"Drugged?"
Sophie tried hard not to fidget under the weight of Monsieur Marchal's intense scrutiny. He was the last person she'd expected to encounter this evening. Whilst she'd been relieved to see him at first, the feeling had vanished the moment she'd realised that he did not care to partake in her moment of triumph.
"Yes."
"How?"
She hesitated, not sure how he'd react to knowing that she'd made a new friend. But lying would be pointless. He seemed to know everything. "Mademoiselle Masson. She provided me with a…tonic."
Her news appeared to have no outward effect on him as he turned from her and glanced down at Cassel. The duc was lying in a pathetic heap, his mouth slightly ajar. "I assume the plan was not to render him unconscious in the middle of nowhere?"
His sarcasm chafed. "I fear I slipped him a little too much of the medication meant only to make him drowsy. I was following him hoping that he would enter his apartments and fall asleep directly, but unfortunately he seems to have lost cognizance before reaching his intended destination."
"Evidently," he concurred dryly. "How could you be certain of where he was headed?"
"I overheard him tell one of his set that he was retiring for the evening. I took that to mean he would seek his own bed."
His dark eyes met hers challengingly. "And if he did not?"
She bristled. "The duc is known for many things at court, monsieur, but being a sought after lover is not one of them," Sophie replied, unable to hide her distaste. "I am quite certain he would have spent the night alone."
Monsieur Marchal considered her in silence before he lifted the missive. "And this?"
"It was given to him by one of the servants. She is the same woman who gave him a note earlier today."
"There is another?" he asked swiftly.
"There was, but I did not manage to intercept it quickly enough," she confessed, hating to admit her folly. "That is when Claudine and I hatched a plan to retrieve it. Though I suspect it has most likely already been destroyed."
His jaw tightened, but he did not say anything more as he shifted his attention back to Cassel on the floor between them. The duc had not stirred once since they'd found him.
"What happens now?"
Monsieur Marchal turned the missive over in his hand. A stab of excitement coursed through Sophie. What if she had obtained some vital clue?
"I get answers." Abruptly he set off the way they'd come.
"Wait!" Sophie called, stunned by his hasty departure. He froze and turned. She took a tentative step after him. "What about the duc?"
He shrugged. "He will likely remain oblivious for some time."
"So you are just going to leave him here?"
"If I had not stumbled across you, what would you have done with him?"
Sophie stared at the unconscious man at her feet. Truth be told, she had not pondered the possibility that he might not make it back to his quarters. "Left him as is."
Monsieur Marchal made to leave a second time. "W-wait!"
"You try my patience, mademoiselle," he snapped.
Ignoring his displeasure, she forged ahead. "What of me? I was the one who discovered the note. I should be there when you uncover what it says. That is what you are about to do, is it not?"
He regarded her quietly - watching, weighing, judging. He gave nothing away in either his body language or his facial expression. It felt as though those dark eyes could see right through to her very soul, stripping her bare and laying all her secret insecurities out before him. It was terribly unnerving, but Sophie forced herself to endure his probing study. She had nothing to hide.
Then suddenly he was done, turning away and opening the door leading out into the corridor beyond. He was leaving her behind. She sagged in disappointment. It seemed like it was perfectly acceptable for him to use her for information, but he would not share anything beyond the superficial with her. The man was insufferable. And arrogant. And—
"Well?" he called brusquely. "Are you coming?"
Shocked but pleased, Sophie did not wait to be asked twice. She leapt into action, clutching her skirts as she scrambled after him. She was practically running to keep up, but she did not dare complain. If he sent her away, she would never know what the missive contained and she had to admit that there was a certain excitement to be found in covert operations - an exhilaration she had not anticipated.
Whilst most of the palace slumbered, the whisper of her skirts and the slight clip of her heels on the intricately laid marble mosaic floors, broke the monotony of silence. The king's residence, still very much under construction, was a marvel of modern engineering and sophistication. It was decadent and opulent and breathtakingly beautiful. Beyond the unsightly scaffolding still dotted around the interior of the palace, was the promise of what Versailles would certainly be in years to come - the Sun King's most glorious legacy.
