Chapter 23
If you are correct, what will you do?” Donata’s voice was quiet.
I let out a long breath. “If they took Potier’s life, it was understandable. They were no doubt defending home and family.”
“That is plausible,” Donata agreed. “Potier turned up at their factory with his threats. Would he have been such a fool as to arrive alone? Or did his own men assist in his demise?”
“Anything is possible. Apparently, no one grieved when Potier disappeared, including his fellow officials.” I took a fortifying drink of brandy. “Murdering Gallo, though, that is another matter. The war is over, and killing is against the law, even if Gallo was a criminal himself.”
“As I asked, what will you do?” Donata studied me calmly, letting me reach my own conclusions.
“I truly do not know. The Deveres’ past actions might have been justifiable, but how can I let my daughter live with men who strike out in violence when they are threatened?”
“You strike out, at times,” Donata reminded me.
I had very definitely attacked men who’d wronged those I cared for, including one who’d endangered Gabriella.
Perhaps I should be grateful the Deveres were so protective, but Gabriella would be living in the midst of them. Subject to the same violence?
I wasn’t certain how long Emile could keep silent about the matter. What would happen on the day he confronted Fernand about the Deveres’ past misdeeds? What would Fernand do when he discovered Gabriella also knew?
“If I discover that Fernand or one of his brothers murdered Gallo, I will have to tell Vernet. I will be a conspirator if I do not.” I swallowed more brandy. “But I will say nothing until I am very, very certain.”
“Putting yourself in danger while you investigate them,” Donata said in resignation.
“I see no other way. I do not want Vernet rampaging in and arresting the entire family so close to the wedding. I will at least wait until after that.”
“Very kind of you.” Donata’s eyes held an ironic glint, but I could see she agreed with me. “But have Brewster stay close.”
“Wise advice.” I saluted her with my brandy. “I will, my love.”
With Gabriella’s wedding only days away, I had very little time to look into problems, in any case. When no Devere turned up to threaten me in the intervening time, I concluded that Emile had kept his promise to remain silent.
I had an appointment on Friday evening at the comtesse’s chateau to speak to her about purchasing the de’ Medici letter for Denis, which Grenville had returned to her. At eight o’clock that night, I had Barthlomew dress me in one of my best suits and duly took myself there.
Brewster, as usual, accompanied me. We walked, as the night was fine, and the chateau wasn’t far.
The hill, on the other hand, had me cursing my resolve—the comtesse lived in a higher spot than we did. By the time we reached the chateau, my knee was aching.
Brewster greeted the burly men who guarded the gates, and they hailed him as a friend. We were readily admitted, Brewster staying behind to speak to them and very likely to share more of the ale he’d admired.
Denis had given me no instructions as to the price for the letter. He was not a frugal man, but nor would he appreciate paying an exorbitant amount. Denis had indicated he believed the comtesse would strike a fair bargain, and from what I’d noted of her, he likely had the right of it.
A footman admitted me to the echoing foyer, where Signora Ruggeri had imperiously demanded admittance. Without the crowds, the large entrance hall was cool, the fading sunshine casting gentle shadows on the walls and its tapestries.
While I waited for the footman to fetch me when the comtesse was ready, I strolled the corridor that stretched across the length of the house, many tall windows giving onto the courtyard.
Plenty of artwork hung here for me to admire. In addition to more flowers and fruit by Berjon, there were excellent offerings from French, Venetian, Dutch, and Flemish artists of the past.
I’d paused before a massive painting signed by the great Ruebens, when a narrow door next to it swung open.
I stared in disbelief at the person who appeared on its threshold.
“Michel?” I gaped at the large man from the Deveres’ ironworks. “What are you—?”
My words cut off as Michel’s giant hands closed around the lapels of my coat. He dragged me swiftly into the passageway from which he’d sprung and slammed the door behind us.
I struggled mightily, not about to be pulled into the bowels of the house without a fight. The passageway was cramped, the space too small for me to draw the sword in my walking stick, or even to strike out with the sheath.
I ducked Michel’s blows the best I could, but one landed on my abdomen, and I folded in half.
I expected a kick on my bad knee, but Michel did not need to resort to underhanded methods.
He very quickly had me pinned beneath his massive arm, and hauled me along with him, my feet scraping on the rough tile floor.
I couldn’t draw breath to shout for help, as Michel’s hold cut off my windpipe. I still clenched my walking stick, but it did little good as a weapon in my ineffectual grasp.
Not far down this passageway, Michel grated open another door. He towed me down a stone staircase, cool dankness increasing as we descended.
I recalled Brewster describing the warren of tunnels beneath the chateau. How Michel knew of them, and why he was at the chateau at all, were questions his stranglehold would not let me ask. Not that he’d understand my inquiries, as he and I spoke no common language.
Michel threw me into an inky dark room about twenty yards from the bottom of the staircase. My feet slid out from under me as I tripped into the chamber, and I landed hard on the solid floor.
By the time I could pry myself up, my bad knee in agony, Michel had slammed the door.
I heard a bolt slide across it and then his heavy footsteps retreating, leaving me alone in the darkness.