The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 4

"May G.o.d forgive me ..." The last word burbled with blood that leaked from her mouth.

"Cerise," he choked. The light died in her eyes, leaving them flat and dull. "Cerise ..."

The very act of breathing was an effort. What had he expected? He was a monster. She was right about him. And he had no right to try to use her hope and innocence to save his soul.

He gathered her in his arms and laid her on the great bed.

He'd poisoned an innocent with his foul nature. She had taken her own life rather than spend even one night with him.

His head sank on his breast. There was nothing for him here now. He drew his power. Companion! It shushed up his veins.

The world went red. The whirling blackness rose up around his knees.

He'd sought salvation in a young girl's arms. What he'd gotten was certain d.a.m.nation.

Henri closed his eyes, slowly, against the memory. Now he never bedded innocents. Or stayed with any one woman long enough for her to know his secrets. A stable life of love and mutual respect was a dream that could never be real for him. His kind was not meant for the ties that bind. His own vampire mother had abandoned him at p.u.b.erty when he came into his powers.

Children were so rare for his kind as to be almost a miracle, and yet as soon as the children were full vampires their parents obeyed the Rule laid down by the Elders that vampires live only one to a city and essentially abandoned their children. That Rule was second in importance only to the Rule that forbade making a human into a vampire by sharing the Companion. After all, if vampires crowded into a city, or made other vampires, soon humans would discover them, and the tenuous balance between those who drink blood and those who give it would be broken. So, no connections for his kind were possible, human or vampire, ever.

Not that he didn't satisfy his needs. But he stuck to worldly creatures; widows, actresses who expected no more than what he was likely to give them-money, pleasure, and the illusion that their beauty would never fade. And he did give them pleasure. He knew how to do that. His own releases couldn't really be called pleasure anymore but they kept his s.e.xual demons at bay. And always, it was he that left them. In his nature he supposed. Or maybe he took revenge on the distaff world for his mother abandoning him. It was the way of his kind. He couldn't break that most harsh Rule of vampire nature, no matter his occasional longing for something stable to anchor his long years.

It didn't matter.

What mattered was that he not pollute the world more than was absolutely necessary. He could not help showing some his nature. It was how he did his work, after all. But he could refuse to defile innocence. Now he had an innocent in his very house. He could hear her talking to the maid Gaston had remarkably procured. He'd have to think of some way to get rid of her. Quickly.

Four.

As Gaston bowed himself out, Francoise found herself not in the lurid boudoir with gold -flocked fleur-de-lis wallpaper on a black background and red carpets she expected but in a very comfortable and stylish chamber. Gold leaf highlighted the intricate curves of delicate, white-painted furniture. A dressing table sat in one corner, a large wardrobe in the other. The bed was hung with sheer blue bed curtains and covered with a very becoming brocaded and embroidered quilt. Dozens of pillows were piled high against the headboard. The draperies were light blue, and the thick carpets were swirls of blue and taupe. The whole thing looked ... feminine.

Francoise felt like such an interloper. What must they all think of her? She wandered from bed to dressing table, touching silver- backed brushes and tiny colored gla.s.s bottles that smelled of expensive perfume. Her senses were a little dulled with all the momentous events tonight. She felt as though the world had lost color, somehow, or taste.

A knock sounded at the door.

Francoise almost looked around to see who had the right to allow entry to this lovely room. "Come in." A young woman hurried in and bobbed a curtsy.

"Annette, if you please, my lady," she said, slightly out of breath. "I'm to help you dress for dinner." She had red hair, a plain, round face with light eyelashes, and a dumpling of a chin.

Francoise smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid that will be quick work. My other clothing was destroyed in the fire." The servants would know she lived next door.

The girl smiled, almost kindly. "Do not worry your head, your ladyship. Gaston, he has ordered the bath, and before you can dry yourself, I will have just what you need all laid out and waiting. Mind you, I 'm not a lady's dresser, so I hope I'll do for your ladyship."

"I'm not a lady, Annette." Just someone with nowhere else to go. Annette opened the wardrobe. It seemed fully stocked. "I'm sure you will be just fine. Are you normally a housemaid here? " That seemed the most plausible explanation for her sudden appearance.

"La, no, mademoiselle. The duc has no female servants. I'm housemaid three doors down. Or was until ten minutes ago."

