Yet it was totally familiar. She reached out to touch it.
“Oh, my.” Stupid. But it was all she could think to say. The fabric was silk.
What was a dress like this doing in the house of an unattached man?
She snatched back her hand. There could be but one answer to that. She looked around at the feminine furniture and the cut-glass bottles of perfume. How stupid she was.
“My dress is good enough.” It cost her something to say that.
Annette’s eyes went wide. “You’re never going to wear that sooty thing to dinner!”
“I … I don’t care to wear the clothes he keeps for his … his companions.” She sounded stuffy even to herself.
“Me, I’d give my eyeteeth to wear a dress like this, don’t matter where it comes from.” Annette’s hands were absently stroking the almost transparent sleeves. “And his grace has taste that’s nice to a fault,” she continued briskly, coming to herself. “Won’t do to spoil his dinner looking at that nasty dress.”
“I … I shall take a tray in my room.” Oh, but the dress was lovely.
Annette’s eyes opened wide. Then she set her lips. “Yes, mademoiselle.” She was clearly miffed. “I’ll tell his grace that you chose not to take advantage of his kind offer to dine with him—him that Jean says dines alone so often. Still, I expect he’s used to it.”
The wicked duc, dining alone? Not one night in twenty, she wagered. Still, it was rude to refuse his offer, even if, as he said, he hadn’t made it to be kind. He had saved her from Robespierre and Madame Croûte, after all.
Could he do the same for Madame LaFleur? The thought popped into her head. Why not? There was no one else who could help her. But would he? She doubted it. He didn’t extend himself for anyone. And yet, he had extended himself for her …
But she must go carefully. She must find out why he had bothered himself with her plight. If she knew that, maybe she could convince him to do the same for her friend.
“Annette,” she called as the young woman was pulling open the door. “You’re right. It’s not the first time I’ve had hand-me-down clothes and it won’t be the last.”
The girl turned, all smiles over teeth that weren’t quite straight. “That’s the way, mademoiselle. And I’m not much of a hand at dressing hair, but I expect I can manage yours.”
Henri put one foot up on the andirons of the fireplace in the smaller dining room. He’d pack her off to England. That’s what he’d do. But he must wait until the end of the week and ship her off with the others. He didn’t trust Robespierre not to have her arrested on the way to Le Havre just to spite him if he sent her ahead on her own.
She was right about England though. Without connections or position, emigrating was a dicey business, and for a woman alone …
He sipped his wine, annoyed. The ornate water clock on the mantel had chimed the hour five minutes ago. He liked to dine sharply at nine. And tonight he had much to do.
Well, he’d give the girl some money at least. What else could he do? He’d saved her from losing her head at the Place de Revolution. The rest was up to her.
He tapped his finger on the mantel. A dull dinner this was likely to be, though she had surprised him with a sharp tongue. She’d lose her wit and her tongue soon enough when she fell under the spell of his magnetism. They always did.
The hell of it was that with her around, not even dining alone would be a refuge. Over the years, alone as he felt inside, he had grown to like his privacy at dinner. It was a nice contrast to feeling alone in the crowds of bored revelers and ne’er-do-wells. The servants thought him mad for serving himself. Let them.
It occurred to him that he had lost heart. Not courage. A creature such as he was beyond fear. He would keep to his chosen course. It was a matter of will and he still had resolve. But hope had vanished centuries ago. He had seen too much and it all ended the same way no matter what one did. So he had ceased putting his heart into it. Still, he continued. What else could one do except go mad?
The doors to his right opened.
One of the servants ushered in the most surprising creature. How long since he had been surprised?
It was only a few minutes after nine when Françoise came down the curved stairway to the ground floor, following Jean, of the red hair and the sister. She felt like someone else entirely in this dress, not least because Annette could find no fichu to cover her breast. At least none that matched. She wore no jewelry, of course. But the dress itself felt like a jewel. The slippers Annette had produced might not be a perfect fit, but a little tissue stuffed into the soft white satin made them serviceable. Her hair had been coaxed into its usual soft curls, a little longer at her nape. Annette had offered rouge and lip color and something to darken her lashes, but she had refused. She did not want to look like a loose woman.
He has no interest in someone like you, she recited to herself. You’re just here to see if there is any chance he’ll help Madame. She was about to beard the lion in his den.
The footman opened the door. “The smaller dining room, mademoiselle.”
Again the room was not what she expected. She’d thought the duc would prefer a grandiose setting to match his consequence. But this was cozy like the library. The ceiling was of carved wood. A round table gleamed with polish in the candlelight. It sat six rather than the twenty or thirty she’d imagined. A sideboard was heaped with covered silver trays. Crystal sparkled. The china set for two was Sèvres, figured in blue and gilt to match the blue and red of the carpet and the midnight blue of the draperies, closed now against the night. The whole was warm and cheery.
And leaning against the mantel, his booted foot on the andirons of the flickering grate, stood the duc, wine glass in hand. He wasn’t a lion. More like a black panther, sleek and powerful. Dangerous. The room fairly … quivered with his presence.
