The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  The Duke of Andelot

  Part One

  Lesson One

  Lesson Two

  Lesson Three

  Lesson Four

  Lesson Five

  Lesson Six

  Lesson Seven

  Lesson Eight

  Lesson Nine

  Lesson Ten

  Lesson Eleven

  Lesson Twelve

  Lesson Thirteen

  Lesson Fourteen

  Lesson Fifteen

  Part Two

  Lesson Sixteen

  Lesson Seventeen

  Lesson Eighteen

  Lesson Nineteen

  Epilogue

  New Release Alert

  Author Note

  THE DUKE OF ANDELOT

  by Delilah Marvelle

  Copyright © 2015 by Delilah Marvelle

  Delilah Marvelle Productions, LLC All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1-939912-04-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-939912-04-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s crazy imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and nothing to worry about.

  Book design © Delilah Marvelle.

  Cover design © Delilah Marvelle.

  Cover Photo © Jenn LeBlanc.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  THE ANDELOT ESTATE - PARIS, FRANCE

  AUGUST 13, 1792 – EARLY EVENING

  Gérard Antoine Tolbert, the last remaining heir to the great duché of Andelot, quietly unhinged the iron latch and folded out the oversized windows that faced the manicured gardens below. A warm summer breeze feathered his face and drifted into his bedchamber, fluttering the brocaded curtains that had once decorated his grandfather’s deathbed.

  While most aristocratic young men might consider the reuse of deathbed curtains morbid, he prided himself on being vigilantly practical and rummaged through trunks in the attic on a regular basis to see if there was anything he could use. Aside from the fact that his father had always preferred to spoil his older brothers and leave him to be more creative with his finances, too many people in France were starving and it was Gérard’s way of kneeling to their struggles.

  He used to give well over a thousand livres to charity every month. He used to deliver crates of food to almshouses every Friday and would even dress in plain bourgeoisie clothing to ensure the people he helped did not feel so self-conscious about how little they had. But what had his compassion and generosity earned him?

  Two dead brothers and a revolution.

  His bewigged, over-powdered, lace-flouncing older siblings had been travelling in an unmarked coach in an idiotic attempt to leave the country (without him or their father), when they were ambushed by fifteen men. Certain factions from the Legislative Assembly anticipated their escape.

  And so, on the side of a road near the border of Austria, his brothers had their genitals removed by blade, were repeatedly shot, roped and hanged by a group of revolutionaries determined to annihilate every last lineage connected to the throne. Marceau and Julien were only twenty-three and twenty-four and hadn’t even been given the chance to become the men they should have been.

  Unlike his brothers, who had a reputation for spitting on too many people, Gérard had countless friends amongst the lower classes due to all the charity work he had always been involved in. They warned him of any rumblings, but he knew after tonight, he was going to need a hell of a lot more than friends.

  Setting the leather satchel against the window, which he had packed with food and frayed clothing that would allow him to blend into the countryside, he attached a primed pistol to his leather belt, along with a flask of brandy. He surveyed the dim lanterns illuminating the winding gravel path that led to a massive stone fountain.

  A servant lingered with his horse by the iron gate.

  Tying back his shoulder length hair with a blood-red ribbon he wore in honor of his brothers and countless aristocrats before them, Gérard buttoned his burgundy velvet coat and sat on the ledge of the window, propping one knee-high leather boot on the floor and the other on the sill. Pressing his back against the wood frame to balance himself, he peered down toward the shadow-covered hedge beneath the third story window.

  He tossed the satchel out the window, letting it land with a rustling thud into the large hedge below. Leaning farther out, he gauged the distance, ready to—

  The door rattled. “Mon héritier?” the duc called out in a concern, gruff tone. “I heard the window open. Is everything all right?”

  Gérard froze. Gripping the window sill, he glanced back at the locked door that was outlined by candlelight. If he feigned sleep, the man would most likely get a footman to unhinge and take off the door. “Everything is fine. The night is warm and I needed some air, is all. Good night.”

  The door rattled again. “Gérard, why is this latched?”

  Rot it. “Might we discuss this in the morning, Monseigneur?” he called out from the open window he was still propped on. “I need to sleep.” Gérard feigned an exhausted yawn that was loud enough to echo throughout the room and even stretched for good measure, his muscled arm sweeping toward the open window. “I over-practiced my fencing today.”

  That tone hardened. “I know you better than you think, mon héritier. Both of your boots are hanging out of the window.”

  Gérard flopped his arm back to his side. Only one boot was hanging out the window. “I left you a missive in the library explaining when I would be back.”

  “So you were hoping I would find it in the morning after you were gone? Is that it?”

  “I would have told you in person, but you have a tendency to get riled about everything I do and I prefer not to—”

  “If you are so intent on destroying your life, why not go back to romancing your Madame Poulin? That certainly went well for you. Hell, you graced her entire family with more money than those porcs were worth. Even your brothers, God rest their souls, exhibited far more control around women than you ever did. At this point, I prefer you take up dice, for at least there, you have a chance at getting some of your money back. Unlike with your Madame Poulin!”

