A Midnight Dance

by Lila DiPasqua

  She stiffened and thought of Jules. “Oh? How did you manage such a feat?”

  “The aristocracy are by and large a corrupt lot. I knew sooner or later I’d discover some tantalizing bit of information that could be exploited. And I did. Blainville was plotting against the Marquis d’Argon. I told d’Argon and convinced him to turn the tables on Blainville.”

  Marquis d’Argon? Kindhearted Valentin? The memory of seeing him at the masquerade flashed in her mind.

  “You look incredulous, Sabine. I take it you’ve met d’Argon?”

  “Yes. He seems too—”

  “Weak to carry out such a scheme? I assure you, he went along with the plan willingly. He was dedicated to the end. It was an ingenious plan, really. Blainville hanged for the very same fraudulent crimes he was going to have laid against d’Argon. Poetic justice, don’t you think?” He laughed.

  She reeled. Jules trusted Valentin. She didn’t know what to say. What to do. What to think.

  “I even ensnared your very own sister into our plot.”

  “Isabelle?”

  “Yes. I had her routine observed. From the woods near the servants’ outbuildings, she was seen smuggling items to her room. One afternoon, knowing she was alone, as usual, I paid her a visit. I told her that certain powerful men were intent on seeing Blainville fall. I told her I was being forced into the scheme, and if she didn’t use her skills in thieving to aid these men, terrible things would befall her, me, and you.”

  She clenched her jaw to keep from screaming the hot words burning in her mouth. She had to swallow twice before she could speak. “You got her to put the letters in the couriers’ satchels?”

  “Not only place them there, but press Blainville’s crest on each one.”

  She quaked harder. “Why? Why did you pull her in? To get back at Father?”

  He sat back in his chair. “Partially. Also, I needed someone within the household to take part in the plan. I knew I’d have to kill whomever I chose once they were of no use. She was the one I selected. When your bitch of a sister realized it was d’Argon and I behind it all, she tried to send letters warning you and Luc de Moutier. Fortunately, I interceded them. That was the day I decided she had to die.”

  “No!”

  He grinned. “Yes. Give up your delusions, Sabine. I locked her in her room myself and watched as my men set the outbuilding ablaze. She’s quite dead.”

  She clenched her teeth. “You. Lie.”

  He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping backward against the stone floor, and grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet with a furious yank.

  He stalked to one of the doors, his fingers cruelly biting into her flesh, opened it, and shoved her inside. She stumbled to the middle of the room and frantically looked around. The blood drained from her limbs, the shocking sight all but buckling her knees. Covering the walls were countless locks of hair. Various colors. From various people. Long tables along the perimeter of the room had various trinkets on display—bracelets, pins, combs.

  Stock-still, she stood trapped in the horror of it, for it dawned on her immediately what the gruesome display depicted.

  “This is my treasure room. There”—he pointed to the chest in the corner of the room under a table—“is the silver. These”—he gestured to the walls—“are from the whores who went before you.”

  Among the items, a stack of parchments stood out. A morbid fascination gripped her. The lure was irresistible. She moved toward it despite the foreboding that darkened around her and the inner voice that warned her to stop.

  The closer she got, the clearer the handwriting became, and the distinctive penmanship took on an undeniable, devastating familiarity.

  Isabelle’s handwriting. The sight knifed into her. She’d been wrong about everyone. Everything. Her instincts had failed her at every turn. She was wrong about Isabelle, too.

  Isabelle was dead. She’d never see her sister again.

  Her heart shattered. “NO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!” she screamed, doubling over in agony.

  He bent and said near her ear, “At last you believe me. Your sister is gone.”

  Tears flooded down her face. “Isabel-l-l-l-le . . .” Her knees collapsed under the weight of her misery. She pressed her forehead against the cold floor, wailing her grief.

