“As we suspected, Castilla and the lady were lovers. However, it was not the Black Claw they wished to escape by fleeing Spain, but the demoiselle’s father.”
“Am I to understand that we have spent all this time and effort to find two eloping lovers?”
“Yes.”
“And that Castilla never sought to harm us?”
“Never. And perhaps not even to abandon us.”
The vicomtesse stifled a laugh.
“In other circumstances,” she said, “I would be furious. But here we have the means of putting our Spanish brethren in their place and, if necessary, teaching them a lesson in humility. Besides, they won’t be able to deny it when it is their own envoy, Savelda himself, who uncovered the full facts behind this story.”
“I doubt that the more jealous of our rivals will appreciate the irony when the news reaches Madrid,” said Gagniere in an amused tone.
“Henceforth, they will appreciate whatever we choose to serve them.”
Smiling with pleasure, the young vicomtesse de Malicorne dropped into an armchair.
“But who is this father that Castilla wanted to flee from so badly, even when it meant incurring the wrath of the Black Claw?”
“That’s the best part of the story, madame. The father is none other than the comte de Pontevedra.”
The young woman’s eyes sparked with sudden interest.
Pontevedra was a foreign aristocrat with a troubled past who, in less than two years after appearing at court, had become a friend of the comte d’Olivares and a favourite of King Felipe IV, thus winning both fortune and renown in Spain. The man was influential, powerful, and feared. And he was presently in Paris, on a mission as an ambassador extraordinary. For the past week he had been engaged in secret negotiations at the Louvre, no doubt with the aim of fostering a rapprochement between France and Spain.
A rapprochement that the Black Claw did not want at any price.
“Everything now becomes clear,” said the vicomtesse. “At least until the Cardinal’s Blades entered the scene…”
Gagniere forced himself to contain his skepticism on the subject.
His associate’s obstinate tendency to see Richelieu’s agents everywhere was becoming worrisome. Granted, her magic might be informing her of more than she was telling. But it was almost as if there were an old dispute between her and the Blades that obsessed and blinded her.
“Madame…” he started to say in a reasonable tone. “Nothing indicates that-”
“And just who, according to you, rescued Pontevedra’s daughter last night?” she interrupted. “Her saviour did not fall from the Moon, so far as I know.. And he was able enough to carry her off in the face of numerous opponents…! Courage, audacity, valour: the very mark of the Blades… What? You still have doubts…?”
She had become uselessly worked up, as the gentleman’s cautious silence made her realise. In order to calm and perhaps reassure herself, she opened a precious-looking casket set on a table beside her. It contained the Sphere d’Ame, which she caressed with the tips of her fingers, her eyelids half closed.
She drew in a breath and then carefully explained: “Do me the favour of thinking the matter through. You are the comte de Pontevedra and you know that your daughter has fled to Paris-where she is perhaps under threat from the Black Claw. Now, there is nothing that France would refuse you, given the importance of the negotiations that you are conducting with her. Would you not seek help from the cardinal? And would you not demand that he mobilise his very best men?”
“Yes,” Gagniere admitted reluctantly.
“The very best, meaning the Blades.”
“I believe you.”
“It’s about time…! But what a shame that Pontevedra’s daughter managed to evade us! What a lever she would have provided us against him!”
“All is perhaps not lost on that score. I sent Savelda to the girl’s house, in rue de la Fontaine. He may find something there and, if not, it will at least keep him busy.”
“Excellent initiative. We will thus have our hands free to prepare the ceremony this evening. Is everything ready at the castle?”
“We are applying ourselves to the task.”
“Nothing must disturb our very first initiations, marquis. The Grand Lodge will not forgive us if there is the slightest sour note.”
“I know that. However…”
Gagniere, hesitant, left his sentence unfinished.
But as the vicomtesse was looking at him with a frown on her face, he continued: “We need now to discuss a delicate case, madame.”
“Which is?
“Laincourt.”
9
Agnes de Vaudreuil cursed between her teeth when she discovered the empty cache in the bedroom floor.
Suspecting that Cecile wanted to recover something compromising from her home, Agnes had quickly and discreetly gone there to search the small house from top to bottom. To do so, she had hailed an empty sedan chair that was passing on rue des Saints-Peres and asked the bearers to carry her to rue d’Orleans in faubourg Saint Victor, by way of rue de la Fontaine. She had paid in advance, climbed into the little cabin through the door at the front, between the two handles, and, as soon as the curtains were drawn, felt herself being lifted before she let herself be cradled by the steady rocking of the bearers’ walking pace. As they passed along rue de la Fontaine, she had opened a curtain slightly to identify the house Marciac had described and inspect its surroundings without being seen. She had seen nothing disquieting. Descending from the vehicle in rue d’Orleans, she had circled round to enter the premises from the rear, through the garden, remaining out of view of any watchers.
And now Agnes had to face up to two obvious facts. First, she had indeed guessed correctly about Cecile’s intentions: she had been hiding something in her bedroom, something valuable enough to her that she wanted to return to the house despite the danger, even attempting to use her charms on Marciac to convince him to accompany her. And second, someone had pipped Agnes at the post and seized the prize before her.
But who?
The same men who had tried to abduct Cecile, no doubt.
Makeshift as it was, the cache in the floor was not large and offered no clues as to what it had contained. The best thing to do, therefore, would be to seek information from the principal interested party, Cecile herself. In any case, Agnes felt that the Blades-at La Fargue’s request-had been too gentle with her. Granted, the young woman had been the victim of a brutal attempt to kidnap her and she did not seem prepared to face this sort of adventure. But the gratitude which she displayed toward her new protectors did not extend as far as laying her true cards on the table. Now convinced of Cecile’s duplicity, Agnes was determined not to tolerate it any longer.
To set her mind at rest, she continued to search the entire house. In vain. And when she pushed open the little door leading to the garden, Agnes suddenly found herself standing nose-to-nose with an armed, one-eyed man in black who-initially as surprised as Agnes-smiled at her in a sinister manner.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed with a strong Spanish accent. “So the little bird has returned to its nest…”
Agnes immediately understood.
She wore a plain dress, a thin brown coat, and a matching short cape with a hood. The modesty of her attire had been calculated: not knowing that she would have the luxury of making her journey in a sedan chair, the young baronne had left the Hotel de l’Epervier thinking that she would have to walk to her destination, then loiter near the house while she scouted the surroundings. She had thus wished to go unnoticed and, to that end, the best thing was to seem neither too rich nor too poor. But Cecile could very well have been dressed in similar fashion. She and Agnes also had their beauty, their long, dark hair, and their youth in common, being only a few years apart. If the one-eyed man had never met either of them and had been given only a brief description of Cecile, he was entirely likely to mistake one woman for the other.