Dangerous Desires

by Louise Clark

  The Marquis said slowly, "I have been thinking over what the man said and, although I did not recognize it at the time, I believe this St. Luc was indeed hinting that for a certain bribe he would return Stephanie."

  "Exactly what did he say?"

  "Nothing I can point to as being definitive," the Marquis replied regretfully. "He had assembled a group of Parisians to support him and he had to play up to their prejudices, of course, so he could not be open in his demands. But when I said that sensible men could find solutions to problems through discussion, he made a careless remark that he might take me up on my offer. At the time, I thought he was taunting me, but now... now I wonder if he meant he would approach me once he was free of his sansculotte friends?"

  "Possibly," Nicholas said slowly. "St. Luc has been selling information about England's European policies to Brissot and the Girondins, but when he was expelled from England he lost his usefulness. I suspect he has found life rather harder in Paris than he expected. No doubt, he assumes that having Stephanie in his power will force you to introduce him to the Court, or possibly to provide him with the kind of confidential information that he needs to make his place secure amongst Brissot's followers."

  "Stephanie is in even graver danger than I thought, then," Mont Royale said unhappily. "The possibility of his being admitted to Court is absurd. His Majesty would never tolerate a creature like St. Luc near him. As to the other—" He rested his head on his open palms. "Whom do I betray? My King or my blood?"

  Deeply affected by the Marquis's pain, Nicholas stopped by his chair and put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Neither. I trapped St. Luc once. I can do it again. All I need is the proper tool and the bastard will fall into my hands like the rotten fruit he is."

  "And when you have him in your power?" Mont Royale asked curiously.

  Nicholas smiled thinly. "Stephanie will be safe."

  Mont Royale stared at Nicholas, then slowly nodded. "So, we look for the key that will unlock the door to my daughter's prison. What do we know of this man, St. Luc? He is an aristocrat who has denied his heritage, not, apparently, for honest belief, but for the lure of lucre."

  "He can be bought."

  "Yes, but with what?"

  Nicholas began to pace again. "In London it was gold."

  "Gold might work," Mont Royale said dubiously, "but not, I think, on its own."

  "So we must look deeper into his needs." Nicholas grimaced. "I feel dirty just contemplating the fellow."

  "You have more knowledge of him than I. Before yesterday, I had never even heard of the Vicomte de St. Luc."

  "He's one of the minor provincial nobility who are as poor as the peasants they disdain so well," Nicholas said. "In England he had managed to create a place for himself amongst the émigrés, but that life was expensive. He turned to cheating at cards—"

  Frowning, Mont Royale interrupted, "You mentioned earlier that Stephanie was known to St. Luc. Was he by any chance involved with her visits to the gambling den?"

  Nicholas shot him a quick look. "You heard of that?"

  The Marquis smiled thinly. "Certain of my friends made sure I and other members of the Court heard the story."

  "Stephanie loves you, Monsieur. She was desperate to find a way of financing your departure from France. I had taken her jewels into safe keeping, leaving her no alternative. There are times when she acts before thinking, but her motives are the purest."

  Mont Royale smiled at the Earl's heated defense of Stephanie, satisfied by the man's response. "My only concern is that my daughter might be abused by the unsavory sorts who frequent that part of society."

  "St. Luc managed to cheat her of all her winnings," Nicholas said slowly, "but that only served to increase her determination to find another way to help you."

  "And so she came to Paris, and is now in the hands of a man who has betrayed her before."

  "Betrayal is not the Vicomte's only vice," Nicholas agreed grimly. "He was also selling the secrets of his friends and the government that so generously agreed to shelter him in order to pay his bills."

  "And he wants to join the Court," Mont Royale mused. "I think, Wroxton, that we have our key."

  "What?"

  "Prestige. Status. Acknowledgment of his importance."

  "To be at Court would provide all of those things for St. Luc, but you have already said that the King would never agree to admit the man."

  Mont Royale's eyes began to dance with the devilish sparkle Nicholas had seen light up Stephanie's eyes more than once. "Brissot is not such a discriminating fellow."

