A Midnight Dance

by Lila DiPasqua

  “Isabelle has information you need. She can be of great help in clearing your family name. It would be foolish to dismiss the potential aid she might provide. One third of the silver for my sister’s information. What say you?”

  “I say you bargain without leverage. I don’t need to pay you anything.”

  Raising her chin slightly, she held his gaze steadfast. “I will succeed in finding my sister and lifting my family out of poverty. You either work with me, or I work against you. Before you utter another word, consider this: The last time I was this determined, I lifted your entire capture right out from under your nose and the noses of all your men. What is it worth to you to keep me in your sight? To forge an alliance with me so that I don’t interfere with your plans?”

  He glowered at her. “I could have you and your lot kept here under guard.”

  She smiled. “I suppose that’s an option. However, should you choose to leave some behind, make no mistake, Aristo, I will outsmart them.”

  Jules’s expression hardened, her words clearly hitting their mark. “Gentlemen, I’d like a private word with Sabine.”

  Sabine’s heart thumped madly as the men left. Anxiously, she awaited his reply. He was not going to deny her what she wanted. If he placed himself between her and her goals, she’d best him, or die trying.

  Jules sat down on the edge of the table and returned her regard. Tension thickened the air.

  “I admire your tenacity,” he said at last. Gone was the tightness in his tone. His response took her by surprise. “You’re the one who shoulders the responsibility for your family’s well-being. That, chère, is something I understand. My noblesse oblige is no less burdensome. But we carry the weight of our familial obligations nonetheless. You and I are not so different.”

  She expected to have to argue, finagle. She hadn’t expected to hear him express his understanding. Or . . . admiration for her efforts?

  “You are struggling to regain your former life,” he continued. “I understand that, too. I understand loss. The anguish of it. You lost a sister. I lost a father. Though you may not have cared for him, he was condemned for a crime he didn’t commit. After being stripped of his rank and title, he was hanged on a public gibbet. Luc and I were arrested and left to languish in prison for months not knowing our fates. In the end, we lost everything we ever identified with.”

  Tears gathered in her eyes. Her chest tightened, his words twisting around her heart. Resonating in her soul. She could easily identify with his sense of injustice and depletion.

  “I’ve come to understand why you despise nobles the way you do. Why the subject of taxes is so abhorrent to you. I don’t condone Cyr’s methods, but understand this: The lower class is made to pay in coin, but nobles are forced to pay in blood. In battle. The funds collected through taxes are used to raise and supply armies. We have a duty to the King.” His tone hardened when he added, “A King who is young and foolishly swayed by lies, even though the Moutiers have loyally served the Crown—with swords and sons—for generations.”

  He rose and approached her. “You may not like nobles, but that is my world. It is everything I am. Where I belong. Where the Moutier name belongs. I will stop at nothing to restore its former prestige. Your loyalty to your family is just as zealous. For that reason, I don’t trust you.”

  She looked up into his handsome face. They were alike. She couldn’t deny it. They’d both experienced the same kind of pain and shared the same driving determination to reclaim what fate had snatched away.

  At the moment, as she gazed into his fathomless eyes, she felt a deep connection with him. Greater than ever before.

  Not since Isabelle had anyone understood how she felt inside. Not truly. Not unequivocally. Not the way he did. It made her want to sob. It made her want to put her arms around him.

  It made her ache.

  He’d been humbled. But it didn’t break him. And he’d share the ordeal with her.

  She was deeply moved. Tender emotions flooded her heart and she cautioned herself against them. She had every confidence he’d regain his former elevated status. Before her was the future Marquis de Blainville. Just as unattainable for her as he’d always been. Even when her father had planned to marry his daughters into nobility, he’d never set his aim as high as a Moutier. Much less Charles de Moutier’s heir.

  The lands and fortune he stood to reclaim would make him one of the richest, most prominent men in the realm. And it would be expected that his wife would have the same exalted pedigree.

