A Midnight Dance

by Lila DiPasqua

  Hubert froze.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. Leon lightly scored the skin along the jugular, scraping but not piercing the flesh.

  “Monsieur . . . ?” The tinge of desperation in his tone pleased Leon immensely. He reveled in the quickening pulse beneath the blade. The bead of sweat suddenly on Hubert’s brow. And best of all, the tangy scent of terror that emanated from him.

  The smell of fear. There was nothing like it. He couldn’t get enough of it.

  “I want it all, Hubert,” he told him. “The silver. The Moutier brothers dead. The blonde to myself. And you are going to help me achieve my goals—without further mistakes.”

  “Yes . . . of course. I am at your service, as always.” Hubert’s face was flushed.

  Most reluctantly, Leon lowered the blade. “Excellent.” Hubert was still needed.

  Relief was evident in the large man’s eyes. Hubert was wise enough to compose himself quickly. His thick black brows drew together. “Why do you hate the Moutiers?”

  Why indeed. “Jules is no different than Sébastien was. The Marquis de Blainville was no less a bastard than my father was. They represent everything I hate about Aristos, and yet they were stupid enough, arrogant enough, to believe they were untouchable.” Leon smiled. “There is tremendous satisfaction in unseating the mighty.”

  He stepped away from Hubert. “Tell me, are the mademoiselle and Moutier . . .” The words caught in his throat.

  “Fucking?” Hubert supplied, then gave a snort. “He had her last night. No need to get close to the camp to hear her enjoying every moment of it.”

  Leon’s smile died. “I see.” His good humor was immediately scorched away by ire.

  “B-But she’ll be yours soon,” Hubert promised promptly, “to do with as you wish.”

  Not soon enough. He’d already waited far too long to have a woman of such low rank. He’d suffered the chaste kisses, restricted himself to the occasional touch—the caress of her hand when Laurent wasn’t looking, the accidental brush against her breast. She’d always been hesitant when it came to his advances. He’d always believed it was due to her innocence.

  And yet she’d eagerly spread her legs for Jules de Moutier. Without qualm.

  Leon approached Hubert, took a corner of the man’s shirt, and wiped the whore’s blood off the dagger with it. Hubert stiffened but said nothing.

  “Clean up this mess,” Leon ordered, indicating the woman on the floor. “Toss her body outside in the privy with the others. The natural odors there will, as usual, mask any smells of decay.”

  Leon stalked into his bedchamber and slammed the door shut. He flopped down onto the bed, still clutching the dagger. Slipping a hand under his head, he watched as the candlelight from the nearby torchère gleamed on the blade.

  “You’ve disappointed me, Sabine. You’ve chosen to behave like a dirty little whore. And I’m going to have to treat you like one.” The blade caught another beam of light. “I will have you. Sooner or later, I always get what I want. As for Jules, he’ll finally get what he had coming to him five years ago. How fortuitous that he’s placed himself right in the perils of Paris.” First thing in the morning, Leon was going to leave for the grand city. He had a feeling he’d find there the underhanded tax collector, Claude Cyr. The fool thought to elude Leon since the botched visit to Sabine’s home.

  A visit where Jules wasn’t to be in attendance and had meddled in Leon’s affairs once again.

  His plan had gone off course, but he’d remedy that soon enough.

  “Moutier may have been your first lover, sweet Sabine, but I shall be your last.”

  23

  Flanked by Louise and Agnes, Sabine sat perched on the settee. They were in the home of the most sought-after woman in Paris, Marie de Perron—the queen of enchantment. Whose charms her own father had enjoyed. Sabine glanced at the clock on the mantel for what surely must have been the hundredth time.

  Last night Raymond had located the whereabouts of one of the servants who’d worked with Isabelle at the Moutiers’ château. Ninette. And the popular courtesan was her employer.

  Louise plucked at a thread on her peasant skirt, her fidgeting fingers abrading Sabine’s frayed nerves.

  “Let her look old and wrinkled,” Louise muttered. She knew Louise was referring to Marie.

