He walked over to his desk and opened a beautifully inlaid walnut box. Inside were a brace of dueling pistols.
He took out one of them and toyed with it, playing his thumb across the hammer and his index finger across the trigger. He felt the weight of it as he pressed the end of the barrel against his head.
It was not loaded, but still… the cold steel against his temple was like a bucket of ice water thrown into his face.
He looked at himself in the mirror, at the haunted eyes and gaunt face, the ragged beard, the disgraceful clothes.
Do you think she lives like an animal, pining away for your love?
He put the pistol back in the box and closed the lid.
When he came down to dinner two hours later, he was fully bathed, shaved, and dressed in a new change of clothes.
“I truly believe the vicar now,” Pemberly gasped mockingly. “The dead do indeed rise.”
“What’s more, they go to London on the morrow.”
“Will miracles never cease!”
“Perhaps you should rededicate your life to the church, since you have received such signs and wonders.”
“Let’s not get carried away, dear boy. London will be no fun for either of us if I do
that.
”
All in all, he stayed with Pemberly for almost eight months, returning sporadically to Blakewood for a week here, two weeks there. It was a situation that suited them both. Pemberly would work leisurely through the day on his various duties as a publisher, and Evan would amuse himself in the city. Then they would dine together, either at home or out on the town, and take in an evening’s entertainment in some shape or form.
Evan surprised his friend and ‘doctor’ by making a full recovery. He rejoined society, going to dinners and balls; he attended the theater and opera. Though he imbibed less than his year-long stint at Blakewood, he did his fair share of drinking.
The one thing he did
not
do was court any ladies – of the well-bred
or
the lower-class variety.
Pemberly noticed this, and tried to entice him on his occasional visits to dens of vice.
“They are very discreet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No, thank you.”
“The women are quite beautiful.”
“I am sure they are.”
“I’ve told them all about you – ”
“Send them my regards.”
But try as he might, Pemberly could not persuade him.
It was at the opera where Marian made the acquaintance of an incredibly dangerous man.
She had been watching the performance with Madame de Varenne, with whom she had become fast friends. The older woman hosted a wonderful salon that attracted the greatest philosophers and writers in the city. Marian was a feather in her cap – a young, gorgeous, ‘scandalous’ woman who drew in distinguished gentlemen by the score. Outside the salon, the same men would
tut-tut
her infamy, but in Marian’s presence, they fell over one another to ingratiate themselves to her.
During the intermission, as Marian and Madame de Varenne spoke with several of her salon regulars, a stranger approached the group. He was tall and handsome, with black hair and intense, intelligent eyes. He wore a lieutenant’s uniform with not a thread out of place. His bearing was confident, bordering on arrogant. He exuded power and a sense of entitlement, and he seemed completely at ease as he interrupted the conversation in progress.
“Excuse me, but I could not help but overhear that
L’Anglaise
had favored us with her presence tonight,” the man said in a smooth, deep baritone. The entire time he spoke, his eyes did not stray from Marian’s face.
“You must have been eavesdropping for a long while, Lieutenant,” she replied coyly, “because I am sure my
nom de plume
has not been mentioned in well over an hour.”
“Perhaps not within your earshot,
Citoyenne,
but I assure you it has been spoken much more recently than that. You are the talk of the opera,” the soldier smiled warmly. “I did not have to eavesdrop, for your name is on everyone’s tongue.”
“Knowing some of the pious folk here tonight, I fear to ask what you heard,” Marian laughed.
“That is why I came to meet you myself,
Citoyenne.
I am a man who trusts only his own opinions.”
“And what is your opinion so far?”
“That I have never seen so lovely a face, or heard so lovely a voice, belonging to someone of such great talent.”
Marian blushed. She was accustomed to handsome men approaching her, though never so boldly – they always sought an introduction from a mutual acquaintance, and then proceeded to fawn over her.
This man apparently felt no need to follow social decorum.
His confidence impressed her – but it also unnerved her slightly.
It greatly offended the others in the group, however.