Be careful. Don’t let his handsome person befuddle you. She would think of tonight as research. She’d discover why he saved her and use that information to get him to save Madame.
All the time she’d been dressing, she’d had a most uneasy feeling. That the duc was a threat was obvious. It wasn’t that. All of this seemed … familiar somehow. That strange sensation of déjà vu one got sometimes usually lasted only for an instant. But she just couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew this man and she’d done all this before.
And that it hadn’t turned out well.
He glanced up at her entrance. He blinked once, twice. “Well, that is an improvement.”
She blushed. How could she? She had to appear strong, not naïve and vulnerable. “Anything would have been an improvement.”
Another footman joined Jean to take the covers from the dishes on the sideboard.
“I hope you don’t mind an informal dinner. I like to dispense with servants whenever possible.” He was looking at her quite strangely, no doubt comparing her unfavorably with the last wearer of this marvelous dress.
She set her teeth. Be polite. Get him talking. “I trespass on your hospitality. However you choose to be served can only please.”
He looked faintly … pained. Well, perhaps that had struck a false note. “Oh, very well. I actually like informality.” She breathed and smiled. “It was one of the nicest things about living with Madame LaFleur. She treated me quite like a friend. Cook and her girl and Robert were our only servants. So we often dined informally. I find it comfortable.” Liar. How could one be comfortable with an attractive devil like Avignon ready to steal your soul?
Now who was being dramatic? Stealing souls. These thoughts seemed entirely foreign.
He kept his own counsel, but the pained look had been replaced by one of … speculation. The footmen took away the covers after pouring white wine in two glasses and red in two others, and leaving the decanters. The duc picked up a plate and began putting tidbits on it. She picked up another.
He frowned at her, took her plate, and set it back down. “Allow me,” he said firmly.
He was going to serve her? How odd for a wicked duc. He didn’t ask what she’d like to eat, but chose for her. That seemed entirely in character. The sideboard held platters of oysters on the half shell with mignonette vinegar, chicken Dijon, beefsteak, a ragout of sweetbreads, spinach in a cream sauce, haricots verts, a platter of buttered lobster tails among a dozen others—the largesse was embarrassing. She hadn’t seen so much food in one place for several years. And there was a whole shallow dish full of salt.
“You … you set a fine table,” she murmured, at a loss for words. Salt was precious these days; taxed by the government until it was too dear for almost all households.
Her mouth began to water in earnest. This food would have been cooked with salt.
“Ahhhh, I see you are admiring my little import. One likes to command the elegancies.”
“Salt. Brandy. Well water. Wherever do you get such luxuries?”
“Well, the water is easy. I own the system of wells, at least until they are nationalized.”
Really? That was surprising. Had he bought them, had them dug? “God forbid the wealthy should drink water from the Seine like everyone else.”
He glanced at her, his eyes unreadable. “Those who pay for it finance wells for those who cannot. The latest is going in upriver, near the slaughterhouses.”
She bit her lip. “I would not have thought you so generous.”
“Generous? No. It keeps my wells from being vandalized.”
She should have known. When her plate was full, he set it on the table and drew out a chair for her. She seated herself. “Thank you.”
His bare hand brushed her shoulder as she sat back and she felt it through to her bones, as though he had been rubbing his shoes on a carpet. Goose pimples rose on her neck and coursed down one side of her body. She had never felt anything quite like it.
He walked back to the sideboard, rubbing the hand that had touched her shoulder surreptitiously on his coat. Had he felt the touch as she had? The coat was of a satin, blue so dark it was almost black. He was strongly built. It was hard not to think about his body moving under his clothing as he filled his plate. His muscles were not ropy, stringy things. They bulged. She would be able to see the veins that fed his biceps … The image made her … tingle.
Where had she gotten thoughts like that? The only times she had ever even seen men without their shirts was from a distance during haying time on her aunt’s estates. Yet she could imagine just how Avignon’s muscles would look if she could see him naked …
Stop it, she told herself. It was as if she already knew what he looked like naked.
He sat down next to her with his own plate. That was too close. His suppressed energy hummed and echoed in her veins. He had brought the shallow bowl of salt with its tiny silver spoon. “Feel free,” he murmured, “but Pierre would be desolate if you didn’t taste first.”
He didn’t seem to be the type to say grace. The devil wouldn’t thank God, would he? So she murmured her own thanks under her breath and turned her attention to her plate. How had she not realized she was famished? Everything tasted wonderful. There was no need to add salt. After some time she slowed enough to realize her companion was only toying with his food. She must look like some starving urchin to him.
She cleared her throat. “My compliments to your chef.”
“I should have Pierre in to see your enjoyment.”
She shrugged. “With the Revolution, things have not been so easy. Madame LaFleur has had to watch her sous carefully since her husband died.”
“Things are never easy when the common man runs wild. All descend to the lowest common denominator.”
“I had such hope at first,” she murmured. “Things were so bad, the taxes so hard, the priests so venal … I thought that if one but followed the principles of Rousseau and Voltaire …”
He grimaced and shook his head. “It never works.”
“You are a royalist, of course.” He would be, with huge estates no doubt confiscated in the name of the people without a king to protect them.
