Velvet Is the Night

by Elizabeth Thornton

  The comtesse, when she could tear herself away from the pleasures of Versailles, would periodically descend on the château like a beautiful godmother dispensing gifts and favors. In some trepidation, Adam waited for a summons to the august presence. None was forthcoming. Not only was he excluded from the comtesse's charmed circle, but when they chanced to come face-to-face on the odd occasion, she looked through him as if he were invisible. Adam withdrew more into himself and pretended to an indifference he was far from feeling.

  Through servants' loose tongues, he gathered that the comte and his comtesse had long since decided to go their own ways. The comte kept a stableful of mistresses. The comtesse had a string of young lovers. In the theater world in Paris, men and women conducted themselves in much the same manner. Adam accepted these modes as the natural way of things.

  A staff of more than one hundred liveried footmen catered to the needs of a handful of people. Presiding in the absence of the comte and comtesse were Monsieur Perrin, the tutor, and Mademoiselle Cocteau, governess and chaperone to the daughters of the house.

  Philippe Duhet had two younger sisters, pudding- faced, graceless girls, in Adam's opinion. He supposed that they must be his own half-sisters. Again, it was servants' gossip which put him wise. "The two suet dumplings," as Adam contemptuously referred to them in his own mind, were not the comte's children, but the issue of the comtesse and her several lovers over the years. For all the airs and graces these ugly ducklings adopted, one would have supposed them princesses of the blood, so Adam muttered to himself, and not the offspring of dubious parentage.

  That first year, Adam had more thrashings than he'd had in the previous ten years in his life, and far more severe. The first beating, as Adam expected, came from Philippe Duhet. He'd been lured to the stables on some pretext or other. When he entered, a couple of the stable lads laid hold of him, pinioning his arms behind his back. Only then did Philippe step out of the shadows.

  When he left, one of Adam's ribs was cracked, though not a scratch or bruise showed where it could be detected by a casual observer. As the weeks wore on, it became evident to Adam that Philippe was as sly as a fox, and twice as deadly. There was a streak of cruelty in the boy which he hid behind an easy charm and impeccable manners. The passing of time would amend Adam's opinion. Philippe Duhet was not merely cruel. He was demented

  As far as was humanly possible, Adam took to giving Philippe a wide berth. There were times, however, when they must be together. They shared the tutor. They sat facing each other at the dinner table with Monsieur Perrin and Mademoiselle Cocteau presiding. On such occasions, knowing he was not welcome, Adam was taciturn. Philippe was all charm and good humora born actor. Adam despised the older boy. The feeling was mutual.

  For all the luxuries the Duhets enjoyed, theirs was not a happy household. Discipline was ferocious. Adam chafed at the restrictions. He missed his mothernot that Mara Dillon had been an affectionate mother. But when she was sober, she was entertaining, a fund of stories, and good company. Adam felt estranged. No one at the château made overtures of friendship. Philippe's sisters went out of their way to avoid him. The reason was not hard to find. Like the servants, they went in fear of the heir's unpredictable temper, and Philippe had made it known, though not overtly, that Adam Dillon was beyond the pale.

  That lesson was brought home to Adam in a particularly brutal way. One of the coachmen, taking pity on the boy, presented him with a pup, a black mongrel bitch, which lavished the solitary youth with an indiscriminate affection. Adam was captivated. He named his dog Sheba and spent every spare moment schooling his pet to his commands. The loneliness became a little easier to bear. Sometimes he was surprised to find that he was almost enjoying himself.

  Ever afterwards, he was to curse himself for underestimating Philippe Duhet. He should have foreseen the lengths to which the boy would go in his lust to avenge the slur of having his father's bastard foisted upon him.

  Sheba was missing. A presentiment of disaster gripped Adam. Ignoring the summons to meet with his tutor in the music room, he dashed aimlessly about the grounds of the château, shouting Sheba's name at the top of his lungs. He found his pup floating in the moat. Sheba had been deliberately drowned. No one had to tell Adam who was responsible. As he gathered the small, miserable bundle into his arms, something inside Adam snapped.

