A Midnight Dance (44 page)

“Oh?”

“Viviane and Nicolas are elderly. They’re leaving my employ to live out the remainder of their days with their son. I’m afraid I don’t know where he lives. Or even his name. Their final day is tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Where are they now? Are they in Paris?”

“No, darling. They are at my château.”

She felt crestfallen. “Perhaps the other servants can tell us where their son lives? We can go to his home later . . .”

“Quite honestly, given their age, I wonder if they will even make it to the closest town. It would be a miracle if they reach their son at all.”

Crushed, she looked down. It seemed too cruel to learn about these servants when it was too late. What if these people could have made a difference?

“I have an idea,” he said. “If we leave right now, we can travel through the night and, weather permitting, arrive at my château by midmorning.” He smiled. “They’re old and slow. Chances are good they will still be there, or at least in the near vicinity.”

“Oh, Leon, do you really think it’s not too late?” she asked, hope swelling inside her.

“If we leave now, I believe we’ll catch them.”

“Then we’ll leave now.” She looked about at the crowd. She’d take Agnes, Louise, and Vincent and leave a note with one of the servants for Jules to inform him of her whereabouts. He could join her when he was through. She simply couldn’t afford to pass on this opportunity. “Why don’t you see to the carriage. I’ll get my family and meet you out front.” She stepped away.

He caught her arm. “No time for that. In this crowd, darling, who knows how long it will take to reach them. Besides, I’ve only just arrived. My carriage is likely still out front. I’ll settle you in the carriage and then leave a note with one of the servants for our hostess. She’ll see that Louise and the rest are informed, no?”

An uneasy feeling rushed over her. “I suppose . . .” Was she willing to travel with Leon alone? Be alone with him until the rest joined her?

He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry. I fear I’ve made you uncomfortable. Of course you are right. It’s only proper that Agnes or Louise come with us. Perhaps when the rest join us on the morrow, we can finish the fête we never got to have in your father’s memory. I’ll attend to the carriage as you request. Or would it be better if I helped you search?”

She was being foolish. This was Leon. Her father’s loyal friend. Always kind. Obliging. Giving. He was generously offering to leave the party and travel hours for her. She quashed her apprehension.

“No, Leon. You’re the one who’s correct. If we dally any longer, we may miss Viviane and Nicolas. We’ll leave straightaway, as you suggest.” She hugged the man she’d known since childhood. “Thank you for helping me. How can I possibly repay you for all you’ve done?”

Jules walked into the library with a decanter of Marie’s quality brandy in hand, his mask offering him the anonymity he needed. A roar of drunken laughter rushed up to greet him. He found his brother and Leopold, Marquis de la Rocque, seated together on a settee near the hearth.

The Marquis, obviously well into his cups, had tossed off his mask. Luc, however, was still masked—and convincingly inebriated. Jules watched him empty the decanter of brandy into Rocque’s goblet without adding to his own. Being around Sabine’s family was having an effect on his brother. He was putting on a fine performance.

Jules closed the door behind him and held up the brandy. “May I join you?”

The older Aristo peered at him, his face lighting up the moment he recognized the fresh supply of his favorite spirit.

“Come, come.” He waved Jules over. “Join us, friend.” He elbowed Luc. “I don’t know about you, but anyone who has brandy is a friend of mine.” He let out a boisterous laugh. Jules and Luc joined in as Jules sat down across from them.

Luc had done an admirable job of intoxicating the Marquis. The fool had no idea who Jules and Luc were. Didn’t even seem to care. Then again, he hadn’t much cared about conspiring against an innocent man and sending him to his death either.

Luc slapped Rocque on the back. “I agree with my friend here. You are most welcome, sir,” he said to Jules, slurring his words a little. “And so is your brandy.” He fell back howling, Rocque joining in, sending some of the brandy sloshing out of his goblet and onto himself.

Sobering slightly, Luc turned to Rocque, and asked, “Now that we have more brandy, wh-what shall we drink to?”

Jules held up the decanter. “To friendship!”

