Meg looked at the man, and Jean-Marc took some satisfaction in the battle he saw her wage. She needed a husband who could provide for her, and for Sibyl. This man might turn out to be the perfect candidate, but he wasn’t the candidate she wanted.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, please. How nice that would be. I would have to arrange to be at my flat, since my employer could not be expected to welcome visitors for his employees.”
“You will meet at Number Seventeen,” Jean-Marc said. She’d meet the man where he, Jean-Marc, could watch over her and keep her safe.
“That’s verra good o’ ye,” Sir Robert said. “P’raps we could walk in the park, Meg. Or ride.”
“She doesn’t ride,” Jean-Marc said. “And she owns no horse.”
“Perfect,” Brodie said. “I shall teach you, Meggie Smiles. I’ve a little gray, a mare, that would be perfect for ye. I’ll call and we’ll make arrangements.”
“That won’t be possible,” Jean-Marc said, knowing what he was going to say, knowing he would regret it, but unable to stop himself. “By all means make a brief call. But we are busy here. Meg is paid well to make up for not being allowed to take any time off.”
29
Sibyl separated herself from Hunter and hastened to thread an arm through Meg’s. Together they observed Jean-Marc’s passage across the ballroom floor to Princess Désirée. He bent to speak into her ear, then placed a hand at her waist and ushered her before him.
Adam was left staring after the man, who parted a crowd with unconscious authority. Not a pair of eyes failed to follow his progress.
“He’s hurt Adam’s feelings,” Sibyl said.
“Adam is stronger than you think,” Meg told her, although the intense anger she felt toward Jean-Marc burned in her throat like acid. “The Count is concerned for his sister’s welfare. She is very young.”
“And you love him,” Sibyl whispered.
Meg turned to look at her, but she couldn’t deny the accusation. “Did you see Sir Robert Brodie?” she asked, desperate to change the subject. “A very nice man, and he could be interested in me.”
“He is interested in you,” Sibyl said. She sounded choked. “But you are not interested in him. Meggie, the Count is not for you. He…well, I don’t know about these things, yet I think he wants you in some way. But he wouldn’t want you as his wife, would he?”
“Not unless it were the only way to—” She bit back what she’d been about to say. “Please, Sibyl, don’t make me talk about it. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, but I won’t lose my head, I promise you. And you would do well to avoid long glances at M. Verbeux. He is too worldly for you—would always be too worldly for you.”
Sibyl raised her chin and frowned at Meg. “Spite doesn’t become you. He is an interesting man. And, as you say, seems extremely worldly. Perhaps that’s what makes him worth looking at. There, think about that. I may look at him if I want to. I am a quiet woman, but I am not without imagination and I rather enjoy it. Of course we should never be suited.”
Cross words rarely passed Sibyl’s lips. Meg blinked at her sister and said, “Good. I mean, good for you. I was mean and I’m sorry.”
“No.” Sibyl shook her head. “These are difficult times for both of us and…oh, Meg, the Princess didn’t play, or sing. After all her hard work.”
“After all your hard work,” Meg muttered. “He isn’t good at dealing with these matters, poor man. I shall speak to him about it.”
“It’s too late now.”
“I know. But there will be other opportunities.”
Hunter approached uncertainly, his face very serious. “There’s something wrong. I can feel it, Meg. Please, if being here isn’t good for you, then come back to Number Seven.”
“I can’t do that,” she said. “But thank you, Hunter.”
“Why can’t you? Is it something to do with, er, funds? Because if it is, there’s no need for you to concern yourselves about such things.”
Sibyl’s confidence faded, and she showed signs of bursting into tears.
“Thank you, Hunter,” Meg said. “We will manage nicely but we will never forget how kind you and Lady Hester have been to us.”
“It’s not just—” Red stained his cheekbones. “Forgive me for intruding on your private affairs. I see my aunt. I should find out if she’s ready to leave.”
“Hunter,” Sibyl said, but he was already walking away.
“Hush,” Meg said. “It will be all right. His pride may be a little wounded, but he is such a good man. A few kind words from you and he will forget any embarrassment. He is fond of you, you know.”
Sibyl flapped her fan briskly. “Don’t be a noddy, Meg. Hunter thinks of us as if we were his sisters, nothing more. One of these days he’ll bring his bride-to-be home.” She grew serious once more. “I hope she is as special as he is.”
Meg didn’t trust herself to say more. One would have to be blind to miss the affection in Hunter’s eyes when he looked at Sibyl, and it wasn’t the affection of a brother for a sister.
“Speaking of brothers and sisters,” she said.
Sibyl looked into her face. “Were we?”
“I was thinking I’d better go to Princess Désirée’s rescue or Jean—the Count may be too hard on her. If you’re still sure you won’t spend the night, please be sure you go home with Adam and Miss Ash. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Meg left Sibyl, threaded a way through the still jostling crowd, and was grateful to reach the comparative cool of the gallery. She went at once toward the Princess’s apartments. There was little doubt that Jean-Marc would have a good deal to say to his sister about her lack of decorum that evening.
Jean-Marc was an angry man. Even when they’d been together—she could not erase the memories of those times—but even then she had felt some disturbance in him.
