The Corrupt Comte: The Bourbon Boys, Book 1

by Edie Harris

  This was the captain’s friend, the one from his childhood. The one who liked to brand his sex partners with his initials.

  Gaspard choked back a whimper as his forehead met the ground. Please, he begged, screamed, silent in his mind. Please don’t do it. Not another set of scars.

  Hands on his lower back, stroking too softly over his raw skin. “Beautiful work, Marcel.” A cultured voice, glee shaping the cruel compliment.

  “He’s mine, Frankie. You don’t get to mark this one.”

  As those aristocratic hands spread him, Gaspard squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed his relief into the cold dirt—

  The pen trapped in his fist snapped, and Gaspard straightened to drop the pieces on the desk in front of him. “I should kill you.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I could. I want to.” God, it would be so easy. The blade strapped to his uninjured arm sang to the yearning violence within him. Clean, precise—a flick of his wrist, a lunge across the expanse of desk and the knife buried to the hilt in Évoque’s chest. Gaspard could have this all sorted in the space of a breath, and no one would be the wiser. No one knew he was here…except Claudia.

  A shaft of pain, high in his rib cage. Claudia. “Pay what you owe, and I’ll leave.” He sure as hell couldn’t stay.

  “That’s all you want? Your wages?” The duke’s voice was hoarse but haughty, color beginning to return to his cheeks. “No blackmail in a foolish attempt to save your estate?”

  Piss-poor blackmail, and Gaspard was indeed a fool to have ever thought it the trump card up his sleeve. The word of a homosexual, even a titled homosexual, against that of a duke was all he had, and no cry of abuse would ever earn him a sum large enough to cover the debts on the Lorraine-Mâche lands.

  “I’ve had my fill of evil, Your Grace,” he said wearily, stepping away from the desk and out of the spill of sunlight that fell across it from one of the overlarge windows. “What you owe for my deeds last night, and I’ll be gone.”

  “Evil.” Évoque stood, bracing his hands on the paper-covered desk. “I’m supposed to believe one small incident on the steps of the opera is suddenly too much for you to stomach, is that it? You’re a goddamn spy, Toussaint.”

  “I was a spy—a good one.” Every breath was a rusted nail raking furrows into his lungs. “You recruited me when I possessed no morals or scruples or self-respect. Courreaux saw to that, and because I was so damn grateful to be free of him, I fucked every mark you set before me. I allowed myself to wallow in depravity because I was too simple and too broken to realize I could have just told you no when you tried to thrust that title into my hands.”

  The duke snorted derisively. “And what else would a man in your position do?”

  “A man in my position?”

  “A penniless, powerless bum boy. I opened doors a deviant like you could never open for yourself.” Smugness in those aristocratic tones.

  Helpless rage—the only kind of rage he could feel about his past—washed over him. “It’s easier to accept that a man’s preferences run to buggery, rather than that he’s been unwillingly stripped of masculinity.”

  “Unwillingly—”

  “Four long, torturous years, and no one stopped him.” Red crowded his vision as he rushed forward, slamming both fists onto the desk with a harsh crack of impact. “No one stopped him!” Papers flew as he whipped away, smarting hands dragging in his wake and clearing the surface of everything not bolted down or trapped beneath Évoque’s palms. He stalked toward the hidden door, ready to storm out and leave this whole, heinous world behind, the nightmare nothing more than a buzz in his tortured brain. “In case you were wondering, Your Grace, it wasn’t easier for me.”

  “Are you saying you’re not…?”

  Gaspard couldn’t say anything, much less that. He’d reached his limit on words, the buzzing between his ears growing louder with each heave of his chest. His body felt loose but tight, like that fractured moment of silence when a lock clicked open with a fraught-yet-satisfying snick. His insides were being pried open, but whether by the intended key or a thief’s tool kit, he couldn’t tell.

  God, he wanted out of his skin. Out of Paris.

  As he closed the distance to the door in the wall, Évoque grunted in frustration. “You want your money for last night? Here.” The sound of a drawer sliding open, wood against wood, then a rustle before the melodic clinking of a coin purse landed on the desk with a delightfully heavy thump. “For last night.”