The Marquis shot his arm straight up in the air. “To friendship!” He tossed back a mouthful of the amber liquid.

“Friendship,” Luc concurred and brought his goblet to his lips, but he didn’t drink any.

“To parties!” Jules toasted and took a small swig from the decanter.

The Marquis and Luc joined in chorus, “To parties!” Rocque happily took another healthy gulp from his goblet.

Luc raised his goblet, his hand unsteady. “How about to pleasurable distractions—lusty women, strong drink, and a good game of
Basset
.”

Rocque gave a hearty full-bellied laugh. “Oh, friend, I do like those distractions.” He consumed the brandy in his goblet and then thrust it out toward Jules, a silent command for more.

Laughing along with Luc and Rocque, Jules refilled it. “I don’t mind telling you I have lost a fortune in that game of chance,” Jules lied.

Luc nodded. “Me, too.”

Rocque drained his goblet, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You know,” he began, swaying a little in his seat. “I shshouldn’t tell you this, but . . . since we’re gentlemen . . . an-and friends who share the same interests . . . Once”—he held up a finger—“I lost my entire fortune”—he gave a broad swipe of his arm—“in a game of cards.”

“Really?” Jules acted astonished. “You don’t seem impoverished. What did you do? Win it back?”

Grinning like an imbecile, Rocque responded, “No. I waited until they hanged the bastard who won it.” He snorted. “Never paid him a single coin.”

A dark deep rage crept over Jules. Mastering his fury by sheer force of will, he kept his features carefully schooled. “How did you manage that?”

The Marquis guzzled down more brandy, then let out a belch. “Manage it? I’d like to say I was responsible for the bastard’s demise, but . . . truth is, his misdeeds got the better of him. Perhaps you’ve heard of Charles, the former Marquis de Blainville?”

“I know him!” Luc exclaimed. “I don’t come to Paris often . . . b-but I played cards with him, too. Lost a goodly sum to the man.”

Rocque placed his arm around Luc’s shoulder. “So sorry to hear that, my friend,” he commiserated. “I don’t suppose you know he cheated?”

Jules clenched his teeth. “Cheated, did he?”

“Yes, he cheated. He was a dirty cheater,” Rocque practically spit out the last word. “N-Naaawt only did he h-h-habitually cheat, but . . . no one dared call him on it. He had the reputation of being vicious . . . retaliatory. Took offense . . . Made you pay for all perceived transgressions.
Underhanded
is what they called him.”

“Who called him that?” Jules squeezed the decanter.

The older Aristo removed his arm from around Luc and held out his goblet for more brandy. Reluctantly, Jules obliged and poured.

Rocque swallowed some of the fiery fluid, then said, “Everyone said it. It’s common knowledge.” His swaying was more pronounced.

“If you thought him to be so ruthless, why play cards with him at all?” Jules asked, his tone tight as he watched Rocque drain yet another goblet. The man was drinking the brandy as if it were water.

Rocque let out another loud belch and slumped against the back of the settee. “Blainville goaded me . . . Had to play him. You want me to lose face? Then he took me for everything.” His grasp on the goblet was loosening and tipping to one side. A few drops spilled out onto his lap without any reaction from the Marquis.

“I heard it rumored that someone set Blainville up,” Jules said. “That he wasn’t really a
Frondeur
.”

Rocque waved his hand dismissively. “That rumor’s been ’round for years. I wish it were true. Poetic justice for a man who brought misery to many. In . . . fact, gentle—men, I wish I’d been the one who’d done it . . .” Rocque’s eyes began to close.

Luc gave him a sharp shake, startling the man awake. “I heard the Archbishop of Divonne had something to do with it.”

“Arch-bishop of Div . . . onne? Don’t know anything . . . ’bout that.”

“Aren’t you friends with the Archbishop?” Jules said, despising the disparaging comments about the man he respected and honored.

