A Midnight Dance (40 page)

“Quickly? Why quickly?”

Ninette glanced nervously at Jules and then to her employer before she turned her gaze back to Sabine. “Isabelle loved to read and write. She’d rush through her chores so she could do both.”

Sabine frowned. “I helped her pack. She brought no books or writing materials with her.” In a heated moment, just before she left, Isabelle had proclaimed that she wanted nothing more to do with writing or the things that reminded her of the theater she missed so much. She intended to start life afresh at the de Moutiers’ château. Knowing what writing meant to sister, Sabine hadn’t believed her. Isabelle often let her emotions rule her tongue. She’d worried how Isabelle had managed without it. “What did she read? What did she write? What supplies did she use? She was only given enough ink and parchment to write one letter per month.”

Once again Ninette cast a wary glance at Jules and Luc and then at her mistress.

“Answer her.” Marie’s order was gentle but firm. She was a woman who could command compliance with but a whisper.

“She . . . took books and extra writing materials from the Marquis’ library and study.”

Sabine sensed Jules stiffen.

“But—But she always returned the books!” Ninette was quick to add. “She missed you, mademoiselle. Very much. Spoke of you often. She told me that reading and writing gave her joy in your absence because it made her think of you.”

The lump in Sabine’s throat swelled as tears rushed to her eyes. God, how she missed her sister.

“What exactly did Isabelle take?” Jules asked.

“A few parchments. Some ink.”

“How did you learn of it?” Jules continued.

“Perhaps Ninette is simply unaware that she was given permission by your father to have the items,” Sabine was quick to point out in defense of her sister.

Lowering her head, Ninette fidgeted with her apron again.

“What say you, Ninette?” Jules said. “Is it possible you are just unaware that she had permission to enter my father’s private study and take his things?”

“No, monsieur,” she murmured to her lap. “She admitted to borrowing the books and taking the parchments and ink when I caught her in the library. I begged her not to touch the Marquis’ things again. I didn’t want her to get into trouble.” She gazed up at Sabine. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. I don’t mean to cast a shadow on your sister’s memory. I liked Isabelle. She was funny and very smart, too. Then there was a change. Toward the end, she was not herself at all.”

“How so?”

“Sh-She was withdrawn,” the servant responded, “and shorttempered with the other servants when questioned about it. A few days before the fire, she misplaced her writings. She insisted that she kept the parchments hidden in her room. She searched everywhere. She became very upset when she couldn’t find them.”

“Perhaps someone took them,” Sabine said.

“Why would anyone want them, mademoiselle? The servants couldn’t read. We had no idea what she wrote.”

“Could someone have taken them out of spite?” she asked.

“I don’t think so, mademoiselle. Your sister was well liked among the staff. I can’t think of anyone who’d want to do that to her. Some of us helped her search.”

“Did you ever see her with her hands in the couriers’ satchels?” Jules asked.

Sabine shot Jules a glare. “What are you suggesting?”

Jules placed a hand on her shoulder. “Easy.”

“Sabine, let the girl answer the question,” Vincent urged. “We seek the truth.”

“Did you ever see Isabelle opening or placing anything in the couriers’ satchels?” Jules repeated to Ninette.

She looked at Sabine, then at her hands on her lap. “Yes.”

Sabine’s gaze darted to Jules and then Luc. Both men’s faces were taut. “Of course Isabelle was seen with her hand in the satchels. She wrote letters to her family—
with
your father’s permission. And there was the letter she wrote to Luc. How else was she to have Luc’s letter delivered?”

Jules stepped closer to Ninette. “How often did you see her do this?”

“Twice.” Ninette glanced briefly at Marie.

“Did you ask her about her actions?” Jules questioned.

“Yes, monsieur. I asked her about it both times. Both times she said that the Marquis had ordered her to place some letters in the satchels for him.”

“You didn’t believe her, did you?” Jules said.

Ninette shook her head.

Jules lowered himself onto his haunches. “Why didn’t you believe her?”

“No one was permitted to touch the satchels, except the Marquis’ personal secretary. All letters were to be given to Monsieur Bedeau. Besides, the second time I saw her adding letters to the satchels, she was weeping. She wouldn’t tell me why. That was days before she died. As I said before, she wasn’t at all herself toward the end. She wept often, all her gaiety gone.”

Sabine’s heart gave a painful throb. Isabelle was not easily moved to tears. How she hated the thought that her sister had been in such distress without her there to comfort her.

What was the reason she was so overwrought?

“Can you venture a guess as to why she was so distraught that day?” Sabine asked.

“I thought it was because—” Ninette’s brown eyes slid over to Luc and then back to Sabine. Ninette’s cheeks warmed.

“Go on.” Jules rose.

Ninette wrung her hands. “The Marquis had a gathering a few nights before. Isabelle anxiously awaited the arrival of a certain guest. She’d confessed to me that she had a
tendre
for this man. She’d asked me many questions about him. She was crushed when he didn’t attend. In fact, she’d confided once that she was disappointed that this man didn’t visit the Marquis as she’d hoped.”

Jules’s gaze darted to Sabine and then his brother. Sabine’s eyes were drawn to Luc, too, knowing, like Jules, exactly whom Ninette was referring to.

Luc lifted his brows. “What?” he said to his sibling and Sabine. To Ninette he asked, “What man do you speak of?”

Ninette exchanged glances with Sabine, then softly replied, “You, monsieur.”

“Me?” Luc was stunned. “A
tendre
?” He turned to Sabine. “How is that possible? I’ve never met this woman.”

“She saw you many times at her father’s theater,” Jules answered for her.