  There was no such thing as forgiveness, was there? “I never see her anymore!” Gérard tossed in agitation. “Not even when she comes to the door!”

  His long done relationship with Madame Poulin was as complicated as it was vile. At eighteen, almost three years earlier, he had attended his first bourgeoisie soirée with a group of bourgeoisie friends who had dragged him to partake in the revelry of their own trades-people while introducing him to the sweetest part about life: bourgeoisie women.

  Unlike pinch-faced, aristocratic young women his age who obediently waited in their mothers’ parlors for a respectable match to save them from boredom, bourgeoisie girls jumped out of parlor windows and showed everyone in town how life was supposed to be lived.

  He ended up hopelessly enamored by such a girl. A pretty brunette by the name of Mademoiselle Bellamy, the daughter of a tailor. Tired of being a gentleman, for it had kept him a virgin long enough in his aristocratic circle, he rolled on an expensive sheath he had bought to baptize their love, and serenaded her body at the most expensive hotel in Paris.

  Given it was his first time (though clearly not hers), it was the most glorious moment of his life (that quickly turned into a
goddamn nightmare). Mademoiselle Bellamy was actually Madame Poulin who was married to a tailor and had three children. Her husband demanded satisfaction and Gérard…accidentally shot the man’s hand off.

  The man lived, but…now had a stub.

  Gérard’s guilt had led him into making a substantial payment to the man that his father still roared about. Although Madame Poulin sometimes lingered outside his door, which he no longer opened, he did coolly incline his head to her on occasion when they passed each other on the street.

  He was, after all, a gentleman. Sometimes. Well…no. Not anymore. He had learned to use women in the same way they used him.

  Yanking out the flask from his leather belt, Gérard uncorked it and took a swig. “I find it exceedingly tasteless that you dare mock me after the tragedy that has befallen this family. Marceau and Julien are dead because of you.”

  “Me?” his father echoed.

  “Yes. You. You bloody hanged them by their own silk stockings. You spoiled them and made them believe they were untouchable during the greatest political crisis this country has ever seen. You—”

  “Open this door!” the duc roared, vibrating the door with violent thuds that rattled the hinges. “How dare you speak to me as if I were one of these bourgeoisie porcs?! All that time you and your mother spent associating with the poor, encouraging them to demand rights, only made them rise up and choke us all! Your brother’s deaths are on your hands, not mine!”

  Struggling to remain calm, Gérard took another swig of brandy. He was done being a good son to a father who only ever thought the worst of him. He was also done mourning for his brothers. It wasn’t as if they had ever been close anyway. Those two roosters had only ever reveled in having too much fun at his expense. Growing up, they regularly tied him to a tree on the farthest corner of their thousand acre estate and would leave him there for days, while feigning ignorance to everyone as to his whereabouts, even in a thunderstorm.

  His brothers and his father had prepared him for what life was really like: disappointing.

  Corking his flask, Gérard tucked it away into his coat. “I have to go. Unlike you, I cannot pretend the world is not burning.”

  There was a thud against the door, as if the duc was using his own head to try to understand him. “Cease pretending we have any control over what is happening anymore. They have sealed all borders and are confiscating anything I try to send to your mother’s family in England.”

  “I am well aware of that.” Scanning the shadows beyond his open window, Gérard shifted his jaw. “Our situation is dire, Monseigneur. Fortunately, the power of our money still commands whatever we want. Though who knows for how much longer. I suggest you start burying whatever gold you can.”

  His father’s gruff voice cracked. “I have faith Austria will take back the country given their daughter is being held hostage along with Sa Majesté. This revolt has no teeth. None. It is all but pitchforks and hay.”

  Pitchforks and hay did not kill his brothers. These radicals in power were serious. The height of that seriousness further peaked barely a few weeks earlier, when he received a scrawled cryptic message, bearing the words, ‘Remember the tears you once spilled on my desk? Gather everything from it and part with it not. If I succeed, I will attempt to send further word.’

  Gérard had no idea what the letter was referring to or who it was from. So he burned it in case someone was trying to get him or his father into trouble.

  It wasn’t until the recent capture and arrest of his godfather, Sa Majesté, who had tried to escape the country with the queen and their two children, that Gérard realized who had written it.

  The King of France himself.

  Though it was a memory long forgotten, Gérard had, indeed, spilled tears on a desk. Long ago, whilst visiting Versailles with his father, he had been inconsolable over the death of his dog, Alfonse. So he laid on the floor with his tear-streaked cheek mashed against the marble of the corridor, openly sobbing. His father only roared at him without pity for laying on the palace floor like a peasant.

  His godfather proved more compassionate. The king ushered everyone away and knelt beside Gérard, promising a special day if he could set aside his tears. Sa Majesté then tapped his lips, led him down a maze of countless corridors to a hidden narrow set of stairs and into what looked like an ordinary sitting room.

