Read Chapter 22: The Baron's Tale

The house on the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux was narrower than its neighbors, wedged between a glover's shop and a shuttered chandler’s, its façade gray with age and neglect. Marguerite had hammered on the door three times before a slat slid back and a pair of pale eyes examined her from the darkness within.

“The Comtesse sent me,” she said, holding up the signet ring she'd lifted from the Comtesse's chamber before the arrest. It was a gamble—if the Baron had heard of the arrest already, she was dead where she stood.

The eyes blinked. The slat closed. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a man who belonged in a soldier's uniform rather than a merchant's coat. The Baron de Beauséant was tall, with a weathered face and a soldier's bearing that age had not diminished. His left hand rested on a sword hilt with the casual ease of a man who had drawn it many times.

“The Comtesse does not announce herself through the front door,” he said, studying her. “Who are you?”

Marguerite stepped past him into the dim foyer, refusing to be cowed. “I am her new messenger. The old one—Claire—she is no longer available.”

The Baron's expression flickered. It was brief, barely a tightening around his mouth, but she caught it. He knew Claire's name. He knew what had happened to her.

“Is that so.” He closed the door and gestured toward a narrow stairway. “Upstairs. We don't conduct business in the entryway.”

The room above was sparse: a desk, two chairs, a map of Paris pinned to the wall with small red marks scattered across the city. A single candle burned on the desk, its flame steady in the still air. The Baron settled behind the desk and regarded her with the patient wariness of a man who had learned to wait before speaking.

“The Comtesse likes to send pretty girls,” he said. “She thinks it disarms people. But you're not her usual sort. Too sharp. Too watchful.”

“I'm exactly her sort,” Marguerite said, keeping her voice flat. “She values efficiency over beauty.”

The Baron laughed—a short, bitter sound. “Efficiency. That's one word for what she values.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You're afraid. I can smell it on you. The Comtesse's people are never afraid. They're too stupid to understand what they're involved in.”

Marguerite's hand drifted toward the knife hidden in her sleeve. “If I'm afraid, it's because I know what happens to people who outlive their usefulness.”

“Then you know more than most.” The Baron studied her for a long moment, then reached into his coat and produced a small key—old iron, tarnished with use. He placed it on the desk between them. “The Comtesse likes to send pretty girls to fetch her poison. Did you think I wouldn't know what you really are?”

Marguerite's blood went cold. She forced herself to hold his gaze. “If I were the Comtesse's poison carrier, would I be standing here alone?”

The Baron tilted his head. “No. You'd have brought guards. Or you'd be clever enough to come alone and hope I didn't kill you.” He laughed again, softer this time. “You're either very brave or very stupid. Tell me which.”

“I'm still breathing,” Marguerite said. “Does that answer your question?”

The Baron's laugh faded into something quieter, more contemplative. He pushed the key across the desk toward her. “Claire came to me the same way. Alone. Brave. Asking questions she shouldn't have asked.” He paused, and for a moment, the soldier's mask slipped, revealing something older and wearier beneath. “She was a good woman. I told her too much.”

Marguerite's throat tightened. “What did you tell her?”

“That I was tired.” The Baron leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the map behind her. “I was a soldier once. Served under Richelieu. Saw enough death to last three lifetimes. When I left the army, I thought I'd find peace in trade. Instead, I found that the court pays better for information than for cloth.” He gestured around the room. “This house, this life—it was built on secrets. Other people's secrets. I sold them to anyone who paid. The Comtesse paid well.”

“And the Duchesse de Montfort?” Marguerite asked. “What did you sell the Comtesse about her?”

The Baron smiled—a thin, knowing smile. “Health details. Schedules. The names of her physicians. What she ate, what she drank, who prepared it.” He shrugged. “The Comtesse had a particular interest in the Duchesse's constitution. She wanted to know how much—how little—would be needed to weaken her.”

Marguerite's hands curled into fists at her sides. She forced her voice steady. “You knew what she was planning.”

“I knew what she was paying for.” The Baron's voice hardened. “I didn't ask what she did with it. That's the first rule of selling information. You don't ask.” He picked up the key and turned it over in his fingers. “Claire asked. She came here asking about the ledger. She wanted to know who else the Comtesse dealt with. I told her about a safe house the ring uses on the Île de la Cité. I gave her the key.”

“And then she vanished,” Marguerite said.

The Baron set the key down again. “She left here alive. Whether she reached the safe house, I can't say. But I heard rumors—men who asked questions about a girl matching her description. Men who worked for someone higher than the Comtesse.” He met Marguerite's eyes. “The Comtesse was a buyer. She was never the source. Someone else supplies the poison. Someone who keeps the ledgers, who knows all the names.”

“The Baron de Beauséant,” Marguerite said. “You're not the source.”

He laughed, the sound stripped of all humor. “No. I'm a broker. A middleman. I sell information to people like the Comtesse, and I buy it from people who move in darker circles than I ever will.” He gestured at himself. “A retired soldier playing merchant—I'm not the man who runs a poison ring. I'm the man who knows where to find him.”

“Then who is?”

The Baron hesitated. His eyes flicked to the door, to the window, as if checking for listeners. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I don't know his name. No one does. He operates through intermediaries, through coded letters and anonymous instructions. The Comtesse corresponded with him through a dead drop—a hollow brick in the wall of Saint-Sulpice.” He slid the key toward her. “But I know where he keeps his records. The safe house on the Île de la Cité. Number 14, Rue de la Licorne. It's not much to look at, but it's where they keep the ledgers—the names of every buyer, every seller, every dose that's changed hands in the last ten years.”

Marguerite stared at the key. It was old, heavy, with an ornate bow shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail. The mark of a poison ring.

“Why are you giving me this?” she asked. “You said yourself you don't ask questions. Why start now?”

The Baron's face grew somber. “Because Claire was the first person in twenty years who asked about me—who wanted to know who I was, not what I could sell. She treated me like a man, not a merchant of secrets.” He pushed the key closer. “And because the Comtesse is dead. Arrested. Whatever game she was playing, it's over. But the ring isn't. It will find new patrons, new buyers, new victims. Someone has to stop it before it does.”

“You could stop it yourself,” Marguerite said. “You could go to the authorities.”

The Baron laughed—a hollow sound. “I'm already dead. The moment the Comtesse was arrested, my usefulness ended. There are already men watching this house. I give you the key, and I give you a warning: if you go to the Île de la Cité, don't go alone. Take someone you trust. And whatever you find in those ledgers—whatever names you read—be prepared to carry that weight for the rest of your life.”

He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Now go. If they find you here, the key won't save either of us.”

Marguerite took the key. It was warm from his palm, heavier than it looked. She slipped it into the pocket beneath her bodice, next to her mother's letter and the copied locket. Three talismans, she thought. Three burdens.

She paused at the door. “Claire—did she have a message for anyone? A family?”

The Baron shook his head. “No family. No lovers. Only a loyalty to the Duchesse that I've never seen equalled in anyone else.” He met her eyes. “She said if anything happened to her, someone would come. Someone with the same look in her eyes—the look of a woman who refuses to be a victim.” He smiled, faintly. “I didn't believe her then. I believe her now.”

Marguerite turned and left the house without another word. Outside, the Paris night had grown cold, the streets empty save for the distant glow of torches. She pressed the key beneath her palm, feeling its weight against her skin.

Somewhere between the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux and Versailles, the truth was waiting. And whatever it was, she would carry it. She had no choice.