by Blake Ferre
The aristo’s fresh sandalwood scent flooded his nostrils. Absurd. Why was he sniffing the man?
Henri sucked in a whimpering breath when the aristo rose to his toes, raising his lips toward Henri’s ear. He could have lifted his chin to avoid the proximity, but for some reason he allowed it.
“Were you following me last night as well? Was that why you were on the street? To seduce me into giving you information? To use me so you could spy on my friend?” De Vesey stepped back and thrust his hands toward the ground, as if attempting to strike it. “You disgust me.”
“Seduce you?” Henri laughed. “Believe me, I found little joy in holding you. I’d sooner shave my hair and run through the streets naked than embrace the likes of you.” Eager to distance himself from the cursed aristo, Henri slipped his hand under his coat and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his dagger.
He’d only meant to scare de Vesey off by raising it, but the fool snarled and launched at him. In a swift motion, he drew the weapon and pressed it firmly against the aristo’s side. “If you’d be so kind as to release me.” He arched a brow, not overly surprised he’d gained the advantage. In spite of his squeamishness, Henri was a trained soldier. But this man? He was a spoiled, lazy aristocrat.
De Vesey sucked in a sharp breath but slowly moved away. “Well played, Chevalier. I didn’t think you had it in you.” The irksome rogue grinned.
Though Henri held the blade, he feared the pompous peacock had other means to defend himself. He already had Henri’s name. Had seen—and possibly heard—things he shouldn’t have. If word got out about Henri’s distaste for bloodshed…
“Stay away from me if you value your neck.” Henri held the knife toward de Vesey.
“Then stop following me.”
Henri growled, tired of the man’s games. “I wasn’t following you to that club last night.” Which was true. The following had only occurred after leaving the club. A minor detail. “As for your friend, if he is a traitor, he deserves what comes to him. As do you, if you’re in league with him.”
The prig huffed a laugh. “Pity. And here I thought you were nice.”
A tingling heat grew between them. Henri couldn’t shake the memory of holding de Vesey’s weight when he’d cowered from the mob. Henri ached to be needed again. To matter.
Non. Not this man.
And then it dawned on Henri how very differently de Vesey was behaving. “I find it strange that you were so weak and needy on the street last night, yet now you’re set for a battle. Perhaps you were the one pretending, aristo.”
“You can’t possibly believe—” De Vesey winced and pulled his cloak aside, revealing a small crimson stain. “What in the—?” To Henri’s horror, he glanced down and touched it. “You drew blood.”
Henri froze. Though he tried to look away, the red smear spread across his vision, stripping the breath from him. In that soiled garment, he saw his fellow soldiers fallen on the battlefield. His sister’s lifeless body. His father in that horrendous cell. All of the shattering loss Henri hadn’t been able to prevent.
The damned aristo raised his blood-coated finger, and the buildings around Henri swayed as though someone had submerged them in water. Helplessness consumed him. Henri’s knees buckled, and he began to fall forward.
Before Henri struck his head on the uneven stones below, the confounded aristo caught him and cradled him. Chest pressed to chest. “Are you all right?” Something that sounded almost like concern rang in his voice. Henri probably imagined it.
“De Vesey.” Henri murmured the name. Irritatingly beautiful. What sort of a name was that, anyway? It sounded French, but from the man’s accent, he clearly wasn’t.
“Chevalier, you’re unwell.” De Vesey placed his palm over Henri’s forehead, the touch almost tender and kind. “You’re feverish. We must get you inside.”
Never trust an aristo.
His father’s warning jabbed Henri’s heart.
“What are you doing?” Henri’s lips were so dry he could hardly shape the words.
De Vesey snorted. “I’m trying to help.”
Henri struggled to lift his arm to push the rogue off him, but there was no strength in his limbs. The man was a veritable pest, burrowing under Henri’s nerves. “Go. Away.”
