Ruthless (3 page)

“A laudable notion, child. I'd like to stop her before she spreads the plague amongst my guests. I'm quite adamant about the health of the whores…”

“My mother is not a whore!”

There was a charming flush to her pale cheeks. She was too thin—she hadn't been fed properly in the
last few months, and he allowed himself the briefest fantasy of feeding her tidbits of meat and pastries while she lay naked across his bed.

His mocking smile was half meant for his own foolishness. Virgins were far too tedious, and even the fiery Mademoiselle Harriman would be more trouble than she was worth.

“Any woman in this house is a whore, my child. So, for that matter, are the men. Let me get you a glass of wine and we can discuss this.”

“You
are
as addled as my mother,” she snapped, spinning on her heel. “I'm going to look for her.”

He wasn't in the habit of letting any woman turn her back on him, and he simply took her arm, ungently, and spun her around to face him, fury on her face and a nasty little pistol in her hand, pointed in the general direction of his stomach.

 

She would shoot him, without a qualm, Elinor told herself, willing her hand not to shake. If he saw her quaking he would assume she was harmless, and then she might be forced to actually fire the wretched gun. Which she most assuredly did not want to do, unless she had to.

He released her, encouraging her hope that he was a reasonable man, but he didn't take a step back, and he seemed more amused than alarmed.

The King of Hell was everything they said he was, both less and more. He was reputed to have the ability to seduce an abbess or the pope himself, and she could see why. It wasn't his physical beauty, which was con
siderable. He had dark blue eyes behind a fringe of ridiculously long lashes, pale, beautiful skin, the kind of mouth that could bring despair and delight—and what the hell was she doing, thinking about such things?

He looked younger than his reputed age, around forty, and while his long dark hair was streaked with silver it only made him seem more leonine, more dangerous. He was tall, and he moved with an elegant grace that put dancers to shame. He was standing far too close to her, to the gun she'd stolen from Jacobs while he was busy with the carriage, and he was looking at her with far too much interest and absolutely no fear.

“You aren't going to shoot me, my dear,” he said calmly, making no effort to take the gun from her shaking hand. And it was shaking—she couldn't disguise it.

“I don't wish to. But my mother's safety is paramount…”

“Your mother is a walking dead woman,” he said, his voice casual and cruel. “You know it as well as I. Why don't you return home and I'll find her and send her after you?”

“You don't understand. I can't afford to let her game away the rest of our money,” she repeated. It shamed her to admit how little they had, but then, most of his guests would be capable of losing a fortune on the turn of a card. There was no need for him to guess just how little they had left.

“Then we shall see that she doesn't,” he said in that
caressing voice of his. It was little wonder people fell at his feet—his voice could charm angels. “You know you don't want to shoot me. Think of the mess. Not to mention the explanations.” He reached out and gently took the pistol away from her. “Very pretty,” he said, glancing at the elegant pearl-handled thing. “If you're so hard up for money you could always sell this.”

“Who says we're
hard up
for money?” she demanded.

“Your clothes, child. You dress like a ragpicker. What's your mother wearing—sackcloth and ashes?”

“She'd hardly be allowed in here if she was.”

“Oh, on the contrary. Sackcloth and ashes could be deemed quite appropriate. After all, this is a gathering of the Heavenly Host, you know.”

She tried not to react to the shock of him actually mentioning the forbidden words. Everyone had heard rumors of the Heavenly Host, that covert gathering of wicked aristocrats with too much time on their hands. The stories went from the ridiculous to the disconcerting—there was word of black masses and virgin sacrifice, orgies and blasphemy and the like, but no one ever admitted the existence of the group. Until Rohan's offhand comment.

She looked up at him, unnerved by his height, his glittering, gilded glory. He was dressed in impeccable black satin, with elegant clocked stockings on his well-shaped legs, high-heeled, bejeweled shoes only adding to his already impressive height. He wore a long, heavily embroidered waistcoat unbuttoned, but
no coat. He had heavy rings on his long, pale fingers, even a sapphire in his ear like a Gypsy, previously hidden by his long, unbound hair. Most men wore wigs and kept their own hair cut short. The Comte de Giverney was clearly too vain to utilize such shortcuts.

“Looked your fill?” he inquired pleasantly. “Would you like me to turn around so you can observe my backside?”

She didn't blush. “I like to know my enemies. Either let me go look for my mother or take me there yourself.”

“Oh, definitely the latter. And I haven't decided whether we're enemies or not.” He tossed the pistol back onto the dais, where it landed, with unerring accuracy, on the cushioned chair. “I'm afraid, my dear Miss Harriman, that you would never find your mother amidst the…celebrations. You'll have to accompany me through the nine layers of hell in order to find her.”

“I am not a child, Monsieur le Comte.”

“That's my French title. To the English I'm the Viscount Rohan.”

“Someone else bears that title,” she said, repeating one of the bits of gossip she'd overheard.