Francoise blinked, not sure which part of this speech to question first. "So you just ... quit without notice?"

Annette chuckled. "Don't expect Madame even knows I'm gone. But when my brother tells me that my salary just tripled if I'm here within five minutes, I don't ask questions."

"Your brother?"

"Footman here," Annette said proudly. "Name is Jean. He's been with the duc near on three years, and everyone knows the duc only takes the best."

So that's how Gaston had provided a maid on short notice, and why Annette's red hair seemed familiar. No wonder Avignon had thought it a hard task to procure a female attendant-he employed no females himself. She would have expected a man of Avignon's morals to keep a host of girl-servants he could take advantage of at a moment's notice whenever the latest in his string of paramours was unavailable. That was the lot of young women. It might be her lot when Avignon ended his charade. If she was lucky. If not, it might be the brothel.

"You're not afraid to serve here?"

"Well ..." Annette looked dubious for a moment, then she shrugged. "Jean says the devil ... his grace, I mean, won't bother about me as long as you're here."

Oh, well, that made Francoise feel better all around.

Her grim thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and two footmen brought in a bath three times larger than any she had ever used and set it by the fire. They were followed by a line of servants all carrying buckets. The room overflowed with activity, then emptied. Before she knew it the room held only Annette and a steaming bath, lavender -scented soaps, and thick towels, all looking more inviting than she would have imagined. The water didn 't even smell. Wasn't it from the Seine? But water from the system of wells that sold water privately was horrendously expensive. Could Avignon be rich enough to use it for bathing?

"Now just you let me help you out of that nasty dress," Annette fussed, unb.u.t.toning and unhooking and untying.

Francoise stepped into the steaming tub. "Thank you," she breathed, sinking in to the nape of her neck. Heaven. Her hair would still smell like smoke, she was sure, but the rest of her would be clean, cleaner than a bath with river water could ever make her.

And Madame LaFleur was spending the night in who knew what horrible cell? Guilt slapped her. Conditions in the Conciergerie were rumored to be deplorable. But even imprisonment would be better than Madame's plight as soon as she had stood before the committee. If only the duc could have saved Madame as well. She had no idea why Robespierre had backed down, even offered Francoise an apology, instead of arresting her.

What hold could the duc have over the chairman of the Committee of Public Safety? Whatever it was kept him out of the clutches of the mob, no matter how blatantly he flaunted his aristocracy. He hadn 't even been wearing a ribbon with the French colors on it to show his support of the Revolution. She should be grateful for whatever his influence was, or she would be sharing Madame's lot tonight. Poor Madame.

Francoise stepped out of the cooling bath and wrapped herself in a towel. Annette was sorting through a heap of clothing on the bed. "This looks like it might fit you, little thing that you are. " She held up a frothy cerulean-blue confection with actual lace at the neckline.

Francoise blinked. She had never had such an expensive dress in her life. It was not made in the severe revolutionary style. If it wasn't au courant, neither was it left over from the prerevolutionary excess. There were no hooped panniers or elbow -length sleeves with ruffles. It had a square decolletage and long, translucent sleeves that ended in narrow cuffs at the wrist. It was an altogether original look, much too beautiful to be worn except if one wanted to be riding in a tumbrel to the Place de Revolution surrounded by a mob shouting for your blood. She had never seen anything like it.

Yet it was totally familiar. She reached out to touch it.

"Oh, my." Stupid. But it was all she could think to say. The fabric was silk.

What was a dress like this doing in the house of an unattached man?

She s.n.a.t.c.hed back her hand. There could be but one answer to that. She looked around at the feminine furniture and the cut - gla.s.s bottles of perfume. How stupid she was.

"My dress is good enough." It cost her something to say that.

Annette's eyes went wide. "You're never going to wear that sooty thing to dinner!"

"I ... I don't care to wear the clothes he keeps for his ... his companions." She sounded stuffy even to herself.

"Me, I'd give my eyeteeth to wear a dress like this, don't matter where it comes from." Annette's hands were absently stroking the almost transparent sleeves. "And his grace has taste that's nice to a fault," she continued briskly, coming to herself. "Won't do to spoil his dinner looking at that nasty dress."

"I ... I shall take a tray in my room." Oh, but the dress was lovely.

