Authors: Stolen Spring
“There wasn’t time to tell you myself.”
His blue eyes glowed with anger, but his voice was cool, controlled. “Such haste. Was Monsieur de Villeneuve afraid to lose you?”
“I suppose so. I…”
“I saw him in Paris this week, you know. From afar. He looked familiar. Could I have met him?”
“Perhaps.” There was no point in explaining further. Arsène had always looked past the people who served him. Pierre had been a miller, and not worth a second glance. “Perhaps you met him years ago.”
“And so you married him. With indecent haste. It was a fine wedding?”
She bit her lip. “Yes. It was a fine wedding.”
“And an agreeable wedding night?” He even managed a smile, his mouth twisted in a hint of good humor.
She turned about and gazed into the fire. “This is an uncomfortable interview, Arsène. It serves no purpose. Why have you come?”
“For the very reason I always return to you, my sweet. Because I want you. Because I can’t forget you.” He clasped her by the shoulders and turned her about, enveloping her in his embrace. “Because you fill me with desire,” he said hoarsely.
She didn’t want to hurt him. She’d used him badly; it would be unkind now to rebuff him in a sharp manner. She extricated herself from his arms and smiled. A coquette’s smile. Tender, yet shallow. “Dearest Arsène. How fond I am of you. I had hoped you’d forget me. Find another woman more worthy of you.”
“You’re the only woman I want, you silver-haired witch.”
Warm, maternal, she patted his arm. “Oh, Arsène. Forget me. I can’t put aside my marriage vows. Even for you.”
His hand closed tightly over hers in an iron grip. He laughed, a harsh sound in his throat. “Still the tormenting devil, Marie-Rouge? With your honeyed lies? I told you, I saw your husband in Paris. I also learned why he was there. Every gossip knows that the rare Charles de Villeneuve has finally met his match in you. He who tamed a hundred women now seeks to be free of the one who’ll not be tamed.”
Oh, Pierre, forgive me, she thought. For the fresh shame she’d brought to his name. “Is that what they’re saying?”
“It’s what brought me here. I’m not as inflexible as he is. I don’t need you forever—or not at all. I’ll be content to have you only until this fever runs its course. And then you’ll be free to torment another.”
She had to put a stop to this. “You’re mistaken in what you heard. I don’t intend to leave my husband. Nor does he seek to be quit of me.”
“You lie. I know what I heard!”
“Perhaps you should leave,” she said coldly.
He growled and pulled her roughly into his arms. “Damn you!” he said. “And damn your vows! They mean as little to you as they do to me. Admit it! Come with me for a week, a day! Let me show you how I can love you. Till you forget every man you’ve ever lain with—except me!”
“Arsène. Please…let me go.”
“Come with me,” he breathed. “I’ll show you delights you never dreamed of. Ah, Marie-Rouge! All pleasures await you, with no restraints. Come with me to
Val d’Amour
!”
She froze in his embrace.
Val d’Amour!
She’d almost forgotten. The plot she’d overheard in Chartres’s bedchamber. Someone was to be killed. And Bleyle was involved. And maybe Tintin, though he’d denied any knowledge of
Val d’Amour.
But he could still be implicated somehow. And what had all of that to do with Arsène? Maybe what she’d heard in Chartres’s room had nothing to do with him. Still… She forced herself to relax in his arms. “You’re very persuasive,” she said, seeming to weaken. “And—as you’ve guessed—I’m rather vexed with my bridegroom. It might make him more fond, to come home and find me gone. But
Val d’Amour
?
It sounds quite shameless!”
He was clearly discomfited. He released her and turned away. “As a rule, I don’t use that name.”
She laughed coyly. “The Valley of Love? What is it?”
He turned around and scowled. “It’s just a joke. I have friends. When we meet for pleasure, we meet at
Val.
But don’t speak of it, I pray you.”
“But what is it?
Where
is it? Or is that a secret, even to the woman you hope to take there?”
He waved an impatient hand. “My château, Rochenard. I told you. It’s merely a name we use.” He looked at her steadily. “Will you come?”
She had no intention of going with him. But if she led him on for a while before refusing, she might learn a great deal. Torcy had asked her about
Val d’Amour.
The name had been reported to him by other agents. Arsène spoke of it merely as a rendezvous for lovers. But it must be more. Someone was to be killed there, if the plotters were to be believed. And Torcy, name of God, wouldn’t concern himself with jealous lovers who planned to destroy a rival! His concerns were with France, not frivolous courtiers. Her suspicions might be groundless, of course. But Arsène—clearly to his chagrin, as though it were a secret—had let the name slip out. It was best to pursue this a little further. “I’d heard you didn’t entertain at Rochenard,” she said.
“Only the most private of friends.”
“Will they be there, if I go with you?”
“Yes. I told you. We meet for pleasure. Of all sorts.”
“The Valley of Love.”
“Indeed.” He played impatiently with the ribbon knot on the hilt of his sword. “Will you come?”
“
Ciel
,
Arsène!” She smiled archly. “What a clumsy suitor you’ve become! The Arsène of old would have promised dances and banquets and merry companions.”
“Yes. Yes. All of that,” he muttered. “But I want your answer!”
“Not so quickly. I intend to be wooed.”
He swore under his breath. “You teasing devil. You intend to be difficult, I see it now!”
“Pish tush.” She danced around the room. “Who else will be there?” Her voice was a lighthearted trill.
He shrugged. “My usual friends.”
She clicked her tongue. “You’re so secretive.
What
usual friends?”
“Well,” he said with reluctance, “the Duc de Chartres may visit for a few days…”
God in heaven, she thought. If she recalled it right, Chartres didn’t plan to come to
Val d’Amour
until “it” was supposed to happen. The killing? Perhaps a contrived duel? Or an
assassination
?
