He felt the same small thrill of horror now, remembering. The Terror. That’s what it will be called, and that’s what it will be. People will be arrested for no cause and beheaded in the Place de la Concorde. The streets will run with blood, and no one – no one – will be safe.
He looked at his cousin; Jared was an old man, though still hale enough. He knew there was no way he could persuade Jared to leave Paris and his wine business. But it would be some time yet – if Auntie Claire was right. No need to think about it now. But she’d seemed so sure, like a seer, talking from a vantage point after everything had happened, from a safer time.
And yet she’d come back from that safe time, to be with Uncle Jamie again.
For a moment, he entertained the wild fantasy that Lillie wasn’t dead, but only swept away by the faeries into a distant time. He couldn’t see or touch her, but the knowledge that she was doing things, was alive . . . maybe it was knowing that, thinking that, that had kept Uncle Jamie whole. He swallowed, hard.
‘Jared,’ he said, clearing his own throat. ‘What did ye think of Auntie Claire? When she lived here?’
Jared looked surprised, but lowered his glass to his knee, pursing his lips in thought.
‘She was a bonny lass, I’ll tell ye that,’ he said. ‘Verra bonny. A tongue like the rough side of a rasp, if she took against something, though – and decided opinions.’ He nodded, twice, as though recalling a few, and grinned suddenly. ‘Verra decided indeed!’
‘Aye? The goldsmith – Rosenwald, ye ken? – mentioned her, when I went to commission the chalice and he saw her name on the list. He called her La Dame Blanche.’ This last was not phrased as a question, but he gave it a slight rising inflection, and Jared nodded, his smile widening into a grin.
‘Oh, aye, I mind that! ’Twas Jamie’s notion. She’d find herself now and then in dangerous places without him – ken how some folk are just the sort as things happen to – so he put it about that she was La Dame Blanche. Ken what a White Lady is, do ye?’
Michael crossed himself, and Jared followed suit, nodding.
‘Aye, just so. Make any wicked sod with villainy in mind think twice. A White Lady can strike ye blind or shrivel a man’s balls, and likely a few more things than that, should she take the notion. And I’d be the last to say that Claire Fraser couldn’t, if she’d a mind to.’
Jared raised the glass absently to his lips, took a bigger sip of the raw spirit than he’d meant to and coughed, spraying droplets of memorial whisky halfway across the room. Rather to his own shock, Michael laughed.
Jared wiped his mouth, still coughing, but then sat up straight and lifted his glass, which still held a few drops.
‘To your da. Sláinte mhath!’
‘Sláinte mhath!’ Michael echoed, and drained what remained in his own glass. He set it down with finality, and rose. He’d drink nay more tonight.
‘Oidche mhath, a charaid.’
‘Goodnight, lad,’ said Jared. The fire was burning low, but still cast a warm ruddy glow on the old man’s face. ‘Fare ye well.’
The Next Night
Michael dropped his key several times before finally managing to turn it in the old-fashioned lock. It wasn’t drink; he’d not had a drop since the wine at supper. Instead, he’d walked the length of the Ile de Paris and back, accompanied only by his thoughts; his whole body quivered and he felt mindless with exhaustion, but he was sure he would sleep. Jean-Baptiste had left the door unbarred, according to his orders, but one of the footmen was sprawled on a settle in the entryway, snoring. He smiled a little, though it was an effort to raise the corners of his mouth.
‘Bolt the door and go to bed, Paul,’ he whispered, bending and shaking the man gently by the shoulder. The footman stirred and snorted, but Michael didn’t wait to see whether he woke entirely. There was a tiny oil-lamp burning on the landing of the stairs, a little round glass globe in the gaudy colours of Murano. It had been there since the first day he came from Scotland to stay with Jared, years before, and the sight of it soothed him and drew his aching body up the wide, dark stair.
The house creaked and talked to itself at night; all old houses did. Tonight, though, it was silent, the big copper-seamed roof gone cold and its massive timbers settled into somnolence.
He flung off his clothes and crawled nak*d into bed, head spinning. Tired as he was, his flesh quivered and twitched, his legs jerking like a spitted frog’s, before he finally relaxed enough to fall headfirst into the seething cauldron of dreams that awaited him.
She was there, of course. Laughing at him, playing with her ridiculous pug. Running a hand filled with desire across his face, down his neck, easing her body close, and closer. Then they were somehow in bed, with the wind blowing cool through gauzy curtains, too cool, he felt cold, but then her warmth came close, pressed against him. He felt a terrible desire, but at the same time feared her. She felt utterly familiar, utterly strange – and the mixture thrilled him.
He reached for her, and realised that he couldn’t raise his arms, couldn’t move. And yet she was against him, writhing in a slow squirm of need, greedy and tantalising. In the way of dreams, he was at the same time in front of her, behind her, touching, and seeing from a distance. Candle-glow on nak*d br**sts, the shadowed weight of solid buttocks, falling drapes of parting white, one round, firm leg protruding, a pointed toe rooting gently between his legs. Urgency.
