The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 18

"No. Yes."

"You needn't be."

"I am an imposter." She couldn't seem to raise her voice above a whisper.

He chuckled. "It doesn't matter. They don't dare question because they want what I can give them."

"That doesn't change what I am. They'll talk."

"Let them." His dark eyes burned. "You are of aristocratic blood. Half in the room respect that, misguided as that may be. The other half knows that blood is blood and yours is as red as anyone else's. Either way, you'll be fine." He lifted his gla.s.s of wine and held it, waiting.

She looked into those eyes for a moment, wondering if she knew him, if she had ever really known him. He was just like his eyes, a flat surface with hidden depths. He had more secrets than just being a smuggler, she was sure of it. Was everything she 'd ever thought about him even remotely true? The feeling flooding her was just the opposite of deja vu. She'd done all this before, but it seemed different now. She saw it with new eyes.

Am I the fool, or you, Francoise?

The voice. It was unnatural. The fear of madness flashed through her again. She shook herself. This whole situation was ridiculous. Of course she'd never known him. She'd met him four days ago. If she ignored the voice it would go away. She lifted her gla.s.s.

He clinked his gla.s.s with hers. "Enjoy tonight, ma pet.i.te."

Her mind darted between Robespierre and Madame Croute, Madame LaFleur's death that seemed fated, the dreadful bag with its even more dreadful contents, and the feeling of urgency inside her. How could she enjoy a party?

"May I present my ward, Mademoiselle Suchet?" Avignon's baritone introduced her for what seemed the hundredth time. The gentleman bowing over her hand was portly and avuncular. His wig smelled of rancid oil mixed with powder under the perfume.

"My dear, do say you will save me a dance this evening." He was ... a general, Avignon said. Still, dancing with him might be bad for her toes.

She mustered a smile. "It would be my pleasure."

"A treasure, Avignon," the florid-faced general said, sotto voce, as though she weren't standing in front of him.

"One I hold close, Digne. Remember that." Avignon's voice sounded bored, but Digne shot him a piercing glance. He wasn't fooled any more than Francoise was. Avignon was much less bored than he pretended. The general moved into the room beyond.

The orchestra sat in the little balcony provided for musicians that hung over the hall. It wasn't as grand as the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles but it held a hundred easily. A very young man came up and bowed. She extended her hand and he kissed it, a trifle too fervently.

"My eyes, they are smitten. My heart, it bleeds." He tore his smitten eyes away. "Monsieur le Duc, I must know this angel's name."

Avignon steadied his lips. "Mademoiselle Francoise Suchet. My ward."

"Oh, that I should be allowed to offer her my protection." Patently absurd, since he was so young. Of course, Avignon was really too young to be her protector either. A fact she'd seen registered on several faces tonight.

"Mademoiselle, may I present Monsieur Bessel? Monsieur is one of the Revolution's most potent orators. He will want a dance, I'm sure."

"But yes! That I should be so smiled upon by fortune-"

"Yes, yes, of course," Francoise interrupted. For there, coming through the doorway were Monsieur Robespierre and Madame Croute. It was still early.

Avignon had been right-about everything. They'd come. And Madame Croute had sought to dazzle. Cascades of off-white lace over aubergine silk, lace flounces, lace ruffles in the neckline, a lace fichu. She even affected a lace mantilla in the Spanish style over a tortoisesh.e.l.l comb set in her ridiculously high, powdered wig. The cream and aubergine was unfortunate with her ruddy complexion. Her neck was practically weighed down with amethysts. Her expression reminded Francoise of a vulture trying to be regal. Surely Avignon was wrong about her being stronger and more dangerous than Robespierre.

Marta Croute surveyed the crowd that talked and laughed and clinked their gla.s.ses under the magnificent chandeliers in number sixteen's ballroom. They had found nothing at the warehouse. But that didn't mean it wasn't Foucault who was carrying out these blatant escapes. It was their duty to be here tonight, to catch him out. That's what she had told Robespierre. It wasn't that she had a fancy to see a ball given by Foucault. She had, in truth, felt a bit intimidated by the occasion. But the house was only in the Marais. All the real aristocrats lived in the Faubourg St. Germain. Foucault had nothing to brag about with his address.

The crowd was half old aristocracy and half stalwarts of the Revolution. Only Foucault could have drawn such a melange together. She saw several glance toward her and her dourly dressed and diminutive lawyer companion. The eyes of the aristocrats disdained her. But she saw fear bloom there too. A little thrill shot down her spine. They'd better be afraid.

She had made sure she had nothing to be ashamed of tonight. She tugged surrept.i.tiously on the lace at her sleeves. She had more lace than any of them and more jewels-only amethysts, to be sure, but that was what matched her dress. She a.s.sessed the crystal, the gold plate, well enough to be sure. But the furniture was old, like it was in the salon in which she had met Foucault before. Not in the latest style at all, and the woven and embroidered hangings portraying some battle or other in the room where she had laid her evening cape were positively threadbare in spots. She smiled, a little smugly. Perhaps Foucault had to smuggle to support his gambling and his wh.o.r.es.

