"I should have Pierre in to see your enjoyment."
She shrugged. "With the Revolution, things have not been so easy. Madame LaFleur has had to watch her sous carefully since her husband died."
"Things are never easy when the common man runs wild. All descend to the lowest common denominator."
"I had such hope at first," she murmured. "Things were so bad, the taxes so hard, the priests so venal ... I thought that if one but followed the principles of Rousseau and Voltaire ..."
He grimaced and shook his head. "It never works."
"You are a royalist, of course." He would be, with huge estates no doubt confiscated in the name of the people without a king to protect them.
"The royalists are as stupid and greedy as our fine new "citizens." Fear and greed are the only truths." He sipped his wine, looking to see if he had shocked her.
"A man like you would believe so." Strange, but some part of her believed that too. "Ahhhh, and what does your ... experience tell you about men like me?"
She felt herself coloring. He was baiting her because she was young and inexperienced. In truth she had never known anyone faintly like him. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that. "Your reputation is generally known."
"But what a unique opportunity," he observed, cutting a beefsteak that bled onto his plate it was so rare. "Do tell me what the general populace thinks of me."
"It ... it is not my place to say." Her oysters consumed her attention.
"Surely you can satisfy my curiosity in return for my hospitality this evening?"
Did he have to keep reminding her of her obligation? Well, there were some things she could deduce. And Madame LaFleur had gossiped. "You cannot blame the messenger then."
"Fair enough."
"Well ... well, you are thought to be ruthless."
"True." That did not seem to faze him.
"And a libertine of course." He said nothing. "Because of the women," she felt obliged to explain. She had seen those for herself in the grand ballroom.
"Of course. Because of the women."
"And the gambling."
"That too."
"The fact that you never return from your debaucheries until dawn."
"Dear me, do people notice that? I"m flattered."
Well, really! If he admitted everything so blithely, she "d have to reach deeper to make him feel his faults. She bought time by taking a bite of the creamed spinach.
"You are called the "wicked duc." " That was weak. It was only she who called him that.
"So I"ve heard." He couldn"t have heard that. He was just toying with her. The expression in his eyes was almost a kind of laughter.
"Mammas keep their daughters from you." Madame had certainly warned Francoise.
"A relief."
"Even men are, I think, a little afraid of you." Robespierre seemed to be, after all.
"Convenient, really."
She was getting angry. "So I ask myself, why do people fear you so?" She tapped her empty fork against her lips. "It could be something you have done in the past so horrible that people will not speak of it." He watched her, wary now. "Or ... it could be because you seem to have secrets. Secrets both attract people and make them afraid."
He blinked, twice. She considered that an achievement. Then he took a sip of wine. "I think boring people so want there to be secrets they will make them up if they don"t exist."
That wasn"t exactly a denial. "Are you saying you don"t have secrets?"
"We all have secrets, child." He examined her from under those lush lashes. "Everyone lies. Everyone tries to get what they want, without revealing how much they want it."
Francoise sucked in a breath. Did he know what she wanted of him? Would such a cynic extend himself to help Madame? She must not go too fast. A man like Avignon would resent any attempt to push him. She changed the subject. "I wonder you stay in France. Why not abandon the country to her foolishness? Especially when you are in danger by your very birth? " He had that in common with Madame. Could she play upon his sympathies for one like himself?
He set down his gla.s.s. "Don"t make me a romantic figure. I am in no danger."
He certainly acted as though the committee and the mob posed no threat. "How is that when you make not the slightest accommodation to the rules of the committee?"
He raised his brows in surprise, whether because she dared to ask the question or because she did not know the answer, she couldn"t tell. "Why should I make accommodation?"
"How can you not, and stay out of a tumbrel?"
"Ahhh." He studied her. "Perhaps that is my secret."
"I"ll wager it"s not your only one," she grumbled, stabbing a piece of lobster.
"It seems to me you should be grateful that my standing ... let us say, "encouraged" Robespierre to lose interest in you today."
"Why? Why did he let me go?"
"Oh, perhaps because he and I are old friends."
Not likely. The little lawyer, precise to a fault, had never let anyone close in his life, even Marta Croute, who was rumored to be his mistress. He lived for the Revolution and guarded its integrity to the point of insanity. He had started sending the earliest proponents of revolution to the guillotine themselves a few months ago, just because they were no longer zealous enough for him.
Even Danton had lost his head. Francoise didn"t believe Robespierre let her go out of any feeling for Monsieur le Duc. But in some ways it didn"t matter why. He had. That meant the duc could help Madame. She took a breath, about to broach the subject, but thought better of it. Best she approach obliquely.
"Why did you bother yourself about me, today?" That would tell her much about him.
