"Come, Marie-Claude, he must be upstairs, just as the man said, wounded in a court intrigue..." The two women swept toward the stair.

"And just what man is that?" I asked, blocking their way upstairs.

"The Chevalier de la Motte brought to my sister's house a message that my son was perishing from a fatal wound incurred in defending the honor of a lady of high degree," said the short one. "He brought us money he said was from my son." They both spoke with the rolling r's and lazy vowels of the south. Good Lord, it had to be d'Urbec's mother. And his aunt, too. How perfectly awful. Now I lacked only his grandfather and the dog.

"The...Chevalier de la Motte?"

"Yes. The handsomest man I ever saw. A very important man. A personal friend of my nephew," announced d'Urbec's aunt. "But I knew right away it was one of those court intrigues I've read about. Yes, a plot. Duels, indeed! A plot is much more like him. 'Do you suppose at this very moment he wears an iron mask?' I asked my sister. 'More likely,' she said, 'he discovered who the iron mask was. I know my son; he never leaves other people's business alone. This money can't be his-he hasn't any. It's money to buy our silence. I'll get to the bottom of this,' she said, and so we used the bribe money to take the next diligence to Paris."

"And how, pray tell, did you find my house?" My voice was cool, but I could feel the hot wrath climbing up the back of my neck.

"I recognized the arms of Bouillon on the carriage that brought the chevalier," announced his aunt. "Then we made subtle inquiries at the remise of the Hotel Bouillon when we arrived in Paris." Subtle indeed, I thought sourly.

"And now, you shameless wanton, lead us to him, or I shall report your notorious ways to the police. There's a place for women like you, women of notorious ill life, who draw young men to ruin." D'Urbec's mother looked righteous. I narrowed my eyes.

"If you do that," I said in an even tone, "the man who lies upstairs will die in prison, for his part in the street brawl that took place outside my doorstep, and from which I rescued him."

"Nonsense. Florent d'Urbec lies up there-your lover, whom you have lured to his doom," replied his aunt. In a flash, everything suddenly became clear. Devil take that Lamotte, anyway. That is what you get when you entrust a commission to a man who writes romantic dramas for the theatre. Who knows why he'd done it-to save time, to meet some important obligation in Paris-doubtless some wretched soiree at the Hotel Bouillon. He had hurried to hand over the money before d'Urbec had actually died. I could see it all as if I'd been there. Lamotte, self-promoted to de la Motte, with his charm, suddenly carried away by a gust of imagination as he strove to leave d'Urbec's mother with a n.o.ble memory. He'd brush away one of his easy tears, convincing himself as he spoke that everything he said was true. He'd raised his friend's prospects, added a duel, a love affair, and heaven knows what else. Perhaps a lost treasure and a royal conspiracy as well. And this mess was the result.

"Before we go farther, you must understand a few things. The...ah...Chevalier de la Motte did not tell you the entire truth."

"They never do, when it's a matter of those high intrigues of court," announced his mother. "I intend to stick like a burr until I have discovered the whole truth." As she wagged her finger in my face, I knew with a sinking heart that she might very well do exactly that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Shadow Queen had pulled the curtains against the searing afternoon sun. She had abandoned her stays entirely beneath her India-cotton robe. I could see the sweat running from beneath the turban that hid her hair. She sat limply in her big armchair, her feet, in embroidered Turkish slippers, propped up in front of her on a footstool. She motioned with a listless hand to the chair that stood opposite hers in the tapestried room behind the black reception parlor. Her youngest children could be heard making a racket with a toy drum and tin horn somewhere upstairs. In a corner, old Montvoisin dozed quietly, an open book dropping from between his fingers.

"Orange water?" La Voisin asked, dabbing a little of the sickly sweet cologne on her sweating temples to refresh them, and then handing me the bottle.

"Yes, thank you," I answered, sponging the cool, alcoholic stuff on my face as the sorceress in turn picked up her fan and worked it busily beneath her chin.

"So," she said, "they're in your house...oh, those children, they have given me a headache-Antoine, Antoine! Yes, you! Wake up and go tell Louise to take the children into the garden. I have business with the marquise, here, and I can't even hear myself think."

"Invaded is a better word," I responded glumly, opening my own fan.

"'Invaded'? Just what are they doing?"

"At this very moment? Boiling down calves' feet to make beef jelly. The very day they arrived, they went off and rented themselves furniture and charged it to me. Then they commandeered Gilles and the carriage and filled the kitchen with groceries...you know I like to send out for meals. Either that or attend open tables. Now my reception parlor smells of garlic-"

"Calves'-foot jelly is very good for sick people. What does he say?"

"He's mortified. He said he's perfectly capable of getting well without calves'-foot jelly and it's just the sort of thing that would happen to him-"

"When he'd gone to all that trouble to get himself trapped in a fascinating single woman's house, eh?" The Shadow Queen's fan stopped its motion and covered the lower half of her face, but I could hear her suppressed snort of laughter. "So, tell me, why haven't you got rid of them?"

"They threatened to turn me in to the police under the prost.i.tution statutes."

The Shadow Queen looked grim and shut her fan with a snap. "They don't know whom they're playing with," she said quietly. "'Young women of the town who try to entrap men of good family into marriage,' eh?" she quoted. "With a word, I can change that."

