The Corrupt Comte: The Bourbon Boys, Book 1

by Edie Harris

  With the Duke of Berry gone, hereditary right would eventually die out. Power would fall more and more to the cabinet, the prime minister. The people.

  France without a king… Gaspard leaned his head against the upholstered chairback. They’d tried that. It hadn’t gone so well.

  Apparently, the other men’s thoughts had taken a similar bent. “What is Évoque planning to do?” Max glanced over at Sabien, who had turned his empty tumbler upside down and was busy catching errant drops with one fingertip as they fell, then licking his finger clean. “You said ‘revolution.’”

  “I had a feeling this was about the rumors of Berry’s ‘foretold’ death. And a prince dying before his time…doesn’t that sound like revolution to you boys?” The words slurred together, and Gaspard stared at his friend more closely. The lieutenant’s eyes were bloodshot, his skin unnaturally pale beneath a drunken flush, and the stiff set of his shoulders belied the fluidity of his loose-limbed movements. The man was drunk.

  Not just drunk. A drunk. And now that Gaspard knew more of the story, it seemed likely to conclude that Sabien was miserable over the duchess, Princess Caroline.

  No wonder Claudia couldn’t hold his interest.

  Claudia.

  Could Gaspard really leave her to Évoque?

  —hands on his lower back, stroking too softly over his raw skin.

  Gaspard had known exactly what sort of villain Évoque was, and he’d been naive to think any course of action the duke set Gaspard on was for some altruistic purpose, to somehow better the lives of the people of France.

  Proving that Gaspard wasn’t smart enough to be anything other than a pawn in these games. He was a dog on a leash, given just enough lead to believe he possessed some measure of autonomy, only to be yanked back in and choked with the evidence of his own audacity.

  He was never going to escape this life, or Évoque. He was never going to escape France.

  He was never going to have Claudia.

  But he would bargain with the devil, and he’d use that nugget of blackmail. He’d stay under Évoque’s thumb, but he’d do it on his terms—with a title and a castle and a comfortable fortune in his accounts.

  He would forget Claudia Pascale ever existed, starting now.

  “So, tomorrow night…” he glanced at the tall grandfather clock across the room from where they sat, “…or tonight, now, I suppose. Sabien will have his rendezvous, Faron will get Louvel to the opera house, and I will thrust home the knife.” It wasn’t the first time he’d killed. It probably wouldn’t be his last.

  “Where will you be, Denney?” Faron asked, handing the baron back the bottle.

  “At Évoque’s soirée, his Red-and-White Ball. I have no orders for this little charade.” Max shrugged, finishing off what little liquor was left in the decanter. “He has me working another scheme.”

  “I hope it’s less messy than this one,” Sabien mumbled. “Is the whisky gone?”

  “For you it is.” Faron’s gaze chilled on Sabien. “You need a clear head tomorrow.”

  “What if I don’t want a clear head?”

  Gaspard didn’t want a clear head, himself, but he was a man of limited means. He had been before, as well, but those limitations had been financial, more than anything. The constraints of his work, his misplaced loyalty to his employer—all surmountable limitations. But it was time to stop functioning on instinct and embrace cold fact.

  Gaspard Toussaint had become an unwilling whore for a man at age sixteen and roughly a decade later, he was still a whore for men, pimped out by a different master. It was illogical to assume he’d ever escape this trajectory. So if he had to be this man forever, he must accept his situation for what it was—a life sentence.

  In a matter of days, Claudia had warmed him, soul deep. Consider that fire doused.

  With a weariness far removed from how he’d felt entering the library, Gaspard rose from his seat, arranging the lace cuffs to fall with fluted preciseness over his scarred hands. A reminder, always a reminder. “Curtain goes up at eight. See you then, gentlemen.

  “Oh, and, Sabien? You owe me those Hessians you’re wearing.” He felt colder than ever as he quit the room.

  Chapter Nine

  13 February 1820

  Where was he?

  Claudia needed the comte to be here, at the duc d’Évoque’s elegant Red-and-White Ball, because things were happening.

