Free Marbeck and the Double Dealer by John Pilkington Page A

round and called towards the open doorway. A voice answered.
    â€˜You need rest after your journey,’ she went on, facing Marbeck again. ‘But first you must take food and tell me of poor Louis. You are a friend of his?’
    â€˜I am, but not a close one,’ Marbeck replied.
    â€˜Yet you came all this way, only to bring his respects?’
    He hesitated. This wasn’t the time – yet when would there be another? It seemed the Comtesse’s husband was expected at any moment; he drew a breath.
    â€˜In fact, it’s not only for that. I’m a man of business, madame, and I’ve heard you may be able to help me.’
    A moment passed . . . then, to his relief, the woman nodded.
    â€˜I understand, Monsieur Wilders,’ she said stiffly. ‘Will you please to enter my house?’

SEVEN
    T he Château des Faucons was ancient, it seemed, and had changed hands many times before coming into the possession of the Comte de Paiva. So the Comtesse told Marbeck over an excellent supper, in a small chamber on the upper floor of the house. His hostess had already dined, but nevertheless kept him company while he ate, taking a cup of sweet wine herself. The only others present were two male servants who waited on them. The atmosphere was congenial; indeed, Marbeck’s welcome had been warmer than he expected. Which was why, as he enjoyed roast quails and stewed carp, he began to wonder why he was being treated like an honoured guest.
    He soon exhausted his tale of Louis Orme, whom he described as a friend he had not seen in years, before finding himself by chance at his sickbed in Brest. It was the dying man’s wish, he explained, that he should tell the Comtesse his last thoughts had been of her, and of happier times. This the lady acknowledged politely; her manner, he thought, had become markedly cooler than earlier. Finally, having declined a rich pudding, Marbeck declared himself sated and changed the subject.
    â€˜Your husband, madame – you expect him home soon?’
    â€˜He has been out two days on Domain business,’ the lady replied. ‘He will return by nightfall.’ She glanced towards the window. ‘And yet the night draws in already . . .’ She favoured Marbeck with a smile. ‘The roads are poor hereabouts, Monsieur Wilders – you will, of course, be our guest. I have ordered a chamber to be readied for you.’
    Taken aback, Marbeck expressed gratitude. ‘Your kindness is such, it pains me to speak of mundane matters,’ he ventured. ‘Yet I would beg your indulgence. I’ve said I’m a man of business, madame. I came to Western France in hopes of finding representatives of His Royal Majesty . . . I mean not your King Henri, but the King of Spain. I was told you might number such men among your acquaintance?’
    He touched a napkin to his mouth. The room was warm, lit by a log fire as well as numerous candles. He longed to unbutton his doublet. La Comtesse, for her part, displayed a neck and shoulders bare of anything save jewellery and puffed sleeves of silver gauze. Keeping his eyes on hers, Marbeck waited.
    â€˜Was it Louis Orme who told you so?’ she enquired, raising her eyebrows. ‘I ask because it’s some years since he and I saw each other. Times change . . . as do circumstances.’
    â€˜They do,’ Marbeck agreed. ‘I know that since the peace treaty the forces of Spain have withdrawn from Brittany. Nevertheless, I suspect there are some not too far away, whom I could do business with.’ He met her eye. ‘Or do I presume too much?’
    There was a silence. Then the Comtesse smiled again, somewhat archly, and fingered a ruby pendant that lay upon her chest. Inwardly, he tensed: was she now flirting with him?
    â€˜Might I ask what, precisely, is the nature of your trade, Monsieur Wilders?’
    The question sounded casual. But knowing that opportunity might be lost at any