Thank you so much for the lovely comments, including the ones from the guest reviewers. It means so much to see my lovely 'regulars' contributing and extra special when someone new joins in – even just the once.

I deliberately gave you a longer chapter today (I've been giving you rations recently!) – look on 27 as the starter and this is the main course for this week! Athos tries to sort out his head with regards to Milady (and doesn't fare very well!) before their paths cross and I realise how convoluted this has become. In their own ways, all the characters are indulging in lies, pretence, subterfuge – you name it, they're doing it. Hope it all reaches a satisfactory dénouement … eventually! Love the fact that one of you who reviewed said that you like to guess where a story is heading but you're 'along for the ride' with this one. Hope the 'journey' is not too uncomfortable and I promise the ride will continue for a little while yet!

CHAPTER 28

Minutes later, Desmarais was inviting the men to sit on chairs that had, in their time, been lavishly upholstered but were now suffering from age and much use, the fabric fraying in places on some and evidence of poor or rushed efforts at repairs on others. Walls, where visible, were cracked and peeling whilst portraits, probably of Desmarais' ancestors given the family likeness, had been hung to try to mask the disrepair. Several large tapestries adorned the walls and, on entering the room, Athos had surreptitiously touched them, recognising by feel and the use of garish thread that these were of an inferior quality.

He experienced an unexpected stab of sadness when a memory surged to the fore of the furnishings and décor of the de la Fère chateau in Pinon. Centuries of possessions amassed over the generations and lovingly maintained had surrounded him for more than the first half of his life. Many of the more contemporary changes had been suggested and supervised by his mother, her husband devotedly funding her plans and tolerant of her requests because he trusted her exquisite taste and eye for colour. She had tried with mixed success to tutor her two sons in the appreciation of art but Thomas worryingly questioned only the monetary value. It was her quiet, studious, older son who wondered at the aesthetic beauty of a figurine, a recently acquired painting or a hand-crafted, leather-bound book and its contents.

That was all in the past now but he could not avoid the sense of regret when he thought about the last time he had looked upon a work of art with an admiring and evaluative eye. It can only have been at the Louvres in Paris and when had he ceased noticing the riot of colour and unique, intricate craftsmanship in his surroundings? It had probably come about through the tedium of meetings, audiences with the monarch or the routine of duty.

It was nine years since he had rescinded his rights to the Pinon estate, handing the land to his tenants, and some fifteen years since he had last responded to his title of Comte but the greatest sorrow was the loss of the house, burned to ashes in the deliberate fire set by his wife in a moment of malice and hatred directed at him. It had been largely destroyed in one night, taking with it the wondrous and varied objects of many lifetimes but it had not succeeded in purging him of his memories.

It was he who deliberately suppressed all associations with Pinon, even the happy recollections of a loving childhood where, as the firstborn son, he was cherished and protected. He understood the reasons behind the sometimes harsh discipline his father meted out to him as he was prepared for shouldering the heavy mantle of duty and responsibility for the estate, its many tenants and the family's role amongst the French nobility. His father had only ever wanted the best for him, even if his methods were, at times, perverse. Athos' younger brother was his playmate, his best friend and confidant, so different from each other but de la Fères through and through – two sides of the same coin.

He adored his mother, from whom he had inherited the traits of sensitivity, and her decline in the last year of life and then her premature death left him bereft and wrought a brutally negative change in his grief-stricken father which never eased until he breathed his last. Thrust into title and duty before he expected, Athos had toiled ceaselessly and tirelessly for the estate for such was his work ethic; he knew no other way.

Until Ann came into his life - an exotic and beautiful whirlwind who could take his breath away with one look, taught him to love with an abandon and passion that he had never thought possible, teased him beyond distraction and convinced him that he was the only person who mattered.