Ahead of her, his wavy hair swaying against his shoulders, Monsieur Marchal strode purposefully down a long hallway, his brown cloak billowing behind him. Tall, arched windows focused shafts of blue light across their path and directly onto the exquisitely carved marble statues perched proudly atop high plinths. It was a corridor Sophie was familiar with as it was close to the entrance to the palace and usually bustling with people during the daylight hours. Now, long past midnight, it was strangely eerie and desolate. Moving quickly, Monsieur Marchal's thigh-high leather boots made barely any sound at all as he negotiated their moonlit course. For such a large man, he was surprisingly graceful, she thought, then recoiled. Why on earth she'd think of him in those terms she had no idea.
"Where are we going?" she asked, slightly out of breath.
He ignored her and kept walking.
Annoyed, Sophie quickened her steps to get closer to him. "Monsieur, I asked—" He stopped so abruptly that she barrelled into his back, the feeling akin to walking into a stone wall. She would not be surprised if her skin was bruised come sunrise.
Before she could regain her composure, she felt herself being tugged sideways into the shadows at the base of one of the statues. The air in her lungs escaped in a whoosh as she was pinned to the cold marble, Monsieur Marchal peering down at her. She opened her mouth to protest his coarse treatment when he placed a gloved finger to his lips, commanding her silence. Her mouth snapped shut as she listened closely. Judging by the approaching bouts of drunken laughter, she knew it to be a few inebriated noblemen.
Still panting in an attempt to get her breathing under control, (traversing the palace corridors at any speed above a stroll was definitely not considered de rigueur for gently-bred young women) Sophie became intensely aware of their intimate position. The first thing her mind registered was how tall Monsieur Marchal was – he loomed at least half a head above her. The second, more startling fact, was that her body was quite firmly wedged against his from breasts to knees. With the marbled base of the statue behind her and one of Monsieur Marchal's hands clamped against her waist, there was literally nowhere to go.
She'd never been this close to a man before, had never felt the hard and unyielding strength of a grown masculine body pressed so familiarly to hers. Whilst Benoit had certainly been an ardent suitor, he'd never taken any liberties she'd not given freely. He'd kissed her and held her, but never pushed beyond her chosen boundaries. At the time she'd thought him perfectly wonderful. But this… well, this felt different in an alarming and intimidating and…oddly alluring way.
Sure that her cheeks were aflame, she stared down into the white lace of Monsieur Marchal's jabot, aware that her pulse was suddenly roaring in her ears. The confined, darkened space seemed to heighten her senses, making her ability to feel and perceive scents that much more acute. She could smell the traces of leather and starched linen on his skin, of herb infused soap in his hair, could feel the heat of his body through the numerous layers of her clothing. It was frightfully intimate. And the more she breathed, the more she seemed to inhale the very essence of him, until it felt as though he surrounded her both inside and out.
Sophie swallowed, attempting to wet her parched throat. The footsteps grew closer, as did the rough chatter. The men were nearly upon them. Monsieur Marchal tensed, pressing infinitesimally closer. She was not even aware that she'd closed her eyes, that her head had swayed forward until she felt something firm, yet soft, hit the middle of her forehead. Her eyes shot open and she realised she was staring at his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. His lips! His lips were resting in the valley between her brows!
Mortified, Sophie jerked back just as Monsieur Marchal let her go. Her sudden freedom came as a surprise, the momentum of her backward motion forcing her head into the marble with a heavy thud.
She winced, but before she could raise her fingers to investigate, she felt two hands at the back of her hairline, probing upward against her skull with surprising tenderness. Monsieur Marchal's movements were brisk and efficient, yet gentler than she would ever have expected him capable of. It surprised her.
Within seconds he retreated. "You might have bump in the morning, but I suspect you will live."