“And you are…?” sneered the Vicomte de Gaboreau, a toad-like little man who had been unsuccessfully trying for months to tempt Marian into bed with tales of his grand estates.
“Lt. Gerard Villars…
Citoyen,
” the soldier said coldly.
Citoyen –
or
Citoyenne,
for women – meant ‘citizen,’ and was the term that the Revolutionaries used to address everyone now, whether street sweepers, shopkeepers, aristocrats, or the King of France himself. Villars was implicitly letting the Vicomte know that his title meant nothing to him.
The lieutenant’s steely gaze and icy tone let the Vicomte know a great deal more about his opinion. As Villars’ eyes bore down on the little man like the sights of a rifle, the Vicomte shrank away like a whipped dog.
Marian had seen men drunk on their own power before. When that power was used to belittle snobs or fools, or cut a braggart down to size, it was all well and good. But when it was used in acts of naked aggression, it was an ugly display.
Here, it was not only ugly, it was frightening.
Marian did not care for the Vicomte, but she did not like to see him unmanned, either.
However, instinct bid her keep her tongue.
There was something especially unsettling about Villars. Perhaps it was the glint of violence in his eye, or the utter sense of his own power. The mix of brutality with such handsomeness. His face, which she had been attracted to just moments before, seemed tinged with cruelty and malice.
Then he turned back to her, and his smile radiated a dangerous charm.
“At your service,
Citoyenne,
” he said, taking her hand, and kissing her fingers.
Being careful not to offend him, she drew her hand back as soon as decorum allowed.
“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Lt. Villars – ”
“Please – call me Gerard.”
“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Gerard, but I am afraid we must retire for the rest of the performance.”
“I frequent several of the salons throughout Paris. I hope to see you soon,” Villars smiled.
“Undoubtedly,” Marian said gaily, then hooked Madame de Varenne’s arm and fairly dragged her back to their box.
The last image she had as she closed the door to their private room was Villars’ eyes, watching her like a bird of prey.
She made sure to leave the opera early, through a back door, so there would be no chance of encountering him again.
At the beginning of July there was a ball given by Lady Middleton. Evan and Pemberly arrived in a crush of carriages outside the grand house, which was even larger than Blakewood.
Inside were crowds of gaily dressed women and gentlemen in their finest. They nibbled at a feast set out in one room, and gossiped in all the others. The ladies fanned themselves from the heat and chatted in small clusters; the married men discussed either politics or their tailors, while the single men plied their connections for introductions to charming beauties. Scores danced in the great hall to the accompaniment of a small orchestra of stringed instruments. All the most fashionable of London were there – at least, all of those who had not run off to the country for the hunting.
Evan and Pemberly walked amongst the candlelit groups of gentlemen and ladies as their names were announced before them. The younger men typically gave hearty hellos to Pemberly. The older men, and most of all the older women, turned away in frosty disregard. Pemberly’s ill repute – both as a wastrel and as a publisher, much less a publisher of bawdy stories – preceded him.
“I do so love having a poor reputation,” Pemberly smirked as a trio of older ladies shuttled their daughters away with looks of disgust. “It saves me from speaking to so many bores.”
“I hope you do not categorize me in such company, dear Pemberly,” a musical voice spoke from nearby.
Evan turned to see a beautiful woman, roughly the same age as himself, dressed in an embroidered gown of light blue silk. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat, and her golden hair was flawlessly arranged beneath a bejeweled tiara.
“Heavens, no!” Pemberly exclaimed as he took the woman’s hand. “The devils of boredom are never present when you are here, my lady! Blake, allow me to introduce the Countess of Lawton. My lady, may I present to you Mr. Evan Blake.”
“Lady Lawton, it is my pleasure.”
The woman’s eyes shone as Evan kissed her hand. “My, he is as handsome as you said, Pemberly!”
Evan smiled, bowed the tiniest bit, then glanced over at Pemberly, who winked at him. “I’ve been talking you up, old boy.”
