The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Eight - I Should Have Known Women Are a Vicious Species

And then, because my night wasn’t already horrendous enough, it started to rain. The drops poured from the sky, fat and heavy and laced with the heat of early summer. I let out a string of curses that society has led us to believe should never be uttered in front of delicate company and placed my hands above my head as if they could somehow give a reprieve to the downpour. 

“It’s only rain; you aren’t going to die,” Renée said. 

I eyed Étienne’s sister. “I might. We have a murderer in our presence, after all.” 

The murderer in question was unaffected by the rain, merely crossing her arms over her chest as the water collected in her hair and streamed down her face in feather-fine rivulets. 

Renée sighed, shoving a handful of damp locks behind her ears. “We haven’t heard the entire story yet. It’s best not to draw conclusions.”

“She’s the reason Étienne has been sentenced to death!” I burst out, motioning to her with a wild wave of my arm. “But fine, if you wish to speak with her, I won’t stop you. However, I will be getting out of this rain before she pulls a knife on us again.” 

With that, I stalked away, my feet landing in puddles of rainwater—only to be pulled back by my coat seconds later. 

“We have to take her inside with us,” Renée whispered into my ear. 

I shot her a look that only halfway encompassed my horror. “We can’t bring a murderer into our house!” 

“We can’t leave her out here in the rain, either.” 

“Sure we can.”

This time, I made it a single step before Renée pulled me back. “She’s Étienne’s sister.” 

“You’re Étienne’s sister.” 

“Olivier, be reasonable for once. You wished to know what happened the night the coachman was killed, correct? She can tell us. How else are we to find out? Or are you going to allow our brother to die because you can’t see past your own childish anger?” 

I started to pull away, but her grip was like iron. Try as I might, I couldn’t deny that what she said made a resounding amount of sense. 

I hated when my sister was logical. 

“If anyone catches us,” I said, “Mother, Father, Henri, the servants, anyone at all, this was your idea. Understood?” 

“Fine,” she agreed, releasing my coat at last. 

I practically sprinted to the door and threw it open, tumbling into the hallway without pausing to check if Renée and the murderer were following—and almost collided with Henri. He stood adjacent to the garden doors, de-wigged, his embroidered banyan open to reveal a night shirt hanging down to his ankles. His head was devoid of a cap, and a mess of wiry gray hairs sprang out from his scalp at odd angles. When he saw me, he startled, the book tucked under his arm falling to the ground and springing open.

“Monsieur!” he exclaimed. “What business do you have out in the rain after ten at night?” 

I glanced down at the small pond of rainwater forming around my feet. “Is it raining? I hadn’t noticed.”

Behind me, the door to the gardens cracked open, and I shoved it closed with my back. Renée banged on the door and yelled out a string of un-sisterly profanities she most certainly would never have said to Étienne. I flashed a smile at Henri as if nothing was amiss. 

“Is that. . . Mademoiselle d’Aumont?” he asked. 

I looked around. “What? Where?” 

“That banging.”