Until she brutally murdered his brother – stabbed him once through the heart because, as she claimed he had attempted to force himself upon her. It still sickened him when he thought of his brother, lying in an ever-increasing pool of blood as she fell to her knees, further evidence of her crime staining the purity of her white dress, and begged Athos to believe her, that she was innocent and that if he truly loved her, he would defend her with every fibre of his being.

How could she have ever doubted that he loved her? He proclaimed his love with a wholeness and intensity that frightened him; that left him reeling until, at times, he believed himself devoid of rational thought. She was his world, even though he had to uphold the law he lived by, the law he represented, even when it smashed his heart into a million shards as he uttered the words that condemned her to the hangman's noose.

His feelings had been a maelstrom of extremes when he discovered, five years later, that she still lived and was intent upon bringing about his death in partial recompense for what had happened to her and which had left her permanently scarred around her neck. Theirs had then been a rocky road for nearly two years, fighting against each other and then reluctantly uniting in a final battle against the deranged Rochefort. In one moment of heady, desperate weakness, they had almost reignited their passion and Ann had offered a tempting olive branch, inviting him to leave everything behind and to join her in a new life in England.

Such was the spell she still had over him, that he had almost succumbed, almost convinced himself that he could surrender the life he had created within the musketeers, abandon the brotherhood he had forged with the other Inseparables and Tréville in order to go with her, but his promotion to Captain and the outbreak of war with Spain had changed all that.

In truth, he could not say whether he really intended to join her or wanted to say a final goodbye, but he had relived a bitter-sweet grief at night alone in his tent at the front, terrified in the dark hours of the responsibility he had been given whilst stoic and composed once the sun came up, a trusted leader of men.

He had only seen her once more, back in his office at the garrison four years later. It was as if his legs had been knocked out from under him, such was his shock, and he had staggered against the doorframe when he beheld her once more. Pure instinct forced him across the room to take her in his arms and crush his lips against hers ….

But she was not Sylvie.

His damaged heart had taken years to heal and he had deftly held off the interest of a number of women, for his noble bearing, handsome looks, bravery and quiet intelligence had attracted many. Sylvie, though, had been so different. He had struggled to remain detached, not to become involved, but he had failed and, with her unconventional loveliness that was a true reflection of her warm and generous nature, he had eventually surrendered to her affection. He had loved her purely and simply because she was everything that Ann was not.

Now Milady had returned to threaten that blossoming relationship. When she made flippant mention of Sylvie, it was as if she had no right to speak her name and he feared what she might do, that she might exact some manic revenge because he had dared to love another. Ann brought out the worst in him, made him feel helpless and utterly ashamed of himself, but it was still a horrific surprise when he realised that his hands were at her throat and his warning to stay away from Sylvie was ground out from between clenched teeth.

Then she had gone and, eventually, he and Sylvie had left Paris, ostensibly to make a new start that had been denied him with Ann. He had been painfully honest when he said to his brothers that he did not know how he would react when he saw her again. That was exactly how he felt now – in pain. The anticipation of her appearance was not inducing a stabbing, debilitating agony that could drive him to his knees in an instant, but an incessant, gnawing ache that worsened as the minutes passed.

If truth be told, he was frightened – of her, of himself and how he might respond to seeing her after another three years or more. Did he have the strength to stand firm against her wiles? He had to focus upon the task in hand in bringing down Desmarais and could not permit any distractions. He also had to hold fast to the memory of Sylvie and Raoul, give them the respect that was their due and that did not include any intrusion by the woman who was still his wife.

All this and more passed through his head in seconds before he suddenly realised he was being addressed by Aramis.

"Emil! Emil, the Baron has invited you to sit as well." Aramis smiled but there was no denying the worry in his eyes at his friend's lapse in concentration. He indicated a high-backed, hard chair positioned almost directly behind him.

Conscious that all eyes were on him, Athos' cheeks burned at his immediate error as he had failed to respond to his new name and he hastily sat down. His role of personal secretary to the First Minister may not have had him on an equal social footing but he far outranked the likes of Benoit, who stood against the opposite wall and blatantly stared at him, and the servants who busied themselves in setting down trays of refreshments and serving the assembled men.