"I thought it might be diverting to flaunt you in Robespierre"s teeth when he knows you are not my ward." He smiled. The effect was not what one would call warm. "I must invite him and that woman who is such a rabble-rouser ... What is her name?"
"Marta Croute." He had saved her only to spite Robespierre and Madame Croute?
"Yes ... I shall invite them to my little soiree on Wednesday, where I shall present you to what is left of society. " His eyes crinkled in antic.i.p.ation. He wasn"t looking at her at all. "My acquaintances will be scandalized by them, not unamusing in itself."
The man was totally unfeeling. Francoise had never felt so small. She was saved from the guillotine by this dreadful man only for his own amus.e.m.e.nt. He would never try to help Madame. She felt tears well in her eyes.
That sense of urgency washed over her. There was something dreadful she must do. Pain pierced her head. She put her fingers to her temple, unable to think.
What was there to think about? She couldn"t ask the wicked duc to save Madame. He"d just end up throwing Francoise out of his house in the middle of the night for daring to importune him. And yet, she must. What other way was there to help her friend?
"You are not well, mademoiselle?"
She glanced up to feel his eyes boring into her. That only made her headache worse. "I ... I have the headache."
He sighed, and looked ... bored. "Then perhaps you"d better retire to your room." He snapped his fingers, and even without pulling on the bell rope, the door opened.
Jean stuck his head in. "Your grace?"
"Escort Mademoiselle to her room. Perhaps her dresser can find a vinaigrette."
All he wanted was to get rid of her. He would never help Madame. She rose, gave a brief curtsy, and stumbled from the room.
"I put your valise in your room, mademoiselle," Jean called after her. "I"m afraid the rabble stole your purse."
She hurried up the stairs, wiping her cheeks, wanting only the refuge of her room.
Henri pushed back from the table. In one moment of weakness he had saved her and now he was stuck with the chit until he could rid himself of her. Let that be a lesson to him. A headache. The oldest excuse in the book. He took his gla.s.s and the decanter to the window. The dining room looked out on a little garden with a pear tree in the center, surrounded by geraniums.
Though he had to admit, she"d had quite a day. The house she was living in burned down. She might even have considered it home. Her friend arrested. She"d almost been arrested herself. Which was tantamount to a death sentence. And then she"d been claimed as a ward by someone she knew very well was not the benevolent type. Perhaps there was some excuse for her retreat into that old favorite of women who didn"t want to deal with life.
Actually, he had expected only the annoying timidity of a very young girl who knew nothing of the world. She was innocent. It amused him to watch her struggle to shock him with his own reputation. But her comment about secrecy being attractive was surprisingly perceptive.
Too bad it would be at least a week until he had an opportunity to pack her off on a barge to meet the Maiden Voyage in Le Havre. He could just hand her over to Jennings now and let him keep her in the warehouse down by the Seine. But ... Jennings and the crew, for all their loyalty, were rough company for a virgin girl of twenty -one. They"d probably frighten her to death. She had enough spirit to try to escape what she would believe was a kidnapping. Would he give orders she was to be locked up for as much as a fortnight?
He sighed.
That meant he was stuck with her. All this drama made his own head ache.
Sacredieu. He was stuck with a crying female in the house. He could hear her even now with his preternatural hearing. Well, he had no time for Mademoiselle Suchet. He had work to do. And it must be done before three so he could put in an appearance at a gaming house or two before dawn. Lord, but she had put him on edge. Maybe what he needed was to feed tonight.
Drummond waited with his cape and his tricorn, his cane and his gloves. His valet took one look at his face and his own countenance went blank. Wise man. Henri made sure his pace was leisurely as he crossed the chessboard floor and the servants shut the door behind him.
Five
Annette was waiting for her in her room as Francoise stormed in. The girl "s eyes went wide. "Why, whatever"s wrong, mademoiselle?"
"Nothing."
"Would Mademoiselle like to get into a dressing gown, or is she planning to go out?"
"I"m going to bed. I have a headache." Tomorrow morning she"d visit Madame then spend the rest of the day at placement agencies for household help. There had to be something she could do to earn her bread that didn"t involve lying on her back.
But she had to find a way to help Madame LaFleur too. If the duc wouldn"t help, it was up to her. An image flashed through her head of the great, evil machine that stood in the northwest corner of the Place de Revolution, looking like a mouth open wide with its blade hanging at the ready to devour its next victim. And it did devour many victims every day, to the intense enjoyment of the crowd.
She put her hand to her mouth to steady herself.
Her eyes fell on an oddly shaped valise lying by her dressing table. "What is that?"
"Ooooh, mademoiselle, did Jean not tell you? He saw you drop this at the edge of the park, so he brought it in for you. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the crowd. Shall I unpack it?"
