Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(63)

Nine

I will not let thee go I hold thee by  too many bands; Thou eay’st farewell, and lol I have thee by the hands And will not let thee go.

—Robert Bridges

The chambermaid tugged in frustration at the crumpled body on the floor, finding that it was nearly impossible to move the limp weight. Although Rosalie was not by any means a large woman, the little maid was of extremely small, fine proportions. Her large dark eyes, the color of dark pekoe tea, flickered from Rosalie to the bed, and then she ran to ring the bell violently.

Suddenly the room seemed to burst into commotion, for not only did three other maids and a small group of curious hotel guests gather inside the doorway, but the maitre d’hotel himself stormed in, asking jumbled ques tions and then berating her for not knowing the answers. His fine black mustache quivered in distress at the sight of the unconscious woman. After he sent for a physician he occupied himself with shooing everyone out of the room while assuring them that the young woman had merely fainted. However, no one appeared particularly convinced that it was a mere faint. Rosalie’s skin was the blank white of bleached parchment, her slender form utterly limp.

Hesitantly the chambermaid picked up her dustcloth and began to leave, casting an anxious eye at mademoiselle but knowing that she would lose her job if she did not resume her duties.

“Non!” the maitre d’hotel said sharply, grabbing her by the collar of her shabby but pristine dress and dragging her back into the room. He spoke to her in rapid and excited French, the syllables melting into each other like sizzling pats of butter in an omelet pan. “You will remain here to explain what happened and how you found her! It will be on your head alone—I had nothing to do with this!”

Silently the maid nodded, not daring to protest, and after he released her she went to stand by the bed in quiet and frozen terror. The room became as still as a tomb, for the maitre d’hotel had retreated to the doorway and stared pensively down the hallway in expectation of the physician’s arrival. The maid looked down at the prone figure on the bed, lacing her fingers together tightly as she remembered her struggle to help the panic-stricken woman to the bed. Then, darting a cautious glance to the maitre d’hotel and finding his attention focused elsewhere, she dared to reach down and pull away the few strands of hair that were caught between Rosalie’s pale lips.

As the minutes ticked by, the chambermaid began to develop a vaguely protective attitude toward the unconscious woman, for mademoiselle was so extraordinarily lovely that she presented an intriguing mystery. “Comment vous appellez-vous?” she questioned softly, the lively curiosity of a child taking precedence over her wariness. “My name is Mireille. Mireiile Germain. Whom will we have to tell? Your brother? Your parents? Your mari. . . “ No, on closer inspection it was evident that the woman wore no ring. “You are an anglaise. . . “ Mireille’s dark brown eyes flickered around the room in search of clues that would explain what had happened. She tried to remember some of the foreign-sounding words the woman had flung at her. “Monsieur?” she questioned, raising her voice so that the maitre d’hotel would hear. ”Qu’est-ce que c’est ‘wine’?”

“Vin,” he said sharply, sparing her only an exasperated glance, and she looked at the half-empty bottle on the table in dawning realization that this was what the woman had referred to. Mademoiselle had been drugged, or perhaps even poisoned.

“Monsieur!” she said insistently, the expression on her small face becoming even more anxious than before. “I think—”

“Tais-toi,” he interrupted, sighing with relief. “Shut up. The physician is here.”

A stout, elderly gentleman carrying a leather bag entered the room, his thick glasses shining opaquely as he introduced himself and approached the bed. He made a clicking sound with his tongue, picking up Rosalie’s slim wrist and checking her pulse. It was weak and hardly stable enough to reassure him that she would live much longer. After a brief examination of her condition, he nodded in an assured manner that dared anyone to contradict his conclusion.

“Some sort of opiate,” he said. “An overdose. Is there a laudanum bottle around—?”

“What in hell is going on?” A new voice filled the room, charged with angered demand, and the three of them stared at the doorway.

Rand could not believe his eyes as he took in the scene. He spared the three strangers only a glance before his eyes fastened on Rosalie. Her head was turned to the side, her face obscured by the loops and curls of hair that had escaped its confinement. He would never forget the sight of her white, lifeless hands, the fingers curled like half-open blossoms.

Mireille quivered with fear as Rand paused only a split second and then reached the bed in three long strides. She shrank against the brocade-covered wall as he brushed by her and the physician, bending over the prostrate form of the woman. Mireiile had seldom seen a man of aristocratic bearing as large and dark-visaged as this one. To one as small as she, he seemed vaguely barbaric. He muttered something under his breath and then turned his head to look at them one by one, his light-colored hazel eyes contrasting startlingly with the burnished hue of his skin. He asked something in English, his words foreign but his low, threatening tone unmistakable.

Mireille quavered immediately in French, unable to keep the supposition to herself any longer. “I found her, monsieur—she rang the bell . . . she was holding her head in her hands comme ca . . . and then she fell to the floor. The drink made her sick.” “You’re suggesting the wine was laced with the drug?” the physician asked, recovering himself sufficiently to look at her and then the maitre d’hotel with accusation. “There has been a rash of such crimes lately in Paris . . . a ring of thieves . . . but usually their victims are not drugged to this excess. Still, none of the various tinctures of opium are distilled with precision, and if administered with a heavy hand . . .” “Opium,” Rand repeated, switching from English to French. His eyes darkened with a peculiar pain, much deeper, more insidious than anything he had ever felt before. Suddenly he gathered the woman’s limp body in his arms, looking as though he would murder the nearest person within reach. He cursed with a hissing sound as he felt the soft, helpless weight of her in his arms.