De Vesey stroked his forehead, which felt absurd, given that Henri was larger than him. “I’ll not have you die on the street.” The unexpected tenderness cut away at Henri’s resistance.
“You ought to. If you know what’s good for you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can offer you a little steaming broth, warm and salted.” Eyes glimmering with interest, his gaze lowered to Henri’s mouth.
“Stop taunting me,” Henri snipped. Was the man teasing him? Angling to imprison him? To bring Henri into his home so he might torture him for information?
“So damned stubborn. Whether you intended to or not, you saved me last night. I owe you a debt.”
By all sense and logic, Henri should refuse the offer. But his body trembled with a need he hadn’t felt in ages. Holding de Vesey last night had only reminded him of how long it had been since he’d had a companion to warm his bed, a shield from the cursed draft in his meager rented rooms.
“Come. I won’t tell anyone.” De Vesey chuckled, his breaths tickling the side of Henri’s neck.
Henri’s muscles tightened, and he found himself yet again unable to move. Only this time it was because a part of him didn’t want any distance between them. His heart swelled into slow, thick beats. “I don’t like you.”
“You don’t have to like me to accept my offer. Come now. A little broth, warm and soothing. Perhaps a rest in one of my many bedchambers.”
Ah. Like enemies on a battlefield negotiating a ceasefire, de Vesey tempted him with broth and a bountiful number of bedchambers.
“You’ll not swindle any information from me,” Henri growled, though curiosity wormed its way into his mind. Not only about the man himself—or how many bedchambers he had—but about his connection to Duclos. Henri took a deep breath. Two could play this game.
If Henri took this chance, he might catch Duclos before Luc nabbed him. A little flirtation wouldn’t hurt, so long as he retrieved that rolled parchment Duclos had handed de Vesey last night.
De Vesey softened his hold but didn’t let go. “Please. I will not leave you alone on the street while you’re in this state.”
Resting the side of his head against de Vesey’s, Henri capitulated, though he had every intention of turning these circumstances to his advantage. “All right.”
A treaty of broth and bedchambers it would be.
Chapter Four
One arm draped around the haughty aristo’s neck, Henri staggered up the stone steps to de Vesey’s exceedingly large estate. The towering wooden doors were so massive, Henri wondered if the aristo would be able to open them. The man’s muscles strained a great deal to support Henri.
Open the doors, he did. With a bit of effort. No sooner had the grand foyer come into view than two exasperated faces met them.
“There you are. La, you had us worried, running into that crowd.” The blond flighty fellow from last night at the club swept de Vesey from under Henri.
Losing his balance, Henri braced himself by grabbing the doorjamb.
“Your waistcoat… It’s ruined.” The fellow glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at Henri.
“My lord, you’re injured.” The second man, dressed in a tasteful, undecorated suit, glowered at Henri with an almost feral frown that multiplied his forehead wrinkles. The unabashed scowl was clearly aimed at the patriotic sash tied at Henri’s waist.
“It’s nothing. Just a small scratch,” de Vesey assured, seeming to have forgotten about Henri.
With a disapproving grunt, the manservant hastily turned and urged de Vesey farther inside
. “Let’s draw you a nice, warm bath.”
“Wait.” De Vesey turned to Henri. “It’s not me you should worry yourselves over; it’s my friend here. Chevalier.” De Vesey canted his head toward Henri.
He blinked in disbelief. Friend? Why did that word ignite fireworks in his heart? Was he foolish to want to trust this man? He inwardly groaned, once again imagining his father’s warning. If Henri wasn’t careful, the aristo could cast him under a spell of riches and beauty…only to shatter Henri when he was through with him.
It’s exactly what the Comte de Bertram had done to Henri’s sister. He’d found a shiny new trinket in her beauty, stolen her innocence and her naive heart, then disposed of it without a second thought. Florine had died in childbirth, and the comte hadn’t shown the least bit of sorrow for her or their stillborn son.
“He’s about Julien’s size. He could borrow one of his suits,” de Vesey said as he and the scowling fellow shared a glance.