  “I understand your duty,” she croaked, forcing the words past the knot in her throat. “Isabelle is alive. All I want is my sister back.” Then she could live again. Get through the rest of her life, come what may. “I could help you. I can act, speak different languages, skills that could serve you in your mission. I must speak to the man who you think betrayed your father. I must question him about Isabelle. We can aid each other in fulfilling our goals.”

  He lifted a brow. “You’d wish to work together with someone who is a dreaded Aristo?” There was the barest hint of humor in his eyes and voice.

  His gentle teasing drew a small smile from her. “Sometimes you are not so dreaded. Much of the time we spent together in the forest and at the inn, you were . . . charming. Quite wonderful, in fact,” she said sincerely.

  His brows shot up. “Good Lord, you weren’t just speaking the truth, were you?” His words and gorgeous smile pulled a laugh out of her.

  “Yes, you arrogant man . . . Don’t get used to it,” she teased back.

  Jules caressed his thumb against her soft cheek. “I appreciate your honesty.” Reluctantly he released her cheek. “I’ve decided to take you with me, after all.”

  Her eyes widened and filled with joy. “Thank you!” She smiled, brilliant and beautiful. Seeing it pleased him more than he ever expected.

  He had no choice here really. She was as clever as she was lovely. Leaving her behind under guard definitely wouldn’t do. Until he had a confession from the Archbishop and his life and silver back, he couldn’t afford any additional complications. He had enough obstacles in his path without adding this sly sweet temptress.

  It was best to keep her close and under his watchful eye.

  Yet there was another reason for bringing Sabine along. Though he didn’t believe Isabelle was still alive, she clearly needed closure. He knew from her journals just how close these twin sisters had been. How much Isabelle meant to Sabine.

  It was likely Isabelle was killed in the fire on purpose because she knew too much.

  He wanted to put the ghost of Isabelle Laurent to rest, for Sabine’s sake.

  “You will do as you’re asked at all times, and if I think, or remotely suspect, that you’re scheming in any way to take the silver . . .”

  “I won’t! I swear!” she declared.

  “Good. Then we have an agreement.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll help you gain back what you lost, and you will give back what I lost. You’ll help me locate Isabelle, and once your heritage is restored, you’ll return the Laurent lands. All of the lands that once belonged to my family. And I want you to forgive our debts and provide a modest sum to ease our burdens.”

  Jules scrutinized her comely face. He chose his words carefully. “I’ll help you where your sister is concerned, and if you are instrumental in the return of my confiscated lands and title, then I’ll return your lands, free and clear, with a sum as compensation for your assistance.” That would hopefully keep her from plotting against him.

  Her smile reappeared. “Agreed! I’ll tell my family to pack—”

  “Your family? Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

  “Only Agnes, Vincent, and Louise. I want them there when we find Isabelle. They’ll be of great help to you, you’ll see.”

  “I’ve already sampled their ‘help.’ ”

  Stubborn determination formed on her face. “You have your brother. I want some of
my family with me. This is not negotiable.”

  Merde. He disliked this situation for its disagreeable familiarity. Moreover, he disliked any situation he was constrained to accept. He wasn’t pleased to have any of his thieves accompanying him.

  “Well, what is your answer, Aristo? Are we going to be allies or enemies?”

  “The witch’s potions stay here.”

  “Fine.”

  “And all personal effects will be searched before we leave tomorrow morning.”

  Elation lit her face. “Agreed.”

  She was looking far too confident for his liking. It was time to tip the scales back in his favor.

  “Then I guess we have a bargain finally. My congratulations to you, Sabine. It would seem you’ve thought of everything. Except . . .”

  Her delicate brows furrowed slightly. “Except what?”

  He lowered his head, stopping just short of touching her enticing lips. “How will you keep your hands off me?”

  Two weeks later, Leon de Vittry sat in the library of his château before the lambent flames crackling in the hearth, swirling his brandy in his goblet. The hour was late. The servants abed. The château was still. Tranquil. A sharp contrast to the storm that brewed inside him.

