Read Chapter 10: The Duchess's Mark

The servant’s annex was a warren of narrow halls and low ceilings, the kind of place the palace preferred not to photograph. Élise had the man in a chokehold before he could draw the knife—he’d dropped it when her forearm came across his throat, his body going limp with a strangled gasp. She kicked the blade into the shadows and shoved him against the wall, her gun pressed under his jaw.

“Who sent you?” she said, voice low and flat.

He was young. Terrified. Eyes darting past her to the corridor where Claire Delorme had crumpled against her door, hands shaking over her mouth. The man tried to speak, but Élise’s grip tightened.

“I said—who?”

“I don’t know,” he wheezed. “I don’t—I was paid. Just to scare her. Nobody said her name.”

“Paid by who?”

“A man in a grey coat. He didn’t give a name. He didn’t need one.” The boy’s voice cracked. “He knew where I sleep. He knew my mother’s name.”

Élise stared at him a moment longer, then stepped back and let him slide to the floor. He clutched his throat, gasping. She holstered her weapon.

“If you go back to him, you’re dead,” she said. “If you tell him I let you go, you’re dead. Run. Don’t come back to the palace.”

He scrambled up and fled down the hall without a second glance. The sound of his footsteps faded into the hum of the old boilers.

Élise turned to Claire Delorme. The chambermaid was young, too—late twenties, auburn hair escaping a frayed knot, eyes enormous above her trembling hands. She hadn’t moved from the doorway.

“You’re Captain Moreau?” Claire’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes.” Élise crouched to her level. “You know why I’m here?”

“The statement. The one I recanted.” Claire’s hands lowered slowly. “I didn’t want to recant. They made me. The old Chamberlain—he was kind, he believed me. And then he was dead, and they said I’d signed a correction. But I never signed anything.”

“I know.” Élise kept her voice soft. “I found the forgery. I want to know what you saw that night.”

Claire looked past Élise into the dark annex, as if expecting the grey-coated man to materialize again. Then she nodded once and gestured for Élise to follow her inside.

The room was cramped—a cot, a washstand, a single window looking onto a service courtyard. Claire sat on the edge of the bed and wrung her hands.

“It was three nights before the attack,” she said. “I was doing the evening rounds in the east wing. That corridor behind the the grand salon, the one that runs past the old billiards room. And I saw—” She stopped, swallowing.

“Saw who?”

“The Duchess Marie. She was in the passage with a man. Not her usual company. He was in a servant’s coat, but you could tell he wasn’t. The way he stood. The way he looked at the guards like they were furniture.”

Élise’s pulse quickened. “Describe him.”

“Taller than her. Grey hair, or white. I only saw him in profile. They were arguing—not loud, but sharp. Her voice was like a knife. She said something like, ‘You were supposed to wait.’ And he said, ‘The timeline is fixed now. If you waver, it collapses.’” Claire pressed her hands flat against her knees. “I didn’t understand it then. I thought it was about a business matter. Her husband is a banker. Duchesses argue with bankers, don’t they?”

“Did she see you?”

“He saw me.” Claire’s voice dropped. “He turned his head and looked right at me. Just for a second. But that was enough. I turned and walked fast. I didn’t run because running would look guilty. And the next morning, I found this.”

She reached under her pillow and produced a small object, cupped in her palm like a lark’s egg.

A cufflink. Silver, delicate, with an engraving of a single lily—stem, petal, stamen captured in miniature precision.

Élise’s breath caught. She had examined the assassin’s cufflink found at the shooting site. Same pattern. Same maker’s marks, most likely. She didn’t need to check to know.

“He must have dropped it when he turned,” Claire said. “I kept it because I was afraid to leave it for someone else to find. Then the attack happened. And I gave my statement to the Chamberlain. And then he died, and I was here, and men started asking questions with their hands closed.”

Élise reached out and closed Claire’s fingers over the cufflink. “Keep it hidden. Don’t tell anyone it exists. Do you understand me?”

Claire nodded. “What’s going to happen?”

Élise stood. She didn’t have an answer that would comfort her.

---

The Hôtel de Vaudreuil sat on the rue de Constantine, a mansion of pale limestone and black iron that announced its owner’s wealth in quiet, deliberate strokes. The Duchess Marie now went by Madame de Vaudreuil, wife of the banking magnate Alexandre de Vaudreuil, and the palace had all but scrubbed her from royal correspondence.

