“Then her mother died. That’s when I met her—about that time, I mean. Her father was a judge, and my father knew him. She was fourteen and I sixteen; I fell in love with her. And she with me,” he added, giving the Scots a hard eye, as though daring them to disbelieve it. “We were betrothed, with her father’s blessing. But then her father caught a flux and died in two days. And—”
“And her grandfather took her back,” Jamie finished. “And she became a Jew?”
“By Jewish belief, she was born Jewish; it descends through the mother’s line. And…her mother had told her, privately, about her lost heritage. She embraced it, once she went to live with her grandfather.”
Ian stirred and cocked a cynical eyebrow. “Aye? Why did ye not convert then, if ye’re willing to do it now?”
“I said I would!” The vicomte had one fist curled round his letter opener as though he would strangle it. “The miserable old wretch said he did not believe me. He thought I would not give up my—my—this life.” He waved a hand dismissively around the room, encompassing, presumably, his title and property, both of which would be confiscated by the government the moment his conversion became known.
“He said it would be a sham conversion and that the moment I had her I would become a Christian again and force Rebekah to be Christian, too. Like her father,” he added darkly.
Despite the situation, Ian was beginning to have some sympathy for the wee popinjay. It was a very romantic tale, and he was partial to those. Jamie, however, was still reserving judgment. He gestured at the rug beneath their feet.
“Her dowry, ye said?”
“Yes,” said the vicomte, but sounded much less certain. “She says it belonged to her mother. She had some men bring it here last week, along with a chest and a few other things. Anyway,” he said, resuming his self-confidence and glowering at them, “when the old beast arranged her marriage to that fellow in Paris, I made up my mind to—to—”
“To abduct her. By arrangement, aye? Mmphm,” Jamie said, his noise indicating his opinion of the vicomte’s skills as a highwayman. He raised one red brow at Pierre’s black eye but forbore to make any more remarks, thank God. It hadn’t escaped Ian that they were prisoners, though it maybe had Jamie.
“May we speak with Mademoiselle Hauberger?” Ian asked politely. “Just to be sure she’s come of her own free will, aye?”
“Rather plainly she did, since you followed her here.” The vicomte hadn’t liked Jamie’s noise. “No, you may not. She’s busy.” He raised his hands and clapped them sharply, and the rough fellows came back in, along with a half dozen or so male servants as reinforcement, led by a tall, severe-looking butler armed with a stout walking-stick.
“Go with Ecrivisse, gentlemen. He’ll see to your comfort.”
—
“Comfort” proved to be the chateau’s wine cellar, which was fragrant but cold. Also dark. The vicomte’s hospitality did not extend so far as a candle.
“If he meant to kill us, he’d have done it already,” Ian reasoned.
“Mmphm.” Jamie sat on the stairs, the fold of his plaid pulled up around his shoulders against the chill. There was music coming from somewhere outside: the faint sound of a fiddle and the tap of a little hand drum. It started, then stopped, then started again.
Ian wandered restlessly to and fro; it wasn’t a very large cellar. If he didn’t mean to kill them, what did the vicomte intend to do with them?
“He’s waiting for something to happen,” Jamie said suddenly, answering the thought. “Something to do wi’ the lass, I expect.”
“Aye, reckon.” Ian sat down on the stairs, nudging Jamie over. “A Dhia, that’s cold!”
“Mm,” said Jamie absently. “Maybe they mean to run. If so, I hope he leaves someone behind to let us out and doesna leave us here to starve.”
“We wouldna starve,” Ian pointed out logically. “We could live on wine for a good long time. Someone would come before it ran out.” He paused a moment, trying to imagine what it would be like to stay drunk for several weeks.
“That’s a thought.” Jamie got up, a little stiff from the cold, and went off to rummage the racks. There was no light to speak of, save what seeped through the crack at the bottom of the door to the cellar, but Ian could hear Jamie pulling out bottles and sniffing the corks.
He came back in a bit with a bottle and, sitting down again, drew the cork with his teeth and spat it to one side. He took a sip, then another, and tilted back the bottle for a generous swig, then handed it to Ian.
“No bad,” he said.
It wasn’t, and there wasn’t much conversation for the next little while. Eventually, though, Jamie set the empty bottle down, belched gently, and said, “It’s her.”
“What’s her? Rebekah, ye mean. I daresay.” Then after a moment, “What’s her?”
“It’s her,” Jamie repeated. “Ken what the Jew said—Ephraim bar-Sefer? About how his gang knew where to strike, because they got information from some outside source? It’s her. She told them.”
Jamie spoke with such certainty that Ian was staggered for a moment, but then he marshaled his wits.
“That wee lass? Granted, she put one over on us—and I suppose she at least kent about Pierre’s abduction, but…”
Jamie snorted. “Aye, Pierre. Does the mannie strike ye either as a criminal or a great schemer?”
“No, but—”
“Does she?”
“Well…”
“Exactly.”
Jamie got up and wandered off into the racks again, this time returning with what smelled to Ian like one of the very good local red wines. It was like drinking his mam’s strawberry preserves on toast with a cup of strong tea, he thought approvingly.
“Besides,” Jamie went on, as though there’d been no interruption in his train of thought, “mind what ye told me the maid said, when I got my heid half-stove in? ‘Perhaps he’s been killed, too. How would you feel then?’ Nay, she’d planned the whole thing—to have Pierre and his lads stop the coach and make away with the women and the scroll and doubtless Monsieur Pickle, too. But,” he added, sticking up a finger in front of Ian’s face to stop him interrupting, “then Josef-from-Alsace tells ye that thieves—and the same thieves as before, or some of them—attacked the band wi’ the dowry money. Ye ken well that canna have been Pierre. It had to be her who told them.”
Ian was forced to admit the logic of this. Pierre had enthusiasm but couldn’t possibly be considered a professional highwayman.
“But a lass…” he said helplessly. “How could she—”
Jamie grunted. “D’Eglise said Dr. Hasdi’s a man much respected among the Jews of Bordeaux. And plainly he’s kent as far as Paris, or how else did he make the match for his granddaughter? But he doesna speak French. Want to bet me that she didna manage his correspondence?”
“No,” Ian said, and took another swallow. “Mmphm.”
Some minutes later he said, “That rug. And the other things Monsieur le Vicomte mentioned—her dowry.”