"You do not have to sound so disappointed," she retorted, annoyed that he appeared as composed as ever while she felt so, so…. unsettled. Her own fingers rose to examine the skin at the back of her head. It felt tender, but not really painful.
"They have passed. Hurry," he commanded, scanning the area before leading the way through a concealed panel in the wall. She must have walked past it a hundred times and never knew it was there.
Sophie followed, still a little unsure of what had just occurred – if anything at all. "Those noblemen would not have thought it odd to see you monitoring the palace corridors at night. Why did you hide from them?"
He glanced at her askance. "I was not hiding myself. As you say, it would not have been unusual for them to see me, but to see you with me would have caused gossip you can ill afford."
She dipped her head. Of course. Her association with him was not known to anyone at court other than the King, Claudine and perhaps Monsieur Bontemps. If they were caught together by any of the nobles this late at night, her reputation would be ruined. And her usefulness to him would come to an abrupt end.
"Monsieur, about what transpired a few moments ago—"
He stopped at another door, his hand on the doorknob. "What exactly just transpired?"
"By the statue, my brow grazed against your…lips," she explained. Spine straight, hands clasped before her, she met his unfathomable gaze with far more outward confidence than she felt inside. "I would like you to know that I was not making any…romantic overtures toward you. It was dark and I did not realise how close you were and, well, it did not occur by design." There. She'd said it.
"The thought never crossed my mind." Sophie felt a moments relief until he added, "After all, you would have to be a fool to throw yourself at a man who has already rejected you." She gasped, but the sound was masked by the creaking door as it swung open. "Follow me."
Anger, embarrassment and humiliation warred inside of her, overwhelming whatever confusion she'd felt moments before. She stood frozen, watching as he disappeared ahead of her, unsure of how to proceed. A part of her wanted to turn on her heel and run as far from him as her feet could carry her. He was hateful! But the other part wanted to know what the missive contained and if she allowed him to best her now, she knew instinctively that he'd never grant her another such opportunity.
Wrestling her resentment into submission, Sophie took a deep breath and raced after him, realising that they were entering a portion of the palace hitherto unknown to her. There were a series of staircases that led down into a narrow, drafty, poorly lit corridor. She shivered, lamenting the fact that she did not have her cloak with her. They were clearly no longer in the part of the palace reserved for the king's guests. This labyrinth of tunnels and passages descended into a shadowy underworld that was now as much a part of her existence as it was a part of Monsieur Marchal's. They branched off and she waited as he rapped on the outside of a door that appeared to be bolted from the inside.
When the door swung open, Sophie inhaled sharply, stepping into a large rectangular room with high ceilings and small cut-out windows. The floor was bare stone, the walls lined with wooden bookcases that were filled with leather-bound tomes and rolls of parchment piled haphazardly atop one another. There were at least a dozen men sitting at a long trestle table as candles flickered overhead, flooding the room with light. There were writing implements such as quills and ink pots covering the working surface in a neat row down the middle, with stacks of parchment heaped high on either side. Blessed warmth was provided in the form of a roaring fire in an unusually large grate. Stepping closer to the table Sophie noted that some of the men were reading letters whilst others were…copying them.
She blinked, then glanced at Monsieur Marchal, momentarily forgetting her ire. "All correspondence entering and exiting the palace is intercepted and read. If it is deemed suitably innocuous, it is sent on. But if it contains anything remotely suspicious, it is copied before being resealed and posted."
Sophie stared, stunned, trying desperately to remember what inane trivialities she'd shared in her own correspondence since arriving at Versailles. These men must have read it all. It was mortifying. "This is a gross invasion of privacy that must certainly be criminal."
Monsieur Marchal raised an insolent brow. "As is treason."
Naturally, he was right. If the king had a desire to know what the members of his court were truly thinking or doing, he had only to read their letters. Staring at the men bent diligently over their tasks, it occurred to her that Monsieur Marchal had instructed her to copy any correspondence she managed to divert, but he'd never told her how. Vexing man had been hoping she'd fail.
"What about the seal? Surely the receiver would realise that the note had been intercepted if the seal was broken?"