She was just about to say that it was nothing of hers, when a strange frisson of familiarity rippled down her spine. Maybe it was hers. "No. No, thank you. I"ll take care of that." She turned around. Annette unb.u.t.toned her dress and unlaced her stays. What was in that valise? She almost knew. It was just at the edge of her mind ... Like a word you couldn"t quite remember.
Annette handed her a lovely night rail, delicate and embroidered, an almost sheer peach color. Exactly the garment the kind of women Avignon entertained would own. At any other time she would have refused it. But now she just wanted Annette out of the room so she could examine the contents of that valise.
Annette laid out the luscious robe that went with the ensemble and bowed herself out. Somewhere downstairs a door thudded shut. Francoise went to the window and drew aside the draperies. Outside, the Place Royale was quiet. The mob had moved on for the night. She couldn"t see the sidewalk under the arcade from here. But she could hear the click of heels. And then a figure strode from beneath the arcade at an angle into the darkness of the square, twirling a cane as though he didn"t have a care in the world.
Hateful man. At least he was out of the house, probably until dawn.
She picked up a candelabrum and took it to the dressing table. The valise was very strangely constructed. It was not closed with a metal clasp. Instead it had a long line of what looked like interlocking metal teeth that ran across the top. At one end was a metal pull tab. She had never seen anything like it. Still, the implications were clear. She took hold of the tab and pulled it a few inches down the line of metal. The little teeth unlocked. Amazing. She pulled it back. They closed. It seemed almost diabolically clever.
The leather was soft and b.u.t.tery. It was the same color as a well-worn saddle, deep chocolate. Gingerly, she pulled the tab again- this time all the way across the top.
She peered inside. Hmmm. She pulled the gaping mouth apart and held up the candelabrum. Metal glinted. Goodness! Was it ... ? She reached inside and pulled out a leather scabbard. From one end a hilt protruded. The grip was blunt, made to fit a man"s hand, and covered in strips of new leather. It was very clearly a sword, though unlike any she knew. Men carried rapiers-thin and deadly. She drew it out. This was perhaps two feet in length, wide, gleaming. It had a ... brawny feel to it. Obviously it had never been used.
I am meant to use it.
The thought made her gasp. The very idea of cleaving flesh with an instrument so heavy and sharp made her stomach turn. And whom was she meant to use it on? She gave a nervous chuckle. She wasn "t strong enough to cleave and hack with the sword anyway. A wave of disappointment shot through her at that-almost tristesse for lost strength. That was strange. She"d never be strong enough to use a weapon like this.
An image flashed through her mind of herself, raising the sword high.
The duc came out of the shadows and, her heart in her mouth, she brought the sword down at an angle. The thud of the blade into flesh reverberated up her arm. Blood bloomed on the duc"s white cravat.
She gasped and shook off the image. Her stomach rolled. What was she thinking? Was she mad? She would never try to kill the duc, or any man, no matter how despicable. She shoved the sword back in its scabbard, shaken. Her imagination was getting the better of her.
Steady yourself, she admonished. Think of something else.
She reached inside the bag and pulled out ... clothing? She held a sc.r.a.p up to the light. It was shiny and black and ... stretchy.
Leg holes. Oh, dear. Could this be an undergarment? She blushed just to think of it. Why, it would hardly cover anything. There was no slit between the leg holes. You"d have to take it entirely off to use a chamber pot. She stretched the fabric again. Like a stocking. Was it ... knitted? Impossible. The fabric was fine and silky.
The bag held other stretchy undergarments. Another, also black, was obviously meant to hold one"s b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It would leave your midriff entirely bare ... Who would ever wear this?
The duc"s mistresses, of course. This was clothing for a prost.i.tute.
She rummaged around and found two more sets of ... well, whatever they were. One in off white, and one in pale pink. She also found a shapeless shirt, knitted but not nearly so fine, that would come to mid -thigh. She looked at it closely. It had, for some reason, tiny pictures of sheep jumping over a moon, each with a nightcap on. Underneath were containers. She took one out. It was shaped rather like a bottle, but it wasn"t made of gla.s.s. Whatever it was made of was opaque, colored a bilious shade of lavender, with writing on it. It gave to her touch and smelled strange. That made her start. "Pureology" it said on one side. What did that mean? "Serious colour care. Anti-fade complex. Pure volume shampooing." She turned it over. Tiny writing covered the other side. The first paragraph was English but her eyes were drawn to the French one below it.
"This unique moisture-rich formula is free of harsh colour-stripping sulfates and salts. It pumps up your fine, limp hair and keeps the colour fresh. To use, wet hair. Lather, Rinse. Repeat."
It was soap! Whoever heard of a liquid soap? Handy though, for hair.