  Her mother, Phoebe, had ordered Claudia’s maid to spend extra time arranging her hair, then had tugged down the neckline on Claudia’s bodice until it bordered on indecency. “…And when the duke dances with you, smile, nod and don’t say a word.”

  Claudia hadn’t known she would be dancing with the duke.

  Phoebe had stepped back to survey her handiwork, dark eyes critically assessing. “You may giggle, of course. Your giggle isn’t horrendous,” she had said absently, then leaned forward to dig embarrassingly inside her daughter’s gown, lifting and arranging Claudia’s breasts. When the plumped tops were nearly overflowing the neckline, Phoebe snapped at the maid, “Undo the buttons and lace her in tighter. This is where we want them.”

  Lucky for her, Phoebe hadn’t glimpsed the corset Claudia had donned before her mother had entered the bedchamber, and the maid hadn’t said a word. She had no idea how Phoebe might have reacted to the sight of such daring lingerie on her supposedly innocent daughter.

  Phoebe’s marked concern over Claudia’s appearance had been the first clue. The second was when her father, Auguste, had grabbed her by the elbow on the stairs, rougher than usual, and leaned in to hiss, “Whatever you do tonight, don’t make a scene.”

  Claudia never made scenes. She spoke only in the direst of circumstances, clung to the walls like a creeping vine and often refused to make eye contact with a single soul, thus ensuring her invisibility. Vastly preferring being invisible over being the object of attention, she had never dared to venture forth from the cage she’d constructed for herself, not until she’d pursued Sabien Purvis into that parlor.

  She hadn’t stepped foot back in that cage since meeting the comte, but how could her father have known that?

  The ball had been in full swing for over two hours, revelers dressed in stark shades of bloody red and wintry white. A themed party, one with a simple concept as revelry and decadence took precedence in the days leading up to Lent—unmarried men and women wore white, while married guests wore red. Should a red be seen with a white, shame on them. However, it was certainly within a guest’s purview to dress as they chose, so there were likely a number of women falsely wearing virginal white, while many unattached men had chosen to play the devil and donned red costumes.

  Claudia wore white. But underneath her satin gown…

  It was for him. Everything she wore beneath tonight’s dress was for him, but he wasn’t here.

  Last night, she’d fallen apart in front of him, ripped at the seams and divested of any common sense. She hadn’t worried about being overheard by strangers, or about what would happen if they were caught together. Mindless but for the pursuit of her own pleasure, and his, she had allowed herself to hope as she hadn’t dared to in years.

  When she had been a child, Claudia had often wished to be able to see into the future. She wanted to know the next time her father planned to drag her into his office and have the butler scrub out her mouth with cheap soap in punishment for being born malformed, so she could prepare to hold back both her tears and her vomit. She wanted to know when her mother next planned to clip clothespins to her tongue, so she could bribe the housekeeper into hiding the awful pinching things. She wanted to know when her grandfather would visit, so she’d have time to carefully rehearse a stutter-free speech, a speech that would convince him to take Claudia along when he departed for his own apartments outside London.

  She never could see into the future, but predicting it became easier as the years went by. She learned not to speak at all in her father’s presence, so as not to remind him of her d
eficiencies, and the same with Phoebe and her dratted clothespins. She stopped practicing the persuasive monologues she wrote for her grandfather, because he never rescued her from hell. Then he’d simply stayed away, locked up in his cottage in Hampshire as his mind deteriorated, and Claudia’s hope withered apace in his absence.

  Sabien Purvis had looked like salvation in London. The calculated rumblings of her parents, which she listened to through closed doors, told her they’d lost any patience they might once have had with their idiot child, and Claudia couldn’t bear the thought of being placed in a household of her father’s choosing. When Claudia had finagled an introduction to the lieutenant, and he’d smiled politely and danced with her and had not commented on her stutter—though she’d seen him wince—she’d recklessly started sketching out a future. With him.