  They’d gained instant admittance into the courtesan’s stylish townhouse once she’d learned that Jules de Moutier wished to see her. Twenty minutes ago he’d been escorted to Marie’s private apartments—while the rest of them were shown to the Room of Inspiration.

  With its erotic mural spanning the ceiling—images of men and women engaged in various sex acts—there was no doubt what the Room of Inspiration was meant to inspire.

  She refused to contemplate what the ceilings in Marie’s private apartments depicted. Or how inspiring they were.

  Sabine looked at the clock. Again. Restless, she tapped her foot on the colorful silk carpet. How much longer before she knew whether or not Ninette had answers to questions about Isabelle?

  Raymond and Luc stood near the entrance of the room talking. Makeup removed, like the rest of them, they, too, wore their peasant costume. Luc looked perfectly at ease in his surroundings—despite his attire.

  “Will you look at that . . .” Vincent said in awe from a nearby chair, his head tilted back, staring at the images above. “I don’t think it’s physically possible for a woman to bend like that.”

  “Vincent, will you stop looking at that ceiling!” Louise snapped.

  Unheeding, head tilted back in similar fashion, Agnes’s mouth was agape as she studied the ceiling’s intricate decadent design. “Yes . . . Fascinating . . .” Agnes remarked.

  Louise huffed in disgust and leaned into Sabine.

  Agnes let out a loud cackle. Sabine jumped and cursed her frayed nerves.

  “Look at that.” Agnes pointed to the ceiling. “Look at the size of that man’s—”

  “Agnes, please.” Sabine gave the older woman’s knee a gentle squeeze. “Do behave yourself.”

  Agnes affected a serious expression. “Yes. Yes. Of course.” Then grinned. “It’s a good thing he’s naked.” A giggle bubbled out of her. “How would he ever fit that into his breeches? It looks like a third leg!” She burst out laughing.

  Vincent joined in.

  Louise threw up her hands. “Dear God, we are in the very Den of Iniquity. This place is evil. It corrupts everyone who enters here. Marie has made certain of it. Only she would commission such a mural.” She turned to Sabine. “I don’t like the woman. I never have. And will you look at how I’m dressed?”

  “Oh, Louise, stop carrying on,” Agnes scolded. “Stare at the ceiling. That will keep you entertained.”

  The ornate doors opened.

  Sabine twisted around.

  Jules entered the room with Marie de Perron, who held on to his arm with a distressing level of familiarity. Dressed in a rich green gown, her auburn hair arranged in perfect, fashionable curls, Marie looked stunning.

  Sabine rose.

  Louise and Agnes quickly stood.

  Sabine smoothed her hand down her drab skirt, so sharp a contrast to Marie’s elegant attire. Sadly, nowadays her normal mode of dress wasn’t much better than the costume she wore.

  Jules and Marie stopped before her with Luc and Raymond a few steps behind them.

  “This, Marie, is Sabine Laurent, the late Paul Laurent’s daughter,” Jules introduced.

  A light scent of jasmine rose from the beautiful auburn-haired woman before her. Dear God, she smelled as wonderful as she looked. In fact, Marie was even more bedazzling up close. It was no wonder that she was a prize coveted among the male aristocracy.

  “Mademoiselle Laurent.” Marie grasped both of Sabine’s hands. “I am sorry to hear of your father’s death. My deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “He was a lovely man,” Marie continued. “I enjoyed his
plays very much. He was very talented.”

  Louise snorted.

  Releasing Sabine’s hands, Marie turned. “My dear Louise . . .” she said warmly. “How glad I am to see you.”

  Louise smoothed a hand over her hair. “Marie.” Her tone was taut.

  “And you, too, Vincent.” Marie reached out a hand to him.

  Vincent immediately took it and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. “It is a great pleasure to see you again, Madame de Perron.” He grinned.

  She returned his smile, her ruby lips no doubt the object of desire and delight for her multitude of lovers and admirers.

  “When Jules told me you were both here, I couldn’t believe it. Why, this is an evening full of truly wonderful surprises. I’m delighted to have you all in my home.”