“Well, I must thank you for the advance publicity, though I fear Lady Lawton’s husband might object to her being linked to such a scurrilous wretch as you, Pemberly,” Evan joked.
“I am a widow, Mr. Blake,” the woman said with a smile, “since last year.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady. I am sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Oh, please, don’t be. He married me for my title; I married him for his wealth. One without the other is a poor state to find oneself in, wouldn’t you agree, Pemberly?”
“Assuredly, my lady.”
“He was a good deal older than I, and not inclined to enjoy life or his money. Now that he is gone, I am free to savor both to their fullest extent,” she smiled, flashing a mouth of dazzling teeth behind her ruby lips.
Evan did not quite know what to say. Though he was accustomed to Pemberly’s indelicate remarks, he was quite unprepared to hear similar comments from the mouth of a lady – and a total stranger, at that.
He finally settled on, “I can see why you and Pemberly are friends.”
“And why is that, Mr. Blake?” she asked, giving him a sly smile as she fanned herself.
“You are both free spirits of the utmost degree.”
Pemberly snorted. “You are truly a diplomat, Blake. What is it they say? ‘A diplomat will tell a man that he his open-minded, when what he means is that the fellow has a hole in his head.’”
Evan looked at his friend in alarm. He was not sure at all whether the woman would laugh or take offense.
“Oh, don’t mind him, Mr. Blake,” the Countess said as she latched onto Evan’s arm and led him away. “He is a naughty, naughty fellow.”
Evan looked behind helplessly; Pemberly merely winked and scurried off.
She led him around the house, from room to room, inquiring about this and that – how long he had known Pemberly, how they passed the time in the evenings, what operettas and plays he had recently seen. And through it all, she laughed at his little witticisms, and flattered his remarks, and sprinkled suggestive innuendoes through her speech with the charming smile of a schoolgirl who knows she is misbehaving, but is enjoying herself too much to stop.
Finally, though, in a roundabout way, she came to what her true aim was. “You must tell me, though, Mr. Blake… is it true what Pemberly says?”
The question sounded slightly ominous to him for reasons he could not explain.
“When asked that question, my lady, my default answer is always ‘no,’” he joked.
“But I am quite serious.”
“I am not sure what you mean.”
“Hopefully you shall not think less of me when I tell you that I am a fan of some of Pemberly’s various publications.”
“As I have read all of them myself, I do not see how I can judge you for doing so.”
“Then you must tell me: are you truly the inspiration for the various intrigues in the novels by
La Parisienne?”
Evan halted, taken aback by the question. The Countess immediately saw how it had affected him.
“Pardon me, Mr. Blake, the question was impertinent.”
“Not at all, dear lady, I only – ”
“It is just that I am a great admirer of her works,” the Countess interrupted, giving him the full extent of her good looks with an upward tilt of her head. As she gazed at Evan, her eyes gleamed, and not just with the candlelight. “And I am even more of an admirer of the rugged, masculine characters of her novels. When Pemberly told me that you were acquainted with the authoress, and in fact that you were her model for her heroes, I confess, I was overtaken with the idea that I must meet you. I pray that I have not caused you any embarrassment.”
“No, my lady, not at all.” Not embarrassment. However, he did feel a certain heat building within him, a sensation he had not felt in a long while.
The Countess was quite beautiful… though he could not help comparing her with Marian. Besides Marian’s brunette hair and younger years, there were other, subtler differences. The Countess’s face was more angular where Marian’s had been soft. Her body was voluptuous where Marion’s had been more slender. Also, there was a cunning about her eyes that Marian had never possessed. There was a danger to her that contrasted with Marian’s innocence, though passionate and curious that innocence might have been.
The Countess pulled him over to a secluded alcove within the larger room.
“I would greatly enjoy continuing this conversation, Mr. Blake, though I must admit, I am overcome with the heat and the crowds here.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “I am staying down the street at 1650. I hope you would not consider me wicked if I were to extend an invitation to join me there, away from prying eyes? I intend to leave now. Do you think you could join me in, oh, say, thirty minutes?”