A small silence followed this speech, interrupted only by the cawing from the high branches of the oak trees. Sophia smiled.
“I believe your imagination has run away with you, Monsieur.” She took a step away, but LeBlanc reached out like a striking snake and grabbed her arm.
“You do not understand me, Miss Bellamy. When I said I wanted information from you, I was not making a request.”
Sophia pulled her arm away and stepped back, the basket now hiding the small knife that had been secreted in the filigree of her belt buckle. She held it loose in her hand. LeBlanc’s smile spread.
“Let me explain to you. Your father is in need of the ten thousand quidden your marriage to a Parisian will bring him. But perhaps you do not know that the Hasard fortune is not at all secure? Premier Allemande does not like such inequalities of wealth in his city. The Hasard money has only remained intact because of his … benevolence.”
Which meant that LeBlanc had made sure it stayed intact. For himself.
“I can ensure that the goodwill of Allemande continues,” said LeBlanc, “but I will wish to receive something in return. Give me the Red Rook, and you can be certain that René will bring your family a marriage fee, and that your father will not see the inside of a debtor’s cell.”
Sophia stood stock-still on the road, wind whistling through the rubble of the empty building, the smooth handle of the knife in her concealed hand. “You would have the fortune of your own family confiscated?”
LeBlanc shrugged. “We have never been close.”
“Monsieur LeBlanc,” she said, “I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I know nothing of this matter. I have nothing to give you. Nothing at all.”
“But I think you do. Or that you very soon will. You will see. You will discover. You will listen to the talk in the kitchen. Women can do these things. Succeed, and you will have your marriage fee. Fail, and you will lose your father and your home. I trust that these instructions need no more explanation?”
When Sophia said nothing, he bowed his head slightly and turned to walk away down the lane.
He was several steps away when Sophia called, “Have you spoken to your cousin about this?” LeBlanc spun slowly back around.
“Do you believe in Luck, Miss Bellamy? I do, most fervently. Luck is the handmaiden of Fate, and I think I will try my luck with you.” He began to walk again down the A5, calling over his shoulder, “You will find me at the Holiday, Mademoiselle. For one week. That is all the time I can spare!”
Sophia watched LeBlanc’s retreating back, wind stirring little tornadoes of dirt and fallen leaves, waiting until the rooks had hushed and the lane was empty again. Only then did she slide the knife back into her belt, its handle part of the buckle’s decoration. The trees behind her rustled, and she turned her head.
“You heard?” she asked as Tom came limping out from the undergrowth.
“Yes,” he replied. “Enough.”
He stood beside her as they both stared down the empty road. “I’m thinking misdirection,” Sophia said quietly. “You?”
“Yes, possibly. But we are going to have to play a very careful game, my sister.”
“Do you play, my love?”
Sophia glanced up at René standing beside her father’s chess set as if he were posing for a portrait titled Parisian Rake. She went back to stroking St. Just’s head, the fox settling deeper into the gauzy pink of her gown. It was full dark outside, the storm that the wind had promised now lashing for its third day at the windowpanes. Bellamy slumped in his chair—he never stayed awake for long after dinner—while Spear and Tom sat on either side of the fire, Spear reading a legal newspaper, Tom thumbing through his illegal Wesson’s Guide. Tom’s interest in Wesson’s was less about clothing and more about what the subjects of the copied drawings might be doing, and where they might have been doing it. Proving the theory that Wesson had copied Ancient paintings in abandoned London before it was lost was Tom’s constant pastime.
Sophia wanted a pastime, or at least one that could be done in a sitting room, where sword fighting was frowned upon. Three days of torrential rain had left her cooped up and testy. René Hasard had been haunting her steps, paying her unearned compliments, stating his opinions on music, magazines, Parisian actresses, and, most memorably, an endless dissertation on his particular preferences in nursery carpets. Tom had nodded sagely while listening to this, asking her fiancé such detailed, serious questions that Sophia thought holding in the laughter might actually kill her. And if she did manage to be without René’s presence for the odd moment or two, up he would pop unexpectedly, full of a restless, boundless energy and incessant talk that, good looks or no, stretched her patience to the limit.
St. Just lifted his head from her lap, sniffing at her foul mood. René’s suggestion of a game was not appealing, but then again, Sophia wasn’t certain he could have suggested anything that was. Her father snorted, startling belatedly from his doze.
“What?” Bellamy said. “What? Play my Sophia, Mr. Hasard? Oh no, I don’t advise it. I’ve been playing her since she was ten years old, and the child has trounced me every time.”
Tom smiled from his armchair, adjusting the cushion beneath his leg. “You’ll make Hasard afraid of our Sophie, Father.”
“And you think that a bad thing, Tom?” Sophia said sweetly. “Do go on, Father. What were you saying?”
René laughed, a little too loud, a sound that grated across every raw end of her nerves. He said, “And now I must insist on the game or be thought a coward.” He turned back to Sophia. “Or you shall.”
She set her mouth, put St. Just on the carpet, and marched over to the chessboard. Spear’s newspaper lowered, and she could feel his eyes following as she sat herself down at the game table. René was in the green coat tonight. She found a silver button, the second one down, and fixed her gaze there.
“White first, my love,” René said.
“I prefer black.”
He turned the board while St. Just settled his bushy tail over her feet. They played in silence, she taking her time and with her attention on the board, he with quick, haphazard moves and his face turned toward the rest of the room. Sophia moved her sheriff and stifled a yawn. She was six moves from taking his king.
“My cousin says that he walked in the lane with you the other day,” René said loudly.
“You’ve been to see Monsieur LeBlanc?” She glanced once at Spear. He and Cartier were supposed to have been watching, making sure René didn’t leave the house. Spear almost imperceptibly shrugged a shoulder.
“Oh, yes,” René said, “I went to see him early, before breakfast.”
“In the rain?”
“It was a refreshing journey. But my cousin made me quite jealous.” René ignored her sheriff and unwisely moved a pawn. “Perhaps you might like to walk with me next time, when the weather improves?” When she remained silent, René said, “Do none of the young women from your Banns ever come to walk with you? I would not mind seeing Mademoiselle Lauren again. I thought she was very … pleasant.”
Oh, Sophia thought. So that’s what sort of husband he would be. She supposed it shouldn’t matter to her. She tried to imagine strolling down the A5 with Lauren Rathbone and failed.
“Bellamy has invited my cousin to dine with us tomorrow,” René went on. “That was thoughtful of him, yes?”
Sophia looked over at the armchair, where her oblivious father was again snoozing. She lowered her voice. “I am surprised that Monsieur LeBlanc stays in the Commonwealth. What can he possibly have to do here?”