by Blake Ferre
Perrin braced his palms on the edge of the table. “When’s this party?”
“Tomorrow evening. And it’s not a party, it’s a salon,” Guillaume corrected. “You’ve been cooped up in your house too long. Remember to use citoyen or citoyenne instead of monsieur or madame. Be mindful not to draw attention to yourself.”
Perrin feared that might be impossible. Especially if he were to encounter a particularly irritating Committee officer. “Then we’d best prepare ourselves.”
…
Henri cursed the wet air as he maneuvered through the tight nook between de Vesey’s house and the neighboring building. With the front of the home locked off by a gate, this was his best access to the estate. A light sprinkle of sleet coated the ground—just enough to ruin Henri’s stride. Thankfully, the moon peered over the mansard roofs, illuminating his way.
De Vesey’s unexpected departure earlier that morning had laid the perfect opportunity to search his empty home for the rolled parchment from Duclos. Given that Henri hadn’t found it inside the carriage this morning, it might possibly be stowed somewhere in the home.
He paused in his tracks, fearing his father’s disappointment. But Henri needed to protect his country…even if it meant committing a minor complicit act. He wasn’t technically planning to use anything he found to condemn de Vesey. If he happened to find evidence against the aristo, he’d not take it. He would simply use what he learned to gain the advantage over Luc.
Continuing his trek, Henri crossed into a small courtyard near the servants’ entrance. A few trees and bushes lined a small flagstone path that appeared to lead into a gated garden. Another path went directly to the back entrance into the home. Though he could barely feel his numbed toes, Henri crept closer to the partially opened door, wondering why it had been left in such a manner. A pulsing light glowed from within. Clearly, de Vesey’s home wasn’t completely empty.
Hushed voices snipped from behind the garden wall. Once more, he considered abandoning the mission. It would make him little better than Luc. And yet, he couldn’t help but stand there and listen.
“There’s nothing for him here.” A hard-edged voice carried over the breeze.
“It’s such a shame,” a softer feminine voice wavered. “He deserves to be happy.”
“Indeed. He’s always taken good care of us. Couldn’t ask for a better employer.” The older woman clicked her tongue. “His heart’s too big for his own good. You remember how he sold all those furnishings to help rebuild that orphanage?”
“How could I forget? At least he finally got out of the house.”
Henri crinkled his brows. They spoke of de Vesey? He was kind to his servants? Charitable? Incroyable. Maybe the aristo had been telling the truth that first night when he’d claimed to treat his staff well.
Henri eyed the open doorway, wondering if he should leave the viscount alone.
Non. There were too many coincidences pointing to de Vesey being in league with Duclos. And, as such, he was likely involved in this underground group of conspirators. The Scarlet Crest. It seemed absurd that so many people fought against freedom. The desires of the rich to exploit the poor for their own gain never ceased to roil his insides.
But de Vesey’s kindness, sharing drinks with his manservant… It had to be some sort of ruse he played to ensure the staff’s loyalty. The kind master, indeed. Henri’s sister had once described the Comte de Bertram as kind. Affectionate, even.
Behind him, the younger woman spoke in a hushed tone. Henri crept forward but couldn’t hear what she’d said. His gaze flicked to the threshold. This was his chance to peek into de Vesey’s secrets. To uncover once and for all if the man was an enemy.
Mind made up, Henri cinched his cloak tightly around his shoulders and tiptoed into de Vesey’s home.
Not four steps in, he tripped over a loose board and silently cursed. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. His toe throbbed, but he bit his tongue hard enough to keep from crying out. Determined to see this through, he wove around half-filled crates and barrels stowed in the pantry.
A low-lit fireplace not only warmed the center of the dining room but also illuminated the very table he’d once sat at with the master of the house. Flames flickered across the walnut and oak inlays, casting reminders of de Vesey’s scandalous broth sipping. Those taunting tongue flicks must have been an act to distract Henri.