She was curled behind him then, kissing the back of his neck, and he reached back, groping, but his hands were heavy, drifting; they slid helpless over her. Hers on him were firm, more than firm; she had him by the cock, was working him. Working him hard, fast and hard. He bucked and heaved, suddenly released from the dream-swamp of immobility. She loosed her grip, tried to pull away, but he folded his hand round hers and rubbed their folded hands hard up and down with joyous ferocity, spilling himself convulsively, hot wet spurts against his belly, running thick over their clenched knuckles.
She made a sound of horrified disgust and his eyes flew open. A pair of huge, bugging eyes stared into his, over a gargoyle’s mouth full of tiny, sharp teeth. He shrieked.
Plonplon leaped off the bed and ran to and fro, barking hysterically. There was a body behind him in bed. Michael flung himself off the bed, tangled in a winding-sheet of damp, sticky bedclothes, fell and rolled in panic.
‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!’
On his knees, he gaped, shook his head. Could not make sense of it, couldn’t.
‘Lillie,’ he gasped. ‘Lillie!’
But the woman in his bed, tears running down her face, wasn’t Lillie; he realised it with a wrench that made him groan, doubling up in the desolation of fresh loss.
‘Oh, Jesus!’
‘Michel, Michel, please, please forgive me!’
‘You . . . what . . . for God’s sake . . . !’ Belatedly, he seized a sheet and hastily wiped himself.
Léonie was weeping frantically, reaching out toward him.
‘I couldn’t help it. I’m so lonely, I wanted you so much!’
Plonplon had ceased barking and now came up behind Michael, nosing his bare backside with a blast of hot, moist breath.
‘Va-t’en!’
The pug backed up and started barking again, eyes bulging with offence.
Unable to find any words suitable to the situation, he grabbed the dog and muffled it with a handful of sheet. He got unsteadily to his feet, still holding the squirming pug.
‘I—’ he began. ‘You— I mean . . . oh, Jesus Christ!’ He leaned over and put the dog carefully on the bed. Plonplon instantly wriggled free of the sheet and rushed to Léonie, licking her solicitously. Michael had thought of giving her the dog after Lillie’s death, but for some reason this had seemed a betrayal of the pug’s former mistress, and brought Michael near to weeping.
‘I can’t,’ he said simply. ‘I just can’t. You go to sleep now, lass. We’ll talk about it later, aye?’
He went out, walking carefully, as though very drunk, and closed the door gently behind him. He got halfway down the main stair before realising he was nak*d. He just stood there, his mind blank, watching the colours of the Murano lamp fade as the daylight grew outside, until Paul saw him and ran up to wrap him in a cloak and lead him off to a bed in the guest rooms.
Rakoczy’s favourite gaming club was the Golden Cockerel, and the wall in the main salon was covered by a tapestry featuring one of these creatures, worked in gold thread, wings spread and throat swollen as it crowed in triumph at the winning hand of cards laid out before it. It was a cheerful place, catering to a mix of wealthy merchants and lesser nobility, and the air was spicy with the scents of candlewax, powder, perfume, and money.
He’d thought of going to the offices of Fraser et Cie, making some excuse to speak to Michael Murray, and manoeuvre his way into an inquiry about the whereabouts of the young man’s aunt. Upon consideration, though, he thought such a move might make Murray wary – and possibly lead to word getting back to the woman, if she was somewhere in Paris. That was the last thing he wanted to happen.
Better, perhaps, to instigate his inquiries from a more discreet distance. He’d learned that Murray occasionally came to the Cockerel, though he himself had never seen him there. But if he was known . . .
It took several evenings of play, wine, and conversation, before he found Charles Pépin. Pépin was a popinjay, a reckless gambler, and a man who liked to talk. And to drink. He was also a good friend of the young wine merchant’s.
‘Oh, the nun!’ he said, when Rakoczy had – after the second bottle – mentioned having heard that Murray had a young relative who had recently entered the convent. Pépin laughed, his handsome face flushed.
‘A less likely nun I’ve never seen – an arse that would make the Archbishop of Paris forget his vows, and he’s eighty-six if he’s a day. Doesn’t speak any sort of French, poor thing – the girl, not the Archbishop. Not that I for one would be wanting to carry on a lot of conversation if I had her to myself, you understand . . . she’s Scotch, terrible accent . . .’
‘Scotch, you say.’ Rakoczy held a card consideringly, then put it down. ‘She is Murray’s cousin – would she perhaps be the daughter of his uncle James?’
Pépin looked blank for a moment.
‘I don’t really— oh, yes, I do know!’ He laughed heartily, and laid down his own losing hand. ‘Dear me. Yes, she did say her father’s name was Jay-mee, the way the Scotches do; that must be James.’
Rakoczy felt a ripple of anticipation go up his spine. Yes! This sense of triumph was instantly succeeded by a breathless realisation. The girl was the daughter of La Dame Blanche.
‘I see,’ he said casually. ‘And which convent did you say the girl has gone to?’
To his surprise, Pépin gave him a suddenly sharp look.
‘Why do you want to know?’
Rakoczy shrugged, thinking fast.
‘A wager,’ he said, with a grin. ‘If she is as luscious as you say . . . I’ll bet you five hundred louis that I can get her into bed before she takes her first vows.’