  His hand froze over the disguised doorknob. “Last night. Last night.” Claudia. Claudia had been last night.

  Claudia, who was about to become this man’s wife, another pawn in the duke’s never-ending game of political prowess, just like Gaspard had been for so many years. The duke hadn’t even married her yet, and she was already a part of this hell.

  Gaspard turned on his heel, fixing Évoque with a stare. “Last night,” he repeated. “Announcing your engagement, that was brilliant. No one would ever suspect you of plotting Berry’s assassination down to the last detail, because, obviously, you were far too enamored of your young fiancée to be involved in such barbaric machinations.”

  Wariness lived in the duke’s narrowed gaze. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

  “No, I’m not.” And that was Évoque’s first—and last—mistake, when it came to him. Gaspard fought to control his breathing, but Mother of God, it was difficult when he suffocated beneath the writhing mass of those horrifying memories. “Why do you want her?”

  “What?”

  “Claudia Pascale. Why her?” He shook his head, but the buzzing only intensified. “It’s not the money.” It couldn’t be. Even if her dowry were triple the current figure, there were no incentives for Évoque. None. Not sex, not status—nothing. Though stabbed by a surprising spike of disloyalty, he had to admit she was no beauty, and that stutter…

  The world thought her broken, and only Gaspard knew better.

  Strangely, Évoque appeared to relax. Lifting the purse from the desk, he hefted it in one hand, studying it as though trying to discern its weight through sight alone. “I’m a student of history. You and I, we’ve lived through some interesting times, wouldn’t you say?”

  Gaspard hesitated only a moment before agreeing.

  Évoque nodded, looking pleased. “The White Terror, the Hundred Days, Bonaparte himself—all history, now already written.” Still holding the purse, he moved around the desk, meeting Gaspard’s gaze. “I intended to write history, Toussaint. Years from now, I expect the kingmakers of this world to look at my life and work, and emulate my successes.”

  The kingmakers… Gaspard left the door, walking toward the center of the study, careful to keep the duke in sight. “But why the girl?” Why the woman he’d held in sleep not even an hour earlier? The buzzing faded as her face came to his mind’s eye, and he fought to hold on to that image—the one he’d captured and deemed a rare good memory, looking down at her slumbering form mere moments before descending the hidden staircase to this den of lies.

  “History is there to teach us, and I’ve become something of an expert in extracting its secrets.” Évoque’s smile was chilling. “What do you know about Amaury Pascale?”

  The bottom dropped out of Gaspard’s stomach. “Enough.”

  “You’ve heard the rumors, then? That he fled France, disappeared?” Évoque’s expression turned conspiratorial. “His fool son decided to follow in his father’s footsteps, at least partially. Auguste Pascale opened a perfumery in London ten years ago using his merchant wife’s dowry, not even bothering to change his name.” He clucked his tongue, chiding. “Clueless, absolutely clueless.

  “But here’s the rub—no one could find Amaury, even after locating his son. So I waited, we all did.”

  “Waited for what?”

  An unholy gleam entered the older man’s eyes. “A mistake. Claudia Pascale in Paris? She is that mistake.” Long fingers paled as they clutched the fat purse. “And
while I waited, I built a network of spies so visible no one would think to suspect them. I kept men in the shadows—women too—in case one of you failed. And I was always three moves ahead.

  “Our king is too moderate. Decazes is too weak. Once the Bourbon line is threatened, once it’s bloody endangered, that’s when the claws will come out. Decazes will step down as royalists turn on reactionaries. Louis XVIII is an old man who will die, sooner or later. Probably sooner. And I wouldn’t count on comte d’Artois to step in as the savior of this country. His days are numbered too.”

  Évoque’s voice pulsed with the promise of victory. “Three moves ahead, Toussaint. I become prime minister. I put the king I want on the throne. And I rule this country.”

  That ashy sensation returned to Gaspard’s mouth, thickening his throat with dread. “What king are you planning to put on the throne?”

  “A king whose strings I hold. Give me a few years—I play a long game.” Without warning, Évoque tossed him the purse.