The sound of a groaning door hinge snapped him back to the present. Fearful he might be caught at any moment, he snatched a candleholder from the mantel and carefully guided the wick to the glowing embers below.
When a little flame took light, he hastened out of the room, eager to search upstairs. As he ascended the wooden steps, he cringed with each creak of the boards.
Opening door after door, Henri only found dark rooms housing minimal cloth-covered furnishings.
De Vesey’s bedchamber itself was equally abandoned, cloths covering the canopy that sat in the center of the room. From the look of things, he’d deserted his home. An icy shiver raced through Henri’s body. It had to be the cold chill in the air.
He twisted the handle to the final room. Inside was a small study that was piled with trunks. But unlike the other rooms, there were no coverings over the small assortment of furniture: a few bookshelves, a brocade settee, and an ornately carved writing desk. But it wasn’t the craftsmanship that swept Henri’s breath away. A large rolled parchment sat on top of the writing surface.
His hand shook as he grazed his fingers over the coarse fabric that was tied around several pieces of parchment. He set the candle atop the desk, carefully inspecting the ribbon’s position. Each hoop two fingers in width. When the ribbon fell to the desk, he slowly unwound the contents and immediately pressed his knuckles to his mouth.
Artwork? Though he’d considered the possibility that Duclos had handed de Vesey a commissioned drawing or painting, these were intimate. Too intimate. Henri grabbed the candle from the desk and swept the light over the masterful drawings.
In bold, sepia strokes, an angelic man sat with his back to the artist, glancing over his shoulder. There was such devotion and tenderness in the model’s expression. Had he loved the artist? If so, why had Duclos handed these to de Vesey?
Henri turned to the next piece. This one had washed colors. A portrait of the man’s face. Bright blue eyes, perfectly rose-colored lips, and dazzling blond hair. Truly beautiful. Lovely. Smooth. Something about the man almost looked familiar. Perhaps the style reflected something out of a Michelangelo painting.
Henri looked at the last drawing, not surprised to find the same man. This piece accentuated the model’s well-formed muscles. Henri would die happy if he could live one day looking like that. Was this one of de Vesey’s lovers?
Henri’s throat burned with guilt. Not only was he peeking into de Vesey’s private belongings…intimate ones at that…but he was also jealous…of a drawing.
Furious with himself, he shook the thoughts from his mind and carefully rolled the parchments. A nagging voice in his head itched to know if there was something more to the artwork. A message, perhaps?
Carefully, he inspected the pieces once more, mindful of the delicate nature of the paper. Unfortunately, his efforts were wasted. No cryptic messages, no hidden pictures. He let out a sigh. Perhaps de Vesey wasn’t in league with Duclos. His horror-filled expression this morning could have been innocent concern for his friend. Henri rolled the artwork again and tied the ribbon exactly as he’d found it, each loop of the bow two fingers in width.
Muffled voices roused his attention. Fingers slickened by sweat, he nearly dropped the candle. His eyes darted to the trunks in the room. The fact that this one room’s furnishings hadn’t been covered. To his horror, some of the trunks had been left open. Trunks so very similar to the ones he’d searched in de Vesey’s carriage early that morning.
He st
aggered to the door with backward steps. The aristo hadn’t left after all. Henri raced down the hall as quickly and quietly as he could. The voices grew louder, and he worried that his heart might burst through his throat.
At the bottom of the stairs, he hid behind a little alcove before de Vesey’s servant strode into the foyer. The man with whom the viscount had been traveling that morning. Which could only mean… Merde, Henri had to escape immediately.
To his relief, the servant whisked into another room, listing orders to prepare the guest room. Another voice could be heard, insisting that the servants needn’t go to all the hassle. When they were out of sight, Henri made a run for the back door. He fiddled with the handle as quietly as he could, then dashed out.
He clutched his chest, straining to draw the brisk air into his labored lungs. That had been close. Too close. If he had been caught—
“Chevalier? What the hell were you doing in my house?” De Vesey’s growl clawed at Henri’s nerves.