"And this is ….?" Desmarais began, condescension heavy as his voice trailed off and he nodded in Athos' direction.

"Emil Allard, my secretary," Aramis announced breezily. "He has not been with me long and is a little overwhelmed as this is the first time I have had him accompany me out of Paris."

Porthos cleared his throat to mask his snort of amusement for he was sitting at such an angle that he was in the right position to see both Aramis and Athos beyond, and he could not miss the glare the swordsman had given the Minister's back.

"I did not think you travelled much from Paris these days," Desmarais continued, waving away the servant who was holding out a tray of delicate pastries for selection.

"Work has kept me too much within Paris and the palace itself," Aramis easily countered. "Now I am far more familiar with my role and its demands, I have other trusted employees with whom I can leave matters. I have been thinking more of late that I need to visit the distant parts of the country, let people know that the Crown, council and Paris have not forgotten them."

"That is good to hear but I would not have described Louviers and its surrounding area as a 'distant part of the country'."

There was an edge to Desmarais' voice and Benoit was wishing that the Baron would heed his own advice; he was not to arouse any suspicion with the visitors. His tone needed to be tempered in that case.

Aramis gave an airy laugh. It was the practised, empty, ineffectual laugh of the courtier and he took in Porthos and d'Artagnan with a glance so that they too gave a little burst of apparent amusement. Only Athos remained stony faced, aware that Benoit continued to study him closely and he wondered if the man presented a danger, recognising him from his smallholding. He could not know that Benoit was still trying to place him and verify that he was another ex-musketeer.

"Of course this is not distant," Aramis said dismissively, "but I decided that I had to start my trips somewhere so here was as good a place as any."

"But you must have had some reason, Minister," Desmarais pushed. "You cannot have decided upon such a journey as a ride for your health. It has evidently not been without incident for it has not escaped my notice that the Captain here and your secretary both seem to be injured." He had the sense not to look at Benoit at this point.

D'Artagan's hand went up to the cut on his head that was already forming a dark coloured scab whilst there was a tightening of Athos' facial muscles.

"Oh, a little mishap in a canyon; a slight rock-fall, that's all. Nothing serious and it hardly detained us," Aramis assured him.

Benoit shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, much to Athos' satisfaction. He saw it as a confirmation of the man's part in the incident and he decided to engage in the staring match, his expression an unspoken communication to the other man that he held him responsible for the rock fall.

"Your reasons?" Desmarais asked again.

Aramis gestured towards him with the goblet of passable wine he had been sipping. "I thought I could begin not too far from Paris and with someone I knew, especially one who had so cordially invited us to dinner. In my mind, I was just changing the venue and do not wish to put you to too much trouble." Aramis flashed another smile, one that was passably sincere.

"I will have the women air rooms for you on the third floor; there are four currently vacant next to each other that I hope will be to your satisfaction," and Desmarais raised a finger to call the remaining servant who was standing unobtrusively in a corner. Once he had been despatched to pass on the instruction, the Baron considered the entertainment of his guests. "Would you be wanting to do any hunting? I can arrange it for you."

It was an unfortunate turn of phrase, given the reasons for the Inseparables being there and they studiously avoided making eye contact with each other.

Aramis shook his head. "No, no. There will be no need."

"Oh?" the Baron was perplexed and wondering how he was expected to keep them occupied.

Any superficiality in Aramis demeanour disappeared in an instant. "We will not have the time because we want to explore the region, talk to the local people; you know the sort of thing."

"Talk to the people?" Desmarais had gone pale and his voice had risen perceptively. He took a large mouthful of wine in haste, swallowed it incorrectly and dissolved into a coughing fit.