Élise presented herself at the service entrance—not the front gate, where the footmen would have demanded credentials she did not want to produce. She told the cook she was from the palace accounting office, auditing widows’ pensions. The cook shrugged and pointed her to the morning room.

The Duchess was sitting by a tall window, a cup of coffee cooling in her hands, wearing a dress of muted grey that made her look older than her years. Her grief was a costume, Élise thought. It had become a second skin, but it was still a costume.

“Captain Moreau.” Marie did not rise. Her voice was smooth, practiced. “They told me someone from the palace was here. I didn’t expect you.”

“You know my name.”

“The Palace of Versailles is a small village, Captain. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Especially yours.” Marie set the cup down with a precise click. “You’ve been busy since my husband died. Uncovering forgeries. Threatening servants. Scaring young men in the annex.”

Élise kept her face calm. “You hear a great deal for a woman in mourning.”

“I hear what I need to hear.” Marie’s eyes were cool and level. “Why are you here?”

Élise drew the cufflink from her pocket—Claire had let her take it, reluctantly, with a promise to return it—and laid it on the table between them. The silver caught the morning light.

The Duchess went very still. For a long moment she did not look at it. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze to Élise.

“Where did you get that?”

“A chambermaid found it three days before the attack. In a corridor behind the grand salon. She saw you arguing with a man.”

Marie’s jaw tightened. Her fingers, resting on the arm of her chair, curled into her palm. For a moment Élise thought she would dismiss her, call for the footmen, end the conversation. Instead, Marie picked up the cufflink and held it between her thumb and forefinger, turning it in the light.

“I knew him,” she said finally. “Not his name. His face. He came to the palace five months ago, offering arrangements with the Crown. Land, titles, revenue streams. My husband refused to see him. I agreed to meet, out of courtesy.”

“And what did he offer you?”

Marie set the cufflink back down. “My freedom.” She met Élise’s gaze. “My husband’s marriage contract is ruinous, Captain. It was signed when I was nineteen, by a regent who thought he was protecting the family. I have no control over my own money, my own home, my own movements. The man in the corridor offered to change that. He said he had influence in the ministries. That he could dissolve the contract quietly, without scandal.”

“And in exchange?”

“In exchange, I would confirm a small detail for a report. Nothing incriminating. Just that I had seen my husband—the Prince—in the gardens on a particular afternoon, in a particular place, at a particular hour.” Marie’s voice sharpened. “I refused. The argument you heard about was my refusal. He told me the timeline was fixed. That if I wavered, it would collapse. I didn’t know what he meant. Not then.”

“But you know now.”

Marie leaned back in her chair, the morning light carving shadows into her face. “My husband was killed in the gardens. And the official report says he arrived there only moments before the shot, walking alone. But that’s not true, is it? The Prince was seen in the gardens much earlier. He might have seen something. He might have been a witness—or he might have been the target, and my brother-in-law the intended victim. Or the other way around.”

She reached for the cufflink and pressed it back into Élise’s palm, her fingers cool and deliberate.

“You’re closer to the truth than anyone else in that palace,” Marie said. “And that makes you the most dangerous person in France. Be careful, Captain. The people who built this lie have already killed one Chamberlain. They’ve silenced a maid. They will not hesitate to bury an officer whose father owes money to the wrong man.”

Élise froze. The Duchess smiled a thin, knowing smile.

“Yes, I know about Duval. Everyone with a ledger knows about Duval.” She rose, smoothing her skirt. “Protect the chambermaid. Protect yourself. And when you find the center of this, do not go alone.”

She walked to the door, then paused, looking back over her shoulder.

“The cufflink matches the one from the shooting. You knew that already. But you should know something else.” Marie’s voice dropped. “That maker’s mark—the artist who cut those lilies—he produced only seven commissions in his life. Five are accounted for in royal records. One is in my possession. That makes two unaccounted for.”

“Who holds the last one?”

Marie’s smile faded. “The man who commissioned it. A financier who operates from the shadows. A man who has your father’s debts in his desk.” She opened the door. “Don’t look for him, Captain. Let him find you. That’s the only way you’ll survive the meeting.”

The door closed behind her, and Élise stood alone in the morning room, the silver lily cold in her palm.