He closed his eyes. Of all the people to run into. This was not turning out to be his night.
“No. Save your excuses. I’m sure you had your usual reasons. Spying and sneaking. Prying where you’re not wanted.” A flicker of disdain rumbled beneath the surface of de Vesey’s voice.
Henri set his gaze to de Vesey’s, and he let out a deep breath. “I was…” He had no reason to want to justify his actions to this man. And yet guilt twisted inside his gut.
“In my house,” de Vesey prompted, a sharp scowl forming on his face.
“About that…” Henri licked his lips, his mind warbled. He couldn’t fabricate a single excuse. “I was checking on the place. You see. Because you were supposed to be gone.”
De Vesey’s laugh held little humor in it. “How very thoughtful of you.”
“Yes, well, given that we’re friends now.” He gave de Vesey a hopeful smile. Perhaps he could swindle his way out of this yet.
“Friends, hmm?” De Vesey strode forward. “Do friends make a habit of sneaking through each other’s homes and carriages? If I’d realized that’s how it was done, I might have gone through your home, Chevalier. Or perhaps I already did.”
“Liar.” The man couldn’t possibly know where Henri lived, could he? Henri’s pulse sounded like a drum inside his head. He was horrified to realize he wanted de Vesey to come nearer to him, to feel the aristo’s alluring heat.
In no way was he interested in kissing an aristo. But damn it to hell, the flashes of de Vesey’s apparent warmth and kindness spoke against the pompous vermin Henri had known in the past. Henri winced, wishing he’d simply left the man alone.
“Chevalier,” he said, and Henri hated him all the more for how much his body responded. “Let’s try this again. Friend. Why were you in my house?”
Henri’s mind jumped to the letter de Vesey had received yesterday, to Duclos’s capture only hours ago, to the rolled artwork he’d just uncovered… He swallowed. Grasping for any excuse, his gaze locked on de Vesey’s mouth. “I was hoping you might have returned.” His voice wavered, and his skin grew impossibly hot.
“Oh? Surely you can come up with something better than that.” The aristo’s lips formed a fleshy oval that taunted Henri. Dared him to make a move. “I’m tired of seeing you at every turn. I don’t know what you think you’ll find, but this needs to…”
Henri closed his eyes and lunged for the man, planting his lips to the insufferable aristo’s.
He’d only meant to throw the man off, to quiet him. But Henri’s body was met with addictive heat. His head grew light and floated on a blissful breeze.
Lips parted, de Vesey stumbled back a few steps, until he bumped into a large tree with bark that cracked into thin sheets upon the impact. They held still a moment, neither of them daring to make a move nor pull away. Then, as if too tired to fight the temptation, de Vesey melted into Henri’s hold. Splitting his lips open, the rogue slid his wet, soft tongue into Henri’s mouth. He groaned, accepting the advance.
The aristo’s sweet flavor met Henri’s mouth, yet it was a venomous nectar. Henri’s skin swarmed with energy, excitement, horror, and pure pleasure.
A few more steps, and they fumbled between the twisting branches. Though Henri’s legs wobbled, he managed to keep hold of de Vesey, his fingers kneading into the man’s back.
Henri would keep the memory of this passion in their unwarranted joining, but he’d not allow it to continue past this. Moaning, he massaged de Vesey’s taut muscles, inspiring the loveliest grunts and mewls.
He was losing his mind. But it felt too wonderful to stop. Just a few more moments of stolen pleasures. One single taste more.
Henri whimpered when de Vesey severed the connection. The aristo stepped to the side, snatching the control from Henri and leaving him fondling a cluster of piercing twigs and russet leaves. In frantic steps, de Vesey paced in front of the entrance to the muck-covered alley between the house and neighboring wall. He stroked the wayward strands from his wild mane, attempting to smooth the wavy tendrils to no avail.
As reality prickled its way into Henri’s thoughts, he spun around so that his back now nestled the branches and rubbed his twig-accosted hands. “That didn’t just happen.”
