While I waited for the footman to fetch me when the comtesse was ready, I strolled the corridor that stretched across the length of the house, many tall windows giving onto the courtyard.
Plenty of artwork hung here for me to admire. In addition to more flowers and fruit by Berjon, there were excellent offerings from French, Venetian, Dutch, and Flemish artists of the past.
I’d paused before a massive painting signed by the great Ruebens, when a narrow door next to it swung open.
I stared in disbelief at the person who appeared on its threshold.
“Michel?” I gaped at the large man from the Deveres’ ironworks. “What are you?—?”
My words cut off as Michel’s giant hands closed around the lapels of my coat. He dragged me swiftly into the passageway from which he’d sprung and slammed the door behind us.
I struggled mightily, not about to be pulled into the bowels of the house without a fight. The passageway was cramped, the space too small for me to draw the sword in my walking stick, or even to strike out with the sheath.
I ducked Michel’s blows the best I could, but one landed on my abdomen, and I folded in half. I expected a kick on my bad knee, but Michel did not need to resort to underhanded methods. He very quickly had me pinned beneath his massive arm, and hauled me along with him, my feet scraping on the rough tile floor.
I couldn’t draw breath to shout for help, as Michel’s hold cut off my windpipe. I still clenched my walking stick, but it did little good as a weapon in my ineffectual grasp.
Not far down this passageway, Michel grated open another door. He towed me down a stone staircase, cool dankness increasing as we descended.
I recalled Brewster describing the warren of tunnels beneath the chateau. How Michel knew of them, and why he was at the chateau at all, were questions his stranglehold would not let me ask. Not that he’d understand my inquiries, as he and I spoke no common language.
Michel threw me into an inky dark room about twenty yards from the bottom of the staircase. My feet slid out from under me as I tripped into the chamber, and I landed hard on the solid floor.
By the time I could pry myself up, my bad knee in agony, Michel had slammed the door.
I heard a bolt slide across it and then his heavy footsteps retreating, leaving me alone in the darkness.
Chapter 24
For a long while, I leaned against the stone wall of my prison, rubbing my throbbing knee and clenching my jaw against the pain.
There was no sense wasting my breath calling out, either for help or to relieve my pique. We’d come deep into the cellars, and I doubted anyone would hear me.
I strove to let reason countermand my panic. I’d brought Brewster with me, and he’d wonder after a time where I’d got to. Brewster would have no qualms about shouldering his way in and searching the house, no matter who lived here.
Of course, Michel might somehow have rid himself of Brewster as well.
I tamped down that surge of uneasiness. Brewster would not be easily bested, and he’d raise an alarm if nothing else.
Why was Michel not at the Deveres’ factory, banging on bars of iron and intimidating unexpected visitors? What had he to do with the comte? Or the comtesse?
Perhaps he’d been following me, concluding I meant to accuse the Deveres of murdering Potier long ago and Gallo more recently. He might have decided I’d come here tonight to consult with the comte or comtesse about the deaths.
Or, he’d been making a delivery to the chateau, seen me, and thought he’d take the chance to punish me for my meddling.
But he’d come from the tunnels and known exactly where to sequester me inside them.
My thoughts spun in the absolute darkness as my body began to stiffen in the cool, damp air. My suit was of light fabric for summer, but no June warmth reached into the depths of this house.
Brewster would find me, I assured myself. When I failed to emerge after a certain amount of time, he’d try to discover why. No one could deter Brewster when he decided to act.
Donata, too, would miss me. We were staying in tonight, so we could rise early for the wedding in the morning. Donata would wonder why I lingered so long at the chateau, and likely send Bartholomew to inquire. Everyone in our house knew where I’d gone.
Even so, it could be some time before a rescue. I might catch a chill or a fever in this dank place, and who knew how much air this room held?
To cease such dire musings, I began to explore my prison. I started with the door, when I found it again, pressing my gloved hands over its surface.
It was made of rough wood, with horizontal bands placed over vertical boards, tacked in place with iron bolts. The hinges were also cold iron, and the latch, which did nothing when I jiggled it, was likewise of that metal.