"Ahhh, my so dear representatives of the very spirit of the Revolution, " the man himself greeted them. He was dressed exquisitely. There could be no mistaking that. And he was beautiful. More handsome by far than Robespierre. His newest wh.o.r.e was by his side. "You know my ward, of course. Mademoiselle Suchet." He gestured languidly to the girl, who dipped her curtsy.

"How delightful that you could honor this humble abode. Perhaps you'd like to search for escaped prisoners? I open my house to your hunt, of course."

Robespierre flushed. "These escapes are a d.a.m.ned serious business, Foucault."

"Dear me. Do they continue? How ... lax of the army."

"Not for a week or so, except for the old woman. They are spirited out," the little man said, watching Avignon. "By the time we hear the screams, it is too late."

"Screams. Dear me." Avignon's shudder was feigned, Marta was sure. "But my so dear Madame said that it is families who escape. Surely after the first member is taken you can watch the rest of the family and prevent their following."

"The guards are incompetent," Marta interjected. "They must be incompetent because even under torture they do not admit to taking bribes. And torture breaks everyone." She knew that well by now.

Robespierre glared at her then clamped his mouth shut. What was he on about? That she talked of torture at a party?

"It sounds supernatural to me," Avignon confided. "Ghosts, perhaps. The ghosts of Danton and Desmoulins."

Robespierre flushed again. He'd never been secure about weeding out the first leaders of the Revolution, but they had not been nearly resolute enough to take it forward. Marta knew they had had to go. "I don't believe in the supernatural, Citizen," Marta said firmly. "There is an explanation and we will find it, and the one or ones who are flaunting justice."

"Justice ..." Avignon mused. "One must serve justice. Being a devotee of Voltaire requires no less."

"Strange that we agree, Foucault." Robespierre's eyes narrowed.

"Enough of Voltaire. I have come to see this ... ward ... of yours." Marta examined Francoise. She couldn't help but frown.

The girl was ... lovely. It galled Marta to say so. The dress had less lace than Marta's own, but there was something about it ...

the drape of the fabric ... Marta wasn't sure what. All she knew was that Foucault's wh.o.r.e insulted them all by wearing white.

"Well, she's dressed better than she was the other day."

"My ward dresses like a woman of the people when the occasion allows, as she did the day of the fire. Surely you cannot quibble with that, madame." Foucault raised his quizzing gla.s.s. "As your own dress proclaims your admiration of the Citizen style."

Shock washed over Marta. He ... he was insulting her taste. She had no desire at all to look like an ordinary citizen tonight and he knew it. The hate that welled up from her belly sent bile into her throat. She stood there, speechless, unable to think of a retort, getting angrier. The blasted man looked only bored and that seemed to enrage her the more.

"Marta, come," Robespierre said. "I see St. Denis." He took her arm and she shook him off. But she stomped away, her lips grim.

"You shouldn't have done that," Francoise whispered to Henri.

"What I should do is claim the first dance with my ward before I lose you to the bevy of fools to whom you 've promised yourself." Actually, Henri wondered if she knew how to dance. Had that spinster aunt thought to provide for her social education?

He should have asked earlier. Perhaps that was why she seemed to dread this evening. But she didn't demur as he raised his hand to the musicians. They struck up a minuet and couples began to form sets. He took her hand. The shock of touching her had not diminished. He must make the a.s.semblage believe her his ward, no more, in spite of the feelings she raised in him, no matter his resolve. Dancing with her must look like an obligation.

That was onerous, when all he wanted was to take her in his arms and ravish her mouth with kisses. For all her dress was white, Fanchon had captured the fact that she was not quite an innocent. Would anyone notice? What they couldn't miss was that she was by far the most beautiful woman in the room. Francoise was right. There would be talk. He schooled his face as he led her to the head of the line of couples. He wouldn't make it worse.

As it turned out, she was a lovely dancer, graceful, her movement slightly sinuous. Mon Dieu but she fascinated him. The very reason she was off to England as soon as the ship came in. He 'd start filling up the warehouse with families this very night if he could get his guests out before dawn. His cargo would be safe now that the Croute woman had searched the warehouse.

He'd think about his work and not those blue eyes looking up at him. He saw her searching his face as they came together in the figure of the dance. She was uncertain of him. Afraid? Yes. No. He wasn 't sure. All he knew was that she was holding herself away from him inside. He'd felt it ever since the ride home in the carriage from Versailles.

That was good. It was what he wanted too.

So why did it feel so d.a.m.ned bad?

The dance drew to a close. Couples parted. He was about to escort her for refreshments when their progress was blocked by one of the young men hovering about the edge of the room.

"M-mademoiselle," the young cub stuttered. "M-may I have this d-dance?"

"Go," he said, shushing her away. "This is the last I'll see of you tonight."

And it was, nearly. Henri drank old burgundy from his cellars and talked with his guests, all the while watching her out of the corner of his eye as she made conquest after conquest. He couldn't even take refuge in the card room since he must be seen to chaperone her.

It put him in a foul mood.

He resolved that he was not going to watch her. He deliberately turned his back. No one would dare make love to her in the house of her protector when that protector was Satan.

Unfortunately, the conversation group he had turned into contained the general, Madame Croute, and Robespierre, among others.

