The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(60)
“Julien, what happened in Paris in 1572?”
He shook his head, startled by her change of topic—and unnerved by her insight. How did she know that all of this traced back to Paris? Only a guess, of course, for she couldn’t know the truth. And she would never hear it from him. As furious as Nicolas made him, he owed his brother that and much, much more.
“St. Bartholomew’s Day happened. I told you this. A girl I cared for was butchered, not to mention tens of thousands of others in the weeks that followed. Whatever the Catholics say, it was no carefully targeted assassination of political rebels. It was a massacre of innocents. And whatever you may think of me and my working for Walsingham, I do not care to see my countrymen wallow in the blood of their neighbors.”
“I meant…” She bit her bottom lip and her eyebrows drew together in concentration. “I meant more specifically—what happened to the girl? And to Nicolas?”
“What do you mean about Nicolas?”
“He told me he was severely injured during the riots. Did that have anything to do with you?”
No, and no again. He didn’t care how appealing Lucette Courtenay was, how she made his knees want to buckle into her and hold himself up on her soft shoulders, how the sight of her furrowed brow made him want to smooth it away with kisses…It didn’t matter. No one was going to get him to talk about Nicolas and Léonore and Paris. Not even his brother or Renaud—the only two living beings besides him who knew the truth—ever spoke of it. Only occasionally, and pardonably, did Nicolas allude to it. And if that cut Julien to the heart, so be it. He knew he deserved much more.
But he suspected he wasn’t going to be very good at lying to Lucette.
So he did what he always did when cornered. He attacked. “If you’re so interested in my brother, why did you ask me to kiss you? The sake of curiosity? Or perhaps for comparison. Tell me, do I kiss as expertly as Nicolas?”
She never could control her colour. A flush swept her cheeks and neck and she willingly attacked right back. “I wouldn’t know. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me. Although I cannot imagine why you care.”
“Surely you are not that innocent, Lucie. You know perfectly well why I care. Do you think I kiss every woman like that?”
“Only the ones who ask you.” But her voice was not as confident as her words, and suddenly Julien wondered if she’d wanted him to come after her. “Which must be a great many, considering the stories I’ve heard about you and women’s beds.”
He laughed aloud. “Since when does a hardheaded thinker like yourself accept stories at face value? I assure you, Lucette, if I spent half as much time in women’s beds as I’m credited with, I would not be able to walk straight.”
Flustered, as he’d intended, she dropped her gaze to the ground. What a mess! Walsingham and England and France and dead men and apparently plots even he knew nothing about…
And all he wanted was to be the sort of man who could tell her how he felt and see what happened next.
But even in honesty, Lucette was quicker than he was. “The Nightingale Plot might seem like a game to you, but Walsingham is not a man to jump at mere shadows. If he is worried for my queen’s life, then so am I. I don’t know exactly what your politics are—and frankly, I don’t care. As long as those politics don’t include an attempt to destroy my own government.”
“I can’t prove a negative, Lucie. I have nothing to do with any Nightingale Plot, and that includes hearing about it from the Catholics who think I work for them. Either it’s been kept deliberately close to avoid leaks, or possibly I am suspect among the Catholics I’ve been lying to. Either way, I’m afraid I’m of little use to you in political matters. Though I am very interested in why Walsingham did not tell you about me when he sent you. Perhaps the English no longer trust me, either, which rather leaves me out of a job.”
“Are you sure there is nothing you have heard?”
He had been carrying it around with him for days. Now he drew out the flimsy metal badge he’d found in the dead man’s pocket. He handed her the rough image of a nightingale and said, “This was on the body. It argues that he, at least, knew of the plot. But if so, he said not a word to me. I would like to know why. If the Catholics have discovered I’m a traitor…well, their reach is much closer than Walsingham’s just now.”
She’d drawn in her breath in almost a hiss, and he could practically see the wheels in her mind turning. What he wouldn’t give to turn that mind off for a few moments. But then, he suspected, she would not be herself.
“I don’t suppose it’s any use telling you to quit prying,” he said resignedly.
“If you know nothing of Nightingale, then there’s no danger in my prying.”
He threw up his hands in frustration. “Fine. Ask your questions. Turn over your conclusions. Follow your suspicions to your heart’s content. Soon you’ll be on your way back to England and can tell Walsingham whatever you wish.”
And then, no matter how rude it was, he turned his back and walked away. If he didn’t, he might very well find himself spilling out words he couldn’t afford to say. She had come to Blanclair as a spy, not a woman. If she left here with his heart, it was certainly far more than she’d intended. No need to burden her with it.