Annette's eyes opened wide. Then she set her lips. "Yes, mademoiselle." She was clearly miffed. "I'll tell his grace that you chose not to take advantage of his kind offer to dine with him-him that Jean says dines alone so often. Still, I expect he's used to it."

The wicked duc, dining alone? Not one night in twenty, she wagered. Still, it was rude to refuse his offer, even if, as he said, he hadn't made it to be kind. He had saved her from Robespierre and Madame Croute, after all.

Could he do the same for Madame LaFleur? The thought popped into her head. Why not? There was no one else who could help her. But would he? She doubted it. He didn't extend himself for anyone. And yet, he had extended himself for her ...

But she must go carefully. She must find out why he had bothered himself with her plight. If she knew that, maybe she could convince him to do the same for her friend.

"Annette," she called as the young woman was pulling open the door. "You're right. It's not the first time I've had hand-me- down clothes and it won't be the last."

The girl turned, all smiles over teeth that weren't quite straight. "That's the way, mademoiselle. And I'm not much of a hand at dressing hair, but I expect I can manage yours." Henri put one foot up on the andirons of the fireplace in the smaller dining room. He'd pack her off to England. That's what he'd do. But he must wait until the end of the week and ship her off with the others. He didn't trust Robespierre not to have her arrested on the way to Le Havre just to spite him if he sent her ahead on her own.

She was right about England though. Without connections or position, emigrating was a dicey business, and for a woman alone ....

He sipped his wine, annoyed. The ornate water clock on the mantel had chimed the hour five minutes ago. He liked to dine sharply at nine. And tonight he had much to do.

Well, he'd give the girl some money at least. What else could he do? He 'd saved her from losing her head at the Place de Revolution. The rest was up to her.

He tapped his finger on the mantel. A dull dinner this was likely to be, though she had surprised him with a sharp tongue. She 'd lose her wit and her tongue soon enough when she fell under the spell of his magnetism. They always did.

The h.e.l.l of it was that with her around, not even dining alone would be a refuge. Over the years, alone as he felt inside, he had grown to like his privacy at dinner. It was a nice contrast to feeling alone in the crowds of bored revelers and ne'er-do-wells. The servants thought him mad for serving himself. Let them.

It occurred to him that he had lost heart. Not courage. A creature such as he was beyond fear. He would keep to his chosen course. It was a matter of will and he still had resolve. But hope had vanished centuries ago. He had seen too much and it all ended the same way no matter what one did. So he had ceased putting his heart into it. Still, he continued. What else could one do except go mad?

The doors to his right opened.

One of the servants ushered in the most surprising creature. How long since he had been surprised?

It was only a few minutes after nine when Francoise came down the curved stairway to the ground floor, following Jean, of the red hair and the sister. She felt like someone else entirely in this dress, not least because Annette could find no fichu to cover her breast. At least none that matched. She wore no jewelry, of course. But the dress itself felt like a jewel. The slippers Annette had produced might not be a perfect fit, but a little tissue stuffed into the soft white satin made them serviceable. Her hair had been coaxed into its usual soft curls, a little longer at her nape. Annette had offered rouge and lip color and something to darken her lashes, but she had refused. She did not want to look like a loose woman.

He has no interest in someone like you, she recited to herself. You're just here to see if there is any chance he'll help Madame. She was about to beard the lion in his den.

The footman opened the door. "The smaller dining room, mademoiselle."

Again the room was not what she expected. She'd thought the duc would prefer a grandiose setting to match his consequence.

But this was cozy like the library. The ceiling was of carved wood. A round table gleamed with polish in the candlelight. It sat six rather than the twenty or thirty she'd imagined. A sideboard was heaped with covered silver trays. Crystal sparkled. The china set for two was Sevres, figured in blue and gilt to match the blue and red of the carpet and the midnight blue of the draperies, closed now against the night. The whole was warm and cheery.

And leaning against the mantel, his booted foot on the andirons of the flickering grate, stood the duc, wine gla.s.s in hand. He wasn't a lion. More like a black panther, sleek and powerful. Dangerous. The room fairly ... quivered with his presence.

Be careful. Don't let his handsome person befuddle you. She would think of tonight as research. She'd discover why he saved her and use that information to get him to save Madame.

All the time she'd been dressing, she'd had a most uneasy feeling. That the duc was a threat was obvious. It wasn't that. All of this seemed ... familiar somehow. That strange sensation of deja vu one got sometimes usually lasted only for an instant. But she just couldn't shake the feeling that she knew this man and she'd done all this before.

