a conspiracy,” she said.
“To murder the Cardinal?” he said.
She looked surprised, her eyes wide. “Oh, I’d devoutly love a conspiracy that does that, or even attempts it,” she said, eagerly. “Is there one? And can I join it?”
“Unlike you,” Aramis said. “I don’t court danger for the love of it.” And then, with punctilious exactitude, “Unless it’s in duel where I must, of course, defend my honor.”
“We women do not have that choice,” she said. “All the swords we have must be borrowed.”
“Those,” he said, thinking of his fingers grasping her face while fury ran like a grief-dark river through his mind, “must be danger enough.”
She shrugged. “But I do not know of this conspiracy you speak. If someone wants to murder the monster, I must, of course, support them. I’ve found no one brave enough to try it yet, though.” As she spoke, she darted the smallest of looks at the folded missive on her writing table, and then quickly away.
Aramis was almost absolutely sure that she was lying about knowing nothing of a conspiracy. And yet, he was also almost sure he had seen something like surprise quickly followed by relief in her eyes when he’d mentioned the conspiracy. Surprise because he knew it? Relief because he didn’t know her part in it?
“I’d take care, milady,” he said. “Your correspondence with the Queen has been intercepted, and the Cardinal is sure it betrays a conspiracy against him.”
“His eminence thinks that the fact I still breathe, never mind my being in the same city as her Majesty, is a conspiracy against himself. It is all very silly.”
“Perhaps so, but remember he has the power to separate your head from your neck, and that’s a danger too large to court. Take care, my lady.”
“I always take care. I will see you the day after tomorrow, D’Herblay, since you anticipated our meeting today.”
It was so clearly a dismissal, he could not help but take it. On his way out, passing the table, he managed to cast a glance on the name on that missive, and was startled to find the name and styling of her Majesty’s illegitimate half-brother, Cesar.
The Spider’s Web; Where Old Enemies Are Much Like Old Friends; The Loyalty of a Worthy Man
“SIT down, Monsieur le Comte,” Rochefort said. He had led him into an office that was the exact, if poorer, replica, of his master’s. Where Richelieu’s study was surrounded by a profusion of bookcases, each filled with leather bound volumes with gilded edges and covers, this one had only two bookcases. And where Richelieu’s chairs were majestically carved and ornamented, Rochefort’s—while looking quite comfortable—were undeniably utilitarian affairs. His office also lacked a writing desk. What it had in its place was a sword, mounted on the wall, a sword that looked much like Athos’s ancestral sword, mounted on his own wall.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Athos said. “You might know it, and the Cardinal might know it, but other than courting my vengeance if you reveal it, there is nothing you can earn by letting me know you have my secret. I don’t use the name. What I have done has darkened it forever. Perhaps some yet unborn La Fere can resume it with pride, but I can never. So long as I live, that name must remain unknown.”
“Or at least until the crown has forgotten the small matter of your wife,” Rochefort said, casually, shrugging. “That’s normally why people take the uniform, isn’t it? To serve a while until one’s crimes are forgotten and the King owes one enough he’d never dream of punishing them. And then one can return to one’s former life, untouched.”
Athos felt a muscle work on the side of his jaw. “Do not mention . . . the lady. I committed no crime,” he said. “But as for returning . . .” He shrugged. “There are events and . . . and decisions that alter one forever. I don’t think I would be the best custodian for my lands or my people.”
Rochefort said nothing to this, simply sat down and joined his hands on his lap. “You’re not going to require,” he said, “that I call you Athos, are you? It is a demmed silly name. A demon, wasn’t he?”
“A mountain,” Athos said. “A mountain in Armenia on which a famous monastery is set.”
“A monastery!” Rochefort said, with every sign of alarm. “Are you then, like your friend who calls himself Aramis, merely wearing the uniform of the King’s musketeers