  After draping shut windows and turning the key in the door, his godfather winked and revealed a secret only bestowed from a dying king to his own son since sixteen hundred and eighty-two. Reaching beneath the hearth of the fireplace, he removed a narrow panel with a quick tug and turned a series of knobs that sounded like bolts being unlocked. His godfather then removed another panel beside the hearth revealed a hidden half-door cleverly between simple molding. Pushing it open, they entered a quiet, windowless room where they spent half the day writing poetry on a desk and talking about how special dogs really were.

  Not even his father had taken the time to dry his tears like that.

  And now, Gérard was being asked to dry the tears of his king.

  Which he damn well would.

  Dropping his booted foot from the ledge to the floor with a thud, Gérard pushed himself away from the open window. “Was there any word about the burial arrangements for Marceau and Julien? We should have heard something by now.”

  The duc was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I received a letter about it less than an hour ago. I would have knocked on your door sooner but I thought you were sleeping. The gendarmerie nationale rejected our plea to bury them. Their remains will be held indefinitely as evidence.”

  Tears burned Gérard’s eyes. Christ. This revolution was a genocide. A genocide that was not giving the living a chance to pray or the dead their right to be buried.

  But he’d be damned if Sa Majesté was next. Damned!

  Gérard sniffed hard.

  Stripping off his coat, he whipped it onto the four poster bed and trudged over to the paneled door. Turning the key, he unlatched the bolt and yanked open the door. He stepped out into the candlelit corridor toward his father. “If I do not return in fourteen days, it means I am dead.”

  The old duc ceased pacing and swung toward him, curling grey hair falling into blue eyes. Lines etched into that aged, regal face, deepened. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “I was asked to do something for Sa Majesté, whom as you well know, was taken into custody for fleeing. I genuinely fear what will be done to him. If members of the Assembly had no reservations about executing my brothers on the side of a road, I can only imagine what awaits our king. It is my hope what he is asking me to do will help him.”

  The duc swung away and set trembling hands onto his head. “Merde a la puissance treize.” His father swung back to him. Those fierce blue eyes hardened to lethal, revealing the unbridled man Gérard knew all too well. “You have lost your mind thinking you can take on an army of men.”

  “I am not taking them on alone. I started working with several other aristocrats to try to get people out of this country. It will take time, but I have faith with all our resources, we can help each other.”

  His father choked. “Are you— What they did to your brothers is nothing compared to what they will do to you! You cannot—”

  “I am trying to do something outside of smashing furniture against walls like you do on the hour.”

  The duc gritted his teeth and backhanded Gérard’s head. “Enough of that tongue! Not even your brothers would have dared use words against me.”

  Gérard adjusted the ribbon in his tied dark hair which had loosened from the stinging blow. As many as a few months ago, he would have permitted it. But now? He was done playing by everyone else’s rules. He was only playing by his own.

  He shoved his father’s away, making the man stumble. “There. I am no longer the perfect son. Now what?”

  Those eyes widened. “How dare you—”

  “No.” Gérard leveled the man with a hard stare, a
ngling in close. “You, along with the rest of this godforsaken world, seem to think because I used to frequent almshouses every Friday that I am some sort of sop. I am no longer the spare you can slap around. I am now heir. Remember that. Touch me again and I will show you what this charitable son of yours can do.”

  The duc paused. “I smell brandy. Are you drunk?”

  Gérard puffed out an exasperated breath. “No. I reserve all drunkenness when I am about to retire for the night. And as you can see, I am not retiring. I have a three hour ride ahead of me.”

  Those features stilled. “You told me you were done drinking.”

  “In the face of what is happening to the world, brandy is hardly a problem.”

  The duc pointed. “You are still waist-high with these people. Waist high! These bourgeoisie simpletons you have been carousing with since youth have taught you to not only drink but defy your own father!”

  “You know nothing about my life or why I do anything.” Gérard held out a gloved hand, trying to be civil. “Give me your blessing should I not return.”

  The old man glared. “No. You are all that remains of this name and I will be damned if I let you walk out that door.” The duc stripped off his coat and tossed it. He wagged both hands, sending the lace cuffs on his sleeves swaying. “’Tis obvious you need me to knock that head back into place. Come at me. We will settle this the way your friends on the streets do.”

  Hell. When old marble fell, it shattered into a million pieces. While shouts had always defined their relationship since his mother’s death, Gérard knew if he ever tried to swing at the man, he would do more than hurt the son of a bitch. He would kill him.

  “Cease being ridiculous. Given your age, I would only hurt you.” Gérard rolled his eyes. “How you ever won my mother’s hand and heart whilst she lived is beyond my comprehension.”

  The duc’s hardened features wavered.

  The memory of his mother was the only softness his father clung to. And sadly, even that was fading. It was all fading. “Little remains of our family, Monseigneur. My godfather needs me and if I have to put up fists to leave this house, I will. Because if I cannot be a hero to the one man who inspired me to be more, what good am I? What purpose have I? I would become like you. Bloody useless.”