Pink roses from the garlands scattered the floor. Guests wandered from the ballroom and down the stairs, laughing and leaning on each other as they went. Meg felt the rush of cold night air from the open front door and heard horses and carriages rolling to and from the house.
She paused to watch. Swansdown abounded at the necks, sleeves and hems of ladies’ cloaks. Jewels winked at ears and throats and wrists. Costumes were a little rumpled after many hours in the crush, but still there was so much richness all around Meg. She carried on toward the Princess’s apartments. The silver gossamer creation Jean-Marc had ordered for her felt magical. Perhaps she would put it on for occasional times when she needed to feel borne away. One day it might become her only memory of a time that should never have been.
What had she read in a translation of an ancient book she’d been allowed to see at a lecture on the mind? That the streams of the mind flow to the good and to the bad. Discrimination could lead to freedom and that was only good. She must practice harder until she went only toward goodness and freedom. Then she would learn not to crave what she couldn’t have. Perhaps.
Sir Robert Brodie would come to call. Meg had no doubt he would. And she liked him, little as she knew of him. He had asked if she was lonely, but he had really been telling her that he was lonely and looking for a wife to share his life. That life would be good.
That life would banish anything but the memory of Jean-Marc.
Could she embrace what she’d tried to learn about choices, or would she always want him?
Could she have him?
She would stop dwelling on her own desperate longings and take care of her charge, who might well be suffering a lashing from her half brother’s tongue. There was no doubt that Jean-Marc’s anger was increased by Meg’s having foiled his wishes—or at least having refused to accept either of his offers.
He did not wish to marry her unless it was the only way to keep her. What woman in love wanted to bind a man to her in such a way?
The Princess’s apartments were hushed. Once inside the corridor, Meg stopped to listen. Not a sound reached her. Perhaps she had misjudged the Count an
d he, too, had departed for his rooms—or returned to wish more of his guests farewell. She hadn’t seen him, and it would have been difficult for him to pass without her doing so.
At the far end of the corridor the door to the Princess’s sitting room opened and Jean-Marc came out. Still dressed in his dark robes, he closed the door quietly behind him and looked in Meg’s direction.
She started toward him, but he held up a hand as if to warn her off.
“Halibut,” Meg whispered. Jean-Marc held the big gray and white cat under his arm. “No,” she said quietly. “Don’t take him away.”
Jean-Marc turned on his heel and strode in the opposite direction, his cloak and headdress billowing about him.
Meg broke into a run. The Princess would be heartbroken to have her darling Halibut taken from her. Meg wanted to shout but knew she must not unless she thought nothing of waking the maids who slept here, or even the Princess if she was asleep and unaware of what Jean-Marc was doing.
He turned the corner at the end of the corridor. When Meg arrived there, she saw no sign of him. Close to sobbing, ignoring how her veils slipped, taking her coiffeur down with them, she hastened on. The corridor took another turn at the next corner, and she paused, catching her breath before continuing.
The flutter of something dark caught her eye. He had gone into a short passageway she’d seen before. Inside were stairs, very narrow and crooked stairs that went upward to what had once been servants’ quarters, but which were now used for storage.
Meg reached the bottom of the stairs and whispered, “Jean-Marc. Stop. Please.” But he was almost at the top and didn’t look back.
If he was so determined to be cruel, she could not expect to change his mind, yet she had to try. She climbed as fast as she could. The steps were rough, the treads worn thin in the center. There was no banister, and she felt her way through the gloom by keeping her hands on the walls.
At the top the door was shut.
A truly horrid idea came to her. There were dormer windows up here. He could put Halibut through one of these and let the cat find a way down. After all, if he died out there, Jean-Marc could still say he’d given the animal a chance.
No, that was not the Jean-Marc she knew.
Meg opened the door and walked into darkness so complete she expected to bump into something hard. The darkness felt like a black curtain. She held still and listened. A faint sound reached her, like an infant sucking. She hugged herself tightly and whispered, “Jean-Marc? What are you doing?”
The door slammed shut and a voice said, “Waiting for you.”
Standing very still, she strained and realized she was trying to feel his presence. She should know exactly where he was. There was a connection between them, but she did not sense it now. “I’ve come,” she said, but her heart beat too fast. “I’m sorry the evening was so difficult. But do not blame Désirée for her high spirits. She has not known much joy before. I believe that is true.”
“Be quiet.”
She shuddered, and tried to see where he was. Her eyes did not seem to adjust.
“You will learn a lesson tonight. We are all born with a place, and we should have the sense to remain in that place.”
“Where are you?” she said. “Why are you talking to me like this?”
“Silence.”
“Where is Halibut?”
A sharp blow across her cheek brought tears rushing from her eyes, but not because of pain. The shock was a terrible thing.
“Now will you do as you are told and be quiet?”
This wasn’t Jean-Marc.
No one knew where she was. Why, she could…she could die up here and she might not be found for a long time. “Who are you?”
She sustained a blow to the other side of her face and bowed her head. He—whoever he was—would answer none of her questions, so she might as well be silent as suffer his violence.
“Can you dance?”
“Dance?”