  He found Philippe in the music room with their tutor. As Adam entered, the tutor's hands on the keyboard of the harpsichord stilled. Philippe rested one hand idly on the edge of the instrument, a telling smile curling his lips, triumph glittering in his eyes. Adam wanted to kill him. Slowly, deliberately, he approached the older boy. Without warning, Adam grasped Philippe's wrist, holding his hand steady where it rested. In the next instant, he slammed the lid of the harpsichord down on Philippe's hand.

  The beating the tutor administered was savage. Adam was past caring. He was heartbroken. He could not even be glad that he had broken two of Philippe's fingers.

  The thrashing was only a small part of his punishment. He was confined to his room on starvation rations until he came to his senses. That day never arrived. Adam refused to apologize, nor would he divulge the reason for the attack. In his circles in Paris, boys disdained to tattle on one another, whatever the provocation. A boy fought his own battles, meted out his own brand of justice, or else he became the runt of the pack, an object of ridicule or abuse. The adults in Adam's life rarely interfered. Their interest was careless, and desultory at best. The tutor, who grudgingly commuted Adam's sentence when it seemed that the boy would starve before he would beg his half-brother's pardon, was a new experience for Adam, as was Philippe Duhet.

  In the succeeding months, as he observed Philippe's covert cruelties not only to himself but also to anyone who incurred his wrath, Adam was struck anew by the thought that the boy was a born actor. No one observing that cultured, charming exterior would credit that Philippe Duhet was anything other than he appeared, except, perhaps, his victims. There was only one way to fight him and win, and that was by emulating his example. In the interests of self- preservation, Adam, also, became something of an actor. In the public eye, both boys pretended to a distant though polite amity. In private, they followed a more vicious course. For every deliberate transgression on Philippe's part, Adam evened the score. Before long, an uneasy truce prevailed.

  When Adam was fifteen years of age, the fiction that he was the comte's ward deceived no one. The resemblance between father and son was remarkable, but not so remarkable as the growing resemblance between Adam and his half-brother, Philippe. The aristocratic bearing, the high forehead, aquiline nose, finely chiseled featuresall gave proof of their common patrimony. But it was those extraordinary Duhet eyes which put an end to idle speculation, eyes as green as grass, sultry, and half veiled with a fan of dark, curling eyelashes.

  Both hoys possessed a muscular physique, the result of the various accomplishments which men of fashion were obliged to acquire. Hours in each day were devoted to the mastery of the manly arts- riding, hunting on the comte's vast estates, fencing, athletics. And both boys had an eye for the girls.

  At sixteen years of age, Adam fell in love. The object of his devotion was Jeanne, the beautiful daughter of an innkeeper in the city of Tours. The Épée de Bois was the inn where all the Duhets put up when they had occasion to visit the city. Adam was a little ashamed. There was only one thing which drew him to Tours. His father had arranged for him to visit, periodically, one of its better brothels. Jeanne, in Adam's opinion, was as far removed from the wenches who catered to the carnal side of his nature as is the sun from the moon. Jeanne stirred the boy's softer emotions. She was as pure as she was beautiful. He worshipped her.

  The romance blossomed. When Jeanne could slip away from her numerous duties, they went for long walks or found a quiet nook where they could be private. Jeanne was a good listener. Adam told her things about himself he had never told another soul. Occasionally, he held her hand. Once, he kissed h
er fingers.

  Somehow, word of Adam's partiality for the girl got back to Philippe. When Adam next visited the Epée de Bois, the comte and Philippe rode with him. Adam was wary, but not in his worst nightmares could he have conceived what followed.

  The comte and Jeanne's father entered into negotiations to establish the girl as Philippe's mistress. Adam was beside himself. The hatred which had smoldered beneath the surface for years erupted like an exploding volcano. He went for Philippe. When the comte tried to intervene, Adam turned on him, too. It took three of the comte's men to hold him down. Jeanne was summoned. For

  Adam, she spared scarcely a glance. Philippe made his offer. Jeanne prevaricated but quickly accepted terms when the question of her duties at the inn was raised. For the first time, Adam learned that Jeanne's favors were available for any gentleman who could meet her price.

