"Nooooo…!" Sophie groaned under her breath as she spotted the Duc de Cassel sitting at the gaming tables the following morning. She could not believe she'd missed him.
She'd been up all night, fully dressed, waiting to intercept his reply to the mysterious note she'd found on his person the previous evening. But her plan had gone horribly awry when she'd fallen asleep, waking with a horrified jerk mere minutes earlier.
Her intention had been to station herself close to the duc's apartments and lay in wait until he eventually exited. Her plan had not been to seize the letter directly from him, but rather from the servant she was confident was his emissary. She'd felt more confident about being able to outwit a nervous maid than the cunning duc himself. However, in the unfortunate event she was discovered by Cassel, Sophie had taken great pains over her appearance. She'd wanted to look her best should she need to employ her feminine whiles to distract him – perish the thought!
To this end, she'd donned one of her newer gowns, a soft wool in burnt orange with gold trim around the neckline and down the centre of the bodice. The colour suited her, enhancing her fair complexion and highlighting the flecks of gold in her eyes. The fashionable pickups in the skirt were flattering on her, appearing both youthful and flirtatious. Because she'd had to dress herself in the dead of night, she'd had no help with her hair, so the best she could muster on her own was to sweep her dark mane back into a simple chignon which she'd secured with a few pins and a gold comb.
But all her planning had come crashing down when she'd realised she'd succumbed to her own exhaustion. Panicked, she'd scarcely had time to wash her face and fix her hair before she'd hurried from her apartments to the salon, hoping she'd find news that Cassel was still indisposed. The fact that he was present meant that his reply had most likely already been ferreted out of the palace.
Her heart sank. This had been her chance and she'd lost it. How would she face Monsieur Marchal knowing that she'd failed? Sophie chewed on her bottom lip and discretely exited again. This was the opportunity she'd been looking for. Using some of the secret passageways she'd recently discovered, she made her way towards the guests' wing, ensuring she avoided any servants as they rushed about doing their masters and mistresses bidding.
Taking care, she traversed through dank hallways, chilly tunnels and blessedly empty foyers before she reached the end of a long marble corridor. She'd managed to discover where the duc slumbered after plying her maid with a few pointed questions. She tested the handle of the door she was certain provided entry into Cassel's bedchamber, articulating a muted gasp when it gave way. Heart thundering, Sophie pushed in, closing the door behind her with a soft snick.
Her foremost thought as her eyes adjusted to the shadows within was that it was tiny, more like a closet than a place one would expect a high ranking noble to sleep. The king really had to be displeased with Cassel to have placed him in such a hovel. Her eyes travelled over the sparse interior, taking in the narrow bed, armoire, escritoire and chair. There were no other furnishings. Not that there was space to accommodate anything else. Through a small window close to the roof a silvery shaft of light filtered into the chamber, providing a trifling amount of cheer to counteract the overwhelming gloom. In the corner was a modest sized grate, the fire within having died down hours before.
No wonder Monsieur Marshal ransacks this place so regularly, Sophie thought. It would take no more than a few minutes to search the entire chamber from top to bottom.
Shrugging off her growing sense of disappointment, she looked around. First she stepped towards the bed, moving from the top end, around the side and down to the bottom, feeling under the mattress as she went. Nothing. Next she moved to the armoire. She wrinkled her nose as she sniffed the stench of wine and sweat clinging to Cassel's jackets. The man was a pig. After a few minutes of riffling through every part of the armoire and the clothing it contained, Sophie sighed. This was getting her nowhere. Then, more to satisfy her own curiosity than the real hope of finding anything, she perused the walls and floor, looking for any signs of a secret hiding place. There were none. At least none that her untrained eyes could detect. This entire endeavour had been pointless.
Dejectedly she strode towards the escritoire. It was exceedingly plain compared to the lavish ones she'd seen in other apartments throughout the palace. This one was made of dark wood with a modest decorative border around the edge. It had no drawers or compartments. An ink pot and a few pieces of plain parchment rested atop it. Absently she picked up the clean sheets of parchment and sifted through them. She was about it set it back down when something odd caught her attention near the middle of the uppermost page. There appeared to be an indent. Curious, she tilted the paper towards the light, her belly giving a hopeful lurch when she made out some feint scratches on the surface.