And that it hadn't turned out well.

He glanced up at her entrance. He blinked once, twice. "Well, that is an improvement."

She blushed. How could she? She had to appear strong, not naive and vulnerable. "Anything would have been an improvement."

Another footman joined Jean to take the covers from the dishes on the sideboard.

"I hope you don't mind an informal dinner. I like to dispense with servants whenever possible. " He was looking at her quite strangely, no doubt comparing her unfavorably with the last wearer of this marvelous dress.

She set her teeth. Be polite. Get him talking. "I trespa.s.s on your hospitality. However you choose to be served can only please."

He looked faintly ... pained. Well, perhaps that had struck a false note. "Oh, very well. I actually like informality." She breathed and smiled. "It was one of the nicest things about living with Madame LaFleur. She treated me quite like a friend. Cook and her girl and Robert were our only servants. So we often dined informally. I find it comfortable." Liar. How could one be comfortable with an attractive devil like Avignon ready to steal your soul?

Now who was being dramatic? Stealing souls. These thoughts seemed entirely foreign.

He kept his own counsel, but the pained look had been replaced by one of ... speculation. The footmen took away the covers after pouring white wine in two gla.s.ses and red in two others, and leaving the decanters. The duc picked up a plate and began putting tidbits on it. She picked up another.

He frowned at her, took her plate, and set it back down. "Allow me," he said firmly.

He was going to serve her? How odd for a wicked duc. He didn't ask what she'd like to eat, but chose for her. That seemed entirely in character. The sideboard held platters of oysters on the half sh.e.l.l with mignonette vinegar, chicken Dijon, beefsteak, a ragout of sweetbreads, spinach in a cream sauce, haricots verts, a platter of b.u.t.tered lobster tails among a dozen others-the largesse was embarra.s.sing. She hadn't seen so much food in one place for several years. And there was a whole shallow dish full of salt.

"You ... you set a fine table," she murmured, at a loss for words. Salt was precious these days; taxed by the government until it was too dear for almost all households.

Her mouth began to water in earnest. This food would have been cooked with salt.

"Ahhhh, I see you are admiring my little import. One likes to command the elegancies."

"Salt. Brandy. Well water. Wherever do you get such luxuries?"

"Well, the water is easy. I own the system of wells, at least until they are nationalized."

Really? That was surprising. Had he bought them, had them dug? "G.o.d forbid the wealthy should drink water from the Seine like everyone else."

He glanced at her, his eyes unreadable. "Those who pay for it finance wells for those who cannot. The latest is going in upriver, near the slaughterhouses."

She bit her lip. "I would not have thought you so generous."

"Generous? No. It keeps my wells from being vandalized."

She should have known. When her plate was full, he set it on the table and drew out a chair for her. She seated herself. "Thank you."

His bare hand brushed her shoulder as she sat back and she felt it through to her bones, as though he had been rubbing his shoes on a carpet. Goose pimples rose on her neck and coursed down one side of her body. She had never felt anything quite like it.

He walked back to the sideboard, rubbing the hand that had touched her shoulder surrept.i.tiously on his coat. Had he felt the touch as she had? The coat was of a satin, blue so dark it was almost black. He was strongly built. It was hard not to think about his body moving under his clothing as he filled his plate. His muscles were not ropy, stringy things. They bulged. She would be able to see the veins that fed his biceps ... The image made her ... tingle.

Where had she gotten thoughts like that? The only times she had ever even seen men without their shirts was from a distance during haying time on her aunt's estates. Yet she could imagine just how Avignon's muscles would look if she could see him naked ....

Stop it, she told herself. It was as if she already knew what he looked like naked.

He sat down next to her with his own plate. That was too close. His suppressed energy hummed and echoed in her veins. He had brought the shallow bowl of salt with its tiny silver spoon. "Feel free," he murmured, "but Pierre would be desolate if you didn't taste first."

He didn't seem to be the type to say grace. The devil wouldn't thank G.o.d, would he? So she murmured her own thanks under her breath and turned her attention to her plate. How had she not realized she was famished? Everything tasted wonderful. There was no need to add salt. After some time she slowed enough to realize her companion was only toying with his food. She must look like some starving urchin to him.

She cleared her throat. "My compliments to your chef."