“Where did ye get this?” Ian asked abruptly, interrupting something the Vicomte was saying to the two rough-clad men who’d taken their weapons.
“What? Oh, the carpet! Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” The Vicomte beamed at him, quite unself-conscious, and gestured the two roughs away toward the wall. “It’s part of my wife’s dowry.”
“Your wife,” Jamie repeated carefully. He darted a sideways glance at Ian, who took the cue.
“That would be Mademoiselle Hauberger, would it?” he asked. The Vicomte blushed—actually blushed—and Ian realized that the man was no older than he and Jamie were.
“Well. It—we—we have been betrothed for some time, and in Jewish custom, that is almost like being married.”
“Betrothed,” Jamie echoed again. “Since … when, exactly?”
The Vicomte sucked in his lower lip, contemplating them. But whatever caution he might have had was overwhelmed in what were plainly very high spirits.
“Four years,” he said. And unable to contain himself, he beckoned them to a table near the window, and proudly showed them a fancy document, covered with colored scrolly sorts of things and written in some very odd language that was all slashes and tilted lines.
“This is our ketubah,” he said, pronouncing the word very carefully. “Our marriage contract.”
Jamie bent over to peer closely at it.
“Aye, verra nice,” he said politely. “I see it’s no been signed yet. The marriage hasna taken place, then?” Ian saw Jamie’s eyes flick over the desk, and could see him passing the possibilities through his mind: Grab the letter opener off the desk and take the Vicomte hostage? Then find the sly wee bitch, roll her up in one of the smaller rugs, and carry her to Paris? That would doubtless be Ian’s job, he thought.
A slight movement as one of the roughs shifted his weight caught Ian’s eye and he thought, Don’t do it, eejit! at Jamie, as hard as he could. For once, the message seemed to get through; Jamie’s shoulders relaxed a little and he straightened up.
“Ye do ken the lass is meant to be marrying someone else?” he asked baldly. “I wouldna put it past her not to tell ye.”
The Vicomte’s color became higher.
“Certainly I know!” he snapped. “She was promised to me first, by her father!”
“How long have ye been a Jew?” Jamie asked carefully, edging round the table. “I dinna think ye were born to it. I mean—ye are a Jew, now, aye? For I kent one or two, in Paris, and it’s my understanding that they dinna marry people who aren’t Jewish.” His eyes flicked round the solid, handsome room. “It’s my understanding that they mostly aren’t aristocrats, either.”
The Vicomte was quite red in the face by now. With a sharp word, he sent the roughs out—though they were disposed to argue. While the brief discussion was going on, Ian edged closer to Jamie and whispered rapidly to him about the rug in Gàidhlig.
“Holy God,” Jamie muttered in the same language. “I didna see him or either of those two at Marmande, did you?”
Ian had no time to reply and merely shook his head, as the roughs reluctantly acquiesced to Vicomte Pierre’s imperious orders and shuffled out with narrowed eyes aimed at Ian and Jamie. One of them had Jamie’s dirk in his hand, and drew this slowly across his neck in a meaningful gesture as he left.
Aye, they might manage in a fight, he thought, returning the slit-eyed glare, but not that wee velvet gomerel. Captain D’Eglise wouldn’t have taken on the Vicomte, and neither would a band of professional highwaymen, Jewish or not.
“All right,” the Vicomte said abruptly, leaning his fists on the desk. “I’ll tell you.”
And he did. Rebekah’s mother, the daughter of Dr. Hasdi, had fallen in love with a Christian man, and run away with him. The Doctor had declared his daughter dead, as was the usual way in such a situation, and done formal mourning for her. But she was his only child, and he had not been able to forget her. He had arranged to have information brought to him, and knew about Rebekah’s birth.
“Then her mother died. That’s when I met her—about that time, I mean. Her father was a judge, and my father knew him. She was fourteen and I sixteen; I fell in love with her. And she with me,” he added, giving the Scots a hard eye, as though daring them to disbelieve it. “We were betrothed, with her father’s blessing. But then her father caught a flux and died in two days. And—”
“And her grandfather took her back,” Jamie finished. “And she became a Jew?”
“By Jewish belief, she was born Jewish; it descends through the mother’s line. And … her mother had told her, privately, about her lost heritage. She embraced it, once she went to live with her grandfather.”
Ian stirred, and cocked a cynical eyebrow. “Aye? Why did ye not convert then, if ye’re willing to do it now?”
“I said I would!” The Vicomte had one fist curled round his letter opener as though he would strangle it. “The miserable old wretch said he did not believe me. He thought I would not give up my—my—this life.” He waved a hand dismissively around the room, encompassing, presumably, his title and property, both of which would be confiscated by the government the moment his conversion became known.
“He said it would be a sham conversion and the moment I had her, I would become a Christian again, and force Rebekah to be Christian, too. Like her father,” he added darkly.
Despite the situation, Ian was beginning to have some sympathy for the wee popinjay. It was a very romantic tale, and he was partial to those. Jamie, however, was still reserving judgment. He gestured at the rug beneath their feet.
“Her dowry, ye said?”
“Yes,” said the Vicomte, but sounded much less certain. “She says it belonged to her mother. She had some men bring it here last week, along with a chest and a few other things. Anyway,” he said, resuming his self-confidence and glowering at them, “when the old beast arranged her marriage to that fellow in Paris, I made up my mind to—to—”
“To abduct her. By arrangement, aye? Mmphm,” Jamie said, making a noise indicating his opinion of the Vicomte’s skills as a highwayman. He raised one red brow at Pierre’s black eye, but forbore to make any more remarks, thank God. It hadn’t escaped Ian that they were prisoners, though it maybe had Jamie.
“May we speak with Mademoiselle Hauberger?” Ian asked politely. “Just to make sure she’s come of her own free will, aye?”
“Rather plainly, she did, since you followed her here.” The Vicomte hadn’t liked Jamie’s noise. “No, you may not. She’s busy.” He raised his hands and clapped them sharply, and the rough fellows came back in, along with a half-dozen or so male servants as reinforcement, led by a tall, severe-looking butler, armed with a stout walking-stick.
“Go with Ecrivisse, gentlemen. He’ll see to your comfort.”
“Comfort” proved to be the chateau’s wine cellar, which was fragrant, but cold. Also dark. The Vicomte’s hospitality did not extend so far as a candle.
“If he meant to kill us, he’d have done it already,” Ian reasoned.