The lisper’s friend, the one called Louis, had “the men to do it.” That sounded like an assassination. She wasn’t sure now, but she thought that “he” (
who?
)
was to be brought to
Val d’Amour
by Chartres himself. She had to inform Torcy at once! She smiled, her eyes wide with innocence. “How delightful! I’ve never met the duc. When do you expect him?”
“Soon. A couple of days, I think.”
Her heart sank. If someone
was
to die, there was no time to get a message to Torcy.
Arsène frowned. “I’m waiting for your answer.”
What was she to do? If she went with him, to learn more of the plot, she knew what he’d expect. Complete capitulation, a surrender to his bed and his lovemaking. But if she refused, it might be too late. Chartres was expected soon at
Val d’Amour.
Someone had to be there.
Now.
If the plot could be uncovered now, the king’s intendant at Tours could be sent for before Chartres arrived. To bring troops, if need be. But it would be madness to go to
Val
alone. Colinet. Of course! What could be more natural than for a woman, particularly a noblewoman with a large estate and many cares, to bring her secretary with her? For the first time she was grateful for Colinet’s cheerful ugliness. Arsène wouldn’t jealously imagine a rival in him. And Colinet could act as chaperon, spy, messenger, when the time came to notify the intendant. Until then, she thought she could play the coy mistress, keeping Arsène at bay with Colinet’s help. Ah,
Dieu
,
she thought. If only Pierre were here! She looked at Arsène. He was still waiting. She took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes. I’ll come for a few days. But only a few days. I have pressing duties here at Choisy, you understand.” That lie would justify her bringing Colinet.
His eyes smoldered with passion. “Once you’re in the Valley of Love, you’ll not want to leave. I promise you. Now, come over here, you witch. I want a kiss.”
She laughed softly. “Have you forgot so soon? I told you I expect to be wooed. Besides, the servants might come in. I don’t want my husband to hear from them that I’ve given you a kiss.” That sounded too benign, too much the concerned wife. She had to convince him of her sincerity. She smiled in malice. “When I return, I should much prefer to tell the villain to his face precisely what you and I have done!”
“You live on the edge of danger,” he said. His voice was husky with desire. “I think that’s what makes you so fascinating. Now go and pack your trifles, before I carry you off to
Val
without a spare petticoat!”
She blew him a kiss. “I’ll have someone bring you refreshments while you wait. I’ll not be long.” She opened the door.
“Wait. I nearly forgot. You needn’t bring your maid. Rochenard can provide you with one.”
“Oh, but Emilie…”
“No,” he said firmly. “The servants at
Val d’Amour
are trained to please—in every way. To cater to all your desires. You’ll find every waking moment filled with sensuous pleasures, if you wish to enjoy them. I don’t want the prudery of a provincial maid to interfere with that.” He held up a warning hand. “And don’t quarrel with me. I know what I want for you.”
She smiled weakly. She’d lost
that
battle. But she’d insist on Colinet.
She hurried to her
appartement.
Damn! Emilie was still somewhere in the park with the pup. And Madame Benichou was in the village, nursing a sick tenant. She issued orders to several of the chambermaids to pack her things, instructing them as to which gowns she wished to bring. “And send Monsieur Colinet to me.”
The maid bobbed politely. “He’s not here, madame. He’s gone to Sully.”
Her blood ran cold. “When will he be back?”
“This afternoon, madame.”
She turned about and stared out of the window. Now what was she to do? If she’d only told Torcy of what she’d heard that day! If it was as serious as it now seemed, Tintin would have had nothing to do with it. But how could she refuse Arsène now? And do nothing? She turned back to the maid. “This afternoon. Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, madame. At two. Monsieur Colinet is expecting the artist who’s restoring the painting in the salon. He told me so himself. I’m to see the man’s room is made ready.”
Perhaps it could be done after all. It was only a few hours. Colinet could follow on a fast horse. Even if he spent the night at an inn for safety he could still be at
Val d’Amour
in the morning. And after the long journey today, she didn’t think it would be too difficult to turn Arsène aside tonight. While the maids finished her packing, she sat down at her desk to write to Colinet. She wished fervently that she could write to Pierre instead. But she had no idea where he was. Even now he might be on the road for home.
In her letter she instructed Colinet to follow her at once, assuring him of the urgency of the mission, her peril should he fail her. He was to pretend he had come to Rochenard with papers for her to sign. He was to see that, whatever happened, Monsieur de Falconet was not to have access to her bedchamber. Before he left Choisy, he was to send a swift messenger to Versailles with a letter for Monsieur de Torcy, the foreign minister. He was to tell Torcy that Rochenard was
Val d’Amour
,
and that she had gone there.
She was just sealing the letter when Emilie burst into the room. “Oh, madame, what a to-do! There’s a large coach at the portico, and they’re putting all your boxes and portmanteaux into it!”
“Yes. I’m going with Monsieur de Falconet. You remember him from Versailles,
n’est-ce pas
?”
“But I haven’t packed my boxes yet!” wailed the girl.
“You’re not coming with me. Now help me finish dressing. I’ll want my velvet mantle. It might be cold.”
With Emilie’s help she completed her toilette: the mantle, gloves, a warm hood, a small silk brocade muff for her hands. Her thoughts were in a turmoil; she wasn’t sure that this whole scheme of hers wasn’t madness. Even for France’s sake. It didn’t help that Emilie kept up a stream of sour prattle—sulking about being left behind, complaining as usual about Monsieur Colinet. It was all she could do to keep from boxing the girl’s ears!