D'Artagnan pretended not to have noticed as he took the lead in the conversation. "We were concerned when you told us of the uprising. We cannot have French citizens taking it upon themselves to behave in such a manner, because they do not accept a ruling from Paris. I know you said order had been resumed but we felt it was incumbent upon us to ensure that that was the case. As a loyal subject to the Crown, it is inconceivable that you have had to endure such insurgency. The Minister believes that his presence and authority will give a hard message to all those who thought to oppose this revised taxation. It is vital that we ascertain whether such unrest has spread further afield so we will be visiting other places too."

Beads of perspiration were on Desmarais' brow but his sense of panic was exacerbated as Aramis spoke again.

"Whilst we are making our rounds of the various estates, we would look at ledgers to see the accounting. It is routine and I am sure there is nothing amiss in your records," he grinned broadly.

Desmarais gave a wan smile in return. "I thank you but you need not have bothered. Perhaps I gave an erroneous impression when I reported the incident to you in Paris. Time and distance have shown me that I exaggerated a little. The situation is totally under control and those trouble makers directly involved have been removed."

"You mean the prisoners on their way to Paris?" d'Aragnan clarified.

The Baron nodded keenly.

"And the ones who were killed?" came a low, menacing voice from the background.

"There were some fatalities, I agree, but I was assured that it was unavoidable," Desmarais was almost squirming under the icy gaze that had him fixed in his chair.

"Unavoidable?" Athos spat but Aramis reached out a calming hand to prevent any further outburst.

"I lost men too," Desmarais reminded them, frowning at the forward behaviour of a mere secretary.

"What Emil means is that we would like to speak to your men who were involved so that he can take down the particulars. I have instituted a new policy that such events should be reported in detail and preserved in records held in Paris so that we see any trends developing so that we can assist in dealing with them promptly and effectively," Aramis explained, creatively.

"There was a time when a noble could look after his own problems," the Baron complained.

"And for the main part, we would not dream of interfering but when the unrest is the direct result of a directive from Paris and you have brought your concern to the ear of the Minister, we cannot ignore it," d'Artagnan added reasonably.

Desmarais did not appear totally convinced but he let the matter rest as another thought struck him.

"You have come to speak with troublesome tenants but there are only the four of you, or have you left a contingent of men beyond my gates."

"There are just the four of us," Porthos confirmed.

"And you do not worry for your safety?" The Baron was incredulous.

Aramis gave a spontaneous chuckle. "I may be the First Minister but, as an ex-Musketeer, not so much time has elapsed that I have forgotten what to do. Besides, Porthos here is a serving General and d'Artagnan the current Captain. We have served together long enough to know each other's skills and methods."

"And what of your secretary? He looks barely strong enough to wield a sword, especially one as fine as that which he wears at his hip," and with that, Desmarais turned all attention on Athos as Benoit's suspicions as to the man's true identity came to mind. It was hard to believe for the man looked sickly, gaunt and thin.

"Oh, Emil?" Aramis leaned forward conspiratorially. "I will concede he does not look robust at present as he is recovering from a recent bout of illness but I credit him with knowing that the pointy end hurts and he has a rudimentary knowledge of how to use it. It is a fine weapon, indeed, but do not be fooled; it is a piece he inherited and wears it mainly for show."

The reaction to Aramis' comment was varied. Porthos and d'Artagnan did not dare look at each other – or anybody else for that matter – for the description of Athos' supposed sword skills could not have been further from the truth and they were, as a consequence, highly amused. He scowled, Desmarais thought it a reasonable explanation and Benoit was not convinced.

There were two doors into the room, the one they had used for entry and another at the opposite end. As he swivelled round in his chair to say a conciliatory word to his 'secretary', Aramis heard this second door open behind him. He did not even have to wait for the newcomer to speak to know who had entered; he only had to look at his friend's expression.

Athos' breath hitched, his face blanched and the green eyes widened barely perceptibly but Aramis had seen it.

"Auguste, I am so sorry to interrupt; I did not realise that you were receiving visitors."

The familiar, sultry tone with its hint of breathy excitement was unchanged.

It was Milady!