Beastly Beauty

Ten

“The kitchen? Perfect. I’ll have an omelet, Monty,” Beau said. “Peppers and onions, please. Can I get some toast, too?”

“Shut your mouth,” Valmont said, pushing him forward.

Fresh pain shot up Beau’s arm; Valmont still had it twisted behind his back. They were walking through the castle’s kitchen, a room bigger than most of the mansions Beau had worked in. He saw a white-hatted chef stirring a stockpot. A teenaged boy peeled and chopped vegetables; a second one emerged from the larder carrying a sack of flour over his shoulder. A woman, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up, her hair wrapped in a scarf, kneaded dough at a marble-topped table. Her eyes followed Beau.

Valmont gave him another push and this time Beau lost his balance and fell, breaking his captor’s grip. He landed gracelessly on all fours, a few feet away from a long wooden worktable and the large willow baskets filled with onions, carrots, and potatoes that stood by it.

“Get up,” Valmont ordered.

Beau grabbed hold of a basket’s rim and used it to push himself to his feet. His movements were slow; he was weary and hungry. And he was rattled. Badly. By Arabella, who’d told him there was no way out of this place, and by the unhinged courtier who’d thrown a goblet at his head. But he knew he couldn’t give in to his feelings; he had to stay sharp.

“Seriously, Monty, any chance of some food?” he asked when he was standing again.

Valmont’s stormy expression softened. He motioned to a stool by the worktable. “Sit there,” he instructed. Then he turned to the woman kneading dough. “Camille, please fix our guest some breakfast.”

As Beau sat, the boy who’d been peeling vegetables came up to Valmont and asked him for help with a sink tap that was stuck. Valmont warned Beau to stay put and followed the boy. Camille wiped her hands on her pinafore, took a mug down from a shelf, poured coffee into it from an enameled pot, and wordlessly handed it to Beau.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the mug in both hands. The coffee was hot and bracing and it brought a bit of life back into him.

As Beau drank it, Camille took a roll from a basket and deftly sliced it open. She slathered butter on the halves, then cut slices from a large ham and a wedge of cheese left over from the servants’ breakfast. As she worked, Beau’s eyes swept over her, then Valmont and the kitchen boy, the chef at his stove, a small boy turning a spit, a lady’s maid polishing a pair of boots. He saw everyone and everything except the one thing he was searching for. He didn’t believe Arabella. There was a tunnel under the castle, there had to be, and the way to it was through the cellar.

So where’s the door?he wondered, craning his neck. He looked like a giraffe, but luckily everyone was too busy with their work to notice. Just as he was about to give up, the boy who’d passed by earlier with a sack of flour over his shoulder walked by again, this time with a basket in one hand and a lantern in the other, then disappeared down a hallway.

Beau set his cup down. His heartbeat quickened. He’sgoing to the cellar to fetch something, he reasoned. Why else would he be carrying a basket and lantern?

“Here.”

The voice startled Beau. It was Camille. She’d finished making his sandwich and had wrapped it in a clean kitchen towel. “Here,” she said again, holding it out to him.

Beau took it from her and deployed his most devastating smile, one that never failed to set hearts aflutter. He’d gotten nowhere with Arabella, but now, right in front of him, was a second chance. He would flatter the little baker. Charm her. Ask her questions.

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” he began.

“It’s madame and we both know it,” Camille said crisply.

Beau’s smarmy smile faded, but he pressed on. “It’s kind of you to take pity on a poor prisoner. I’m—”

Camille brusquely cut him off. “Do you think you’re the only one?”

Beau tilted his head. He didn’t understand her question. And then he did. If he couldn’t get out of here, neither could anyone else. Guilt nibbled the edges of his conscience with its sharp rat’s teeth. He chased it away. If anyone should feel guilty, it was Arabella.

“Yeah, the bridge …” he started to say.

“Yeah, the bridge,” Camille mimicked. “The one you and your wolf pack destroyed.”

“Hey, we really didn’t—”

“Didn’t what? Think? Care? Give a damn? No, you didn’t. Twenty horses on a rickety bridge … What did you expect would happen?” Camille shook her head in disgust. “You don’t give at all, do you, thief? You just take.”

Camille’s jibe cut him. Just like Arabella’s had. He hadn’t let Arabella see that she’d drawn blood and he wouldn’t let this mouthy little baker see it, either.