She whirled around, rushing to the grate and sinking to the floor beside it. Dipping the tip of her index finger into the black soot, she ran the digit lightly over the portion of the parchment where she'd seen the scratches. Her eyes widened. She repeated the process, this time doing so in a straight line across the page. There, before her eyes, were the numbers: 53151143154315111455. With excitement thrumming through her veins, she carefully folded the parchment and slipped it into the valley between her breasts. She needed to find Monsieur Marchal immediately.
Ensuring she left the chamber in exactly the same condition in which she'd found it, she silently exited. She was sure Monsieur Marchal was in his dungeon, but it would take some time for her to get there. She was impatient to know if he'd had any success in decoding the cipher she'd uncovered the previous day. If he had, this new piece of the puzzle might make matters more clear. Sophie knew nothing about cryptography, but she thought it rather fascinating.
Her stride shortened and her exhilaration lessened as the truth of what was happening hit home. Whoever the writer was, he or she would not have gone to such pains to hide their words if there was nothing sinister afoot. And Cassel seemed to be at the heart of it. Had he been one of the men plotting treason with her mother?
Sophie made her way past a group of workmen who were dismantling a section of scaffolding in a newly refurbished portion of the palace. It was not unusual for the royal residence to be teeming with masons, painters and other craftsmen. Since Versailles renovations had commenced years before, the nobles had become accustomed to the daily cacophony of sound as work progressed in various areas around the château.
Lost in her own thoughts, she was startled when her path was unexpectedly obstructed. She looked up, her eyes widening.
"Mademoiselle."
"Benoit," she breathed. She had not seen him since the night he'd rejected her. He looked the same as always, dressed in brown breeches and a white open-collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He wore no jacket. He'd obviously been hard at work because his shirt was slightly damp with sweat and his hands were stained white.
"You are still here," he accused, his dark eyes flashing.
Sophie stiffened. "I am."
"Why? You are not one of them," he said, jerking his head towards the window where a few nobles could be seen strolling through the gardens below. "You should be long gone."
"Shhhh!" Sophie grabbed his arm and tugged him away from the interested stares of his fellow workers. "Will you keep your voice down?"
"So your genteel friends do not know, then? That you are a fraud," Benoit said harshly, despite lowering his tone as she'd asked.
"No," she admitted reluctantly. "They know nothing."
His stared at her for a moment, then his jaw dropped. "You accepted Fabien Marchal's disgraceful offer."
"And what if I did?" Sophie asked defiantly. She would not let him make her feel ashamed for doing what she needed to survive. "I had little choice."
"You cannot be serious! The man is dangerous and immoral! You must have heard the rumours about him?"
"You know nothing about Monsieur Marchal," Sophie said, feeling an inexplicable desire to defend the man who'd done nothing but make her life miserable since the night she'd agreed to be his spy. But at least she knew exactly where she stood with him. She could not say the same for Benoit.
"Defending him already?" Benoit gave a mocking laugh. "I should not be surprised. After all, you chose to be his hired harlot rather than attempt an honest living."
"How dare you stand in judgement of me?" Sophie demanded, her cheeks flooding with colour. His cruelty hurt. "I came to you, I was honest and told you the truth! You were the one who turned me away. What would you have had me do?"
"The right thing?" he responded bitterly.
"What happened was not my fault," she said, her heart breaking a little at his inability to understand the position he'd placed her in. "I did not want to stay here, but I had nowhere else to go."
"You chose not to try," he said, shaking his head. His wavy brown hair had been tied back, though a few wayward strands had escaped to fall across his forehead. She'd always found the sight endearing. "You could have sought work. A woman like you has skills that could earn her some coin."
"I am unmarried, penniless and without any desirable connections, Benoit," Sophie countered heatedly. "I made a choice. Perhaps it was not the best one, but I do not need to justify myself to you or anyone else."
"Evidently," he replied icily.
"Tell me, what is any of this to you?" she asked, angry at him for not being who she'd thought he was and angry at herself for still caring. "You are rid of me. What I do is no concern of yours."
His eyes hardened. "You are right, of course. Please, do not let me keep you, mademoiselle. I pray you manage to maintain your ruse. I do not think life would be very pleasant for you, were your lies uncovered."
