He took a swig of brandy. “Then stop acting like it,” he muttered. “You’ll stay here.”
He didn’t say it as though he wanted her here. But that didn’t lessen the danger. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I can’t stay here.” Somewhere she found courage she didn’t know she had. She sat up and put her empty glass back on the tray. “Whether you serve one man or many, a whore is a whore. And I’m not a whore.” She rose.
“I’m not assaulting your virtue, for God’s sake. I said you could stay as my ward.”
“And who would believe that, your grace?” She surely didn’t. “You are what, thirty-five, forty? I am twenty-one. You’re not old enough for me to be your ward.”
To her surprise, his shook his head wearily. “Oh, I am more than old enough to be your guardian.” He seemed to muster his resolve. “At any rate, you have no choice. And whatever they think, they will accept you because I demand it.”
She didn’t want to stay under this roof for more than one night. One night. Even that could be dangerous. She had this dreadful feeling she shouldn’t be anywhere near him or she’d end up doing something dreadful. And yet another part of her wanted her to do that very dreadful thing, whatever it was. Was she afraid she would succumb to the wicked duc’s wiles? A sense of urgency and dread crept over her that was almost overwhelming. Tonight. She’d get through tonight, do what she must, and then be away. Because a man so attractive, so dangerous somehow, could break her heart in the worst possible way if she let him.
Where were these thoughts coming from? Françoise shook her head to clear it.
She might have had a schoolgirl’s crush, but she was in no danger of actually falling in love with Monsieur le Duc. He was nobility of the first consequence, just the type who always looked down on her, and wild to a fault, irresponsible. He lived his life as though there were no Terror, no slow dying of the hope that the ideals of the Revolution would save man from himself. He didn’t use his influence to push France back into the right course. He cared for no one, not even the prime articles he mounted as his mistresses. Françoise may have daydreamed about the handsome devil next door worshipping at her feet, but in the cold light of reality, the devil was much more stubborn and despicable than her daydreams. Not someone she could care for.
And not someone who would have the slightest interest in a dull and virtuous girl, of no birth, whose looks were well enough but who was not a beauty, inexperienced and unfashionably dressed. He must be positively laughing at her fear that he would take advantage of her virtue.
She sighed. In some way that was … depressing. But … in another way it was a relief. What interest would he have in her? Which made his offer of sanctuary most puzzling. But one she need not fear to take advantage of for a few hours.
She looked up and found him watching her. She realized she had been staring at the Aubusson carpet. She sat down again in the wing chair. “Very well. I accept your kind offer.”
“I am never kind.” The duc unfolded himself from the chair and pulled the bell rope.
Gaston materialized as though from thin air. “Your grace?”
“Show Mademoiselle …” He realized he did not know her name and looked to her.
“Suchet,” she supplied.
“Ah, yes. Show Mademoiselle Suchet to a suitable room so she may refresh herself before dinner. A room off the west hall, Gaston, if you please.” He gave Gaston a sharp glance. “I suppose you could not procure a female attendant upon short notice?”
Gaston showed not the slightest dismay at this odd command. In fact he looked confident and … pleased. “Of course I can, your grace.”
“Ahhh. Not something beyond your powers.” His grace seemed disappointed.
“No, your grace.” Gaston bowed. “If Mademoiselle will come with me …”
How would he pass her off as his ward when his servants knew he was ignorant of even her name, she had no idea. Perhaps they were forced to discretion through fear.
“And Gaston, see that Fanchon is here tomorrow afternoon for fittings for the girl.”
Gaston blanched.
“Ahhh. Finally a task worthy of your talents, I see.” Avignon turned away as though they didn’t exist and downed his brandy in a single gulp.
Françoise followed the stiff-backed majordomo out the door. He stopped and whispered to the young footman who had let them in. The handsome lad with a red queue of hair, unpowdered like his master’s, nodded and scurried to the back of the house.
