Rook(13)

She laughed again, but did not answer.

“It is a gamble, is it not?” LeBlanc continued. “We hope that you will teach René his responsibilities and bring strong blood to the family, while you hope the Hasard fortune will save the Bellamys from ruin.”

Sophia stopped their stroll and turned to face LeBlanc. Behind him, across an overgrown yard, stood a ruined bungalow with half a roof and an empty front door. “Exactly what do you want to say to me, Monsieur?”

LeBlanc’s smile spread slow across his face. “I would like your help, Miss Bellamy.”

She waited, the hand that was behind her basket on the filigree belt buckle.

“I want information on the man known in my city as the Red Rook.”

Sophia smiled, and then she said, “Are you also looking for landovers that drive by themselves? The Rook is only a story.”

“The Red Rook is not a myth, Mademoiselle. He is a man, and …” He lowered his oily voice. “… I know he is near.”

Sophia blinked. “You interest me. Go on.”

“I know that he has landed two boats within three miles of this estate, boats I believe to have been filled with traitors to Allemande. I know he speaks two languages, for how else can he blend so well into the people of our different cultures? I believe that he is a man of some wealth, or that he is supported by one, so that he can come and go as he pleases. I believe he has a group of men around him that will obey without question. And your father’s estate, Miss Bellamy, must be near where such a man might live on this isolated stretch of coast.”

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.