  “There’s no need to carry on. You’ll be dead soon, too. You’ll be joining her.” He dragged her to her feet and spun her around. Her vision obscured by tears, she didn’t know what he was about until he grabbed one of her long locks and sliced it off with the dagger she now realized he held. “A keepsake,” he said. “I’ve left a spot for you. I’ll put it beside your sister’s. I cut hers off her just before she died. She cried and screamed, like you. I liked it when she screamed.” He dragged the tip of the cold blade over the tops of her breasts. “All this pretty flesh . . . I intend to make you my greatest masterpiece, Sabine. Perfect markings and carvings . . . you’ll be my finest work. What a delicious encounter this will be. You’ll be in excruciating pain until I fuck you to death.”

  She was already in excruciating pain. There was nothing he could do to her to hurt her more. Rage singed her skin from the inside out. Alone and bound, she knew he thought he’d rendered her helpless. He thought he’d won.

  You can die. Or you can die fighting. She’d be damned if she’d simply surrender her life. For all his wickedness and depravity—for what he’d done to Isabelle and Jules—the very least she could do was inflict some pain.

  In one fluid motion she jumped back, leaned against the table behind her, and kneed him in the groin with all she had.

  He howled, grabbing himself as he fell to one knee, the dagger dropping out of his hand. She kicked it away and bolted for the door. She made it only a few steps when he caught her gown and violently jerked her backward. Without her hands to break the fall, she hit the floor, her head slamming against it in a jarring collision.

  She lay on her side, dazed, vaguely aware of him standing over her. He raged—but his voice was distant. His words, indecipherable.

  She was going to die. At least then the emotional pain would end. She’d be with ’Sabelle. Her vision was slowly narrowing. She wondered if the encroaching blackness would mercifully claim her before Leon pierced her with the dagger.

  Waiting for death, an odd calm washed through her until Jules’s face flashed in her mind. A single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. “Jules . . .” She’d love him in this world and the next. Always . . . But she was wrong about him, too. He wasn’t her destiny. That was clear to her now. She was going to die.

  An explosion suddenly reverberated in the room, then a heavy weight crushed down on her.

  Something warm oozed over her belly. Blood? She’d been shot . . .

  It was her final coherent thought.

  The blackness pulled her under.

  27

  Jules threw Leon’s lifeless body off Sabine, and dropped to his knees. “Get him out of here!” Leon’s dead eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. His abdomen was covered in blood.

  Luc and Raymond dragged the corpse away, leaving a dark red smear across the floor.

  Sabine’s face was battered. Her belly blood-soaked. A pool of blood near her side. So much blood. All around. Its very scent permeated the air. As did the smoky smell of gunpowder. Terror iced in his veins.

  Quickly, he cut the rope around her wrists and gently rolled her onto her back. With a fervent prayer, he pressed his ear to her chest. The moment he heard the steady thumps of her heart, he all but wept with joy. Sweeping her up into his arms, he rushed into the other room and placed her with infinite care on the pallet. Sitting on the makeshift bed by her side, terrified she’d suffered a belly wound, which was almost always fatal, he used his dagger to slice open the front of her gown. Frantic, he peeled each sodden crimson-stained layer away until at last he saw her unmarred flesh. Weak with relief, he tossed his head back, closed his eyes, and let the air rush out of his lungs, realizin
g at that moment he’d been holding his breath. He looked at his bloody hands. It was all Leon’s blood—the blood on her dress and on the ground. Thank God.

  Now all he had to worry about was what horrors the bastard had put her through.

  She groaned, but didn’t awake. He wiped his hands clean on his breeches, ripped off his doublet and dressed her in it, then wrapped her with the blanket on the bed.

  Slowly he laid her back down and carefully slid his hand from beneath her head. Across his palm were fresh streaks of blood. His heart lurched. Immediately he pulled her up to examine the back of her head and found her beautiful blond hair was matted and caked with blood. Touching the visible cut, he noted the large lump that had formed at the side of her skull.

  “Jésus-Christ,” he growled. He drew her closer and pressed his cheek against the downy hair at her crown. “What did he do to you?” He wanted to know as intensely as he didn’t.