"Are you threatening me?" she whispered, aghast, unable to reconcile this standoffish man with the tender suitor he'd once been.
Benoit's eyes widened, regret flickering in their depths. "No! No, of course not. I am not that petty."
She nodded stonily, relieved. "Thank you."
He stepped closer. "Sophie—"
"I-I must go," she interrupted hastily. She did not think she could stand to hear what else he found objectionable about her. "Goodbye."
She hastened past him, feeling his gaze trailing after her. She ignored it.
Fabien was sitting at his desk pouring over the cipher. He ran a weary hand across his face; he could feel a mild headache coming on. He'd been up most of the night trying to decode the cipher's hidden message, but with no success. It was clearly about numbers substituting letters, but he wasn't sure what the missing element was that would unlock the process of substitution. And with there being no clear indication of how many numbers made up a single word, it was harder to unravel the sequence of numbers used in the coding process.
He shuffled through the innumerable notes he'd made and felt a wave of frustration wash over him. The king's life was in danger and he was no closer to uncovering who was behind the treasonous plot that would end in disaster if he did not make some headway soon. Understandably His Majesty was losing patience with his lack of results and in all honesty, he was losing patience with himself.
His eyes swept across his desk, past the stacks of books, sheets of parchment, writing implements and weapons laid out across the surface and finally settled on the carafe of wine one of his trusted servants had delivered earlier, along with a platter of sandwiches. He reached for the wine, pouring some of the ruby liquid into his empty goblet and drinking deeply; he ignored the food.
Hearing the approach of footsteps, he straightened, on high alert, relaxing somewhat when he saw Claudine, medical bag in hand. As was customary whenever she visited the palace, she was dressed as a man, in brown breeches and a matching jacket. Her absurd moustache, usually askew, was straight at present.
"If the mountain will not come to Muhammed…" she said, stepping into the room and placing her bag on his desk. "You have been ignoring my missives, Fabien."
"I do not have time for cossetting," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "You need not trouble yourself."
"Let me be the judge of that," she replied cheerfully, opening her bag and rummaging inside. "I do not think the king would take kindly to the head of his personal guard falling prey to a pesky fever because he refused medical care."
Fabien had sustained a wound to his belly after a scuffle with a traitor, and since he'd been ignoring Claudine's requests for him to see her, she'd obviously decided to track him down instead. Knowing she was persistent enough to make a nuisance of herself until she got her way, he pushed away from his workstation and stood, walking around the table towards her. While he removed his doublet, she pointed to the desk. He sat down on the edge.
Brisk and business-like, she lifted his shirt. "Hold this up, please." She then proceeded to remove the white bandages in order to inspect his wound. Her brows knit in concentration. "Hmmm…"
"Am I dying then?" he asked dryly.
"Not at the moment." She gave him a wry smile before bending back to her task and adding casually, "So, I finally met your new informant."
He went rigid at the mention of the de Clermont woman. "I am aware that it was your concoction that drugged the Duc de Cassel."
"It worked?" Claudine asked, clearly pleased. Fabien nodded. "Did Sophie find anything?"
"Yes. Although I am not yet certain what the significance of her discovery is."
"I am glad she succeeded," Claudine said, reaching into her bag to remove a glass bottle. "She is clever and resourceful."
"Why did you help her?" he questioned, watching as she uncorked the bottle and wet a clean strip of linen with its contents. Bending forward again, she dabbed it across his stitched flesh. It stung, but only mildly.
"Because she needed it. She is a sweet young woman who seemed a little lost and in need of a friend."
Fabien cared nothing for that sort of sentimentality. "Take heed. I am not yet convinced she is to be trusted."
"Come now," Claudine huffed in annoyance. Glancing down, he could not see her face, only the top of her blonde hair. "She is more lost sheep than scheming vixen."
"You do not know her," he countered.
Claudine stood upright. "And I imagine neither do you."
He narrowed his eyes at her, but she appeared unfazed by his brusque demeanour. She was one of the few people who did not seem to be intimidated by anyone, for she always spoke her mind, even to the king. Fabien respected her skill as a physician as well as her candour. Though he often found the latter quite grating.