Gaston bowed, his face neutral. “Mademoiselle?” Then he turned and walked sedately up the grand staircase. Françoise followed. She had no choices here. She was about to become, at least for tonight, the Duc d’Avignon’s ward. May God protect her soul.
Henri Foucault, Duc d’Avignon, stared at the closed door. What the hell was he thinking? She was an innocent, for God’s sake. And that was a recipe for disaster. She’d fall in love with him. They always did. Attractive as she was, he didn’t dally with innocents. He looked up at the painting over the fireplace, an old hunting scene. Fifteenth century. It had been about the time the paint was still wet on that canvas that he’d learned his lesson about innocents …
The tower room was round, its windows narrow slits in the stone that looked out across the valley. Now they revealed only darkness and winking lights from the windows of the village far below. A huge bed laid with brocades and velvet dominated the space. He turned to the girl he had desired since the moment he saw her at her father’s side. She was everything he was not, innocent, hopeful. Perhaps for a few years she could give him back his faith that life was worth living. At least until she grew old and died.
Just now her blue eyes were wide with fright. How much was the normal apprehension of a virgin on her wedding night? He knew she coveted him. He had felt her eyes on him in her father’s feast hall for many nights, and after the battle, when he had fought like the demon he was against the invading hordes of Saarland, she had welcomed him back to the castle with tears of relief. And now, for saving her father’s realm, she had been given to him in matrimony. He smiled to reassure her. “You must be tired after that long banquet. May I order a bath for you?”
He enjoyed bathing far more than his hosts here in the Alsace. He had been an itinerant mercenary for nearly a century and a half now, wielding his strength for civilizations from the North of Africa to the Yangtze River, picking up bits of their cultures along the way. He was a skilled general. And he fought his battles at night, often taking the enemy by surprise. It was an effective strategy. Kingdoms vied for his services. He fought for anyone who paid his price, having long ago ceased to care who won and who lost. Life stretched ahead, and he felt insanity lurking in wait for him if he did not find some meaning in it. She could give that to him. Perhaps.
She shook her head. Her breath was coming in little gasps.
He turned away lest the intensity of his gaze upset her. He would show her pleasure tonight. Once he had bedded her, all would be fine. He unbuckled his scabbard and chain mail, shined bright for the wedding ceremony, and laid them on a carved bench. Perhaps a look at what was in store would steady her. He pulled his shirt over his head.
When he turned to face her, naked to the waist, there were beads of sweat on her forehead and she alternately flushed and paled.
“What is it, Lady Cerise?” he asked, concerned. “Are you well?”
Her eyes were dilated pools of midnight blue. They matched the voluminous folds of her velvet dress. “They say you are the devil,” she whispered.
Had she discovered his secrets? “They always say that about a strong man.”
“You fought like twenty men, stronger than a man can be.”
Which is why he always moved on after getting his gold. Not this time. He was sick unto death, if death were possible for one such as he, of roaming the world. He couldn’t have family. He at least wanted love. “The better to protect you, now you are mine.”
“They say …” Her voice was dista
nt now. Not a good sign. “They say that when the battle was done, you returned to the field strewn with slain bodies and while everyone did celebrate in the camp, you … you drank the blood of the dead under the full moon.”
Very bad. “What old woman has been filling your ears with lies?” He moved in toward her, to comfort her, let her feel the warmth of his body.
That was when he saw the dagger in the hand she hid in the folds of her skirts. She couldn’t kill him, but he didn’t want to let her see him heal either.
“Give me that,” he said, imbuing his voice with calm.
“My father has given me unto the devil,” she said, panting. “In return for victory.”
“I thought you wanted this …”
“Before I knew you for a monster.” Her voice cycled up into a wail. “I must save my immortal soul.”
He’d have to take the knife. Her eyes grew even bigger. And suddenly the knife was not aimed at him, but turned inward, toward her own lush breasts. He grabbed for her arm.
Too late. She pulled the knife in with both hands. Black bloomed on her midnight dress.