“My lord?”
“You…heard me.” Something transpired between the two in silence, and Henri struggled to dissect what was so special about some other person’s clothes. Who was this other man? And who was he to de Vesey?
“Very well.” The manservant’s eyes narrowed in a gesture of disobedience. But to Henri’s surprise, de Vesey didn’t scold him for it.
“Excellent,” de Vesey said, seeming to ignore the man’s insubordination. “Help me bring our guest inside. We’ll give him some privacy to undress and freshen up.”
“Undress?” Henri sputtered, having missed the part of the conversation that had led up to the removal of his clothes. Even worse, the mere thought of disrobing in one of de Vesey’s bedchambers made his skin tingle. “No. I’m not about to…wear another man’s suit.” Henri absolutely refused to indulge in the aristo’s attempt at generosity.
De Vesey’s gaze darkened, all signs of the jesting and hospitality gone. “I was under the impression you’d borrowed those tight breeches last night.”
Henri jutted his jaw, thinking it best not to encourage the man further.
Though de Vesey’s companions frowned at Henri, they swiftly pulled him into the house. Henri must have hit his head. In no way had he expected an ounce of kindness from a batch of entitled aristos. It had to be an act. They’d surely bring him to the pantry, where they’d threaten him with butcher knives and rope. Perhaps he’d stepped directly into the center of an entire counterrevolutionary organization.
Once inside, the companions hurried off to tend to whatever schemes they had in mind. De Vesey offered Henri his hand, but he refused it. De Vesey merely shrugged and escorted him up a winding staircase. The space was wide enough for both of them to ascend side by side, but Henri lingered two steps behind. Which turned out to be a mistake because he couldn’t help but glance lower.
They came upon a large corridor cluttered by a great many doors and an overabundance of boastfully framed portraits.
“This really isn’t necessary. I’m feeling better now.” Henri didn’t need to change clothes or wash up. But then he reminded himself that de Vesey had just opened up his home to him. That was something he could most certainly use to his advantage.
“Don’t be absurd. Are you too proud to accept a little aid?” De Vesey pointed him to a decorative door with colorful pastel patterns and raised gold trim.
When Henri paused in front of it, de Vesey drew far too close to his backside, practically trapping Henri. Their bodies pressed together, inducing a torrid inferno as de Vesey twisted the doorknob, his torso rubbing Henri’s back.
“I must tend to the matter of my ruined waistcoat, Chevalier. I’ve a stabbing pain in my side for some reason.” His voice grew impossibly low. “Take a moment to tend to your own ailments. But don’t be too long. I’d hate to be left wanting. You and I have much to discuss.”
Confused by de Vesey’s taunting use of the word “wanting” instead of “waiting,” in addition to the circumstances Henri had placed upon himself, he stumbled into the room.
And what a room it was. It appeared de Vesey didn’t intend to end him in the pantry. Perhaps he angled to torture Henri amongst the opulence he abhorred. With a huff, he trod into the room, taking in the overwrought decor. The patterns of the carpet blended with the intricately carved furnishings.
Finding the washbasin, Henri cleaned his hands and face of the grime from the street. When the door cracked open, his breath caught at the thought of confronting de Vesey. But it was the plainly dressed older man who entered the room, glaring at Henri while he draped a fresh suit on the settee. Was he the manservant? Non, he’d been at the club the night before. Sitting at de Vesey’s table. No aristocrat Henri knew would ever drink beside the help.
He opened his mouth to decline the garment, but the man hurried out, the door wobbling closed behind him. Henri’s gaze dropped to the so-called used clothing. He could hardly find any signs of wear. In fact, he trailed a finger over the finest velvet money could buy.
His throat tightened. As a clerk for the comte’s estate, Henri’s father had earned barely enough money to rent a leaky-roofed flat for Henri and his sister. Their clothes were only ever sewn from a rough weave that rubbed his skin raw, like the dreadful breeches he’d worn last night. Henri had hated money because it kept his father bound to an arrogant bastard. And all for what? A scratchy set of clothes? His family’s destruction?