“The royalists are as stupid and greedy as our fine new ‘citizens.’ Fear and greed are the only truths.” He sipped his wine, looking to see if he had shocked her.
“A man like you would believe so.” Strange, but some part of her believed that too.
“Ahhhh, and what does your … experience tell you about men like me?”
She felt herself coloring. He was baiting her because she was young and inexperienced. In truth she had never known anyone faintly like him. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that. “Your reputation is generally known.”
“But what a unique opportunity,” he observed, cutting a beefsteak that bled onto his plate it was so rare. “Do tell me what the general populace thinks of me.”
“It … it is not my place to say.” Her oysters consumed her attention.
“Surely you can satisfy my curiosity in return for my hospitality this evening?”
Did he have to keep reminding her of her obligation? Well, there were some things she could deduce. And Madame LaFleur had gossiped. “You cannot blame the messenger then.”
“Fair enough.”
“Well … well, you are thought to be ruthless.”
“True.” That did not seem to faze him.
“And a libertine of course.” He said nothing. “Because of the women,” she felt obliged to explain. She had seen those for herself in the grand ballroom.
“Of course. Because of the women.”
“And the gambling.”
“That too.”
“The fact that you never return from your debaucheries until dawn.”
“Dear me, do people notice that? I’m flattered.”
Well, really! If he admitted everything so blithely, she’d have to reach deeper to make him feel his faults. She bought time by taking a bite of the creamed spinach.
“You are called the ‘wicked duc.’ ” That was weak. It was only she who called him that.
“So I’ve heard.” He couldn’t have heard that. He was just toying with her. The expression in his eyes was almost a kind of laughter.
“Mammas keep their daughters from you.” Madame had certainly warned Françoise.
“A relief.”
“Even men are, I think, a little afraid of you.” Robespierre seemed to be, after all.
“Convenient, really.”
She was getting angry. “So I ask myself, why do people fear you so?” She tapped her empty fork against her lips. “It could be something you have done in the past so horrible that people will not speak of it.” He watched her, wary now. “Or … it could be because you seem to have secrets. Secrets both attract people and make them afraid.”
He blinked, twice. She considered that an achievement. Then he took a sip of wine. “I think boring people so want there to be secrets they will make them up if they don’t exist.”
That wasn’t exactly a denial. “Are you saying you don’t have secrets?”
“We all have secrets, child.” He examined her from under those lush lashes. “Everyone lies. Everyone tries to get what they want, without revealing how much they want it.”
Françoise sucked in a breath. Did he know what she wanted of him? Would such a cynic extend himself to help Madame? She must not go too fast. A man like Avignon would resent any attempt to push him. She changed the subject. “I wonder you stay in France. Why not abandon the country to her foolishness? Especially when you are in danger by your very birth?” He had that in common with Madame. Could she play upon his sympathies for one like himself?
He set down his glass. “Don’t make me a romantic figure. I am in no danger.”
He certainly acted as though the committee and the mob posed no threat. “How is that when you make not the slightest accommodation to the rules of the committee?”
He raised his brows in surprise, whether because she dared to ask the question or because she did not know the answer, she couldn’t t
ell. “Why should I make accommodation?”
“How can you not, and stay out of a tumbrel?”
“Ahhh.” He studied her. “Perhaps that is my secret.”
“I’ll wager it’s not your only one,” she grumbled, stabbing a piece of lobster.
“It seems to me you should be grateful that my standing … let us say, ‘encouraged’ Robespierre to lose interest in you today.”
“Why? Why did he let me go?”
“Oh, perhaps because he and I are old friends.”
Not likely. The little lawyer, precise to a fault, had never let anyone close in his life, even Marta Croûte, who was rumored to be his mistress. He lived for the Revolution and guarded its integrity to the point of insanity. He had started sending the earliest proponents of revolution to the guillotine themselves a few months ago, just because they were no longer zealous enough for him. Even Danton had lost his head. Françoise didn’t believe Robespierre let her go out of any feeling for Monsieur le Duc. But in some ways it didn’t matter why. He had. That meant the duc could help Madame. She took a breath, about to broach the subject, but thought better of it. Best she approach obliquely.
“Why did you bother yourself about me, today?” That would tell her much about him.
“I thought it might be diverting to flaunt you in Robespierre’s teeth when he knows you are not my ward.” He smiled. The effect was not what one would call warm. “I must invite him and that woman who is such a rabble-rouser … What is her name?”
“Marta Croûte.” He had saved her only to spite Robespierre and Madame Croûte?
“Yes … I shall invite them to my little soirée on Wednesday, where I shall present you to what is left of society.” His eyes crinkled in anticipation. He wasn’t looking at her at all. “My acquaintances will be scandalized by them, not unamusing in itself.”
The man was totally unfeeling. Françoise had never felt so small. She was saved from the guillotine by this dreadful man only for his own amusement. He would never try to help Madame. She felt tears well in her eyes.
That sense of urgency washed over her. There was something dreadful she must do. Pain pierced her head. She put her fingers to her temple, unable to think.
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