  Tipping back his head, he downed the amber liquid.

  Leon glanced up at his grandfather’s portrait and took in the old man’s pompous stance. The mockery etched across his arrogant features only spiked Leon’s ire. He knew that look. Too well. He’d suffered it most of his life. From his kin. From his peers.

  Nothing was more wretched than being born the second son.

  Living in the shadow of the heir.

  Living in the shadow of Sébastien de Vittry.

  While the heir apparent had been doted upon and lavished with attention and the finest of everything, Leon had been treated as invisible. Sébastien had carried himself with a superiority and indifference that Leon admired. And despised.

  The only thing his brother had ever done for him was to die. Leon smiled. The sounds of agony, the writhing, as Sébastien approached death’s door had been as sweet as he’d always imagined they would be.

  Sébastien may have had looks and brawn. But Leon had intellect.

  And patience.

  He’d learned to don a deceiving mask, a benign manner, and consequently had been underestimated—by everyone.

  Now he had a title. Wealth. And an impending marriage to a woman he’d have never had as a wife if his brother hadn’t been removed from his path.

  It wasn’t that Leon cared a whit about the stupid woman. What mattered was that he’d forged an alliance with one of the most prominent families in the realm. Even the terms of his marriage contract had been shrewdly negotiated, promising him a sizable dowry—the amount of which he gleefully intended to leak for the benefit of the gossipmongers who used to ridicule and dismiss him as insignificant.

  After all he’d endured, he deserved everything he had. But there was one thing he still desired.

  Leon rose, strode over to the decanter on the side table, and poured himself another ample goblet of his fine brandy.

  One thing he’d wanted for a long time, but still didn’t have.

  Sabine Laurent—Paul Laurent’s angelic blond daughter. How many years had he fantasized about having her naked, on her knees. About the brutal markings he’d leave on her flawless skin—his perfect canvas—as he forced her to succumb to the dark delights that pleased him. Nothing gave him more of a euphoric rush than to see the helplessness in a woman’s eyes, the heady terror. He wanted Sabine that way, completely under his control.

  How many nights had he taken himself in hand and drained his cock thinking about it?

  He felt his cock thicken as the images swirled in his mind. He could already hear her delicious cries of agony.

  Just when he’d grown tired of fantasizing, just when he thought he’d have to devise a plan to make it a reality, her father had fortuitously died.

  And Leon had wasted no time rushing to her.

  “Fucking little whore.” He whipped his goblet at the wall, gaining little satisfaction when it shattered. All his patience and cajoling had been for naught.

  Intending to pay her a visit to offer his “condolences,” he’d spotted Sabine and her cousins on a cart that eve. Not knowing where they were heading in the middle of the night, his instincts had urged him to follow her discreetly. What he got in the end was a chest of silver and the shock of his life.

  He never imagined he’d see her enter a camp of men. Or be witness to her deflowering.

  He couldn’t believe she’d tossed her virginity away on Jules de Moutier. A man who wasn’t even a noble any longer. A man whom he outranked. And judging from her mewing and bucking, she loved every minute of it. He supposed he’d always sensed she had the soul of a harlot.

  But she was supposed to be his personal harlot.

  And she would be. He loathed being denied. She had no idea what he was capable of when he wanted something. She had no idea how elaborate and far-reaching his schemes had been.

  “The Moutiers got what they deserved. Isabelle got what she deserved. And so, too, did Sébastien—everyone, in fact, who got in my way.”

  This was far from over. He wasn’t through with Sabine Laurent. Or Jules de Moutier.

  20

  Jules, Luc, and their party of twenty men marched across the grounds. Dragged from the château with a sword to his back, Gaubert, the Archbishop’s assistant, was reluctantly leading their party to the Archbishop’s chapel. Focused on the ever-nearing stone structure located past the shrubs and statues in a remote corner of the gardens, Jules’s dark mood was a sharp contrast to the bright early morning sun.