  Sabien likely would have been a nice-enough husband. Probably not faithful—men that handsome weren’t expected to be—but he didn’t have a reputation for excessive gambling or whoring. She might have had a child or three with him, and while she would have doted on their offspring, she would never have made any similar demands for affection from him. The lieutenant’s best attribute, however, was that he had never met Claudia’s father, nor was he known to run in the same social circles, at least in London.

  Claudia should have known better than to start planning a future around factors she couldn’t predict. She hadn’t foreseen, for example, that she would meet a man who showed one face to the world but in private was a completely different animal. She hadn’t known she would allow that man unfettered access to her body, or that she would grow craven for his touch—his alone.

  She hadn’t known she would capitulate to him. The comte kept forcing her to speak, and she was beginning to think it was because he knew she had something worthwhile to say.

  She might love him for that, just a little bit.

  He remained mostly a stranger to her, an entity unknown, but he was proving something she’d always suspected—that she still had hope.

  That tenuous hope waned as the Red-and-White Ball progressed. After his pointed comment last night about seeing her at the ball, she’d assumed this evening would be…momentous. The comte wanted her—wanted only her, were his words to be believed, and she needed to believe him. What he needed, however, was a complete mystery.

  He presented himself as a molly, and did nothing to change that popular opinion. He had all the appearance of wealth and prestige, yet she’d ascertained that he never hosted parties, only attended them. His friendship with Sabien Purvis was confusing, an unlikely pairing, but Sabien was well known for his feminine conquests here in Paris, so he and the comte weren’t lovers.

  In fact, Claudia hadn’t heard mention of any of the comte’s lovers. He had told her he visited whores yet hadn’t for nearly a year. Had he been celibate the entire time? Was his reputation as a homosexual merely a…a front?

  A front for what?

  Shaking her from her concerned musings, an attractive graying gentleman wearing white with a red band around his sleeve—a widower—halted in front of where she stood with her back against a wall, as per her usual. “Mademoiselle Pascale.” The Duke of Évoque bowed, a friendly smile curving thin lips. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”

  It appeared her mother had been correct. Unease gathered in Claudia’s abdomen.

  The duke’s tall frame and wide shoulders thwarted Claudia’s attempt to scan the ballroom once more, hoping against hope that the comte might have arrived. He was nowhere to be seen, so Claudia, heeding her mother’s mandate, nodded and bobbed a brief curtsy before placing her hand in Évoque’s.

  She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor for a very conveniently timed waltz. One of his gloved hands settled between her shoulder blades, long, narrow fingers finding the bared skin and pressing into her flesh. His other hand gripped hers rather tightly, and his gaze fell to the exposed expanse of bosom, though she couldn’t blame him for that. Phoebe had certainly designed her chest to be on display tonight, and it wouldn’t have been for the ladies’ benefit.

  In the two weeks she and her parents had been the guests of the duke, Claudia had managed to avoid speaking directly to him entirely. He appeared to be a very busy man, with a constant flow of people, both well-dressed and poorly shod, into his office, and it was easy to avoid him. After all, when she didn’t want to be noticed, she wasn’t.

  Évoque was an excellent dancer, moving her expertly around the ballroom with the other guests, and she grew lulled into relaxing her guard slightly, both by his talent and the silence which held sway over them while they danced.

  “We have not spoken since your arrival, have we, mademoiselle?” His voice was kind, his English pronunciation nearly perfect. Nothing like the rougher rasping of the comte’s accent.

  She shook her head.

  The duke seemed amused by her nonverbal answer. “And you are a quiet one, are you not?”

  “Oui.” She hoped that would appease him.

  “Ah, there is your voice,” he teased lightly as he guided them gracefully into a turn. “It is as lovely as you, chérie.”

  The endearment had her stumbling. “M-merci.” She bit her tongue to prevent any further words from tripping out. She peered out into the crowd once more, but faces and bodies blurred together in a sea of red and white. Impossible to pinpoint a single face, or a single man.

  Would he be wearing white?

  “No need to be nervous, mademoiselle. After tomorrow…” Évoque trailed off then, and the look he gave her was warm. Familiar.

  Too familiar.