  "Are you suggesting that we push St. Luc into the arms of the Girondins?" Nicholas demanded.

  "Yes, why not? When he contacts me—and he must!—I will convince him that His Majesty is so distraught after yesterday's debacle that he refuses to have anyone new about him. Therefore, being admitted to Court is impossible. However, I will tell him that I am willing to help Citizen Brissot return to power, for a price. My daughter. St. Luc can therefore deliver Stephanie into Brissot's care and thus earn the undying gratitude of a parent, plus the political debt of a prominent politician."

  Nicholas paused to consider this. "In other words, you convince St. Luc that by giving Stephanie to Brissot and arranging for the man to return her to you, he can put both of you in his debt."

  Mont Royale smiled. "Exactly."

  Shaking his head, Nicholas said grimly, "It's too risky. Too many variables. What if Brissot decides to keep Stephanie as security until you provide him with the position he seeks? What if St Luc takes the absurd notion that he can gain ministerial power by keeping Stephanie himself? And there is the problem of time. I fear that every minute Stephanie is in St. Luc's hands she is in danger. What if he doesn't contact you at all?"

  Mont Royale looked a little crestfallen, but he said firmly, "Then he must contact Brissot, whom I know only too well. Monsieur Brissot is a power-hungry opportunist, but even he would not allow such a man as St. Luc near him."

  At the Marquis's words, the glimmer of a plan began to take shape in Nicholas's mind. "Then St. Luc must have a contact in Brissot's court, as he does in the King's. Where do the Girondins meet?"

  "At the Cordeliers Club, but milord Wroxton, do you plan to attend the meetings yourself?"

  Nicholas smiled dangerously.

  Visibly concerned, Mont Royale protested, "Surely you would be noticed and remarked upon!"

  Again Nicholas smiled a glinting, devilish smile. "I assure you, Monsieur, no one will even notice I am there. St. Luc will gain far more attention than I as he attempts to bluff his way into Brissot's circle. When he fails, he will seek other methods of gaining access to the man, and I will be there to whisper promises in his ear. With luck, he will wish to act immediately and lead me straight to Stephanie."

  "Very well. You, milord Wroxton, will seek the Vicomte at the Cordeliers Club while I await him here. Between us, we must be able to snare him."

  "Agreed."

  "And then Stephanie must return to England." A note of resignation threaded through Mont Royale's words. His eyes gazed past Nicholas, reflecting an inner world where regret and sadness had become commonplace. Then, he shook himself back to the present, to more practical considerations. "And so Monsieur, how do you propose to spirit my daughter safely back to London?"

  "When I have freed Stephanie, I'll take her to my Embassy. She may enter the grounds a de la Riviére, but when she leaves, she will be the Countess of Wroxton and due all of the courtesies her new rank entails. I would be honored, Monsieur le Marquis, if you would attend our wedding."

  Mont Royale bowed formally. "I would be delighted, sir." He smiled and added, "As the father of the bride I could not be happier in my daughter's choice of husband. The Marquise de Mont Royale and I flouted convention and married for personal preference. In short, we were in love. Our happiness together lasted until her untimely death. I would have my daughter enjoy the same marital felicity as I did." He drew in a deep breath. "And
so, Monsieur, do you love Stephanie?"

  "With all my heart, sir."

  "Then you have my blessing, though you did not seek it. Please keep me informed as to your progress."

  Nicholas left the chateau, wondering how he would be able to transmit information to the Marquis and still maintain the cover he planned to adopt. His question was answered when he reached the embassy grounds. "Tony! What the devil are you doing here?"

  "Nick! Thank God. The most awful thing has happened. Stephanie has returned to France! She had some mad idea of rescuing her father—"

  "I know," Nicholas said grimly. "I have just come from speaking to the Marquis." He eyed his cousin thoughtfully. "Your timing, Tony, could not have been better."

  Baxter cocked his head. "More midnight deceptions of hapless dragoons?"

  "Far more dangerous than that," Nicholas said softly. "We are about to take on the zealots of the Revolution itself."