  Gaspard snatched it out of the air. “And Amaury Pascale…”

  “Will give me what I want, what even history wouldn’t reveal to me, when I possess his granddaughter.” His teeth flashed in a predator’s smile. “I have plans for her. Such plans.”

  Brand his initials into her perfect skin. “No,” Gaspard croaked. His fingers went nerveless around the purse, losing his grip. It landed on the rug with a muted thump.

  “Do you…?” The duke rocked back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest as he laughed, delighted. “Oh, this is precious!” He strolled forward, stopping barely a foot from where Gaspard stood rooted to the spot. Lowering his voice, the duke adopted a slumberous tone. “Finally found a woman who can make your dick as hard as I did that night?” He moved as if to grab hold of Gaspard’s groin, grinning wickedly.

  Instant, shameful terror washed over Gaspard as the floodgates opened and he let loose the fraying restraints he’d maintained over his control. Acting on instinct, he slammed his injured forearm against Évoque’s chest, ignoring the jab of white-hot pain as his other arm swung up to level a staggering blow to the duke’s jaw.

  The duke fell, but Gaspard was already running, running as he had all those years ago—except this time he had a destination in mind, as he threw open the study doors.

  Bursting into the grand foyer with its echoing marble and soaring ceilings, he braced his hands on his hips and bellowed, “Claudia!” A deep breath, then, at the top of his lungs, “Claudia Pascale!” He dashed toward the massive stone stairs stretching the width of the space.

  As he continued to shout madly for her, maids and footmen scurried out of his way, a few disappearing into the shadows of the second floor. It was as he reached the base of the curving steps leading up toward the private quarters that Claudia appeared, running as though the hounds of Hell nipped at her heels.

  She barreled down the stairs toward him, dark hair flying out behind her in a tousled mess, and he halted immediately at the sight of her, unable to understand the instantaneous sense of…of relief? Because it felt like relief pumping through his veins when she stopped on the step above him, clutching her deep blue dressing gown tightly across her chest, very clearly wearing nothing underneath.

  He’d left her sleeping naked in that bed.

  “Gaspard, what’s wrong?” Worry etched itself on her fair features, and she lifted a hand to rest on his chest.

  The familiarity was damning. Absolutely, perfectly damning.

  An older couple appeared, following quickly in Claudia’s wake—her parents, he realized. The pair of cold fish who’d never held their daughter, never shown her an ounce of affection. Gaspard’s bruised hands fisted at his sides once more.

  A short, dark-haired man with heavy brows and a heavier frown, Auguste Pascale glared menacingly at his daughter. “Claudia, who is this peasant?”

  It was then that Gaspard remembered his clothing, and the night before. Other guests began to congregate along the balustrade, peering down at the scene with avid curiosity.

  “He’s no peasant,” a rich voice boomed from behind him in barely accented English, and he blinked in surprise before schooling his face into a cool mask once more.

  Sabien Purvis continued as he came to a halt next to Gaspard. “This is le comte du Lorraine-Mâche.” He ran an appraising gaze over Gaspard’s attire. “My God, man, what happened to you?”

  In that moment, Gaspard had never been more grateful for Sabien’s friendship, even as he wondered why the lieutenant was here in Évoque’s home so early in the morning. “I was— How do you say…?” He shook his head, affecting a troubled expression. “J’ai été cambriolé.” Shrugging as if embarrassed, he glanced at their audience.

  “Robbed?” Sabien tutted sympathetically, executing his role like the expert liar he was. “Mugged on the streets, I’m assuming.”

  “Oui.” Gaspard indicated the wound on his forehead, the one Claudia had so carefully tended last night, and avoided looking at her as her hand fell from his chest, leaving a cold ache in its wake. “I was attacked. I only just woke, in an alley. A peasant—” he shot Claudia’s father a speaking glance, “—gave me something to wear.” He curled his lip in feigned distaste as he plucked the collar of his simple shirt away from his neck.

  Those who knew him in the crowd—and there were several, he noted—made commiserating noises, the women cooing, the men shaking their heads. “When did this happen?” one called down, leaning over the rail.