  Torturous images of Sabine and what Leon might do to her had consumed him as he’d raced to Leon’s château. He’d agonized about the amount of time she’d been in Leon’s clutches and the hours still to go before Jules could reach her, praying all the while that he’d find her alive. Safe. Thinking up ways of torturing de Vittry, forcing a confession out him with as much bodily pain as possible for all his misdeeds, did little to alleviate his anxiety. The physical force he’d used on Leon’s man, Hubert, to gain information of Sabine’s whereabouts hadn’t satisfied Jules’s bloodlust. Nor had killing the attackers Leon sent to ambush him.

  By the time they’d reached his château and found the secret rooms at the back of the stables, someone had already shot Leon dead.

  Who? Why? Merde. He felt cheated. Enraged. Terrified.

  Had Sabine seen the shooter? The gunman could have easily killed her regardless—yet spared her. This was obviously someone who was only after Leon.

  A soft sound from Sabine drew his gaze to her face, covered in contusions and distorted by the swelling. For every bruise on her sweet form, he would have dealt twenty on Leon. Now he had no choice but to save his wrath, for there were others involved in this foul plot.

  Simon Boulenger and Luc lowered themselves onto their haunches beside him.

  “How is she?” Luc asked.

  “She’s fine.” Though it was more a desperate wish than a certainty.

  Simon indicated the other room with a jerk of his chin. “Dieu . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. What sort of madness is that?” Jules hadn’t even noticed when Simon entered the room or that he’d seen the other chamber and its disturbing items.

  “I don’t know, but it looks like de Vittry was about to add to his morbid collection.” Luc touched one of Sabine’s tresses that had been clearly cropped.

  “Indeed,” Raymond said from the doorway, holding up a lock of Sabine’s blond hair.

  Profanity shot out of Jules. “We should have been here sooner!” He glared at Simon.

  Simon raised his brows. “I reached Paris as soon as I received your letter requesting aid. And, I might point out, this is the second time I’ve saved your aristocratic ass. Without me and my men there tonight, the three of you would be dead.”

  Jules sighed. “I’m sorry, Simon.” He shook his head. It was midday and he had yet to sleep. He was exhausted and overwrought. “You are right, of course. I thank you for everything you’ve done. For the employ. For the loyal friendship. And for saving my aristocratic ass two too many times.”

  Simon smiled. “Apology accepted.”

  “My lord,” Raymond said. Jules looked over at him. “If I may say . . . I found the missing chest of silver.” Still standing at the doorway between the two chambers, he indicated behind him. “And parchments. I believe they belonged to Isabelle Laurent.”

  Jules was about to respond when something glinted on the ground near Raymond’s boots. “What is that at your feet?”

  Raymond looked down, picked up the item, and brought it over to where the three men stood.

  A ring.

  Carefully easing Sabine down onto the bed, Jules then stood and took the ring from Raymond’s open palm.

  “That’s Valentin’s ring.” Luc was incredulous.

  The d’Argon family crest glared back at Jules. The significance of it being in this particular room came down on him with crushing force. He wanted to believe there was an innocent explanation—but couldn’t vanquish the sense of unutterable betrayal surging inside him. Valentin? Involved in all this? Not him.

  “He couldn’t be part of all this, surely . . .” Apparently Luc warred with the notion, too.

  Bile churned in Jules’s stomach. He felt ill.

  He’d seen Valentin wearing the ring only days before. The discovery of the ring in this room meant that Valentin had been here recently.

  Worse, it meant that he was privy to Leon’s gruesome practices, for he doubted Leon would admit a casual visitor or mere acquaintance into these hidden chambers.

  Jules fisted his hand, squeezing the ring. “Question the servants. Find out if he was here last night. Who was here last night or recently.”

  He opened his hand. The ring left indentations on his palm. How many times had Valentin told him what had been done to his father was unjust? Pretended to care? “Look over the parchments. See if they say anything that’s of use.” He handed the ring to Raymond. It felt heavy in his hand. In his heart. He couldn’t stand to hold it any longer. “But first, get Sabine a change of clothing. Anything the servants can offer is better than her bloodied gown.” Raymond turned to do as bidden.

