The Musketeer's Seamstress - By Sarah D'Almeida Page 0,47

the murdered Duchess.”

The cook put her hands on either side of her thick waist. “I was, and there isn’t one.”

The little maid curtseyed again. “Begging your pardon, madame, but there is. Or if not that, then close.”

“Close?

“There is a passage that ends behind a picture and through the eyes of the picture you can see the whole room,” the maid said.

“Only see?” Porthos said. Having fastened his breeches, he now gently pushed the cook aside and managed to step out from behind the bed.

“Yes, Monsieur,” the maid said, and curtseyed again, though the hint of a devilish grin still remained in her eyes and lips. “Only look. There is no opening, you see, that will allow the watcher into the room.”

“Why did you interrupt us, then?” the cook asked. “This means nothing and it changes nothing.”

“Begging your pardon,” Porthos said. “As someone who knows a little more about such things—as someone who knows that his friend, Aramis couldn’t possibly be guilty—I beg to disagree. I’m sure there is a way into the room that you’ve somehow missed.” He was well past the cook, and face-to-face with the young maid. And . . . had she winked at him? “Please show me this passage and this picture. Perhaps you’re only missing the spring that opens it.”

“I don’t think so, Monsieur,” the maid said, looking dubious.

“Please,” Porthos said, and, in turn, not sure what he was doing would be taken in the right spirit, he winked at her. “Please show me the place. I will not rest unless I am sure there is no way into the room. I can’t believe my friend is a murderer.”

“Well,” the cook said from behind. “Your loyalty does you credit, but I would still say that he is guilty and that this is all foolishness. Do take him to the room quickly, Hermengarde, but bring him back right away once he’s verified there is no way into the room from the passage. I have business with the gentleman.”

The blond maid curtseyed once more, then turned. Porthos followed her out of the room, and up three flights of stairs from the kitchen with some relief.

The stairs were narrow, stone, unadorned, clearly servant stairs and probably not very popular servant stairs at that, since they didn’t meet anyone while the maid scampered up the stairs ahead of Porthos and Porthos himself followed with much more lightness of step than was his usual.

Even then, Porthos waited till they were three floors up before he asked, “Mademoiselle, did you wink at me down there?”

The girl turned around and smiled, a devilish smile. “Indeed, I did, Monsieur. Mousqueton sent me to rescue you from the dragon. I told him she was a man-eater and there was no point at all his waiting the time you told him. By that time, you’d likely be squashed on that bed of hers.”

Porthos swallowed. “Mousqueton?”

The maid had the grace to blush but she answered eagerly enough. “Mousqueton and I are great friends,” she said. “I’m a maid on the third floor, you see, and we maids have our own little parlor there. He often comes and warms himself at my brazier, on a cold winter night.”

Porthos would just bet he did. Oh, he was aware that his servant, no longer the little street rat that Porthos had rescued so many years ago, attracted women and, perforce, must have his share of love affairs. But till now the rascal had kept it all quiet enough.

“Well, well,” Porthos said, smiling beneath his moustache and thinking he would have to tease the younger man about it. But then a horrible thought occurred to him, which removed all his joy in the revelation. “You were lying, then?” he asked. “About the passage.”

Hermengarde blinked, shook her head. “Oh, no, Monsieur. I wouldn’t lie about that. There really is a passage that runs behind the room, and which allows one to spy from the little holes at a portrait’s eyes. It’s very well done. Little bits of glass mask the eye holes, but . . .”

“And are you sure it doesn’t open into the room as well?” Porthos asked.

“Hard to do. It’s right behind a massive wardrobe. The portrait hangs above it, which is why it’s never been changed and never moved since the room was the Queen’s own. She only gave it to the Duchess two winters ago, you know? It used to be the Queen’s own closet.”

“Perhaps,” Porthos said, chewing on the corner of his moustache, as he did