Fouquet halted his steps, eager to share his intended course of action with his loyal servant. "Let Louis review the black ledgers all he wants. If he is looking for ways to flex his newly realized power, to answer the cries of corruption from the downtrodden"-Fouquet rolled his eyes-"then I shall serve up the perfect diversion until he forgets his ridiculous idea of ruling France by himself," he stated dryly, wishing that Louis was still engrossed in his ballets rather than affairs of state.

"A diversion, my lord?"

"A scapegoat."

"Who, my lord?"

"Someone who Louis could be made to believe is enough of a threat to him to gain his attention. There's a man who is the perfect choice. He's no more than a peasant who has tried to rise above his rank. He has been useful to us in the past, but now with the realm at peace, he's totally dispensable. No one of any significance would protest the arrest and ultimate execution of Simon Boulenger and his group of rebels, except perhaps the Marquis de Nevelon, but that can be dealt with too. We shall serve Boulenger's head to Louis in a most convincing way. We'll dangle our carrot, and when Louis bites, we will have deflected the attention from ourselves. Then the king will stop obsessing with my accounting ledgers. I, of course, will see to Boulenger's capture. Louis will be grateful that his Superintendent of Finance has once again demonstrated his value and indispensability."

Fouquet sat back down behind his impressive ebony-and-gold-inlay desk. "I have the n.o.bles in line, and the king will fall into place too. Since he is easily distracted, perhaps we'll find him a new mistress to occupy his time as well. One way or another, I intend to gain the position as First Minister and rule over France just as Mazarin did. I've more than earned it. Besides, it's about time someone capable and French rules this nation, don't you think? Everyone was sick of that Italian pig, Mazarin. See to the ledgers, Pellisson. Simon Boulenger's ships are due to arrive soon. Do inform me the moment he returns to France."

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Tired, dressed in men's clothes and a large hat with a long blue plume, Angelica followed the servant through the grand home of Robert d'Arles.

With each step she took, her stomach balked, still suffering the effects of her trip to the marquis's home. She'd traveled the distance from Simon's ship to Chateau Nevelon on a rickety gravedigger's cart with the putrid smell of rotting flesh emanating from the wooden box it carried. With each new breeze, the stench had a.s.sailed her nostrils and oozed down her throat. It had taken considerable effort to hold down the contents of her stomach.

But she couldn't complain.

The gravedigger was the only one she'd come across who seemed trustworthy enough to take her to her destination. During the entire nauseating trip, Angelica had to force herself not to think about the deceased or wonder, given the relaxed rate at which the gravedigger traveled, how much worse the foul odor would get.

Thankfully, the gravedigger hadn't questioned her attire; he had taken her for a lad and not a woman traveling alone. She'd held her tongue for most of the trip, afraid to open her mouth while she fought down the bile. He seemed quite content to speak with little partic.i.p.ation on her part, telling her just how many bodies he'd buried during the week, month, year.

Seeing the courtyard ahead, Angelica pushed aside the memory of her trip on the gravedigger's cart. Pushing aside the incessant ache for Simon wasn't so easy.

Dressed in oversized breeches tied at the waist with rope and an oversized doublet wasn't how she had wanted to present herself to her father's friend, but at the moment, her choices were limited, her circ.u.mstances dire.

She was relieved to learn from the majordomo that the marquis was very much alive and in residence, and she'd felt hopeful when the head servant returned to advise that the marquis would see her.

Entering the courtyard, the servant announced, "Angelica de Castel of the late Comte de Beaulieu." He bowed and stepped away.

Angelica swiped the hat from her head.

Seated at a stone table was a striking older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and broad shoulders. He was staring at her as if he were seeing a ghost.

"Sir, forgive me for this intrusion, and for my mode of dress," she began.

He struggled to rise, waving off the a.s.sistance of a servant. He grimaced, then straightened. Standing, he was nearly as tall as Simon, yet he leaned heavily on his cane.

"Come closer," he ordered.

She approached, wondering for the thousandth time what she would do if he cast her out.

His gray eyes scrutinized her face for what seemed an eternity.

"I thought etienne's only daughter had been dead for some time now. Yet, I see in you a striking resemblance to the late Louise Fourche." His tone was incredulous. "You have her unforgettable eyes. Can it be that you are truly Angelica?"

At the mention of her parents, her losses suddenly felt overwhelming. She'd lost them, and Simon. She was alone. Dest.i.tute. Tears threatened to spill. She fought them back, refusing to break. Not now. Not in front of the marquis.