  * * *

  In the shuttered attic in which St. Luc had deposited her, Stephanie sat on a flea-ridden straw pallet, the only object remotely resembling furniture in the room. She shifted position, trying to ease muscles stiffened by hours of little use. With a habit born of impotence and impatience, her gaze strayed to the barred window. From the tiny pinpoints of light that shone through the slats, she guessed it was just after dawn on the third day of her incarceration in this wretched place. She sighed. St. Luc would be by soon, to bring her some bread and a little cheese, and most precious of all, a bottle of stale, stagnant water. He would untie her long enough to allow her to eat; then he would bind her hands again and leave her until dark.

  Something scurried across the floor, but Stephanie paid the creature no attention. When St. Luc had first pushed her into the stifling heat of the attic room and slammed the door behind her, she had jumped at every sound in the near darkness. Rats, roaches, fleas—the place was alive with vermin. Locked in the claustrophobic darkness, it would have been easy to have allowed panic to muddle her mind.

  But Stephanie de la Riviére was made of sterner stuff. Despite her bound hands and the hobble tether St. Luc had tied about her ankles, she had decided to inspect her prison. She had come to the conclusion that there was nothing in the room, when she suddenly stumbled over the pallet, nearly squashing a mouse as she fell clumsily onto the straw-filled cotton tick. Winded, she had lain there, thinking about roaches and rodents, and a fate worse than death. All in all, she decided, she preferred the company of the vermin to that of St. Luc.

  Now, after three days of darkness in the attic oven, alone, with her hands bound, her movements restricted, she still thought she was better off there than in whatever mean little dwelling St. Luc had acquired. In his rooms she would have been constantly in his company, and she was sure he would have forced his sexual attentions on her. She shuddered at the thought, remembering the way her skin crawled on the evening of the Duchesse d'Arden's ball when he had pressed his body against hers in the dark shadows of the terrace. If her fate was to be charged with conspiracy against the revolutionary government, she would prefer not to add victimization at St. Luc's hands to the horrors that awaited her in a Paris prison.

  As the pale pinpoints of light slowly brightened, Stephanie steeled herself for the Vicomte's morning visit. These followed a dangerous pattern that left her shaking for hours afterward. St. Luc would taunt her with his power over her, his eyes gleaming with mad pleasure in the flickering light of the lantern he carried. Not content to merely mock her, he demanded answers and Stephanie could not forget her father's warning that the Vicomte was completely insane. Madness had its own erratic logic which she could not understand, but she knew that an unguarded word or gesture could provoke a violent outburst. So she controlled her thoughts, ruthlessly suppressing her emotions and analyzing everything she said and did while he was with her.

  And yet, careful as she must be, she could not show fear. Instinctively, she knew that her only defense against his compulsion was the disdain for him that burned deep in her soul. While she showed him a cool and contemptuous face, he kept his distance. She was quite sure that as soon as he felt he had conquered her scorn, he would feel free to use her as he wished.

  She stared at the narrow beams of light, flexing her numb fingers absently. Contemplating her upcoming battle of wits with St. Luc did nothing but undermine her strength of will. She would think, instead, of those she loved: Nicholas; her father; Tante Madeleine; and in a sisterly way, even Cousin Tony. Closing her eyes, she shut out the sordid darkness of her prison and remembered instead the sunshine and freshness of Silverbrooke.

  In her mind's eye she saw Nicholas, sitting a fine blood bay stallion, talking to one of his tenants in the straightforward, man-to-man way that so endeared him to his people. He did not belittle his tenants to make himself important, but treated each one with as much respect as he would have given a Royal Duke. It was a trait, she thought rather grimly, that could have saved France's aristocracy from its current problems. Even her father, a man whom she loved and respected, kept an invisible barrier between himself and his peasants. His was a paternal ruler, benevolent and concerned, but he would never see the people who worked his land and operated his mines as anything but children. And children always obeyed their elders, unless they were overly indulged, headstrong daughters.

