Free The English Heiress by Roberta Gellis

Henry could not have communicated with his family for nearly five month—that was a deliberate opening for questions.
    It was an opening that required an instant response. To hesitate was as revealing as to display outright an interest in de Conyers. Roger was almost certain that Maître Foucalt was no agent of the town tyrant. The eager way the young clerk had welcomed “business” implied a recent diminishment Also, even before Roger’s accent was recognized, Foucalt had implied that Saulieu was not a healthy place to set up in business. He had not said anything that could be taken as a criticism of the governing body of the town, but he had suggested subtly that there might be problems for an honest businessman. Still, after ten years of practicing law, Roger was innately cautious.
    “Ah,” he said at once, “you have an English resident in the town. Englishmen are often interested in guns. Perhaps I could do a little business even if, as you suggest, this would not be a profitable place to stay.”
    That gave Roger his answer. There was such a look of disappointment, of a last hope lost on the suddenly lined and sorrowful face of the advocate, that Roger could no longer doubt him.
    “No,” Maître Foucalt sighed, “he is no longer resident. Ah well, I am sorry—”
    “Is Henry de Conyers still alive?” Roger asked, interrupting what was obviously going to be a polite farewell.
    Maître Foucalt’s face grew sharp. “Henry de Conyers,” he breathed.
    Foucalt had not given the first name. Then this man, whoever he was, must have come to look for de Conyers. There was no question that he was a stranger to the town and even to the district. Thus, almost certainly, he was not a henchman of Jean-Paul Marot. Besides, Maître Foucalt thought bitterly, since he himself was the only one who could be implicated by this conversation, it did not matter. His life was over anyway.
    “I do not know whether he is still alive,” Maître Foucalt said quickly, his voice lowered. “The last time anyone saw him was early in July.” He related quickly the events that had taken place. The take-over of the town by Marot, the imprisonment of de Conyers and his family—although Foucalt was unaware of the horrors that had accompanied the imprisonment—and the periodic display of Henry. “But,” he concluded, “no one has seen him for about six weeks. It may be…”
    “No,” Roger replied briskly, “there is no sense in killing him secretly after all this time, if that is what you fear. It is possible that some or all of them are dead,” he added more slowly. “Perhaps they fell ill. Prisoners tend to lose heart and are victims to disease.”
    “There is only one physician,” Maître Foucalt remarked. “Do you not think…”
    “Perhaps the physician was told to keep the matter quiet,” Roger began. He saw from the fleeting expression on the advocate’s face that if the physician had been summoned to attend de Conyers, he would have mentioned it, whatever he had been told. “It is also possible,” he continued, “that the conditions under which Monsieur de Conyers is kept do not accord with the appearance given when he was displayed. From what you told me, it seems as if the man Marot had some personal grudge against—”
    “That is so,” Foucalt interrupted, “but at first he had such power—we were all so…so… If he wanted monsieur dead, why did he not have him executed? No one could have opposed him then.”
    “Then!” Roger picked that up. “And now it is different?” Maître Foucalt’s face closed and suspicion flashed in his eyes. Roger shook his head and raised a hand defensively. “No, I am not asking you to tell me anything that could harm anyone or betray any plan. I do not wish to know anything beyond what any man in the street would know. Remember, I am a stranger in the town. I know nothing at all.”
    Such information Maître Foucalt was willing to give. He described the disagreements