Lifting her chin a notch, she looked him directly in the eyes and said, "I swear, I am who I say I am. I know it is shocking, my sudden appearance, dressed in this fashion... But you were my father's friend. He spoke highly of you... I have nowhere else to go..." Her predicament was truly desperate, for she was placing her trust at the feet of a man of whom she had only a vague recollection.

"Dieu, you even have her melodious voice," he said. "I've never turned away from a woman in distress. However, I have a question. Tell me, out of the many fine attributes Louise had, what was the one that etienne loved so-that first drew him to her on the day they met?"

"Her voice, sir. My mother sang that day, thinking she was alone in the gardens. Throughout the years, she sang to both of us, often at my father's behest."

He smiled then, his eyes shining warmly at her.

"Have I pa.s.sed your test?"

"You have."

Thank G.o.d...

He shook his head in disbelief. "I cannot believe etienne's daughter lives. Where have you been all these years?"

"In a convent, outside of France. I've been hiding from my stepfather."

The marquis's eyes filled with concern. "Why? What has he done?"

She'd come a long way in a short time, thanks to Simon. He'd taught her to confide in others. "The worst thing a stepfather can do to a young stepdaughter. A shameful act that disgraced her and forced her to flee." She would have never voiced this to the marquis or anyone months ago.

"Good Lord! I'm so sorry." He placed his hand on her shoulder. "You're welcome to stay here, as long as you want. I will protect you as best I can."

Relief washed over her. "Thank you for your kindness. I trust you will keep this information to yourself."

"You have my word," he a.s.sured. "Your stepfather has told everyone that you're dead. No doubt he wishes it. You should be aware that there have been changes to his status since you've been gone. He is now the Marquis de Belle-Isle, and, many would argue, the most powerful man in the realm. He's become the Superintendent of Finance."

Her heart dropped to her stomach. The Superintendent of Finance. Dear G.o.d. That was the man Simon had spoken of. The man who was corrupt and was causing so much suffering. Of course, it was her stepfather. Who else could be so unconscionable?

She and Simon shared a common enemy, and he would learn of it soon enough. He was, after all, headed to Beaulieu. It would give him yet another reason not to be a part of her life, for to be involved with the stepdaughter of his foe would be foolhardy.

Knowing her stepfather's cruel nature, she could never endanger Simon by doing anything that might cause Fouquet to discover her whereabouts and link her and Simon together. The best and only thing she could do was to stay away from Simon.

It was what he wanted anyway.

Now that she knew how powerful Fouquet had become, her stay in France would have to be very brief. Despite the marquis's kind offer, she had to find some place to go. Some place to live out the rest of her life.

"Forgive me, you must be exhausted. Have you any other clothes?"

"Yes. They're in my valise. I left it with your majordomo, Monsi-"

"Enough formalities. Call me Robert. I have no less than a hundred questions rushing through my mind, yet I can see how weary you are. I'll have a room prepared for you and a meal sent to you. Rest. We can talk this evening."

Simon stood rigid and tense on the deck of the ship captained by Armand while the crew searched it for Angelica.

After ten days, Simon and Jules had managed to catch up with the two ships that were sailing to the south of France. They'd searched the first ship from top to bottom without finding any trace of her.

Armand's ship was his last hope.

As he stood with Jules and Armand, his heart pounded away the time. Four ships were anch.o.r.ed in the water. Four sets of crewman's orders stayed while the search was carried out. The silence was thick and heavy. Not one man uttered a single comment.

While he waited. And waited. Hoping she would appear with one of his men. Safe.

The ship's lieutenant approached.

"Well?" Armand demanded.

Simon knew the words he was about to hear simply by the look on the man's face.

"She's not on board, Commander. Captain, there's no sign that she was ever on board."

Simon's heart plummeted. Hearing the words was far worse than antic.i.p.ating them. If she wasn't on board his ships, she was in the realm.

Alone.

Fear the likes of which he'd never known clutched him in its vise.

Jules placed a hand on Simon's shoulder. "Simon, we'll find her."

If ever he believed he knew anything at all of h.e.l.l from his past experiences, then he was mistaken. Nothing felt worse than this hollow sense of loss, this terrifying concern he had for the woman he loved.

He had no idea where she was, how she was, and he had no one to blame but himself for her perilous predicament.

Throughout the voyage, he'd stopped her each time she'd attempted to tell him how she felt about him. He'd withheld his own feelings from her. Then, immediately upon reaching France, he'd left her on the ship to chase down n.o.bility. Dieu!

He couldn't blame her for leaving him. He'd given her no reason to stay. He'd driven her out of his life and into danger. Because of his stubbornness. Because of his beliefs about social status being important. To h.e.l.l with social position.

