Free Game of Patience by Susanne Alleyn

shook his head. “No, madame.”
    “How well do you know women?”
    “Not well, I fear.”
    The old lady snorted again. “I see. Well, I say Célie was in love, no matter what her father may know, or not know. But I’d guess something soured the affair in the end. She wasn’t at all happy the last half-dozen times I saw her.”
    “No?”
    “Worried, under some strain. I expect her sweetheart had discarded her, though how any man could reject a girl as pretty and tenderhearted as Célie, I’ll never know. But men are often like that. They grow bored with simple goodness and want a woman who is dangerous, a challenge. My great-nephew Marsillac was precisely that sort.” She glanced at the portrait on the wall. Aristide followed her gaze. An elegant young man of thirty, impeccably curled and powdered in the style of 1780, sat gazing coolly out from the painting. “He had a bad reputation, I fear,” the old lady continued, “though he was always courteous and thoughtful to me. But then, he was my heir,” she added dryly, and fell silent.
    “He is dead?” Aristide said, hoping to start her talking again.
    “Killed in a duel, after debauching one too many women. It was a highly unpleasant scandal. Dear, dear … poor Marsillac … ah, well, it was years ago. What else do you wish to ask me, monsieur?”
    “Did Célie ever ask you for money?”
    “Money?” said Madame de Laroque sharply. “Yes, in fact she did, not long ago. Said it was terribly urgent. I hadn’t much, but I did have a valuable necklace that I gave her. It ought to have gone to Célie’s mother, but poor Marie-Josèphe died young, too, so it would have gone to Célie in any case when I died.” She shook her head. “We seem to have had more than our share of misfortune in this family of late. First Marsillac, then Josèphe, now poor Célie. And I am convinced it was the doctor who killed Josèphe; she was expecting, and had a miscarriage, and bled to death. And that butcher thought cupping her and bleeding her was the best remedy! Poor Josèphe had had a strong, healthy child just two years before, that scamp Théodore, so I don’t see why she should have died of the next one. And she was only thirty-eight. I don’t suppose you could arrest that doctor and have him up for murder?”
    “No, I fear not, madame, not after so much time has passed.”
    Madame de Laroque sighed. “Pity. Give me a good trained midwife any day, not these charlatans who spout their Latin. They’ve never had a baby, have they? Let them stick to setting bones and lancing boils.”
    Aristide disengaged the cat from his lap and rose, brushing away stray hairs. “I apologize once again for this intrusion—”
    “No intrusion, young man. You’ve diverted me for a quarter of an hour. Perhaps,” she added with the air of a queen granting favors, “you will visit me again soon, and tell me what you’ve learned.”
    “Of course, madame.”
    “Célie’s to be buried tomorrow, Honoré tells me. I daresay you may join the procession if you’re able to. Ten o’clock.”
    “If I’m not otherwise engaged.” He avoided funerals when he could; they reminded him far too much of matters he would rather have forgotten.
    “Of course,” added the old lady, “you would spend your time more profitably in finding the wretch who killed her. Anyone who could have hurt a dear girl like that—you wouldn’t understand, I suppose, unless you’d known her. Merry and generous and kind-hearted, always, until this silly trouble with a sweetheart… . You ought to have seen her with the child, young Théodore. Most girls wouldn’t bother themselves about a baby brother who was sixteen years younger; they’re far more interested in balls, and new gowns, and dancing and weddings. But as soon as the boy came back from his wet-nurse, Célie adored him, and dandled and cosseted him as if he was a new lapdog, and Josèphe let her do as she liked. Sometimes I think she was generous to