  Sabine stirred again, this time with a murmur. She was waking at last.

  “I’ll have some of the men gather the servants.” Simon walked out.

  “I’ll look over the parchments and together with Raymond interrogate everyone at the château,” Luc said. “Vittry’s body is in the stables.”

  “Leave him there. I’ll get a confession out of Valentin first before notifying anyone.”

  He’d get a confession before nightfall by whatever means necessary.

  The moment they left, Sabine’s lids fluttered. Jules sat down on the edge of the bed and took her in his arms. Her lovely visage marred black and blue and swollen, she’d never looked so vulnerable. So delicate. Dieu, he should have never allowed her to return to her chamber unescorted.

  At last she opened her eyes and met his gaze. Then she did something he’d never seen her do before: She burst into tears.

  “Jules . . . He—He said he killed you . . .”

  Lightly, he caressed her bruised face and pressed a soft kiss to her brow. “He didn’t kill me. We are both very much alive.”

  She gulped hard but could not stop her weeping. “My—My family—”

  “Everyone is all right. And safe. You’re safe, too. I have you. Vittry is dead. He’ll not hurt you ever again.” He cupped her uninjured cheek. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. “She . . . she’s dead,” she stammered, copious tears flooding from her eyes.

  “Who is?”

  “Is-Is . . . sabelle. My ’Sabelle. He—He . . . killed her.” She sat up, flung her arms around him. Burying her face in his shoulder, she sobbed aloud.

  He wrapped his arms about her. “I’m so sorry.” The words seemed insignificant given the enormity of her anguish. But what could anyone say that would lessen the pain or the loss she felt? Seeing her so racked by grief made him feel helpless and renewed his anger. Someone else had had the pleasure of sending Leon to hell. That there were others involved in this plot still to vent his wrath upon offered a small conciliation.

  He gently rocked her while she cried, soaking his shirt with her sorrow. A lump formed in his throat. How he wished there had been another outcome. What he wouldn’t have given to find Isabelle still alive. To see the joy that would have brought Sabine.

  He lost track of time, unsure how long she’d wept in his arms. When finally her crying ebbed, she gazed up at him with the most tortured look in th
ose captivating eyes. Not since the day he’d watched his father’s execution had he felt this heartsick. “Leon said . . . that he was responsible for what happened to your father.”

  Jules remained silent, allowing her to speak, determined not to add to her grief by letting her see the varying emotions raging inside him.

  “He—He said . . . he was in partnership with Valentin, Marquis d’Argon.” Fresh tears welled forth. “He—He said . . . that they forced Isabelle to participate in the plot. They made her . . . They made her . . .” She broke down again.

  He cupped her face. “Shhhhhh . . . I know Isabelle was not the sort of woman to harm anyone.”

  “I—I love her . . .”

  “And she knew it well.”

  “I miss her so much . . . I—I must live the rest of my life without her.” She closed her eyes and softly cried.

  “She’ll always be with you, Sabine. She lives in your memories and in your heart.”

  She opened her eyes again, but a knock at the door stopped her from responding.

  “Enter,” he bid. Two matronly servants bearing clothing, pails of water, and a washbasin stepped into the room. He considered having Sabine brought to the château to change, but doubted she’d want to be in Vittry’s home any more than she wanted to be in the stables. The best thing was to get her dressed and away from Vittry’s home altogether. As quickly as possible.

  He coaxed her into letting the servants help her and promised to take her away from Leon’s château as soon as she was ready.

  Outside the stables, Jules wasted no time, immediately joining in on the questioning of the servants—who’d been filed outside—by Luc and Raymond. Simon and the men stood nearby.

  It quickly became apparent that Vittry’s hired help was very much afraid of him and that when he ordered that no one approach the stables—as he had last night—no one dared defy him. No one saw a thing.

  “Leon’s only visitors were women. They came but never left,” Luc said, revulsion and disgust in his tone.

  Jules had learned the same thing by those he’d questioned. “What about Isabelle’s writings? What did they contain?”