De Vesey stopped pacing and glanced over his shoulder. “Agreed.”
Henri stood motionless, completely befuddled by what they’d done. And equally frustrated that all he wanted to do was drive his fingers into de Vesey’s tousled hair.
By all logic, he should hate this man. Hell, the kiss had only been intended as an element of surprise—something to get the aristo’s mind off Henri’s failed stint of espionage. The plan had completely turned against him. Henri brushed his fingers across his kiss-swollen lips. They still tingled.
This wouldn’t do. Not at all. Florine’s lifeless body haunted his mind. He’d not be played the fool by this rogue. Hadn’t he learned from his sister’s mistakes?
“I have to go,” he rasped, pushing away from the cursed twigs.
“What are you after, Chevalier?” de Vesey asked in a more serious tone. Gone were the flirtations from only moments before.
“I…”
De Vesey stepped so very near to him that Henri almost expected another kiss. “The next time you come to my house, use the front entrance, hmm?” He squeezed Henri’s shoulder with the strength of a vise, then strode off.
Henri’s cheeks burned in spite of the cold breeze. Incroyable. The irritating viscount had spun his distracting web around Henri and caught him.
He never should have attempted this little stunt of unwarranted espionage. If he’d heeded his father’s words, none of this would have happened. But for some reason, he couldn’t resist de Vesey. Henri was tempted by that seductive lure time and again, losing all his better reasoning.
Perhaps it was time to chase another accusation. He’d heard rumors that the former Comtesse de Lévesque had aligned herself with several suspected traitors.
Though the fantasy of overpowering the rich bastard in bed was a temptation, de Vesey had demonstrated he was the one who controlled what happened between them. It was in de Vesey’s very nature, as a man raised in a world of privilege. By denying his foolish urges, Henri could salvage his dignity.
It was best he keep a distance from de Vesey. Henri couldn’t risk falling victim to the man’s irritating yet alluring trap again. Or he might be enticed to steal more than a kiss.
Chapter Seven
Henri stood at the outer edge of a crowded ballroom, where the diamond-shaped parquet panels met with a check-patterned black-and-white marble floor. Though the center of the room was abuzz with chattering groups, Henri fought to keep his eyes from glazing over. Beside him, a gentleman sporting several cockades drawled on about the appropriate times, places, and positions to wear the patriotic rosettes. Henri was not there to discuss such insignificant trifles. In fact, he�
��d chosen the far side of the room for a reason: to watch…not participate.
When he’d heard Luc discussing the evening’s salon, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity to inspect one of the many denouncements piled on his desk.
De Lévesque presented herself as a vocal supporter for the Republic, but Henri doubted her motives were genuine. She was an aristocrat, after all. He’d not be surprised if he found evidence proving her involvement with foreign enemies.
This evening proved to be the exact distraction Henri needed to purge his thoughts of de Vesey and that damned kiss.
“You see, citizen, I’m of the opinion that a woman of ill repute shouldn’t wear a cockade. It acts as an insult to our fine republic,” the man beside him babbled on.
Henri nodded, wishing the bore would go away so he could focus on his task. The disadvantage of being an officer was that everyone tried inconceivably hard to flaunt their political allegiance. When the rosy-cheeked man stared at him expectantly, Henri raised a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “I can see your point.”
This salon and its stuffy political charade weren’t nearly as invigorating as last night with de Vesey.
Non. He wouldn’t think on that. He’d vowed to forget the beguiling aristo. Spying on the former comtesse offered him a more palatable opportunity—one that wouldn’t result in Henri flirting with the enemy.
Rumors floated around about de Lévesque’s more private meetings, specifically with a group of politically minded women. Gatherings where it was suspected words were shared against Robespierre. A warm pulse formed in his chest as he imagined his father’s pride if Henri were able to catch another enemy of the Republic.
To Henri’s horror, another citizen strode up to him. “To add to your statement, citizen, I think it’s repulsive for a woman to wear a cockade near the bosom or for a man to wear one too close to his behind.”