be seen. At the moment, my first concern is a means of transportation.”
Forli nodded. “I hid my cabriolet and horse in a grove of trees beyond La Croix Rousse where the Saône and Rhône rivers converge. They are yours to use, but the streets between here and there teem with Bonapartists.”
“It is too bad you are strangers to Lyon and do not know the traboules,” Père Bertrand lamented. “They are little used at night, and since one of them connects with the church, you could reach La Croix Rousse without setting foot on the streets.”
Tristan scowled. “The traboules? What are they?”
“The network of covered alleyways, built in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, which honeycomb Lyons. They are the quickest and safest way to cross the city in troubled times, as many Royalist discovered during the Terror. But they can be very confusing. Even knowledgeable Lyonnais have been known to become hopelessly lost in them on occasion.”
Madelaine Harcourt looked up from her task. “Have you forgotten that I, too, am involved in this journey?” She bestowed a look on the assembled men that proclaimed, “If you are not equal to the task, leave it to me.”
Tristan groaned. If he’d ever had any doubts she was Caleb Harcourt’s daughter, that look dispelled them.
“I am well acquainted with the traboules,” she said with quiet authority. “My grandfather taught me how to find my way through them in case the need ever arose. We visited La Croix Rousse many times to buy silk fabric directly from the weavers. I am certain I can find it again.”
“There is the answer then.” Père Bertrand positively beamed. “God works in mysterious ways. Madeleine will leave St. Bartholomew’s by the same door through which her grandparents sought sanctuary during the Terror.”
With Madelaine’s help, the priest hoisted his considerable bulk from the chair on which he’d sat while Forli cut her hair. “Follow me,” he said, and led them to a small room at the back of the church which housed the robes and vestments used by the St. Bartholomew clergy. In the center of one wall stood a massive oak door framed by a stone archway. The housekeeper turned the iron key in the lock and opened the door.
Tristan took a deep breath, strapped the knapsack to his back, and stepped through the opening. Raising his lantern, he found himself in a narrow, covered walkway walled in by huge, square stone blocks. A draft of damp, chilly air brushed his face, and the faint, sour smell of mold filled his nostrils.
A shiver crawled up his spine. He had always had an irrational dread of enclosed areas, and though he knew full well how he came by it, no amount of reasoning with himself had managed to dispel it. These ancient passageways might be the only safe route out of Lyon, but traversing them would be a living hell. He hoped to God he didn’t disgrace himself in the process. Even now he could feel his palms beginning to sweat and his knees tremble.
Behind him, the good cleric removed his own ornate chain and cross and slipped it over Madelaine’s head. “I doubt we shall meet again in this earthly life, granddaughter of my heart,” he said gently, “but I shall pray for you always. God bless you and keep you, dear child.”
Eyes glistening with unshed tears, Madelaine hugged her old friend, then stepped past the tall Englishman into the traboule that had played such an important part in her family’s history.
Holding her lantern before her, she led her two traveling companions down what seemed an interminable dark corridor and finally up a flight of stone stairs into a wide alleyway. Here the covered sections were separated by long stretches open to the moonlit sky, and the half wall was topped by a grillwork which cast eerie shadows over the walkway.
She watched Tristan Thibault lean against the grillwork and stare up at the open sky. He was breathing heavily and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. Even in the sparse light of the lantern she could see he was deathly pale.
“Are you ill, monsieur?” she asked, anxiously searching his face. Thibault’s muttered answer sounded suspiciously like a curse and he gave her a look so coldly angry, she felt the blood freeze in her veins. Acutely embarrassed, she quickly turned away. Grandpère had always claimed Englishman were a nasty-tempered lot; Monsieur Thibault proved the story true.
“Stay close to me,” she warned. “Many traboules converge near here. You could become lost if we are separated.”
Tristan Thibault instantly moved forward to walk close behind her. Too close. The heat from his body warmed her back, and every inch of her skin tingled with the awareness of his presence. She found the sensation decidedly unnerving.
It was not as if she were a green girl unaccustomed to men. She had been flattered and courted by every young Royalist in Lyon who hoped to ingratiate himself with her gr
andfather. They were French; they were charming; they were romantic; one in particular was as handsome as any hero of any novel she’d ever read—but not one of them had made her skin tingle.