Rocque shrugged. “I suppose . . . Went to visit him recently. Just before he died. Lovesick fool was mourning the death of his favorite.” Sleepy, Rocque smiled. “Thought I might coax him into a game of cards. In his depleted state . . . I’d win some coin, for certain.” His eyes fell shut, his head fell back, and his body was suddenly lax. The goblet in his hand dropped onto the carpet with a muffled thud.

Jules shot to his feet, murderous furor flooding his body. Luc was there to hold him back in a heartbeat.

“Jules, no,” Luc said. “You don’t have social standing to protect you. You do anything to a man of the aristocracy, and you will hang for it.”

Gazing down at the unconscious Marquis, Jules fisted his hands, nostrils flared, his anger escalating with each hard breath he took. But it wasn’t just ire that gripped him. A sinking feeling of doubt had taken hold, corroding his theory. The man before him was detestable. No doubt about that. Dishonorable and opportunistic, too. But Jules was having some serious doubts about Rocque’s culpability in his family’s disgrace.

“I don’t think he’s responsible.” Luc spoke the very words resonating in Jules’s head, for Rocque wasn’t smart enough to hold his tongue. Moreover, the opportunity to brag about unseating the Marquis de Blainville would have proved too tempting for him.

Merde
.
Merde
.
“Merde!”
He wanted him to be guilty. He hated the man. “Why couldn’t he be the one?”

Before Luc could respond, there was a knock at the door.

Vincent staggered in, holding his neck, Louise beside him looking pale.

“What’s happened?” Jules demanded.

“Cyr,” was all Vincent said.

“That’s not all. I can’t find Sabine,” Louise said.

That dissolved Jules’s ire. “What do you mean you can’t find her?”

“I looked for her in her chambers and throughout the townhouse. I located Raymond and together we searched. That’s when we came upon Cyr in the servants’ stairwell. Raymond dragged him back to his chambers, where we found Vincent and Agnes on the ground injured. Cyr is weeping. Says he thinks he knows where Sabine is. He won’t tell us. He says he’ll strike a bargain with you. He’ll only speak to you.”

Jules was out the door in an instant, his heart pounding in his throat. He shoved his way through the crowd, terror tightening his stomach. He had a bad feeling in his gut he couldn’t shake. The throng was but a blur of colors. A fusion of noise. A barrier that was keeping him from finding Sabine. The moment he reached the closest stairwell, he grabbed the banister and took the stairs two at a time, his anxiety mounting by the moment.

He burst into Cyr’s rooms. Tied to a chair in the middle of the antechamber, pleading and sobbing with Raymond to be released, was the rodent. Jules ripped off his mask and tossed it to the floor.

“My lord!” Cyr exclaimed. “My lord, I—I—I need your protection. I—I only tried to escape because I’m in a bit of trouble, you see. I—I can help you. I might know where the mademoiselle is. In return you—you help me.” Cyr gave him a feeble smile.

“Untie him,” Jules ordered, ignoring the surprised look on his man’s face. Raymond quickly loosened the knots in the rope that held Cyr.

Looking relieved, Cyr rose as soon as he was freed. “I thank you—”

Jules shoved Cyr against the wall.

His eyes widened. “M-My lord, what are you do—”

Jules pulled out his dagger from inside his sleeve, pinned Cyr to the wall by the throat, and drove it into Cyr’s thigh. Cyr let out a shrill cry in agony.

Slowly, Jules twisted the knife. “Where is she!”

Cyr shrieked and squirmed, his sweaty fingers clutching Jules’s wrist, but he couldn’t free himself from Jules’s hold any more than he could evade the blade slicing open his flesh.

Jules yanked the dagger out. Cyr’s knees weakened and he was back to blubbering.

“Where. Is. She?” Jules repeated, fear tearing him apart. “Who has her?”

“My lord . . . pl-please . . .” Cyr whimpered between pants, assailing Jules with wafts of his foul breath.

Jules raised his arm, poised to strike again.

“All right! All right! I—I’ll tell you!” Cyr cried.

“Yes. Yes. I—I—I won’t leave any-anything out. I swear!”