Eager to continue her questioning, Sabine asked Ninette, “You said you thought the reason Isabelle wept in the library was because Monsieur Luc de Moutier didn’t attend the gathering. Do you now believe differently?”

“I don’t know what to believe. She was more upset than usual. Even more than when she couldn’t find her writings. Something was terribly wrong. I don’t know what.”

“Did something happen at the gathering that would have upset Isabelle?” Sabine knew she was grasping.

“I don’t think so, mademoiselle. I know of no such occurrence.”

“Who was in attendance?” Jules asked.

“I don’t remember. It was years ago, monsieur.”

Frustrated, Jules rubbed his neck. “What about the Archbishop of Divonne? Was he there?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Did he visit often?” Jules’s patience was quickly leaking out of his tone.

Ninette shifted in her chair, looking uncomfortable with Jules’s changing disposition. “I—I don’t know. I don’t mind such things. It isn’t my place to notice.”

“Do you recall my father being at odds with anyone?” Clearly, it was Jules’s turn to grasp. “Do you remember any arguments . . . ? Ever?”

Her brows drew together. “Arguments?” She thought for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Yes! There was an argument—of sorts—at that gathering, actually. The Marquis de la Rocque arrived late and was well into his cups. There was some commotion. Your father immediately took him into his study. Sometime later, Yves was summoned to escort the Marquis de la Rocque back to his carriage.”

Luc snorted. “That’s hardly an odd occurrence. The Marquis de la Rocque is always well into his cups and causing a disturbance.”

Eyes downcast, Ninette twisted her apron again. “I’m sorry. That’s all I remember.”

“What about the events leading to the fire?” Sabine spoke up. “What transpired the day of the fire?” she asked, needing to know the details of that horrible day.

“Isabelle finished her chores early, as usual, and returned to the servants’ outbuildings. A fire started. She perished.”

Sabine blinked. “That’s it? You have no other details?”

“No, mademoiselle. That’s all I know.”

“Was she alone?” Sabine could feel her heart racing, terrified that her feeling about her sister still being alive would evaporate like the morning mist if she didn’t hear something, anything, that gave her a bit of hope to hold on to—something more than just a feeling.

“She was alone. We rushed outside and tried to douse the flames. By the time the fire was extinguished, it was too late. I’m sorry,” Ninette said sadly. “I wish I knew more.”

Sabine choked back a sob, trying to contain the tide of emotions welling inside her.
Nothing
. She’d learned
nothing
to help her find her sister. And what little she’d learned only distressed her more.

She felt a masculine arm around her waist. Looking up, she found Jules staring back at her. She buried her face in his chest, laced her arms around him, and held on, battling the anguish shredding her heart.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get the answers you wanted,” he said softly near her ear.

So was she.

And yet, despite the emotional pain, she realized that the feeling, that incessant tormenting feeling, hadn’t died. She still felt Isabelle was alive. That somehow she hadn’t perished in that fire. That the badly burned body found in the aftermath wasn’t her sister.

“Mademoiselle Laurent?”

Sabine turned, the beautiful courtesan’s face blurred by her unshed tears. She felt weary. Her limbs leaden.

“Why don’t you lie down for a while?” Marie said. “Ninette, show the mademoiselle to one of the rooms upstairs so that she may rest.”

Sabine shook her head and was about to decline when Agnes and Louise pulled her away from Jules and urged her to follow Ninette. The servant was already halfway to the doors.

Mutely, she let them escort her across the room. Just as she reached the doors, she glanced back at Jules.

The look in his eyes told her he understood how she felt. Her kindred spirit. His touching compassion swirled around her heart.

The doors closed. He disappeared from sight.

Jésus-Christ
. It killed Jules to see the pain and sorrow in Sabine’s beautiful eyes.

“Well, Brother, what do you think now?” Luc asked before the small group remaining in the
Room of Inspiration
.

Jules had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Isabelle Laurent is dead.” He’d never met the woman and yet the words were piercing his heart. He’d so wanted a better outcome for Sabine.

Vincent hung his head.

“Do you think she is guilty of wrongdoings against your father?” Marie asked.

That brought him back to his initial gut suspicion. “I think Isabelle had been used as a pawn. She’d stumbled into something that led to her demise.” He didn’t believe the fire was an accident.

But the all-too-elusive “who” remained disturbingly, infuriatingly unanswered.

When he found this “who” who’d leveled his life, and the lives of so many others, how dearly he would pay.

He reached into his shirt and pulled out from the inner pocket the Archbishop’s letter.

Opening it, he studied it. He’d read it so many times, its contents were branded into his mind. Every taut muscle in his body screamed for action, yet what action could he take?

Marie drew closer. Glancing down at the parchment in his hands, she said, “Darling, is that Bailloux’s letter? The one you said you found near his body?”

“Yes.”

“May I?” She held out her hand and he placed the letter on her palm. She immediately engrossed herself in it.

“Marie, men confide in you,” Luc said. “You’re privy to information others are not. Have you heard anything that can help us?”

Marie’s delicate brows drew together as she slowly pulled her gaze off the page in her hand. “Men confide in me
because
I never betray their confidence.”

“What about—” Luc began when Jules interrupted him.

“Luc, I have already asked her every question conceivable. She doesn’t have any information that will shed light on the situation.”

“I want to help. Truly I do. But I honestly have no information to offer.” She looked at Luc. “After the arrest of the
Frondeurs
, everyone connected to them was under intense scrutiny. Our letters were read. We were often followed. No one talked. No one dared. Everyone was afraid they’d suffer what your father and your family suffered. I couldn’t help you as I would have wanted.”

“I understand,” Jules said, though he did not. He knew with every fiber of his being that Sabine would have done more, risked more, to help a friend. A lover.