"She is perhaps naïve and inexperienced," Claudine continued, reaching back into her bag, "but it would be a shame to see her spirit crushed."
Fabien snorted. "Clearly you do not know her well. She can be as stubborn as a mule."
"Is that so?" the physician asked, brow raised. "Good for her."
"I fail to see what business this is of yours," Fabien stated bluntly. "You have only met her once."
She merely shrugged. "That is true. However, I feel a certain…affinity for Sophie."
"She works for the crown. She must do whatever His Majesty deems necessary."
"You mean whatever you deem necessary?" she contradicted.
"Why do you care?" Fabien deflected, resenting her attempt to meddle in his affairs.
"I know a thing or two about how unfair life can be," she replied softly, applying a smelly salve to his wound. "How women suffer at the hands of powerful men. In my line of work I see desperate girls doing desperate things just to survive. I would not like to see Sophie ruined. She does not deserve such a fate."
Her words pricked at his conscience. He pushed past it. "Her fate was of her own choosing."
Claudine stared at him pointedly. "I think you and I both know she had little choice in the matter."
Her words echoed around them, swelling in the silence, making him feel the weight of them. The burden hovered over him, settling around his neck like a noose. He hated it, mentally fighting against its oppressive hold. He did not want to think about the de Clermont woman as anything other than a means to an end. He'd offered her a choice. She'd accepted. That was all.
At least that's what he kept telling himself.
"Leave the wound unbound so it can breathe," Claudine said, oblivious to his inner struggle. She stepped back and wiped her hands on a linen rag, then gestured for him to lower his shirt. "You are healing well, and there is no sign of infection. However, the stitches are still vulnerable, so take care not to tear them." Evidently she was done chastising him. Fabien tucked his shirt into his breeches while she packed her accoutrements back into her bag. "How is your investigation coming along?"
"Slowly," he said. He knew she was attempting to smooth things over between them, so he let her impudence go. "There is still much work to be done."
"Then I shall bid you good day." Snapping her bag shut, she hefted it off the table. "Send word should you need my help."
Fabien nodded and she exited.
He watched her go, his mind already locking her words away into a place where he need not ponder their meaning. He had work to do, chief of which was the interrogation of his night guards. He'd already had word that Cassel's missive had been intercepted by one of his men. He wondered what Mademoiselle de Clermont had been up to and how she felt about having failed to do what she'd assured him she was capable of.
Restless for answers, he grabbed his cloak and strode out of his office. Perhaps he would just go straight to the source.
Sophie pushed the incident with Benoit to the back of her mind and was hurrying towards the secret panel Monsieur Marchal had showed her the night before when she spied the Duc de Cassel heading in her direction. In the clear light of day it would not be possible to hide at the base of one of the statues and not be detected. Remembering that she'd prepared for just such an occasion, she straightened her spine and braced herself for the meeting.
"Mademoiselle, we meet again," Cassel drawled as he drew nearer. "How lovely you look."
"Duc," she replied by way of greeting, repressing the disgusted tremor that rose within her when he bent over her hand, the tips of his limp grey hair brushing against her skin. "You are too kind."
"I was just about to take in some fresh air." His cold grey eyes stared at her, roving across her shoulders and down toward her chest. "Would you care to join me for a stroll?"
She'd rather die, but Sophie knew she needed to ingratiate herself to him and running away whenever he was in the vicinity would not achieve that. The parchment she'd stolen from his bedchamber not half an hour before, burned between her breasts, but she forced herself to smile. "I had no idea that you had a fondness for gardens, Your Grace."
"I do not, usually," he said, offering her his arm. Sophie had no choice but to place her hand in the crook of his elbow. "But I am certain that in the presence of your beauty ordinary shrubs and bushes will be transformed."
"You flatter me," she said, sweetly.
They stepped outside onto the gravelled pathway leading through the king's magnificent exterior grounds. The gardens, still under construction in parts, were lush and green, all manner of imported and indigenous plants filling the air with the ripe, sweet scent of flowers. There were other nobles strolling about and Sophie nodded at those they passed on their way towards the Latona fountain.
The weather was mild and sunny, even though there was a crispness to the air that alluded to the coming winter months. Sophie did not have her cloak with her, but she did not think she'd need it. Provided she remained out of the shade, she'd be comfortable enough.
