“Oh, Emily,” said Alex, “I’m not worthy of such a greeting.”
“I need help. You can help me with the party while we wait for the boys to finish this silly fight and get back to normal life!” She was thrilled. It was as if God in Heaven had answered her prayers.
Her guest didn’t seem as excited as she was about the idea. “Actually, Emily,” Alex began. “I was coming here to thank you for your hospitality and bid you goodbye. I shall take my leave soon.”
Emily stared at her in disbelief. “But the ball is on Saturday.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. But I need to get moving,” she replied.
“Will you be returning for it?”
“That was not my plan, no.”
Emily stopped for a moment and stared hard at Alex. “Did something happen between you and Philippe?”
Alex opened her eyes wide. “No, I just, I need to get going—” she stammered.
“Mm hmm,” tsked Emily. Emily knew a woman scorned when she saw one. “What did he do?”
“Nothing!” Alex played with the tie on her shirt. “It’s that… I need to get back to Chevalerie. I, um, I have another job waiting for me there.”
“Really.” Emily watched her skeptically and Alex crumpled under her gaze. Emily paused and crossed her hands delicately in her lap. “Well, if you don’t plan to be here for the ball, the very least you can do is help me prepare.”
“Um,” said Alex, looking at her blankly. “What?”
“Whatever ‘job’ you have waiting can surely be put off for a few days. We’ll just send word that you were fighting some robber baron and got stuck in a swamp or something.”
“Stuck in a swamp?” Alex echoed.
“I don’t know. Whatever happens when you traipse off into the forest,” Emily waved her hands. “Come now. You must help me. I have no one else, and I don’t know a woman in the world better at making decisions than you.” She continued, a little more gently, “Besides, whatever has happened, helping me will help to take your mind off of it. You know, you may need someone to talk to more than you realize.”
“I am not made for these types of tasks, Emily,” Alex replied as she eyed the notes Emily had spread around her.
Emily felt a moment of triumph. She had begun to wear Alex down. She reached across and took the hand of her new friend. “Alexandra, you are capable of far more than you give yourself credit.”
Alex sighed. “Perhaps I can stay until the morning.”
Satisfied, Emily picked up a stack of papers and dumped them into Alex’s lap. “Step one,” she said. “Finalizing the menu.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next days were some of the most tortuous of Philippe’s life. He was racked with ineptitude and impatience as he held his crew in the brush, surveying the rebels. He had been horrified to find, the morning after they had set up their own camp, that Giroux’s numbers had doubled. This whole time they’d been tracking two groups of six and eight each, and now there were sixteen men together around his enemy’s fire. Philippe didn’t know where they had come from or how they had assembled so fast. At the very worst, Philippe had always thought his party could overwhelm Giroux and take them all prisoner, but now he realized that would not be possible. Instead, he held out hope that Giroux himself would depart to meet his captain. But now that, too, seemed unlikely.
There had been no sign of their leader and no sign of movement from the rebels. In fact, every day Philippe watched their camp become more and more established. They had built a fire pit with a spit. They toiled to create semi-permanent shelters and hung the kills from their hunts out to dry. They dug out banks and inlets from the river for washing. Philippe and his men, on the other hand, were hardly living. They were dirty. They were weary. They were hungry and tormented by the smells of cooking meat each night from the camp below. Other than trading off to go back and tend the horses or replenish supplies, they moved very little. Philippe’s muscles weretight and tired from the complete stasis. His party was deteriorating while the men below them rested and regrouped.
The one good thing that had come of this waiting was that Philippe was forced to think out the situation. In these moments, he began to formulate a theory about what exactly was going on. The lack of food and movement had catapulted his mind into a clarity he had rarely experienced. Giroux wasn’t the only one being manipulated, he realized.
He’d finally sent a communication to his father. Though a letter could reach Chevalerie within just a few days from their current position, it would take time to arrange a party and he could not count on reinforcements to help their current situation. It was time to reevaluate what he was going to do in the present now that he didn’t expect any change in his enemy’s position. He could not make his men wait like this forever. They could not be sustained without proper meals and exercise and then expected to fight if they waited much longer. Nor could he. Their energy stores were not infinite.
He looked across his men. Their faces were hard, but he could tell they were fatigued. Their eyes had gone sallow and their skin papery. It would be wonderful for all of them if they could attend the Marquis’ ball in two days’ time. For nothing more than to get their minds away from the tragedy of losing their fellow soldier. Philippe’s heart ached at the thought. Looking back, he realized what an unrealistic promise it had been to make it back in time. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He had to follow the right path or he would lose everything he had worked for.
When he opened his eyes again, his decision was made. He gathered his men and explained the new strategy. He saw light in their dirty faces. They began then to work out new positions and tactics. He was thankful for the high standard of training demanded of Chevalerie’s soldiers, as such an outnumbered attack could never work with mere thugs. It would be slower than he would have liked, and they’d still need a little luck. He may not be able to get them all at once, but they could take them out one at a time.
For Chevalerie. For Maurice.
The Duke was standing in the gardens when he saw the messenger tearing across the road toward the palace. The sun had almost left the sky for the evening, and he was glad he had not yet gone in for supper. As the man came closer, he recognized the colors of Peillon. Guillaume braced himself for the news. The messenger galloped to the gates, and at once Guillaume saw the guards respond and direct the man to the gardens. Guillaume walked swiftly across the gravel to meet the man, the palace footmen and stablemen jogging behind the horse, ready to be of service. When the messenger was within a few meters of the Duke, he jumped from his horse and fell into a bow.
“My Lord,” he said, struggling to catch his breath. “Lord Philippe has sent post. Messengers have been riding nonstop to deliver this parchment to you.” He thrust his hand into his wainscot and pulled out the letter. The Duke recognized his family stamp.