  Marie’s jewel green eyes moved from Jules, to Luc, to Louise and Vincent. “I have thought of each of you often since you left the city. I cannot adequately express my joy at seeing firsthand that you are all well.”

  “Yes, we are fine,” Louise said, her words curtly dealt. “And this”—she touched her skirt—“is not my normal mode of dress, by the way. It’s a costume. As you can see, we are all in costume. We did not go to this trouble for a social call, Marie.”

  Sabine mentally flinched. That was no way to talk to someone they needed help from.

  “Yes, I know, my dear,” Marie said graciously. “Jules has informed me of the reason why you’re here.” She turned to Sabine. “Mademoiselle Laurent, I’ve summoned Ninette. She’ll be here shortly to answer any questions you have of her. I pray she has the answers you seek.”

  Sabine managed another “Thank you.” Her heart pounded nervously as she prayed that Ninette indeed could be of help.

  There was a light rap at the door.

  Upon hearing Marie’s bidding, a woman about the same age as Sabine entered the room. Her brown eyes were wide as she approached.

  “Madame.” She gave her mistress a quick curtsy. “You—You wish to see me?”

  “Yes, Ninette. Do sit down.”

  Ninette lowered herself onto a chair. Her gaze moved from person to person in the group surrounding her. “H-Have I done something wrong, madame?”

  “No, Ninette. I need you to answer some questions. Do you recognize these men?” Marie indicated Jules and Luc.

  “Yes, madame. They’re the sons of the late Marquis de Blainville. I—I worked for Monsieur le Marquis until his”—she lowered her eyes—“until the servants were let go.”

  “This”—she indicated Sabine—“is Mademoiselle Laurent. She has questions for you about the late Marquis’ household. The Marquis’ sons want you to answer her questions. Therefore, you’ll respond truthfully to her every inquiry. Understood?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Did you know Isabelle Laurent?” Sabine asked.

  “Yes, mademoiselle. She, too, worked for the Marquis.”

  “Isabelle is my sister,” she told Ninette.

  “Is, mademoiselle?” Ninette cast an uneasy glance at her mistress before returning her gaze to Sabine. “Did they not tell you? Isabelle is . . .” Ninette twisted the fabric of her apron around her finger. “She . . . d-died. In a fire. In the servants’ outbuildings. Some years ago.”

  “Yes. I was informed. I want you to tell me everything you can remember about her during her employ with the Marquis de Blainville—all the events leading to the fire.”

  “I’ll do my best. What do you wish to know?”

  “What was it like for her there?” Isabelle’s letters were cheerful without much detail. Sabine often wondered what her sister’s days were really like.

  Ninette unraveled the apron from around her finger and shrugged. “Same as the rest of us. She had chores to do. She liked to do them quickly.”

  “Quickly? Why quickly?”

  Ninette glanced nervously at Jules and then to her employer before she turned her gaze back to Sabine. “Isabelle loved to read and write. She’d rush through her chores so she could do both.”

  Sabine frowned. “I helped her pack. She brought no books or writing materials with her.” In a heated moment, just before she left, Isabelle had proclaimed that she wanted nothing more to do with writing or the things that reminded her of the theater she missed so much. She intended to start life afresh at the de Moutiers’ château. Knowing what writing meant to sister, Sabine hadn’t believed her. Isabelle often let her emotions rule her tongue. She’d worried how Isabelle had managed without it. “What did she read? What did she write? What supplies did she use? She was only given enough ink and parchment to write one letter per month.”

  Once again Ninette cast a wary glance at Jules and Luc and then at her mistress.

  “Answer her.” Marie’s order was gentle but firm. She was a woman who could command compliance with but a whisper.

  “She . . . took books and extra writing materials from the Marquis’ library and study.”

  Sabine sensed Jules stiffen.

  “But—But she always returned the books!” Ninette was quick to add. “She missed you, mademoiselle. Very much. Spoke of you often. She told me that reading and writing gave her joy in your absence because it made her think of you.”

  The lump in Sabine’s throat swelled as tears rushed to her eyes. God, how she missed her sister.

  “What exactly did Isabelle take?” Jules asked.