  What did he mean, after tomorrow?

  Breathing deep, knowing she would sound slow in the head but determined not to give in to her condition, she said, “I d—” She cleared her throat, buying time. “I don’t understand.” There, that wasn’t so bad.

  He frowned at her. “Have your parents not discussed this with you, chérie?” When she shook her head, his gaze turned pitying, then cold. “Ah. We are to be married. Tomorrow.”

  She stopped dead in the middle of the dancers, forcing him to halt. “M-m-m—” The word refused to form, as if her mind couldn’t countenance it.

  “Are you well, mademoiselle?” The duke stared at her mouth. “Do you need refreshment?”

  She shook her head vehemently and attempted to back away, but his hands held firm. She felt the bite of fingernails on her back and the clench of cruel fingers crushing her hand.

  “Ah, ah. I don’t think so, chérie.” His voice dropped to a murmur, still so pleasant in tone but frosted with unforgiving ice.

  Claudia glanced feverishly around the ballroom, eyes landing on her parents. Her father glared sternly, his hands intimidating fists at his sides, and her mother looked a heartbeat away from bursting into embarrassed tears. Others watched her too, she noticed, their expressions nearer to curiosity than judgment.

  The comte was nowhere to be seen.

  “P-please, let m-me go.”

  He shook his head slightly, leaning in until his mouth hovered over her ear and holding her in place as she tried to shrink away. “Are you always such a scared little mouse?” When she didn’t answer, he chuckled. “I will have such fun with you, I think. Now, take my arm and don’t make a scene.”

  The second time tonight she’d been ordered to keep her mouth shut, and she had no trouble doing so. She trembled from head to toe as Évoque tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her from the dance floor over to a raised dais upon which was arranged the orchestra. Guests parted to make a path for them, and as they approached, the maestro nodded to the duke, and, as if in some sort of prearranged signal, the music faded to a close.

  They had done it. Her parents had finally married her off, and to a French duke, of all things—and they were doing it tomorrow. Were she any other woman, she’d likely see this as nothing short of a miracle, going from a life as a cit to the wife of an aristocratic peer who was second only to royalty. Wha
t sort of manipulations must have taken place in order for Évoque to agree to marry a nobody such as her? She wasn’t even certain ten thousand pounds could guarantee such an event.

  Perhaps she was worth more now. Perhaps her father had raised his offer to twelve. Or fifteen.

  Oh, God. She’d been sold.

  As he helped her up onto the dais, Évoque leaned in once more. “You should be smiling, chérie.” A threat masquerading as a suggestion.

  She forced her lips to curve as she turned with him to face the guests, all of whom had quieted their merriment in anticipation of whatever news their host was about to share with them. A shudder wracked her, her hands fisting, her toes cramping inside her shoes. An invisible weight pressed down on her shoulders, and the inside of her mouth tasted like ash.

  She had been so foolish to hope.

  “Attention, my friends!” began the duke in French. “I hope you are all having a grand time.”

  The crowd laughed their agreement, some raising glasses of sparkling champagne in acknowledgment.

  “Excellent.” He smiled at them, then turned that smile on her. It was a charming smile, inviting one to join in his good cheer, but now that she knew what to look for, she saw the coldness lurking behind the kindness. He was measuring her, though for what she didn’t know.

  She feared knowing.

  “I wish I was more eloquent, but I’m afraid I’m unable to contain my excitement.” He beamed out at the crowd. “I’m announcing my engagement to Mademoiselle Pascale—please, congratulate us!” He took the hand on his arm and gripped it hard, raising it between them.

  The guests, in collusion with the villain at her side, cheered boisterously, and the maestro struck up the orchestra in vibrant song. Bolstered by the happy news, the partygoers danced and drank with greater fervor, the din in the ballroom rising with each passing second.

  For Claudia, it seemed so very far away. The duke lowered her hand, his hold shifting from her gloved fingers to her wrist, encircling it, squeezing it. He bent to her, switching back to English. “It’s a done thing, chérie. You’re going to be a duchess.”