Once inside the grounds, Rafe saw that the castle was as dramatic as Varenne had claimed. The original fortress had been on a rocky upthrust that towered above the surrounding countryside. Since it lay within a bend of the Seine, there was water on three sides. Over the centuries, new buildings and wide formal gardens had spread below the turreted keep, but the overall effect was still menacingly medieval.
As he cantered up the long gravel drive, Rafe had the fleeting thought that Chanteuil looked like a setting for one of Mrs. Radcliffe's lurid melodramas. The estate showed the effects of years of neglect. The gardens were jungles of unkempt vegetation, and most of the outbuildings were in a poor state of repair. Though attempts were being made to return Chanteuil to its former grandeur, it would take Varenne several years and a substantial fortune to finish the task.
When Rafe reined in before the main entrance and dismounted, a servant appeared to take his horse. Impatient with the sense of valuable time slipping away, Rafe took the steps two at a time and wielded the massive knocker vigorously while he prayed that the visit would produce something of value.
After subjecting Rafe to another scrutiny, the elderly butler who admitted him consented to take a card to the master. At least, thank God, Varenne was at home. It was about time something went right.
The Count de Varenne was working in his library amidst the musty odor of ancient books when the card was presented to him. The sight made him smile with deep satisfaction. Surely the gods were on his side. Who would have dreamed that the next fly would walk right into the web and offer the spider a card? And this fly was solid gold. He asked the butler, "Is the duke alone?"
"Yes, milord."
Varenne glanced at the wizened clerk who was his companion in the library. "Grimod, go up to the gun room in the west turret and bring down another shotgun and ammunition." Turning back to the butler, he said, "Fetch Lavisse, then wait ten minutes and bring up Candover."
The vast hall where Rafe waited was cold and drafty even in the last days of summer. As he watched a mouse scamper across the uneven flagstones, he wondered what it would be like in winter, with cold wind and river damp. Damned uncomfortable was his guess. Varenne would have his hands full making this dank medieval fortress habitable.
Eventually the old butler shuffled back and gestured for the visitor to follow. After a long, slow journey through uneven stone passages and up narrow stairs, the butler opened a door and waved Rafe through. "The library, milord," he wheezed.
As soon as Rafe stepped into the room, hard metallic objects were jammed into his sides. "Put your hands up in the air, Candover," an amiable voice said. "Those are fowling pieces. At point blank range, the shot will rip you to shreds."
Rafe saw that two men had been waiting by the door with shotguns. Knowing that it would be suicidal to reach for his pistol, he slowly raised his hands. What a damned fool he had been; what a bloody damned fool.
He stood still while a servant searched him, removing the pistol. When the servant was finished, Rafe said dryly, "I assume that one could say that I've found Countess Janos, in a manner of speaking."
"So you have," Varenne replied, "and I assure you that she is quite well. Adjusting to her captivity with remarkable speed, in fact." The count gestured for Rafe to take one of the chairs in front of the desk. The guards remained near the door, their shotguns trained on the duke.
Varenne continued, "Your fraudulent countess is quite the little survivor. Did you know that she is as English as you are, without an aristocratic bone in her delightful body?"
Taking Rafe's stony face for shock, the count gave a malicious chuckle. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Candover, I didn't guess either. But that's enough about that little doxy-I'm more interested in you. Does anyone know that you're here?"
Rafe considered lying and saying yes, but he hesitated too long. Varenne seized on the pause and interpreted it correctly. "Good, you didn't tell anyone you were coming. This close to the critical hour, I would not like to waste my men's time in hunting down whomever you told."
So the plot was on the verge of execution, and Rafe and Margot couldn't do a blasted thing about it. "Satisfy my curiosity, Varenne. What are you up to? If I'm going to die, I'd like to know why."
The count looked shocked. "Going to die? Whatever made you think that I would unnecessarily eliminate a man of your wealth? That would be profligate, and I did not get where I am by wasting my opportunities. That brings me to another question. You are said to be worth about eighty thousand pounds a year. Is that correct?"
Rafe shrugged. "Near enough. It varies some depending on how different business interests are doing."
"Splendid!" The count positively beamed, his dark eyes sparkling like agates. "Since I have a few minutes to spare, I will satisfy your curiosity, or at least part of it. Care to join me in a glass of burgundy? This is a rather fine vintage."
Rafe felt as if he had wandered into Bedlam, but he nodded his agreement; he could use a drink. A few minutes were spent in ordering glasses and pouring the wine. Rafe took a sip, and conceded that the vintage was excellent.
After a sip of his own wine, the count said pensively, "You wondered what I am about. It is quite simple-France needs strong leadership, and she will not get it from the decadent dregs of the House of Bourbon. After my plan is executed, there will be chaos, and I am prepared to step in to sort it out. I have royal blood in my veins-some of it even legitimate. The royalists will greet me with open arms. After all, I have served my time in exile, I am one of them."
"Given the quality of the Bourbons, it should be possible to convince the royalists," Rafe admitted with reluctant interest, "but what about the Bonapartists? They will never accept a member of the old order who wants to turn back the clock."
"But I do not wish to turn back the clock, my dear duke, that is what makes me unique," Varenne said complacently. "I am a flexible man, I can prate of the rights of man, of 'liberty, equality, fraternity,' as well as any revolutionary. I already have Bonapartists working for me. Remember, Napoleon spoke of liberty and created the greatest tyranny Europe has ever known. If one tells a great lie boldly, one can do almost anything."
"That's very clever, Count." Rafe lifted the bottle of wine and topped up both of their glasses. He didn't know whether Varenne was insane or a genius, or if there was a difference between the two. "But I would think it will be difficult to get the factions to agree on anything."
The count shook his head. "Under Napoleon, France became the greatest power since Rome. No true Frenchman wants to give that up, and that includes the royalists."
"So you will rally the nation together 'pour la gloire' one more time," Rafe said. "But there is one group that you have forgotten. What of those people who are tired of fighting, who want to live in peace?"
"The wolf will eat the lamb every time, Candover."
There was no doubt that Varenne believed his own words. Yet when Rafe thought of Margot and her army of women, of Helene Sorel, of the tough pragmatism of Michel Roussaye, who had seen enough of war, he was not sure that he agreed. Enough brave lambs might overwhelm even the most ruthless of wolves.
However, this was not the time for a philosophical discussion. He asked, "If you aren't going to kill me, what do you intend?"
"You are insurance, Candover. Though my plan is excellent, it is possible that I might fail. Chaos is inherently hard to control, even when one is expecting it. If someone else rises to the top, I will need a great deal of money."