  A smile curved Stephanie's mouth for a moment, then faded quickly. Her impulsiveness had brought her to a sad pass. What good had her coming to France done? She knew now that her father would not leave his King or his country in time of trouble, no matter what danger it brought to himself. If she had stayed in England, she would still have been waiting eagerly for Nicholas's return. She might even have been in his arms that moment. Her future promised golden days of happiness with the man she loved.

  Plagued by the taunting torment of her own guilty conscience, Stephanie acknowledged with a sigh that she could never have been truly happy had she not at least tried to convince her father to join her in England. Not to have tried would have cast a bleak shadow on her relationship with Nicholas. She was not so melodramatic as to believe it would have blighted their love, but she feared she would not have been able to give him all of herself, which would have been unconscionable.

  So instead, she thought ruefully, they would have nothing. Nicholas was not there to rescue her, as he had so many times in England, and since she was still in her attic prison after three days, she suspected that her father had been unable to raise whatever ransom demands St. Luc had made. That was, perhaps, why the Vicomte had been more abusive than usual the previous night. Wearily she drew forward, burying her head in her arms and leaning against her upraised knees. Tears threatened and she breathed deeply to stem the emotion. She would not allow St. Luc to see her weak and frightened and broken. Members of the de la Riviére family had more pride than that.

  The thump of footsteps up the creaky wooden stairs alerted her that her jailor was about to arrive. Gritting her teeth, she altered her position, deliberately leaning back against the greasy wall, defiance in every inch of her lazy posture. She heard something crunch against her filthy coat—a beetle or a roach perhaps—and grimaced. Defiance and pride were costly indeed.

  As was his habit, St. Luc entered cautiously, holding a lantern high. The bright light blinded Stephanie, making her squint and turn away. He put the lantern on the floor while he undid the bonds about her wrists so that she could eat. Stephanie had to resist the urge to shudder at the touch of his soft fingers, but she did not protest. She needed the few minutes he gave her to get the blood circulating in her hands again, and she welcomed the prickling pain that it caused. Somehow it gave her hope.

  While she slowly rubbed her wrists and fingers, St. Luc crouched by his lantern. His cruel eyes watched her, enjoying her silent pain. Stephanie ignored him and concentrated on her fingers.

  "So, my haughty Mademoiselle de la Riviére, you are about to be brought low."

  Stephanie wondered if this was supposed to strike t
error in her breast. "Really, St. Luc?" The numbness in her hands had given way to a painful tingling. She focused on that, paying little attention to her captor's threats.

  He swayed back on his heels, disappointed by her calm. "You will not be so cool, my girl, when you find yourself in the clutches of Brissot and his followers!"

  Flexing her fingers, Stephanie murmured vaguely, "So my father could not meet your price."

  St. Luc rose to move restlessly about the room. "The Marquis is truly a disappointment to me. I thought he was a man of power at Court, but he is not." He did not notice Stephanie's sudden intense stare, for he was lost in the memory of the interview with the Marquis the previous night. "He serves the King, but even for his daughter's sake, he could not persuade Louis to accept me at his Court."

  Stephanie laughed. "His Majesty shows rare taste in this, at least."

  "Bitch!" St. Luc pulled the meager rations of stale bread and moldy cheese he had brought for Stephanie from the capacious pocket of the navy carmagnole he wore over a dirty cotton blouse. Deliberately, he opened the cloth containing the food, then emptied it onto the floor a safe distance from the light. There was silence for a minute, then the scurry of small feet told them both that the rats who shared Stephanie's prison were about to enjoy her breakfast.

  Stephanie continued to flex her fingers in a controlled, regular pattern, refusing to give her captor the satisfaction of observing the dismay she felt. Life was returning to her numbed flesh. She contemplated that small miracle and ignored her empty stomach.

  "You will not be so high and mighty after a few nights in the care of Brissot's henchmen," St. Luc sneered, furious at her continued defiance.

  Stephanie's eyes had adjusted to the light and, as St. Luc moved to pick up his lantern, she noted with interest that his expression did not show the certainty she might have expected. "What makes you think Brissot will be interested in the daughter of the Marquis de Mont Royale?"