Could the boys be the ones who had accompanied the poacher? Could Rutger be behind the poaching? It seemed strange but possible, especially if he was involved with the black market at The Red House. Of course, Odette’s uncle could have been at The Red House for other reasons . . .
Jorgen sat on the side of the fountain and rubbed his forehead. He had never suspected Rutger of having anything to do with the poaching problem or the black market. Could he be the mysterious poacher? Possibly, but it seemed more likely that he was the one selling the poached meat at the black market. Could Rutger even be the owner of The Red House?
Poor Odette! If her uncle was involved with such reprehensible deeds, she would be devastated. He had to be sure before he said anything to her about it.
“Do you wish me to follow him again tomorrow?” Dieter looked eager to continue his spying, especially when Jorgen handed him two coins.
“No. Tomorrow I want you to follow our old friend Mathis Papendorp. Find out whatever you can. Then meet me the day after tomorrow here at the fountain.”
Heinke helped Odette get properly dressed, then Odette set out for the storehouse where Rutger conducted his business affairs. When she reached it, she asked the nearest man where her uncle was, and he pointed him out, talking with a man at the other end of the building.
Odette walked to him. “I need to speak with you.”
Rutger took one look at her and his expression changed. “Very well. There is an office where we can speak in private.”
They walked across the large building, only partially filled by bundles and trunks and stacks of crude wooden boxes. He took her to a narrow little room in one corner of the building, led her inside, and closed the door.
There were a couple of stools and a table with an inkwell and writing implements and some paper. Tiny shelves covering one wall were stuffed with papers. Neither Odette nor Rutger sat.
As she faced him, her breath started to come fast, her chest rising and falling. “What is happening?”
“What do you mean?” His eyes were shadowy and distant.
“What are you doing with the meat I have been providing? That meat was supposed to go to the children. What have you done, Rutger?” Tears of anger pricked her eyes.
“I do not understand.”
“Do not pretend you don’t understand! The children have not been receiving any meat. You told me you would deliver it.”
“Please lower your voice, Odette. I don’t want any—”
“What are you doing with the deer meat?” Odette spoke slowly, pausing after each word. “You are selling it, aren’t you?” Her voice rose dangerously high as the tears continued to well up. “How could you?”
“Odette, I am sorry.” Now tears were swimming in Rutger’s eyes. She’d never seen him cry. He cleared his throat, looking away from her, staring at the wall. He cleared his throat again and looked down at the floor. “I . . . I am in debt.”
Her stomach twisted and the breath left her lungs in a rush.
“I did not intend to do it. My last two ships sank with all the goods I had paid to bring here. And then bandits stole the goods on the last caravan from the Orient. I was desperate, so I sold some of the meat. I only meant to do it once, but things went from bad to worse. The demand for the meat was so great and my debts were so pressing . . . I kept selling it.”
Her chest ached and her face felt hot. “That is despicable.” The pain in his expression softened her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in trouble? I never would have let you pay for that elaborate gown and mask for the margrave’s masquerade ball.”
“I didn’t. Mathis Papendorp paid for it.”
“What?” Odette stared at him. Had everything she’d believed about her uncle been a lie? Did she even know him at all? But how much money Rutger did or didn’t have wasn’t what she was most concerned about.
“How could you do it? How could you take their meat? What about the children? How long have you been selling the meat that was intended for them?”
Rutger turned aside from her so she couldn’t see his face. He reached up to wipe his eyes. “Five or six months. I told myself it was only for a little while, but . . . I know there is nothing I can say that will make you not hate me.”
Odette closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. All that work, all those nights of hunting . . . And it had not been for the children at all. She felt betrayed, as if a knife had been plunged into her back.
“This . . . This is something I never would have imagined you were capable of. You must have been desperate”—Odette chose her words carefully, trying to keep any bitterness out of her voice but failing—“to do such a thing.” What could she say? That she was disappointed in him? That was far from adequate.