“No!” he breathed as she sank to her knees. He cradled her in his arms. He daren’t pull the knife out. The innocent creature had somehow dealt herself the perfect killing blow, up, under her ribs to her heart.
“May God forgive me …” The last word burbled with blood that leaked from her mouth.
“Cerise,” he choked. The light died in her eyes, leaving them flat and dull. “Cerise …”
The very act of breathing was an effort. What had he expected? He was a monster. She was right about him. And he had no right to try to use her hope and innocence to save his soul.
He gathered her in his arms and laid her on the great bed.
He’d poisoned an innocent with his foul nature. She had taken her own life rather than spend even one night with him. His head sank on his breast. There was nothing for him here now. He drew his power. Companion! It shushed up his veins. The world went red. The whirling blackness rose up around his knees.
He’d sought salvation in a young girl’s arms. What he’d gotten was certain damnation.
Henri closed his eyes, slowly, against the memory. Now he never bedded innocents. Or stayed with any one woman long enough for her to know his secrets. A stable life of love and mutual respect was a dream that could never be real for him. His kind was not meant for the ties that bind. His own vampire mother had abandoned him at puberty when he came into his powers. Children were so rare for his kind as to be almost a miracle, and yet as soon as the children were full vampires their parents obeyed the Rule laid down by the Elders that vampires live only one to a city and essentially abandoned their children. That Rule was second in importance only to the Rule that forbade making a human into a vampire by sharing the Companion. After all, if vampires crowded into a city, or made other vampires, soon humans would discover them, and the tenuous balance between those who drink blood and those who give it would be broken. So, no connections for his kind were possible, human or vampire, ever.
Not that he didn’t satisfy his needs. But he stuck to worldly creatures; widows, actresses who expected no more than what he was likely to give them—money, pleasure, and the illusion that their beauty would never fade. And he did give them pleasure. He knew how to do that. His own releases couldn’t really be called pleasure anymore but they kept his sexual demons at bay. And always, it was he that left them. In his nature he supposed. Or maybe he took revenge on the distaff world for his mother abandoning him. It was the way of his kind. He couldn’t break that most harsh Rule of vampire nature, no matter his occasional longing for something stable to anchor his long years.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was that he not pollute the world more than was absolutely necessary. He could not help showing some his nature. It was how he did his work, after all. But he could refuse to defile innocence. Now he had an innocent in his very house. He could hear her talking to the maid Gaston had remarkably procured. He’d have to think of some way to get rid of her. Quickly.
Four
As Gaston bowed himself out, Françoise found herself not in the lurid boudoir with gold-flocked fleur-de-lis wallpaper on a black background and red carpets she expected but in a very comfortable and stylish chamber. Gold leaf highlighted the intricate curves of delicate, white-painted furniture. A dressing table sat in one corner, a large wardrobe in the other. The bed was hung with sheer blue bed curtains and covered with a very becoming brocaded and embroidered quilt. Dozens of pillows were piled high against the headboard. The draperies were light blue, and the thick carpets were swirls of blue and taupe. The whole thing looked … feminine.
Françoise felt like such an interloper. What must they all think of her? She wandered from bed to dressing table, touching silver-backed brushes and tiny colored glass bottles that smelled of expensive perfume. Her senses were a little dulled with all the momentous events tonight. She felt as though the world had lost color, somehow, or taste.
A knock sounded at the door.
Françoise almost looked around to see who had the right to allow entry to this lovely room. “Come in.” A young woman hurried in and bobbed a curtsy.
“Annette, if you please, my lady,” she said, slightly out of breath. “I’m to help you dress for dinner.” She had red hair, a plain, round face with light eyelashes, and a dumpling of a chin.
Françoise smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid that will be quick work. My other clothing was destroyed in the fire.” The servants would know she lived next door.