How could she have such a disturbing reaction to a man who snarled at her if she asked a simple question—a man who, in the best of moods, resembled a bear with a thorn in its paw. It simply was not logical…unless she was so weakened by grief and exhaustion she was no longer capable of reacting in a rational manner. Of course, that must be the explanation. Her grandfather had been ill for so long, she couldn’t even remember when she’d last had the luxury of a full night’s sleep.
She was still pondering her dilemma when she realized they’d arrived at the spot she’d been dreading—an open courtyard onto which six separate arched passageways converged. She had not been entirely honest when she’d claimed she knew her way around the traboules. It had been years since she’d walked them with her grandfather, and the memory was vague, to say the least. But the alternative—hiding in the church, trapped and helpless—had been unthinkable.
Frantically, she surveyed the six identical arches, aware she hadn’t a clue which one led to La Croix Rousse. One wrong turn and they could be lost for hours or, worse yet, end up in one of the notorious traboules mystérieuses, where it was rumored the Black Mass was regularly celebrated. Then she would be in trouble—in the company of a “priest” whom Monsieur Forli had rightly claimed looked like a reincarnation of le diable himself.
“I must get my bearings,” she said, halting so suddenly Tristan Thibault plowed into her and Forli into him.
“Damnation!” he hissed, catching her around the waist as the collision sent her tumbling forward. He released her immediately, but not before she felt the incredible strength in his arms and in his lean, hard body.
There it was again. That tingling sensation. She shuddered, aware how foolish she’d been to put her life in the hands of this powerful stranger simply because he purported to represent her English father—and equally aware it was too late to worry about it now. Good or bad, she’d been dealt a hand; she had no choice but to play it out. Crossing her fingers for luck she made a quick decision and headed for the third arch on her right.
Forli followed her into the dark passageway and reluctantly Tristan brought up the rear, praying it would lead to another of those open areas before his traitorous nerves betrayed him. With grim determination, he forced himself to put one foot before the other and concentrate on what she was saying.
“The rear entrances of the apartments of Lyon’s wealthiest citizens open onto these traboules. When I find the door to the one that once belonged to my grandfather, I shall know we are in the alleyway that eventually leads to La Croix Rousse.”
Tristan raised his lantern and stared at the series of identical doors lining the walls of the alleyway. “How can you tell one from another?” he asked. “They all look alike to me.”
“The door I seek carries a double coat of arms, that of the Medicis, who first built the apartment when they came to Lyon in the fifteenth century, and”—her voice carried unmistakable pride—”that of the noble family of Navareil, the owners for the past three hundred years.” She paused. “Now, of course, it is inhabited by the Prefect of Lyon, a Bonapartist who was a pig farmer before the Revolution.”
Tristan heard the note of disdain in her voice and for the first time began to understand Caleb Harcourt’s obsession with marrying his daughter to a member of the English nobility. Like her mother, Madelaine Harcourt would be satisfied with nothing less. From the connotation she gave the term “pig farmer,” it was obvious she felt nothing but contempt for the lower classes.
He smiled to himself. How it must gall this descendant of the French nobility to have to impersonate a member of the peasant class…and wouldn’t her blue blood freeze in her veins if she knew the man who would be her constant companion for the next fortnight was the son of a Rookeries prostitute.
Poor Garth! Spending the rest of his life leg-shackled to this French social climber was a high price to pay for the blunt to save his title and estates. For the first time, it occurred to Tristan there were certain advantages to being the old earl’s by-blow.
It also occurred to him that he derived an inordinate degree of satisfaction from finding fault with his future sister-in-law.
It did not, at the moment, occur to him to wonder why.
Chapter Three
No more than five minutes down the chosen passageway, Madelaine began to have serious doubts that it was the one leading past her grandfather’s former apartment. For one thing the doors looked too small and too close together to be the apartments of the rich. For another, the further they progressed, the shabbier and more disreputable the area looked. Finally they reached a spot where foul-smelling debris littered the walkway and charcoal scribbles, many of them embarrassingly obscene, littered the walls.