  “A few parchments. Some ink.”

  “How did you learn of it?” Jules continued.

  “Perhaps Ninette is simply unaware that she was given permission by your father to have the items,” Sabine was quick to point out in defense of her sister.

  Lowering her head, Ninette fidgeted with her apron again.

  “What say you, Ninette?” Jules said. “Is it possible you are just unaware that she had permission to enter my father’s private study and take his things?”

  “No, monsieur,” she murmured to her lap. “She admitted to borrowing the books and taking the parchments and ink when I caught her in the library. I begged her not to touch the Marquis’ things again. I didn’t want her to get into trouble.” She gazed up at Sabine. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. I don’t mean to cast a shadow on your sister’s memory. I liked Isabelle. She was funny and very smart, too. Then there was a change. Toward the end, she was not herself at all.”

  “How so?”

  “Sh-She was withdrawn,” the servant responded, “and shorttempered with the other servants when questioned about it. A few days before the fire, she misplaced her writings. She insisted that she kept the parchments hidden in her room. She searched everywhere. She became very upset when she couldn’t find them.”

  “Perhaps someone took them,” Sabine said.

  “Why would anyone want them, mademoiselle? The servants couldn’t read. We had no idea what she wrote.”

  “Could someone have taken them out of spite?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so, mademoiselle. Your sister was well liked among the staff. I can’t think of anyone who’d want to do that to her. Some of us helped her search.”

  “Did you ever see her with her hands in the couriers’ satchels?” Jules asked.

  Sabine shot Jules a glare. “What are you suggesting?”

  Jules placed a hand on her shoulder. “Easy.”

  “Sabine, let the girl answer the question,” Vincent urged. “We seek the truth.”

  “Did you ever see Isabelle opening or placing anything in the couriers’ satchels?” Jules repeated to Ninette.

  She looked at Sabine, then at her hands on her lap. “Yes.”

  Sabine’s gaze darted to Jules and then Luc. Both men’s faces were taut. “Of course Isabelle was seen with her hand in the satchels. She wrote letters to her family—with your father’s permission. And there was the letter she wrote to Luc. How else was she to have Luc’s letter delivered?”

  Jules stepped closer to Ninette. “How often did you see her do this?”

  “Twice.” Ninette glanced briefly
at Marie.

  “Did you ask her about her actions?” Jules questioned.

  “Yes, monsieur. I asked her about it both times. Both times she said that the Marquis had ordered her to place some letters in the satchels for him.”

  “You didn’t believe her, did you?” Jules said.

  Ninette shook her head.

  Jules lowered himself onto his haunches. “Why didn’t you believe her?”

  “No one was permitted to touch the satchels, except the Marquis’ personal secretary. All letters were to be given to Monsieur Bedeau. Besides, the second time I saw her adding letters to the satchels, she was weeping. She wouldn’t tell me why. That was days before she died. As I said before, she wasn’t at all herself toward the end. She wept often, all her gaiety gone.”

  Sabine’s heart gave a painful throb. Isabelle was not easily moved to tears. How she hated the thought that her sister had been in such distress without her there to comfort her.

  What was the reason she was so overwrought?

  “Can you venture a guess as to why she was so distraught that day?” Sabine asked.

  “I thought it was because—” Ninette’s brown eyes slid over to Luc and then back to Sabine. Ninette’s cheeks warmed.

  “Go on.” Jules rose.

  Ninette wrung her hands. “The Marquis had a gathering a few nights before. Isabelle anxiously awaited the arrival of a certain guest. She’d confessed to me that she had a tendre for this man. She’d asked me many questions about him. She was crushed when he didn’t attend. In fact, she’d confided once that she was disappointed that this man didn’t visit the Marquis as she’d hoped.”

  Jules’s gaze darted to Sabine and then his brother. Sabine’s eyes were drawn to Luc, too, knowing, like Jules, exactly whom Ninette was referring to.

  Luc lifted his brows. “What?” he said to his sibling and Sabine. To Ninette he asked, “What man do you speak of?”

  Ninette exchanged glances with Sabine, then softly replied, “You, monsieur.”