Caressing the fabric, Henri allowed himself a moment to admire its soft texture. Though Henri longed to feel the exquisite material upon the rest of his own body, he pushed it aside. He’d not indulge in de Vesey’s temptations.
Creeping out of the room, Henri glanced to the left and right, relieved no one was in view. Now was his chance. The sooner he located the rolled parchment from last night, the sooner he’d escape this overly warm, grossly lavish home. He was eager to get far away from its tempting master.
Henri crept to the door across the hall and placed his fingers on the handle, aiming to find de Vesey’s study or perhaps his bedchamber.
His traitorous skin tingled at the thought of de Vesey’s bedchamber—the room where he…slept. Henri wondered how large it would be. The bed, not the room…or other parts.
He blotted his brow, cursing his wandering thoughts. De Vesey’s room or not, Henri needed to perform the task at hand. But his palm grew clammy around the metal handle and he couldn’t bring himself to turn it. Performing a search without the Committee’s authorization? It went against everything Henri stood for. Non, he’d have to rely on his wits and eavesdropping to uncover de Vesey’s secrets.
Just as he was about to step away, the door suddenly swung open. Henri stumbled forward, nearly running into de Vesey himself.
“Chevalier.” The low rumble of his voice rolled across Henri’s skin and froze his every muscle, excluding his heart, which leaped to a furious pace. “Was the room not to your liking?” A dash of anger stabbed in de Vesey’s tone.
The air grew scarce around them, and Henri’s lungs burned. “No…er…yes,” he squeaked, eyes set on those curved lips. “I’m finished. Refreshed. Thank you. I was just…” Their close proximity and the feel of the aristo’s breaths upon his neck cast a flurry of desire over him. Henri closed his eyes, willing the man—including any attraction to him—to go away. He couldn’t trust himself when so very near this rogue.
De Vesey sighed. “Come with me.”
When they reached the dining room, the aristo ushered Henri to the seat directly beside him. The feathery fellow sat on the opposite side of the table, gaze fixed upon him. Henri cleared his throat and thanked the servant who placed a tureen of soup in front of him. Though the broth smelled salty and fresh, he couldn’t help but notice the intricate patterns painted on the fine porcelain. The gilded edges made his appetite dwindle.
The three of them sat in silence, the occasional plink of spoon to porcelain accentuating their
awkward joining.
“So, you’re an officer.” The blond foppish character waved his fingers in the air like a flurry of feathers.
“Yes.” Henri’s throat tightened, and he found it difficult to swallow, sensing the silent judgment in the room. He doubted any of these men would understand the pride he experienced in his chosen profession.
“I see you’re still in uniform.” De Vesey arched a brow while sipping his soup in an all-too-seductive manner. Seductive? Henri needed to clear his head. The basic process of eating soup should not have seemed so captivating.
But apparently, when it was de Vesey drinking it, the simple act turned into an onslaught of suggestive dining. Why did he have to lick his lips in such a way? His tongue tauntingly dabbed at a droplet of broth that crept along the corner of his mouth.
“Do you make a habit of leaving the house without your uniform?” de Vesey suddenly asked, and it took a moment for Henri to comprehend the question.
He pressed his teeth together. So, this was to be an interrogation. He’d not allow this man to gain the advantage. “Do you make a habit of walking into mobs? Do you have a death wish, aristo?”
De Vesey pinched the bridge of his nose. Henri wondered, for a moment, if the man truly had wanted to die. But the idea was absurd. How could a man with so much excess be miserable enough to seek an end to it all?
“You waste what you’ve been given.” Henri gestured to the table settings and the ornamental chandelier with its grandiose cascading crystals. “Perhaps if you did something good with your wealth, you might find enjoyment in life.” Henri crossed his arms over his chest.
De Vesey merely stared at his soup, still offering no response.