The girl smiled, almost kindly. “Do not worry your head, your ladyship. Gaston, he has ordered the bath, and before you can dry yourself, I will have just what you need all laid out and waiting. Mind you, I’m not a lady’s dresser, so I hope I’ll do for your ladyship.”
“I’m not a lady, Annette.” Just someone with nowhere else to go. Annette opened the wardrobe. It seemed fully stocked. “I’m sure you will be just fine. Are you normally a housemaid here?” That seemed the most plausible explanation for her sudden appearance.
“La, no, mademoiselle. The duc has no female servants. I’m housemaid three doors down. Or was until ten minutes ago.”
Françoise blinked, not sure which part of this speech to question first. “So you just … quit without notice?”
Annette chuckled. “Don’t expect Madame even knows I’m gone. But when my brother tells me that my salary just tripled if I’m here within five minutes, I don’t ask questions.”
“Your brother?”
“Footman here,” Annette said proudly. “Name is Jean. He’s been with the duc near on three years, and everyone knows the duc only takes the best.”
So that’s how Gaston had provided a maid on short notice, and why Annette’s red hair seemed familiar. No wonder Avignon had thought it a hard task to procure a female attendant—he employed no females himself. She would have expected a man of Avignon’s morals to keep a host of girl-servants he could take advantage of at a moment’s notice whenever the latest in his string of paramours was unavailable. That was the lot of young women. It might be her lot when Avignon ended his charade. If she was lucky. If not, it might be the brothel.
“You’re not afraid to serve here?”
“Well …” Annette looked dubious for a moment, then she shrugged. “Jean says the devil … his grace, I mean, won’t bother about me as long as you’re here.”
Oh, well, that made Françoise feel better all around.
Her grim thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and two footmen brought in a bath three times larger than any she had ever used and set it by the fire. They were followed by a line of servants all carrying buckets. The room overflowed with activity, then emptied. Before she knew it the room held only Annette and a steaming bath, lavender-scented soaps, and thick towels, all looking more inviting than she would have imagined. The water didn’t even smell. Wasn’t it from the Seine? But water from the system of wells
that sold water privately was horrendously expensive. Could Avignon be rich enough to use it for bathing?
“Now just you let me help you out of that nasty dress,” Annette fussed, unbuttoning and unhooking and untying.
Françoise stepped into the steaming tub. “Thank you,” she breathed, sinking in to the nape of her neck. Heaven. Her hair would still smell like smoke, she was sure, but the rest of her would be clean, cleaner than a bath with river water could ever make her.
And Madame LaFleur was spending the night in who knew what horrible cell? Guilt slapped her. Conditions in the Conciergerie were rumored to be deplorable. But even imprisonment would be better than Madame’s plight as soon as she had stood before the committee. If only the duc could have saved Madame as well. She had no idea why Robespierre had backed down, even offered Françoise an apology, instead of arresting her.
What hold could the duc have over the chairman of the Committee of Public Safety? Whatever it was kept him out of the clutches of the mob, no matter how blatantly he flaunted his aristocracy. He hadn’t even been wearing a ribbon with the French colors on it to show his support of the Revolution. She should be grateful for whatever his influence was, or she would be sharing Madame’s lot tonight. Poor Madame.
Françoise stepped out of the cooling bath and wrapped herself in a towel. Annette was sorting through a heap of clothing on the bed. “This looks like it might fit you, little thing that you are.” She held up a frothy cerulean-blue confection with actual lace at the neckline.
Françoise blinked. She had never had such an expensive dress in her life. It was not made in the severe revolutionary style. If it wasn’t au courant, neither was it left over from the prerevolutionary excess. There were no hooped panniers or elbow-length sleeves with ruffles. It had a square décolletage and long, translucent sleeves that ended in narrow cuffs at the wrist. It was an altogether original look, much too beautiful to be worn except if one wanted to be riding in a tumbrel to the Place de Revolution surrounded by a mob shouting for your blood. She had never seen anything like it.
Time for Eternity Page 5