“Oh, ouch. So harsh,” he said mockingly.

Camille’s eyes narrowed. She was about to let loose when Valmont reappeared. “Let’s go,” he barked, and for once, Beau was happy to see him.

Camille lowered her head and returned to her kneading, pummeling the dough so hard the worktable shook. Beau rose, clutching his sandwich in one hand. He waited for Valmont to grab hold of him again, but the man seemed to give him the benefit of the doubt this time. They walked in silence, a foot or so apart, out the kitchen’s back door, through a walled courtyard containing a kitchen garden, sodden and dormant now, and into the stables.

“The stalls need mucking out. Here …” Valmont said, handing him a pitchfork. “Get busy. Don’t make me regret not locking you up.”

As soon as he was gone, Beau tossed the pitchfork on the floor. “Shovel your own crap, Monty,” he muttered. Then he sat down on a wooden feedbox, unwrapped his sandwich from the kitchen towel, and tore into it. Like anyone who’s ever been hungry, he knew to eat his food quickly, before someone bigger and stronger snatched it from him. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on the towel and leaned back against the wall.

“Any minute now,” he said.

A couple of minutes passed. Then five. Ten. Beau sang as he waited, letting his gaze drift. Curious horses peeked their heads out of their stalls, blinking at the noisy newcomer. There was a tack room at the end of the aisle, and he could see a row of saddles through its open door. There were bound to be plenty of useful tools in there—awls, picks, files, shears. He would help himself.

Footsteps—several sets of them, coming from the courtyard outside—pulled Beau out of his thoughts. “Took you long enough,” he said under his breath. Then he shrugged out of his jacket, hung it on a hook, and picked up the pitchfork.

“Where is it?” Valmont thundered as he came barreling through the doorway.

Beau shoved the tines of the pitchfork under a pile of horse droppings, then dumped them into a wheelbarrow, making it look as if he’d been working all along. He feigned a look of confusion as Valmont strode up to him. Two young men, both of whom Beau recognized from the kitchen, stood behind him.

“I know you have it. Hand it over. Now.”

Beau leaned on the pitchfork’s handle. “You’re being very mysterious, Monty. Hand what over?”

“Henri, hold him. Florian, search him,” Valmont ordered.

Henri, short and stocky, grabbed Beau’s arms and pulled them behind his back. Tall, skinny Florian patted him down, running his hands over Beau’s torso, dipping them into his pockets, feeling inside his waistband.

“Easy there,” Beau protested as Florian patted down his britches. “Maybe take me to dinner first?”

“There’s nothing on him,” Florian said when he’d finished.

“Pull his boots off,” Valmont demanded.

Florian did so, turning each boot over and shaking it. When nothing fell out, he shoved his hand inside them and felt around.

“Mind telling me what we’re looking for?” Beau asked.

“You know damn well what we’re looking for,” Valmont growled. His eyes fell on Beau’s jacket. He snatched it off the hook and rifled through its pockets.

“Actually, I don’t.”

Henri gave Beau a rough shake. “The master key. Percival put it down on the table in the great hall and now it’s gone.”

Beau whipped around and shoved Henri hard. “Watch yourself,” he warned, no longer joking. “I don’t have your key. Maybe Lady Touchy threw it at me. Maybe one of the maids swept it up with the broken goblet. Go dig in the garbage.” He reached down for a boot and pulled it back on.

“I don’t believe you,” Valmont said.

“I don’t give a snail’s left ass cheek what you believe,” Beau said, pulling his other boot on.

Valmont, glowering, silently turned on his heel and left. Henri and Florian followed him. A stallion, unsettled by the angry voices, kicked at the back wall of his stall. Beau went over to the animal and petted his neck to calm him.

“Do you know the first rule of thieving, boy? No? I’ll tell you: Never get caught with the goods.” He leaned in close and whispered in the stallion’s ear. “I palmed the key off the table in the great hall when I slapped the napkin rings down. Then I dropped it into the basket of onions in the kitchen.” The horse whickered; he tilted his head. “Why, you ask?” Beau scratched behind the animal’s ears. His gaze shifted to the stable’s doorway; his eyes darkened. “So I can get the hell out of here. Tonight.”