The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,12

could say for Porthos. He would lay awake and wonder at what trouble his friend had got into and how they were going to get him out of it.

The Inconvenience of a Murdered Noblewoman; Athos’s Doubts; Aramis’s Anger

ATHOS arrived at Aramis’s lodgings the next day not sure how to face the coming trial, how to question Aramis, how to face Aramis’s guilt, if it were such.

He’d awakened and dressed in silence, glad he’d trained his servant, Grimaud, to utter and silent obedience long ago. Oh, as a child Athos had been garrulous, talkative in the way of a smart boy. And as a teenager his overwrought emotions had flowed out in poetry and elegant prose.

But all had changed on the day that Athos had killed his wife and his innocence with her, and left his domains to escape condemnation and censure for what he then viewed as justice and had—in later years—started to fear had been murder.

The image of Charlotte pursued him still—her blond hair, her sweet features—and some days he would very much like to believe that the fleur-de-lis branded on her shoulder had been a mistake or an enemy’s ploy. Even if that meant he was guilty.

And yet, his clear and uncluttered reason told him he’d never committed murder, or not unprovoked. He’d simply punished an escaped murderess, who’d wormed her way into his heart, his home, his family name.

Caught between guilt and grief, he’d stopped being able to speak. Or at least being able to enjoy speaking with any fluency at all. Instead, he hoarded silence like a treasure, and ordered Grimaud through a system of gestures and expressions.

He’d had few occasions to congratulate himself as much on this arrangement as he had this day. Because if he had needed to explain it all to Grimaud, he’d not have known how to, nor what to say. Because, after all, what did he know about Aramis?

Later, yesterday, in the way of such news, rumors and hints had filtered down. After Porthos and D’Artagnan had returned to their guard post at the royal palace, they had heard through the servants of the duchess, murdered in her room, the weapon missing. And everyone talked of her lover, that musketeer who pretended to be a priest—or perhaps that priest who pretended to be a musketeer—and who visited her in her room so many times. Who had been seen—the maid was sure—entering her room just that night.

It was no use at all for Athos to mention to Porthos that perhaps Aramis had killed his lover. Porthos’s face just closed and his red eyebrows descended upon his eyes like storm clouds announcing a gale. Porthos said it was monstrous to even suspect Aramis of such a thing. That Aramis wouldn’t do any such thing. Not ever.

But the truth was more complex than that. No one who knew Athos, before or after his wife’s death, would suspect him of killing her, either. He had always struggled to be the embodiment of honor, the soul of probity. Striking an unarmed woman didn’t seem to be within his abilities.

In fact, Athos himself would never have believed he could do it and only half understood it as he saw his own hands fashion a noose and hang Charlotte from a low-hanging branch.

In retrospect, it made all too much sense. Almost too much sense for his taste, as it could not in any way be called a crime of passion. He’d been revolted and shocked to see the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder when he’d opened her gown to give her air, after she’d fallen from her horse. The fleur-de-lis was the mark of an adulteress, a murderess headed for the gallows. She’d escaped somehow.

Oh, he could have denounced her to the local magistrates. But that would only ensure that his ancient family name of la Fere would be dragged through the mud along with her. So he’d killed her.

He’d killed her quickly and ruthlessly, before his brain had even had time to reason through all this.

What if Aramis had found the like treason and decided to take a similar solution?

With this in mind, Athos fetched up outside of Aramis’s door just in time to meet Porthos and D’Artagnan coming from the other side of the street.

They both looked as badly as he felt. Well—Porthos had taken his usual care about his appearance, which was quite a bit more than other people took. For such a large man and one so sensible, Porthos had a broad streak of peacock.