He nodded. "The challenge is therefore not to break it."
To demonstrate, he waved a sandy-haired young man away from his workstation and removed his gloves, discarding them onto the wooden table before him. He held the missive in one hand, unsheathing his dagger with the other. Heating the blade over the open flame of a candle, he turned the hilt around in his palm until he was satisfied that the tip had reached the required temperature. Fascinated, Sophie moved toward his side, watching as he carefully inserted the knife-edge between the red wax seal and the parchment. His large hands, capable of killing, was so patient, so gentle, as he carefully worked the hallmark loose until it finally separated from the parchment.
A thrill of anticipation in her belly, Sophie peered over his shoulder, getting the first look at what her handiwork had managed to uncover.
Fabien stared down at the parchment in his hand and frowned.
3124342221354345342422234512154315111455
"Numbers?" Sophie asked, confused.
Scowling, he murmured, "A cipher."
"Oh….Do you know how to read it?"
"Not yet." Fabien stared at the long line of figures, not sure where to begin. This was no ordinary missive. If the writer had nothing to hide, he would not have gone to these pains. He turned the page over and stared at the seal. It was a generic signet, incapable of identifying its dispatcher.
"What do we do now?"
"We?" he drawled.
She tilted her chin defiantly. "I found the letter."
"Yes, so you did."
Fabien's gaze travelled over her. Despite the late hour Sophie looked completely alert, her cheeks a little flushed, her eyes bright and eager. The pale pink of her satin embroidered gown complimented her rosy complexion as did the styling of her hair, bound into a gleaming mass of dark, intricate curls. It was easy to see how the Duc de Cassel would be taken in by her charms. Innocent as she was, she had to know the effect she had on men and the ways in which she could manipulate them to suit her own gains.
For a moment when he'd had her pinned against the marble pedestal, he'd almost forgotten who she was. His purpose had been to conceal their presence from the midnight revellers. However, without the benefit of sight, it was easy to imagine that she was someone else, anyone else. Despite her unfortunate pedigree, she was still a woman with a woman's curves – soft and gently rounded in all the right places. And her scent, a delicate whiff of lavender, had teased his senses, stirring that which he was loathe to identify. Whilst that had all been mildly distracting, it had been the feel of her warm, satin smooth skin against his lips that had nearly ruined all of his self-imposed prohibitions. It had evoked an unexpected jolt, an unwanted surge of feeling, the likes of which he'd never experienced before. Appalled, he'd pushed her away, her own shocked retreat enough to satisfy him that she had not sought the caress deliberately. He would not be manipulated by another woman in the de Clermont family ever again.
Vexed by his train of thought, he addressed the scribe whose workstation he'd commandeered. "Copy this exactly, then reseal the letter. Be quick."
"Will it be returned to the duc now?" Sophie asked.
He nodded. "He should remain none the wiser."
They watched as the scribe diligently copied the numbers, the handwriting identical. It was not strictly necessary as the reproduced document was for Fabien's use, but it was good practice. He heated Fabien's blade a second time, using it to soften the wax sufficiently before resealing the letter. Fabien took the original letter and the copy, handing the former to his man at the door and placing the latter into the slit between his shirt and doublet. He explained where to find the duc and stressed where the letter needed to be placed in order to avoid raising the duc's suspicions. Lastly, he reclaimed his dagger and sheathed it at his side.
Satisfied, he turned to Sophie. "You should get to your bedchamber."
She shook her head, her dainty gold and pearl earrings bouncing against her neck. "But what about the duc? Will you not ask him about the letter?"
"No, and do not speak of it to anyone," he warned, steering her out of the room. "The only way to expose the entirety of this treasonous plot is if those who are culpable do not know they are within an inch of being discovered."
She fell into step beside him. "Do you think the duc will respond to the sender?"
"Yes."
"Then we need to see his reply."
"I will see to it."
"But how? You have just mentioned that you cannot allow him to know he is being watched. If he saw you or any of your men lurking around, surely it would rear his suspicions?"