  Something inside Adam died. He thought of all the women he had known in his life, not least his own mother. Heartsick, he told himself that he had learned a valuable lesson. Beneath their fine clothes and genteel manners, all women were alike. Never again would he make a fool of himself over any female.

  The hatred which had always existed between Adam and Philippe was now out in the open. The comte would not countenance it. As the heir, Philippe must be protected. The bastard son must be sent away.

  Adam was destined, a befitted his station in life, for a career in law or the army. To further this end, he was enrolled at the famous Lycée Louis le Grand in Paris.

  It was here that Adam was introduced to the philosophy of Rousseau and the new ideas which were beginning to gain acceptance in France, ideas which one day would be taken to extreme. The Revolution was already in the making. De Robespierre was a fellow student.

  As Adam approached his eighteenth birthday, it was not French politics which fired his imagination, but events in America. The American War of Independence was in progress. Benjamin Franklin, the American ambassador, was the most celebrated man in France. His commentary on American life was widely reported in the press, and eagerly received. The young Maquis de Lafayette had recently returned to an ecstatic welcome and was vigorously recruiting volunteers for the American cause. For young men of ambition such as Adam,

  America offered rewards which were denied them in France by an entrenched aristocracy. Adam toyed with the idea of offering his services to Lafayette.

  Events moved swiftly to force his hand. While on a visit to relate the news of the death of Adam's mother in Ireland, the comte was ambushed near his town house and brutally murdered. The trail of evidence led straight to Adam. It was known that there was no love lost between Adam Dillon and any member of the Duhet family. Moreover, only hours before the murder was committed, witnesses swore that there had been a violent quarrel between father and son.

  In everything, Adam recognized the hand of his half-brother. Philippe would not be satisfied until he had erased Adam Dillon from the face of the earth. One day, Adam promised himself, there would be a final reckoning. For the moment, he was powerless. To remain in France meant arrest and certain death. His destiny lay in America.

  Book I

  The Masquerade

  Chapter One

  It was one of the first parties of any note in New York since the sweltering heat of summer had given way to the more moderate temperatures of autumn. Mrs. Sarah Burke, one of New York's foremost hostesses, calmly surveyed the throng of people in the ballroom of her magnificent mansion on Broadway. Tall pier glasses, strategically placed around the room, caught the candlelight and reflected her galaxy of glittering guests, giving the impression of airiness, space, and a party almost double its actual numbers.

  A moment later, Sarah's slim, straight-backed figure was observed slipping away from the crush of people. She entered the grand dining room which was reserved for formal occasions only. Here she conferred with her French chef. Having ascertained that the éclairs and petit fours as well as a selection of French bonbons had arrived from Joseph Corré's pastry shop on Wall Street, Sarah smiled her approval and returned to her duties as hostess. In the foyer, she met her husband.

  John Burke, for all his five and fifty years, was a handsome, virile-looking man. His dress was formal, following the old fashions. His powdered hair was tied in back with a black ribbon. And Sarah, for all the years of their long and happy union, still experienced a little leap of pleasure every time she looked at him.

  He greeted her with an expression of acute agitation. "Aaron Burr arrived not five minutes ago."

  Sarah understood at once the cause of her husband's alarm. Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, two prominent gentlemen in the upper echelons of government circles, could never be civil to each other for more than five minutes at a time. She had made it a rule never to invite both gentlemen to the same party. Fortunately, Congress was meeting in Philadelphia. Before long, Hamilton and Burr must take up their duties there.

  In her usual calm manner, she put her husband's mind at rest. "The Hamiltons were invited to our last do, dear. They won't be here this evening."

  The antagonism which existed between Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton put Sarah quite out of patience. In the uncertain times in which they lived, old hatreds, in her opinion, were best forgotten. It would seem that her guests agreed with her. At her soirées were to be found men and women of widely different persuasionspatriots and those who were once decried as traitors, "rebels" as well as former Tories. There was even a sprinkling of British officers who had fought against the armies of the Revolution. But that was all of ten years ago. They regarded themselves now as American citizens, having long since turned their backs on England to wed with American girls.