“You heard the question. Can you dance?”
“A little.”
“Good. I like to watch a pretty creature dance.”
At once she was surrounded by hard arms that bundled her from the ground. His breath on her face smelled of brandy. He did not confine his hands to carrying her, but used his opportunity to touch her unsuitably.
“Stop it,” she told him.
He chuckled softly and pushed a hand up her skirts to fondle her. Meg bucked and fought him, but he only laughed and thrust inside her bodice. “No wonder you caught the Count’s eye,” he said. “These would be enough for any man. There are places in the world where they grow melons. If your tits were melons they’d fetch a fine price. I’d lay odds they taste better than any melon. I’ll have to find out, hmm? Would you like that?”
“Let me go,” Meg said, her voice a croak.
Her captor pinched one of her nipples hard enough to hurt and set her on top of a piece of furniture. “Don’t worry,” he said. “That’s a good big table. Plenty of room to dance up there.”
She shivered and couldn’t think at all.
“Dance, then,” he said.
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
“You’ll soon understand,” he said. “Dance.”
She couldn’t make her legs move.
A hard pinch applied to her bottom shocked her again. She shuffled her feet.
“No, no, no. Lift them up. Here, let’s take off those shoes. Shoes get in the way.” He held her about the waist and removed her shoes.
Meg trembled and started to cry, then grew angry.
“This should help,” the man said. “Always did say a little warmth loosened a person up.”
A torch flamed.
Meg feared she would collapse. He was going to do something terrible to her, and she could see no way out.
“We’ll make a game of it, see,” he said, and lowered the flame by knocking away some of the spill. “I move the torch and you dance over the flame.”
“No,” Meg said. “Please, no. My costume will catch on fire.”
“You could always take it off.”
“Please let me go.”
The flame moved slowly toward her bare feet. Meg hoisted the divided skirts of her costume until they were almost at her knees. The flame dashed heat over her limbs.
“Dance,” the man said, his voice rising. “Dance, dance, dance.”
He swung the torch at her feet and she jumped, jumped over the flame.
“You’ll catch something on fire,” she said.
“No.” He sounded utterly calm, and she did not think she had heard his voice before. “If anything catches on fire, it will be you, but you’ll be very careful, won’t you?”
He held the torch away, moved close and brought her face down to his. His kiss disgusted her.
As quickly as he had grabbed her, he released her and the flame came toward her ankles again. And she jumped again. The headdress he wore, so like Jean-Marc’s, was pulled over his face, and even with the aid of the torch, she couldn’t see him.
“What a shame,” he said. “What a waste. All I do is follow orders. Why shouldn’t I have some fun? Take off your clothes.”
Her skin became cold and tight.
“Do as you’re told.”
“No.” If he wanted her naked, he’d have to strip her himself and that wouldn’t be easy as long as he held the torch.
His fingers hooked into the front of her bodice. She twisted free, and he snarled in the darkness.
“Not good enough for you, hmm? Only a bastard Count for you. Jump, damn you. Jump again.” The torch swung back and forth and Meg watched it, timing each leap while her skin felt more scorched with each pass.
“I’ve got a few things I want to hear you say,” the man told her. “First you say, I don’t belong here. Go on, say it.”
The torch hit the side of her foot, and she screamed, but she did as he told her.
“Good. Now say, I’m nothing. I’m above my station.
I’m sorry for all the wrong I’ve done.”
This time she repeated the words quickly.
“Better and better,” he said. “Say, I’m going away. Tonight. And I’m going to find a way to make the Count go with me.”
“I don’t know if—”
The flame seared her ankle, and she screamed again.
“I’m going to find a way to make the Count go with me,” the man said, and Meg repeated it.
“Don’t worry, all the arrangements are made. All you have to do is persuade him without saying a word about me. It’s all your idea. Understand?”
“No, I can’t—ah!”
“When you don’t behave yourself, I have to hurt you. Do you understand now?”
“Yes!”
“Good girl. How about another little kiss?”
Not realizing that Sibyl and Miss Ash should have an escort, Adam had left the Count’s house before them and gone ahead to Number 7.
“We don’t need Mr. Chillworth,” Lavinia said when they were ready to go. “It isn’t as if the square is deserted. And we’re hardly so desirable that we’ll be whisked away.”
Sibyl wasn’t afraid to walk home alone, either, but she didn’t really care to be likened to someone many years her senior.
Rench bestowed a haughty nod upon them as they left and immediately turned his attention to someone more important.
“I thought Meg might come back,” Sibyl said when they reached the flagway.
“She’s got to be persuaded to return to Number Seven for good,” Lavinia said. “At least until the two of you return to Puckly Hinton.”
Sibyl was too tired to argue.
“We’ll go through the gardens,” Lavinia said. “They smell so nice at this time of night.”
It was on Sibyl’s tongue to ask Ash how often she wandered in the gardens past midnight. The effort would be pointless.
Arm in arm they crossed from the flagway in front of Count Etranger’s house and over the cobblestone roadway to the park. In fact Lavinia was right, the flowers smelled wonderful. “Feel how soft the air is,” Sibyl said. “It’s a beautiful evening.”
All Smiles Page 32