After Stephen and Linnet left, de Roche had taken her hand and told her all was settled. As if it still mattered to her. It gave her no comfort to know de Roche was prepared to go through the formalities to finalize their marriage now.
She stepped lightly as she passed the door to de Roche’s private parlor. Just when she thought she was safe, the parlor door creaked open behind her.
She closed her eyes and stood perfectly still, wishing him away. Did God hate her so much that he would even deny her an hour of solace in the courtyard? Now she would have to listen to de Roche lecture her about not following his command to wait in her rooms for him.
She had a vision of her life constantly alternating between terror and tedium. Pride had led her to this. She would have been better off in her father’s care than under the thumb of this tyrant.
He cleared his throat behind her. Slowly, she turned to face him. If she could have drawn breath, she would have screamed. It could not be! The man standing before her was not de Roche, but the black-haired man who had led the attack on the abbey.
She knew she was not mistaken. The distance from gate to church had not been far in the small abbey; the piercing eyes and hawkish face were chiseled in her memory.
With the slightest inclination of his head he said, “I seemed to have startled you, madam.”
He did not know her.
“I—I expected Lord de Roche,” she said.
His black eyes seemed to go through her. Panic closed her throat as she waited for him to recognize her. Then she remembered: She wore her brother’s clothes that day at the abbey. He had no cause to guess the finely dressed lady before him was the same person.
“My name is LeFevre,” he said.
She forced herself to offer her hand to the monk killer. When he touched his lips to it, she swallowed the bile that rose in the back of her throat.
“And you, madam, are…?”
“Lady Hume,” she said. “Lord de Roche’s betrothed.”
His eyes widened. “Philippe’s betrothed?” He paused, as if expecting her to contradict him, then said, “I shall chastise Philippe for not sharing his good news with me.”
She could not remain in his presence a moment longer.
Aware she was making an awkward departure, she gave him a stiff nod and turned back the way she had come. The courtyard would not do now. She wanted a barred door between her and the black-haired man. With his eyes burning into her back, she fought not to break into a run before she turned the corner.
She sat on her window seat, shaking and holding her arms across her belly until she was calm enough to think. LeFevre. LeFevre. Where had she heard the name before?
Then it came to her. One day she overheard Robert and Stephen speaking in low voices about men associated with the Dauphin and the Armagnacs. They mentioned several names before they noticed her and abruptly changed topics.
LeFevre had been one of the names.
So it was the Armagnacs who were behind the attack on FitzAlan and the abbey. What was she doing, sitting here? King Henry was adamant about how important it was for him to have this information. Somehow she had to get to the Palais and tell Stephen before he left the city.
She was reaching for her cloak when she heard angry voices echoing through the courtyard. One of the voices was de Roche’s. Whoever was arguing with him could not be a servant, because both of them were shouting.
Damn him! She could not risk attempting to leave the house with de Roche just below. When the shouting faded, she stood on her window seat and leaned out the window. Had they moved into another part of the house? Or were they simply speaking too quietly for her to hear? She would have to take her chances.
No sooner did her feet hit the floor than the solar door banged open with a crash. De Roche filled her doorway.
“My Lord,” Isobel said, dipping her head. How would she get to the Palais with him barring her way?
De Roche stood glaring at her with hard, angry eyes. “I thought you would wish to know,” he said, his voice slow, taunting, “Carleton has left the city.”
Though she tried to cover her reaction, she felt herself pale.He has left me, he has left me, he has left me,ran through her head like a chant. She wanted to sink to her knees and cover her face in her hands.
“I must say, Carleton looked rather grim during his visit to our fair city.” De Roche walked around the solar, picking up things and setting them down again, as though what he said held little interest to him. “Still, I don’t believe it will take him long to forget you.”
He made a tutting sound with his tongue. “No time at all. In fact, I’m told he looked considerably more cheerful when he rode out the gates this afternoon. But then, he’d just spent an hour with the highest-priced courtesan in the city.” He gave a loud sigh. “Sybille would cheer any man.”
A courtesan? Without thinking, she parroted the words Robert once told her: “A man may enjoy a courtesan’s company in public without employing her services in private.”