  And then there was the French contingent. They were a little more volatile, but Sarah prosaically told herself that this was to be expected. Not only did the American government welcome official representatives of the new Revolutionary Government in France, but fugitives from the French Revolution, as many as twenty-five thousand some reports said, had also found a welcome on American shores. It was only to be expected that when men of such disparate views came face-to-face, sparks would begin to fly.

  Her sympathies were all for the refugees, not that she would say as much in public. Her husband would not thank her for it. John Burke was a diplomat to the tips of his little fingers, even supposing he had long since resigned from Congress to return to his law practice in New York. John understood her sentiments and sympathized with them.

  It was inevitable that her thoughts would shift to happier days in France, when she and Mr. Burke had paid an unofficial visit to Benjamin Franklin. They had been taken up and feted by King Louis and his queen, as well as by the French nobility. And now King Louis had found a felon's grave, and Marie Antoinette was incarcerated in the infamous Conciergerie awaiting an uncertain fate.

  Sarah shook her head as if to dispel her gloom. Her eyes chanced to fall on the tall figure of Adam Dillon, and her thoughts were given a more pleasant direction. Adam was the most sought-after bachelor in the state of New York. The girls made fools of themselves over Adam, and who could blame them? Even without the advantages of his wealth and standing in the community, those arresting good looks, that devil-may-care Irish charm were enough to turn any girl's head. But at thirty-one, Adam was in no hurry to tie himself to any girl, at least, not to the eligible ones. His preferences, his peccadilloes, were widely reported. Sarah forgave them easily. Adam was a single man. But she deplored the scandals which attached to a number of the married gentlemen who were present that evening.

  In her day, a wife would have created mayhem if her husband had dared to stray. Modern modes did not sit well with Sarah. Well-bred girls were too insipid, too spineless by half. Naturally, husbands applauded submission in a wife. It suited their purposes. But when those same husbands chose their mistresses, they looked for something quite different. Happily, her own husband had never given Sarah an unquiet moment. Their love was enduring and based on implicit trust.


  No, decided Sarah, she liked Adam Dillon too well to wish on him any of the insipid, whey-faced young eligibles of her acquaintance. What Adam needed, whether he knew it or not (and here Sarah had the grace to laugh at herself), was a good-hearted girl with some spunk, a girl who would see beyond Adam's facile Irish charm to the rather solitary, mistrustful man who never allowed anyone to get too close to him.

  Few people understood Adam Dillon as Sarah did, and Adam would have been mortified if he had known that she was privy to things about himself he wished to conceal. Sarah had come by her knowledge when Adam's guard was down, when he had been sedated with laudanum while recovering from a bayonet wound he had taken at the siege of Yorktown.

  Adam was only twenty, but he'd made a remarkable impression on John Burke, who was serving with General Washington. Adam's wound healed, but he had come down with a fever. It was only natural that John would send him to recuperate at his sister's house at nearby Williamsburg where Sarah had taken refuge for the duration of the war with her children.

  Sarah had spent several nights nursing the delirious young soldier, trying to bring his fever down. What she had learned of the boy's early life had stirred her maternal instincts. Adam had no use for pity. Nor would Sarah have insulted him by betraying such an emotion. Her abrasive, no- nonsense manner seemed to strike just the right note with Adam. Before long, he felt so much at home with the Burkes that he might have been a member of the family. When the war was over and the Burkes returned to New York, Adam went with them.

  Sarah's eyes narrowed on the beauty who claimed Adam's attention. Mrs. Lily Randolph, in Sarah's opinion, was something of a barracuda. She ate little whey-faced girls for breakfast. She was also reputed to be Adam's mistress. There was no love lost between Sarah Burke and the wealthy young widow. But Sarah knew her duty. Lily Randolph was related, both by birth and marriage, to some of the great families in and around New York. To leave the lady off her guest list would occasion gossip. A diplomat's wife avoided such unpleasantness at all costs.