"Would you indulge me, mademoiselle? There is a particular spot below the fountain that offers a spectacular view," Cassel said. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, but Sophie nodded. There were people about. Surely he would not try anything untoward. "I am certain you will enjoy it."
They reached the base of the fountain.
"Is it not marvellous?" she asked, stopping to admire the fountain's beauty. Modified several times over the past few years, the water feature honoured the legend of the Greco-Roman goddess Latona, mother of Apollo and Diana, and depicted her encounter with the peasants of Lycia.
"It is rather…amphibian," Cassel replied.
Sophie nearly rolled her eyes. "Do you know the myth it represents?"
"Vaguely," Cassel said, looking mildly interested.
"The fountain illustrates the story of the Latona, who having been insulted by some peasants, seeks vengeance and transforms the offenders into frogs," she explained, then pointed toward the first of three tiers, where several golden half-human, half-frog sculptures were in the throes of their transformations. The second and third tiers featured frogs, with Latona and her children, carved from bright white marble, in the centre. "It is magnificent."
"Hmmm… yes, yes. Shall we continue?" Cassel asked, drawing her toward the steps below the fountain. The sound of the gushing water soon faded into the background the further they moved from it. "You have been scarce these past few days," he continued. "Have you been indisposed?"
So he had noticed her absence. "I miss my mother. I fear I have been sending her far too many letters."
"Ah," he said. "And how is the Madame de Clermont?"
"She writes to say she is well and enjoying her time away from the prying eyes at court. I am sure you must miss your estates?" she pivoted smoothly, hating to lie about her mother.
"Yes, indeed," he said, his jaw tightening. "Though you have been there, yourself. There is much to miss, is there not?"
Sophie did not think so. She could not imagine living in such a cold and soulless place. "Undoubtedly."
"I look forward to the time when I shall return there."
"Do you suppose that time is near?" she probed innocently.
"Perhaps," he replied with a cryptic smile that sent a shiver down her spine. "The king might…have a change of heart soon."
His tone, light and even, held an underlying hint of something that unsettled her. "I did not see you after supper last evening. Did you retire early?"
"I did. It would seem I indulged a trifle too generously in His Majesty's fine selection of wines. I was forced into my bed early. And alone," he added softly.
Sophie swallowed, aware that there were less people in this section of the garden than around the fountain. Perhaps it had been unwise to venture in this direction with a man of his repute. She stopped. "So, where is this view—"
Without warning she was forcefully dragged through a gap in the tall hedgerow. With a shriek of alarm she stumbled, falling forward into Cassel's waiting arms. He twisted and pushed her back into the shrubbery, his mouth crushing down hard on hers.
She cried out, but the sound was muffled by his mouth. He forced his tongue between her lips, his rancid breath making her gag. She pushed against him desperately, bucking wildly in an attempt to dislodge him. But her frantic attempts at escape only seemed to fuel his ardour, his rough hands everywhere at once.
Shaking her head, she managed to dislodge his lips from hers. "Stop…please," she gasped, dragging copious amounts of oxygen into her lungs.
She was about to scream when his hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her. "That will not do, mademoiselle," he hissed against her ear, forcing his pelvis against hers. "We cannot have anyone ruining the fun we are about to have."
She could feel the hard outline of his manhood against her belly, the terrifying knowledge of what was about to happen to her seeping into her paralysed brain. With renewed vigour she fought, her hands clawing and hitting against his shoulders.
No, no, no. Please, God, not like this, she prayed over and over again, tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes. She felt one of his hands reach beneath her skirts, insinuating his fingers between her thighs. She struggled harder, pushing and shoving with all her might, but for a man who seemed slight and unremarkable in stature, Cassel was surprisingly strong.
"You will like it, I promise," he whispered raggedly, licking along the curve of her outer ear. "The less you resist, the easier this will be."
"If you value your life," came a deathly cold, familiar voice, "you will let go of the lady this instant."
Cassel froze, so did Sophie. Her eyes popped open, her knees buckling with relief.
Her unexpected saviour, watching them with eyes filled with rage the likes of which she'd never witnessed before, was none other than Fabien Marchal.