They were talking politics, the "spirit of the Revolution." What an ordeal. The only positive was that they were all too engrossed in making their points to take notice of him.

All except Madame Croute. She changed places with the general to stand beside him.

"I am surprised, Citizen, to see that you watch your 'ward' so closely tonight. It is almost as if you could not take your eyes off her." Croute's eyes were worthy of a basilisk.

"This social situation is new to her. Someone might take advantage of her inexperience."

"I'd wager you're the only one to do that."

Henri made his face a mask. "Even the devil has limits." But she was right. That was just what he had done.

"I suspect the only thing beyond you is being her protector. As if she needed one. The creature is twenty if she's a day."

"I consider that very young." She didn't know how young that seemed to one of his kind.

Madame Croute gave a chuckle worthy of a devil herself. "She's got you in thrall, Citizen, the conniving creature. She'll be your downfall." She turned away before he could respond. "You are wrong, Citizens," she said to the group at large. "Voltaire is more relevant than ever."

"No, no, monsieur," Francoise gasped, laughing. "I cannot, I a.s.sure you."

"Then let me take you for some air." The lovely man was not as young as the others. What had Avignon said about him? Yes, he was impoverished aristocracy of some kind. A vicomte? Yes. That was it. She liked him. But still he seemed very young.

"I think I should not go out on the balcony with you, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"So proper." He sighed. With apparent reluctance, he handed her to a chair in an out-of-the-way corner. "Then let me be your slave, and procure you some refreshment."

Francoise watched him walk away. Flirting with him felt strangely flat.

"So this is why Henri has been too busy to see me."

Francoise jerked her attention to the woman who had suddenly appeared at her elbow. She was tiny, exquisitely dressed in red satin, with a chandelier's worth of diamonds nestling in her ample cleavage. Not in the first blush of youth, she was like a rose still beautiful but just past its prime, its petals beginning to curl.

"I'm s-sorry?" Francoise stuttered.

"Marianne Vercheroux. And no, Henri did not introduce us." She flipped open a delicately painted fan with ivory sticks and slowly waved it back and forth as she studied Francoise. "In fact, I doubt he knows I'm here."

"I'm certain he would welcome you if he knew." Francoise took refuge in politeness.

The woman laughed, a throaty contralto. "A man never welcomes a former mistress." She raked her gaze over Francoise. "I wasn't quite certain I was 'former' until now."

Francoise blushed. "Whatever you think, madame, you are wrong."

"I saw the way he looked at you. He hasn't taken his eyes off you all night."

Francoise glanced over to where Avignon stood in a group, his back to her. "He isn't looking now."

"He knew he was making a fool of himself and had to force himself to look away."

"I am his ward. He has been very kind to me." But even as Francoise said it, she felt the flush coming on again. She couldn't hide from the sharp brown eyes examining her so critically.

"I'm sure." Madame Vercheroux looked over at Avignon and pursed her lips. When she looked back, her eyes were hard. "I'll wager you think that's love. But it's your youth he craves. With him, it's never love, only l.u.s.t. He's thrown over a dozen women to my knowledge and moved on without a backward glance. There's a reason they call him the devil. No one gets close to his heart."

She laughed again. "I'd love to think you were a calculating b.i.t.c.h, but you 're not. More's the pity. He'll hurt you, the callous b.a.s.t.a.r.d, if you let him. So here's advice from one who knows. Don't let him. Take him for all he's worth. But don't let him take your heart."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and sauntered toward the door.

Francoise stood staring after her for a long moment. Then she turned to where she'd last seen Avignon. He was looking right at her. He strode across the room, overtaking the vicomte who was wending his way through the crowd with two cups of champagne punch. Avignon took the cups with a murmured dismissal and bore down on Francoise.

He handed her a cup. "And what did the so chere Madame Vercheroux have to say?"

"She says you're the devil," Francoise whispered.

Avignon's lips took a rueful turn. "Ahhh. Then nothing you didn't already know."

The last of the guests included Robespierre and Madame Croute, as well as the vicomte and several others. Henri ushered them out the door at near dawn.

Francoise was asleep in a chair in the hall near the ladies' retiring room. Poor chit. She'd done well. It had been an exhausting evening for her, but she was gracious and witty, and had captivated almost everyone but Madame Croute, Robespierre, and Vercheroux. He'd give a good deal to know what that woman had really said to Francoise. It didn't matter of course. He had no business trying to get the girl's good opinion. And she'd be off to England within the week.

"Francoise." She showed no signs of waking. He took her shoulder. She waved him away with a little moan but without opening her eyes.

So he lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs. Her head dropped onto his shoulder. Cradling her against his chest, he wanted to keep her safe from the world and what it could do to one's soul. But his desire to protect her did not dampen his desire for her. The heat of her body against his made his genitals tighten. Dear G.o.d. Did he have no control at all? And he'd made love to her to the point of satiation just last night.

But apparently he wasn't satiated. Maybe he'd never be able to get enough of her.

Which was why she had to go.

He pushed open the door to her room with his foot and laid her on the turned-down bed. Her maid peeped in from the dressing room, rubbing sleep from her eyes.