Free Louisa Rawlings by Stolen Spring

“What are you asking me?”  
    “I think you know. I want you to be an…agent, if you will. A courier.”  
    “A spy , you mean!”  
    “Just so.”  
    She stood up, trembling. “Monsieur de Torcy. You have brought me here to ask such a thing of me? It shames me to think I’ve eaten your food, enjoyed your hospitality for even a single moment… By heaven, you purchase your spies cheaply! I’m as loyal as any other Frenchwoman. But to be a spy? Mon Dieu! What do you think I am?”  
    “Mademoiselle,” he said tiredly, “I’m not a villain. I do what I must for France. But I have no time for your indignation. I think you’re no better, and no worse, than most of the women at this dissolute court, who waste their days and nights in foolish games of love. If not, you’d be far from here, with a husband and children to keep you from mischief.”  
    “Now may you be damned,” she whispered, and stormed to the door.  
    “Come back and sit down!”  
    The authority in his voice stopped her in her tracks. Reluctantly she turned, her gray eyes shooting angry sparks.  
    “You have a father who gambles heavily, I believe.” She took a deep breath, her hand going to her mouth. “There’s a moneylender in Paris who holds his note, mademoiselle. Do you know the amount?” She shook her head. “One hundred and twenty-five thousand livres.”  
    “Dieu!” she breathed. Suddenly her knees could no longer support her. She sank back into her chair. If they sold half the land of Sans-Souci, they couldn’t repay the debt. But how dare Torcy use it against her! She felt the color returning to her cheeks, her strong will reasserting itself. “The debt will be repaid in time, Monsieur de Torcy! I give you my word.”  
    “I admire your spirit, mademoiselle. You surprise me. But the moneylender will obey my orders. If I ask him to call in his note tomorrow , it will mean prison for your father, and disgrace and ruin for your house and name. There’s one more thing,” he added, as she hesitated. “I have heard from certain quarters that your father’s fortunes at the card table seem to rise dramatically when you’re in the room. Perhaps you’re merely his good-luck amulet, but I suspect a case could be made on circumstantial evidence. We brand thieves and cheats in France, mademoiselle. Even one as lovely as you.”  
    She made a brazen attempt at a defense. “You have no proof.”  
    He poured himself another glass of wine. His eyes were unreadable. “Perhaps I do. Can you be sure?” The voice was like ice. “Have you seen the prison of the Filles Repenties in Paris, mademoiselle? The whores and cheats there sell themselves to their jailers for an extra crust of bread. Not quite as dainty as insinuating yourself into a courtier’s bed for a jewel, n’est-ce pas ? Can you risk such a fate on the proofs that I may hold?”  
    She stared down at her clasped hands. More than once she had hidden a card in her sleeve or her fan, to slip to Tintin when he needed it. Could Torcy hold one of those cards? “You have me at a disadvantage, Monsieur de Torcy. What do you want of me?”  
    “You and your father seem quite adept at insinuating yourselves into the best circles. Continue to do so. Lead your life at Versailles as before. However, I want your father to win or lose, henceforth, on his skills alone. Do you understand? It matters little to me whether you’re both charlatans. But I need you, and I don’t want you disgraced. You’ll be a courier when I need you to be, and you will do certain other things that are required. You will tell no one of this conversation; if anyone learns—through you—of your connection to me, I’ll have you flogged and branded as a cheat, and your father as well! You’ll contact me only through Albret. Above all, listen and report to me anything—gossip, rumors—that seems unusual to you. Do you understand?”  
    She nodded, sickened and horrified by his words. A