Jesus-Christ. She loved him. Just as he was.

But he hadn't embraced it! Instead, he'd kept her at arm's length. f.u.c.king fool!

In the strongest voice Simon could muster, he ordered all four ships to return with him, wanting to have access to as many men as possible. He would tear France apart looking for her.

And he would exhaust every man until she was found. He would find her, and yes, she would be safe. She had to be safe. He'd tell her exactly how he felt about her. If she would still have him, he'd marry her. And spend the rest of his days making it up to her.

Angelica heard the commotion from the top of the staircase-an argument between men. Since her arrival a week ago, she'd found Robert's home to be always peaceful. A sanctuary from the danger that lurked for her outside. She rushed down to see what was amiss.

At the bottom of the stairs, she froze. Caught in her gaze was the one the young girl inside her once called Evil. She'd know that light brown hair, that tall, slender build anywhere.

Nicolas Fouquet stood in the entrance hall of Robert's home with another man he called Pellisson. Pellisson's argument with Robert's majordomo ceased the moment the three men noticed her. Cold terror froze her blood and limbs.

"Well, well." Fouquet tossed his cape at the servant's face. His dark, soulless eyes raked over her in lewd a.s.sessment, making her feel naked. Violated.

A slimy sense of revulsion slid down her throat to her stomach. Her heart pounded. She prayed somehow he didn't recognize her.

"And here I thought, Pellisson, that the marquis had become a recluse. Yet, it's obvious that he has found a beautiful woman in which-" Fouquet arrested his words as recognition struck.

Her legs almost gave way.

He stepped toward her, all smugness dissipated, replaced by horrified astonishment. She stepped back, the air suddenly becoming thin and difficult to inhale. Years fell away. It was as though she wasn't a grown woman but a girl, feeling trapped and vulnerable. Terrified.

"You?" Fouquet's characteristic haughtiness deflated with the single word, his complexion ashen.

"Please, my lord, as I've told you, the marquis is not accepting visitors today," the servant said.

Fouquet gave no sign he heard the servant's words as he continued to stare at her, incredulous.

A voice inside her screamed, Flee! Another demanded, Kill him! Yet, she remained stock-still, overcome by shock.

"It's not possible... How can it be... What...are you...?" The fragmented words came out of him as small, breathless sounds. Gone was his insolent self-a.s.suredness.

"May I help you, sir?" The bellow came from the former Commodore of the French Navy, startling her. She turned and saw an uncustomary scowl on Robert's face as he stood erect and tall in the doorway of his study. Despite his cane, he looked strong, well-muscled from years of a physical life at sea-a sharp contrast to most soft-bellied n.o.bles half his age.

A formidable adversary.

Fouquet tore his eyes away from her. "What is she doing here?"

"Sir, what I do and who I have in my home is none of your concern. Unlike other n.o.bles, I am not financially indebted to you. Nor do I have any family members you can scandalize to bend my will to yours." Robert's eyes narrowed. "I don't answer to you."

Fouquet stiffened. She saw the flash of fury in his eyes, remembering that volatile temper all too well. He turned to face her. "You will come with me!" He grabbed at her. She jumped back, avoiding physical contact with him.

"You will not touch my future wife!" Robert's voice resonated. She gasped.

Fouquet spun back around to face Robert. "Your what?"

"Wife." Robert announced firmly.

Fouquet tossed his head back with a roar of laughter. "Nevelon, your injury must be to your head. You cannot marry her without my permission."

"Ah, but you will give your consent, and I shall marry her," Robert interjected. "Then she will no longer be of concern to you."

"Oh? And why would I give my consent for this match? Have you gotten her with child?"

Robert motioned for the servant to leave, ignoring the sting of Fouquet's words. His injury had done more damage than Robert would ever admit. He could never bring himself to tell anyone just how debilitating his condition had become and how it had unmanned him. The servant promptly handed Fouquet's cape to Pellisson and left.

With a finger, Robert indicated to Fouquet to approach. Fouquet's lips twitched with amus.e.m.e.nt. He sauntered over. As soon as he was within arm's reach, Robert seized a fistful of the man's fine doublet and yanked him close, the brim of Fouquet's hat, with its large purple plume, b.u.t.ting against Robert's forehead.

"You will speak of her with the utmost respect, and you will agree to this match unless you wish to be disgraced by having others learn of your incestuous tendencies," he growled. How he hated Fouquet for what he'd done to the beautiful woman who now lived with him. Over the last week, he'd grown increasingly fond of Angelica and accustomed to her company. She filled his lonely days. He admired her strength, her gentle grace, and found himself often wishing he could take away the sadness she tried to hide.