She raised her hand to signal a halt. “I am afraid I have taken a wrong turn,” she admitted apologetically. “We shall have to retrace our steps.” Absolute silence greeted her admission. She waited, expecting a show of frustration, even anger from her two companions. Instead, Tristan Thibault stood motionless, his head raised like a hound taking scent, while Forli studied him with anxious eyes.
“There are people ahead of us,” Thibault said. “I cannot tell how many. They are still a long way off, but they are moving swiftly and in our direction.”
Madelaine held her breath, listening. “Are you certain? I hear nothing.”
“Believe him,” Forli said. “I can tell you from experience milord has the hearing and the instincts of…a fox.”
“We cannot afford a confrontation.” Thibault’s expression was grim. “We need a place to hide and so far we haven’t passed so much as an indentation in the wall.” He handed his lantern to Forli and reached for the one Madelaine held aloft. “Our only hope is to make it back to the central courtyard in time to slip into one of the other passageways.” So saying, he transferred the lantern to his left hand and grasping Madelaine’s hand in his right, took off on a run.
Madelaine’s legs were long, the Englishman’s longer, and he had a death grip on her nerveless fingers. Desperately, she plowed down the narrow traboule after him in her clumsy peasant’s boots, praying he wouldn’t pull her off her feet. By the time they reached the courtyard, her heart was pounding and her lungs crying for air. Without a moment’s hesitation, he dove through the closest archway and sprinted down the dark passageway just far enough to be out of sight of anyone in the courtyard.
“Give me your jacket so I can cover the lantern,” he demanded. Madelaine slipped the canvas jacket from her shoulders and handed it to him. Instantly, they were plunged into darkness and her heart leapt into her throat. Normally she had no fear of the dark, but the combination of the ancient traboules and this mysterious stranger set her nerves on edge.
“Wouldn’t we be safer farther down the passageway?” she asked when she caught her breath.
“Possibly so, but I prefer to stay here.”
Madelaine’s eyes had adjusted to the dark and she could see his gaze was riveted on the moonlit courtyard through which they’d just passed as if his very life depended on keeping it in view—a useless precaution to her way of thinking. She tried again. “Are we not too close to the courtyard to escape unnoticed if whoever was behind us chooses to travel this traboule?”
“If you have any influence in high places, pray they don’t.”
Madelaine sniffed. “If I had such influence, monsieur, I would not be cowering here in the dark.”
“Cowering? You, mademoiselle?” He gave a derisive snort. “I would pit you against a cage of hungry lions and wager my last shilling on the outcome—and my money would not be on the lions.”
“Am I to take that as a compliment?”
His gaze remained steadfastly fixed on the courtyard. “You may take it any way you wish.”
Madelaine chose to ignore it. She chan
ged the subject rather than show she cared in the least what he thought of her. Anxiously, she made her own study of the courtyard. “I see no sign of Monsieur Forli’s lantern. I fear we have lost him.”
“Don’t worry about Forli. He can take care of himself.”
Madelaine shivered, filled with alarm for the odd little Italian who had befriended them, and certain this callous Anglais would show the same lack of compassion if she had been the one to fall behind during their mad dash. He struck her as a man complete unto himself—needing no one, caring for no one. She found herself wondering if it was this cold aloofness that had made Monsieur Forli label him “The Fox.”
The object of her ruminations gripped her upper arm with fingers of steel, startling her to instant attention. “What in holy hell is that?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
She looked up to find a host of black-hooded figures, each carrying a candle, filing into the courtyard. At that same moment, the moon disappeared behind a cloud, leaving only the pinpoints of candlelight to outline the unearthly procession.
In silent orderly formation, the ten or more shadowy apparitions circled the open area. Then, as if defying the moon’s rejection of their diabolic order, one of them began to chant in some ancient guttural language, the likes of which Madelaine had never before heard. One by one, the others joined in an unholy harmony that sent chills skittering down her back.
“Nom de Dieu!” she gasped. “The rumors of the Black Mass are true.”
“The Black Mass?” Tristan Thibault swore softly in gutter French. “Just what we need to make this fascinating evening complete.”
For the first time since he’d barged into her life, Madelaine found herself in complete accord with her irascible traveling companion. Crossing herself, she held her breath until she saw the last of the sinister-looking figures disappear through an archway on the opposite side of the courtyard from where the two of them were hidden.
The Misguided Matchmaker Page 4