  Only twenty feet away . . . Only a few heartbeats more . . . Jésus-Christ, after five years he’d have his confession, then revel in it.

  Jules reached the door first and placed his hand on the latch.

  “At last the time has come,” Luc said at his side.

  It had. Drawing his sword, Jules threw open the door and rushed inside. The heavy stench hit him hard and slid down his throat. He choked back a cough. The sight before him cleaved him where he stood.

  He froze.

  So did his blood.

  While the men recoiled at the foul fetid air, he could do no more than to take in the Archbishop, quiet and still, his swollen head tilted to one side, a grotesque purplish blue, as he hung by a rope from one of the ceiling beams.

  Jules lowered his sword slowly.

  “NO-O-O-O-O!” The cry came from Gaubert but echoed in Jules’s soul. The assistant pushed past the men and raced to his master. Dropping to his knees he wailed, the words “No!” and “Why?” his grief-stricken chant.

  “Dieu . . .” Luc said.

  Incredulous, Jules approached. The abominable odor increased the closer he got. The only man who could end Jules’s turmoil was suspended off the floor. A noose around his neck.

  “Commander.” The urgency in the voice dragged Jules’s attention to one of his men. He held a note. “This was on the ground.”

  Jules sheathed his sword and took the note.

  I end my life with a clean conscience and the satisfaction in knowing that I sent Blainville where he belongs. To hell. I regret nothing I’ve done. Not to the man I loathed, nor with the woman I loved. It is far better to walk into death on my own than to be shoved into it by my enemies. In this way, I leave having denied them the satisfaction.

  Barthélemy L. Bailloux

  “Cut him down,” Jules ordered, his heart heavy.

  Merde. Was this nightmare ever to end? Was he ever to know why their lives had been destroyed?

  As one man righted the chair that lay on its side under the Archbishop’s dangling feet, Jules hauled Gaubert up.

  “Explain this.” Jules shoved the note at him.

  The man was pale. The parchment quaked in Gaubert’s hands as he read its contents.

  “I—I can make no sense of it,
monsieur, any more than I can make sense of—of—” Choking back an anguished sob, he glanced at the Archbishop, who was being freed from his noose.

  “What woman does he speak of?” Jules demanded, his patience frayed to a mere thread—ready to snap. “Why did he turn against my father?”

  “Your—Your father, monsieur? Who would that be?”

  Jules snatched the note out of the assistant’s hands and held it inches from his face. “The Marquis de Blainville!”

  Gaubert’s eyes widened. “Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t know who you—”

  “Answer. His. Questions,” Luc ordered.

  The older man swallowed. “I—I don’t know anything. The monsignor was a private man. I do recall that your father and the Archbishop were at odds, but that was years ago, before the Marquis’ arrest. I don’t know the reason for their discord, I swear. As to the other matter, about the . . .” Gaubert lowered his voice when he said, “Woman . . . It’s rather a delicate subject.”

  Jules released him abruptly. Dieu. Gaubert was making him pull information out of him an agonizing bit at a time.

  Frustrated, Jules handed Luc the note and stalked away, toward the monsignor’s body.

  Jules gazed down at the Archbishop de Divonne, now on the marble floor, dressed in his costly red robes, death silencing his secrets.

  The man had gone to great lengths to ensure that they would never have an encounter. First the ambush. Now this.

  Why suicide? He could have devised another plan to gain the “satisfaction” he sought, without ending his own life. And where was the missing silver? Had the Archbishop been behind its disappearance from the Laurent land at all? Jules assumed that he and Luc were the “enemies” mentioned in his note. Or were there others?

  Too many questions. No answers. Only gaping holes in the truth.

  A morbid pull forced Jules down onto his haunches. With the rope removed from the Archbishop’s neck, the wound was visible and raw, the beginnings of decay present. He’d been dead for a while.