"I would remind you that I am not the amateur here," he derided.
Sophie remained silent for a moment, then said, "I will get his reply."
Fabien's steps faltered. "One stroke of luck does not a competent spy make."
"I can do it," she said stubbornly.
He stopped beneath the light of a flaming torch. "Somehow I doubt that."
"You employed me with the clear instruction that I need to do whatever necessary to gain information for you," she said, clearly annoyed. "Yet when I volunteer to do just that, you are reluctant to trust me."
"Trust?" he scoffed, rounding on her. "To be clear, mademoiselle, I do not trust you. It is a sentiment that needs to be earned and you, I fear, have a long way to go."
"Nonetheless," she replied, gritting her teeth. "You have set me upon this course. I intend to see it through."
"Why this sudden fervor?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "When last we met, you were lamenting your lost fortunes."
"When last we met I was forced to face the fact that my life was in ruins!"
"How quickly you seem to have recovered," he taunted.
"I cannot win with you!" Sophie burst forth, anger flickering in the depths of her eyes. "You assigned me this duty and now you blame me for taking too much interest in it. Were you hoping that I would sink under the weight of your indifference and run away?" Her chin rose stubbornly. "I will not."
He refused to examine the hypocrisy of which he stood accused. "Tell me, how do you intend to perform this feat?"
"You said that you were not concerned with my methods, monsieur, only the outcome," she reminded him coolly.
Not for the first time it struck him that she was braver than she looked. He'd been surprised by her success in retrieving something of potential value from the duc. He'd honestly expected her to fail dismally, or at least to give up. The fact that she'd befriended Claudine and devised a scheme that had actually worked was to her credit, he grudgingly admitted. However, this was a serious matter that could very well be time sensitive. He could not afford to have the bumbling attempts of an inexpert ruin his chances of catching the traitors amongst them. He would need to brief one of his best men to monitor the whereabouts of his intrepid charge. The last thing he needed was for her to inadvertently ruin his investigation.
"This is not a game," he reminded her.
"I am well aware of that," she replied with feeling. "One of the few people at the palace who treated me with genuine kindness became an unfortunate pawn in a dangerous scheme no one seems to understand, not even you," she accused.
Her words reminded Fabien of his own failings. The fury in his gaze seemed to have a sobering effect on her for she swallowed awkwardly, taking a small step back before folding her arms defensively across her chest. The move drew his eyes to her bosom, where the tops of her breasts strained against the confining fabric of her corset and gown. Overhead, the torch's flames danced across her bare shoulders, highlighting the delicate dips at her clavicles and the gentle sweep of her neck. His body stirred and he hated himself, his anger sharpening. He needed to get away from her.
"Do not think that just because I invited you along on this rendezvous that your situation has improved. One word from me and you would be cut from polite society forever," he threatened in a low voice.
Expecting her to accede, he was stunned to see a determined glint enter her eyes. "My life may no longer be my own, but I will not give you or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing me cower. We struck a bargain and while I do not claim to rejoice in my current situation, I am resolved to make the most of it."
For reasons he did not understand, her heated words cooled his own anger. He still did not know what had induced him bring her along to see where his men worked, and only time would tell if it proved to be another error in judgement. "You seem sure of yourself."
At his even tone her shoulders relaxed. "I want to be useful. Moping about will not do me any good."
This was madness. She would not possibly succeed a second time. She was inexperienced and although she'd had some measure of success on this day, that did not mean she'd have any more. Nevertheless, he heard himself say, "You will have a few hours at the most. If you fail to seize the reply—"
"I know," she stressed. "I can do it."
Fabien watched her carefully. She held his gaze and did not flinch. Reluctant approval slivered through him. He did not trust her, but they both knew he was all that stood between her and the gutters of Paris. If she betrayed him, she knew what the consequences would be.
"So be it," he said, walking away without a backward glance. She'd either prove herself capable or she'd fail trying. He told himself that either way, he did not care. He had a cipher to decode.
