Free Deadly Descent by Charles O'Brien Page A

her recovery? he wondered. Could she deal with what he had to say? She and Dubois had seemed so fond of one another.
    A servant met them at the entrance and went inside to announce their arrival. The master of the house, Mr. Thomas Brown, a tall, gentle man in plain brown breeches and white shirt, came to the door, a watchful look in his eye. Saint-Martin reassured the man, mentioning Barnstaple’s name, then explained his mission. The Quaker listened with growing concern. “This will sorely test Miss Cartier. But I must call her.” He glanced down at the colonel’s riding boots. “You may wish to change to something more comfortable, while she makes herself ready to see you.” He put Saint-Martin in the care of a servant and went looking for Miss Cartier. Georges left to tend to the horses and the saddlebags. They were prepared to stay overnight either with the Browns or at a nearby inn.
    In a sitting room a short while later, Saint-Martin stared absently out a window at a meadow carpeted with spring flowers. Tiny beads of perspiration gathered on his upper lip. Had the incident in Islington scarred the young woman, broken her spirit? Footsteps, then a rustling gown sounded behind him. He turned, saw her, and felt a rush of pleasure. She stood in the doorway in a simple yellow muslin dress, head slightly inclined, eyes alive with curiosity.
    He sensed she recognized him but wished him to make the first gesture. Bowing, he introduced himself. She smiled and walked toward him with uncommon grace and extended her hand. He kissed it, then drew back a step, taking in her appear-ance. She was no longer the puckish girl he had earlier known, but a self-assured young woman, lithe, and rather tall, with strong, expressive features. She bore no visible marks of her ordeal, other than the short cut of her golden hair. He breathed an inward sigh of relief.
    â€œColonel Saint-Martin, why…?” She gazed at him, her eyes perplexed. Finally she asked, “What brings you to Wimbledon?”
    â€œI bear sad news,” he replied. “Antoine Dubois is dead.” With voice and gesture he tried to cushion the impact of his words, but still they shocked her. She shrank back as if struck. Her eyes widened with disbelief.
    For a moment she was speechless, her mind struggling with what he had said. Then she glared at him, as if blaming the messenger. “That can’t be,” she said in a low, taut voice, clenching her fists. Her eyes left her visitor for a few moments, fixing on some inner vision. Then, her face reddening, she tossed her head. “It’s not fair! Antoine was a good man, one who truly cared for me.” She eased herself into a chair, dabbing her eyes with a small handkerchief. As she regained command of herself, she glanced at Saint-Martin. Her voice wavered, fighting with her pain. “My real father died when I was only a baby. I’ve never had any other father, only Antoine. I so wanted to see him, to talk to him again.”
    She fell into a heavy silence. Her brow furrowed with confusion. Searching for words, she stammered, “What happened to him?”
    Saint-Martin felt bound to explain the circumstances of Lélia Laplante’s murder and Dubois’ unfathomable death, labelled suicide by the Parisian authorities. He spoke evenly, avoiding conjecture.
    â€œHe would
never
do that!” the young woman exclaimed at the mention of the murder. The color drained from her face. “Not Antoine! How horrible!” Abruptly gathering her skirt, she rose to her feet and gripped the back of a chair. Rigid, erect, she asked Saint-Martin to continue. The violence of Dubois’ death made her grimace. At the end of the report, deep lines of doubt lingered on her forehead. “The police are all alike,” she snapped. Her eyes locked on his. “They always blame the victim.”
    Saint-Martin felt insulted, but he understood her state of mind and