  A quiet tread of footsteps on the stairs behind him, and then Évoque appeared on the edge of Gaspard’s vision. Capturing Claudia’s hand, he brought it to his lips, before lifting it for their audience. “Last night,” he answered the man, recognizing him as a nobleman he’d once flirted with—and more—in order to learn the location of the meeting place for a certain cadre of reactionaries.

  He needed to tread carefully.

  One glance at Claudia’s confused face, and the knowledge of what Évoque would do to her if they went through with their marriage today, firmed Gaspard’s resolve. Straightening, he dared the crowd to contradict as he repeated, “Last night, after leaving the bed of Claudia Pascale.”

  Gasps sounded, and none more shocked than Claudia’s. “What are you d-d-doing?”

  “Denying it, my darling?” he countered smoothly, pitching his voice so that everyone could hear. All he needed was for her to confirm that he’d ruined her completely, and the duke would be forced—not only by the rules of society, but by the fact that Évoque was a man whose position could not afford him a scandalous wife—to cry off. There were too many witnesses for Évoque to hope to quell.

  The story would cross the Seine within the hour.

  He watched as Claudia’s gaze lit upon Évoque, standing off to the side and watching them expectantly.

  Christ. He could not have planned this more perfectly, but still, he prompted her, “I ruined you last night. Tell them.” A hint of the sensual command usually reserved for their more private interludes filtered into his tone.

  Raising her chin in the same determined manner she had in the parlor on the very first night of their acquaintance, she spoke loud enough to carry to the hungry ears of those who stood at the second-floor balustrade. “The c-c-comte is c-correct. Last n-night, he and I…w-w-we…”

  The guests didn’t need her to finish. They did, however, need the duke to say his piece.

  Évoque didn’t move from his spot off to the side as his houseguests looked at him with varying degrees of sympathy and no small amount of delight. This sort of gossip would get them invited to any soirée they desired over the course of the next week—that was how society functioned.

  With a false, beleaguered sigh, the duke clasped his hands in front of him. “Then I’m afraid there can be no more between us, mademoiselle,” he said directly to Claudia. “I hope you are happy with your…choice.”

  Gaspard didn’t miss the malicious glint in Évoque’s cool gaze, but as Claudia nodded, d
ipping into a respectful curtsy while Gaspard still held her hand, the guests erupted into excited chatter, and he was able to focus on Claudia once again.

  For the first time since meeting her, he dreaded that focus.

  He was right to.

  “You rescued m-me,” she whispered, eyes liquid dark and shimmering with so much emotion that his skin itched with the knowledge of his lies. “I knew you wouldn’t let the d-duke have m-me.” Her breasts brushed his chest. “You m-must lo—”

  “I have no money.” He cut her off as the itch beneath his skin began to burn, like a rash.

  “No…m-money?” She frowned, shifting backward. “B-but you’re a…a c-comte.”

  “A poor one.” When she tried to pull her hand from his grasp, he grabbed her wrist, squeezing lightly. He felt compelled to offer the truth—as much of the truth as he could give her, anyway. It lessened the spread of the itch, just as her presence had dimmed the buzzing in his brain to nothing more than a whisper against his temples. “I need your dowry to keep my estate.”

  Immediately, her face paled to shocking whiteness. “No.” There was horror in that single syllable. Horror, and betrayal. “No. You’re a comte. A c-comte. You don’t need m-my m-m-money.”

  “I do not ask for anything, ever—”

  “No, you d-demand it.”

  He deserved that, but he growled, his hold on her wrist tightening. “Now I ask that you think of all I have done for you.” Think of my teeth in your shoulder, my tongue in your cunt. Think of my cock deep, so deep inside you.

  She glared hotly at him. “All that you’ve d-done for m-me?” Scoffing, she leaned forward, and her scent hit him like a cudgel to the back of his head. As dizziness swamped him, he heard her incredulous whisper, “And what d-do you think you’re d-doing for m-me now, G-Gaspard?”

  I’m saving you, Claudia Pascale. His mind nearly tripped over his next thought and the desperation lacing it. Be grateful to me.

  Evidently, he’d spoken aloud. “Grateful? Grateful?” There was no mistaking the outrage in that husky English voice.