"I don't want him destroyed," I said.

"Then you are fond of him, despite everything you say."

"I love no man. But I've paid the surgeon, and I don't like to lose an investment." She nodded approvingly. Then her thoughts changed, and she smiled her little pointed smile.

"No man but Lamotte," she observed, just to watch my face turn all red with embarra.s.sment. "Ha! Don't hide your face behind your fan. Every woman in Paris loves Lamotte these days. I wouldn't mind having him myself for a night or two, though there would be no advantage to me in it. Of course, at this point, any woman who crosses the d.u.c.h.esse de Bouillon would be taking a considerable risk. She's enjoying advancing Lamotte's career, and she's one of my better customers." A warning.

"I imagine Lamotte himself has to be very careful these days, too," I observed.

"It is the price of celebrity. To be loved-pa.s.sionately-on alternate Tuesdays when Monsieur de Vendome is at the front. There are many who envy him."

"I hope not all of them are your customers, as well."

"Only some, my dear. But do not pry into what does not concern you. We have business at hand. I think it best for your career to marry." She picked up a little silver bell that lay on the table beside the heavy blue gla.s.s bottle of orange water.

"Margot, bring some lemonade for the marquise and me. It is perishingly hot." My stomach made a knot. Whether over the lemonade or marriage, I could not say. "And plenty of sugar," she called after Margot. "You know I like it sweet." She did seem to be putting on more weight these days. She must have a lot of things sweet. "You see, my dear," she went on, "as long as everyone thought you were a hundred-and-fifty-year-old virgin, you ran no risks. As soon as it is known that you have kept a man at your house, you will be open to blackmail, and by far more dangerous sorts of people than these two silly women. But once you are married, you are safe from that and can do as you please."

She dabbed a bit more orange water on the inside of her wrists and onto the back of her neck, reopened her fan with a brisk shake of her hand, poised it at the level of her bosom, and set it in motion once again. "I can arrange you something very advantageous where you can go your own way. Yes, when you decide you need to get rid of d'Urbec would be the best time. A wedding will shed him nicely."

I smiled and nodded. Better to have her think I didn't mind this wedding thing than have her decide to get rid of d'Urbec on her own. I did owe him that much.

"Yes," she went on in a self-satisfied tone, "I think you should marry. Anyone would do. But a woman should not waste herself when there is something to be gained. An alchemist is always a good match for a fortune-teller. Or an ex-priest who's kept his canonicals can be very good for business."

If your business is being a witch, I thought. It's always convenient to have the Black Ma.s.s in the family. The silver lemonade cups clinked invitingly on the tray as Margot brought them in. Old Montvoisin, who had completed his errand and returned to somnolence in his chair, sat up and looked about at the sound. Margot served her mistress first, then me, then Montvoisin, who took a large gulp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"But you, you can aim higher." La Voisin's voice, like the lemonade, was sticky sweet. "You should consider a man of position...someone like...Brissac. Yes, Brissac would be perfect."

"Brissac?" My lemonade nearly overturned into my lap. "Why on earth Brissac? What makes you think he would be open to such an arrangement?"

"Brissac has always lived apart from his d.u.c.h.esse. She has cut him off; he is an enc.u.mbrance. Do you understand?" She leaned toward me with a strange, intense smile. "Now he is dest.i.tute. His att.i.tude softens daily, as he grows more desperate. He has quarreled with Nevers and is now homeless. Temporarily, he has moved in with hmm...shall we say, another gentleman...who will tire of him soon enough. Just now, however, I have them both in my hand. Their apartment and furniture are rented at my expense. I consider Brissac an...investment. And when I consider your future, I see an excellent way to get repayment for my foresight. If you play your cards right, my dear, his cold little d.u.c.h.esse can be made to vanish. And he has, after all, a more or less genuine t.i.tle, though he is now brought so low he will prost.i.tute it for your money. You could help him at the tables-and, best of all, you do not have to sleep with him. Just as well, for he is said to smell even worse in bed than Louvois. He will go his way, you will go yours, you will grow rich in partnership, and...you will be protected from the police. It's ideal."

This is Brissac's idea, I thought. What has blinded her to the danger of this idea? Is it cash? How much money will change hands between them when this marriage is completed? "Brissac..." The word tasted nasty in my mouth. "It's such a shock-You...you must allow me to think it over..."

"Don't think too long. He may not be poor forever. Just now he has a fancy to win at the tables, so his interest turns to you."

I didn't like the sound of it. I don't need the gla.s.s to show me how this marriage will work, I thought. Once I make him rich, he'll want another bride, one from a great family. Then he'll visit the Shadow Queen for a little something from her locked cupboard, and I'll have to start watching what I drink. Unless, of course, I move first.

"Don't worry, my dear," La Voisin said, patting my hand almost as if she had read my thoughts. "A t.i.tled widow can do almost as well for herself as a wife. And you'd have risen too high through your marriage for the courts to touch you. I always have your interests at heart first. After all, I regard you almost as a daughter."

"I couldn't trust my own mother more," I said, looking at her with innocent, wide eyes over my fan.

The wave of garlic mingled with the steamy smell of boiling beef overwhelmed me when I entered my own front parlor. "Any invitations, Mustapha?" I asked hopefully.