“Indeed,” he said pleasantly. “How kind of you to remind me. The man is a pretender, nothing more.” He reached up for his elegant neck cloth and began to unfasten it, and she watched his long, pale, bejeweled fingers in something of a daze.

He pulled the cloth free, his shirt coming open, and she averted her gaze from the disturbing sight of his
bare chest. She heard his laugh, and then his hands were on her once more, catching her shoulders and turning her around. “Don't worry, my pet. You won't be seeing anything that might shock you.” And he pulled the neck cloth over her eyes, effectively blinding her.

She wanted to fight back, to struggle, but that would give him an excuse to touch her further, and the less she felt the brush of his cool fingers the better. “That's right,” he said, his voice soft and approving. “Now give me your arm and we'll give you a taste of damnation.”

“Do you really find blasphemy that entertaining?” she said, trying not to start when he took her hand and placed it on his arm.

“Always.”

She'd never put her hand on any arm that wasn't covered by layers of clothing, including a coat. The devil who oversaw these revels, be he Monsieur le Comte or something else, wore only a thin shirt made of the finest lawn. In her sudden world of darkness she was acutely aware of the feel of his arm beneath her fingers. The sinew and bone. The unexpected warmth of his skin, when his hands and his heart were so cold.

“Are you ready, my child?” he asked, and there was no avoiding the humor in his voice.

But she wasn't about to show her panic. People like Rohan thrived on fear, and if she were to have any chance of survival she needed to hide hers.

“As I have been for the last, tedious half hour,” she said in a bored voice.

“Allons-y,”
he murmured, and she didn't need
to see anything to know that he wasn't fooled. “Let us go.”

And she had no choice but to allow him to draw her deeper into the very depths of hell.

T
he heat and noise and smell assaulted her when he led her through the doors. A dozen different perfumes, wax tallows, spilled wine and wood smoke, cooked meats and human sweat all fought for supremacy, and the voices were loud, giddy. One man's voice broke through the babble.

“What is that on your arm, Francis? Your dinner?” He followed his ridiculous inquiry with rough laughter.

“Don't be absurd,” a woman's voice floated to her ears. A Frenchwoman, of indisputably high upbringing, given the quality of her voice. “He's going to auction her off later on. May I put my bid in early? She really looks quite delicious.”

Elinor couldn't keep from starting at the words, and her fingers tightened on his arm reflexively. He put his hand over hers, but whether it was meant to comfort her or imprison her, she couldn't be sure.

“Don't be ridiculous, Elise,” another man, much closer by the sound of him, broke through. “He's not giving her up. See the way he looks at her.”

Elinor hadn't noticed anything in the way Rohan had looked at her, but the very notion made her even more unsettled. He kept her moving through the shuttered darkness, their procession marred by continuing licentious catcalls, and by the time they passed into another room she was grateful. This one darker still, no light filtering through the white neck cloth that blinded her.

“What about my mother?” she whispered. “You didn't ask…”

“I could see quite clearly that she wasn't there, my child. That was only the second circle of hell, though I must admit we don't adhere to Dante's definitions too closely.”

“What was the first circle of hell?” she asked.

“The anteroom, my love. Where we met. Better known as Limbo, where no real sin takes place.” His voice was low, contemplative, and out of the blue she felt his cool hand gently stroke the side of her face, making her jump nervously. “My footman broke the rules, of course, and he'll be punished appropriately.”

They'd paused at what she assumed was the entrance of the room. “Will he be punished because he broke the rules or because he hit me?” she asked. “You can tell me the truth—I won't be offended.”

His laugh was so soft she might not have heard it if she weren't blindfolded. “And I do
so
desire to keep from offending you, mademoiselle. In fact, he'll be driven off the place because he broke the rules. He'll be beaten beforehand because he raised his hand to you. I'll make arrangements for you to watch if you care to.”

“That's horrifying! And no, I don't want to sit and watch.”

“You're very different from most of the women here, including your mother. They'd watch and probably lick the blood from his skin when I'm done.”

“Oh, that's foul!” she whispered. And then the rest of his words sank in. “When
you're
done? You're going to administer the beating?”

She knew he smiled, even without seeing it. She knew his mouth already, the way it curved with just a touch of mockery. “Perhaps I need my exercise,” he murmured. “I doubt your mother is in this room, but I wouldn't want to miss her due to a misguided sense of propriety.” He raised his voice. “Is the Lady Caroline Harriman here?”

No answer, just the strange, muffled sounds that she couldn't quite identify. The rub of silk on silk, the whispered laugh, low and intimate, the curious mix of grunts and curses, and her curiosity got the better of her as she reached for the neck cloth.

His hands were ahead of hers, stopping her. “You really don't want to look,” he said, and she believed him. They must have reached the level of lust, and clearly Francis Rohan's guests had leeway to enjoy that particular sin.

“She's not here,” Elinor said. In the last year, her mother had lost all her previous obsession with fornication, replacing that desire with a need to gamble. In truth, very few people would recognize the great beauty she had once been, and very few people would have been willing to risk their health for the sake of
a cheap tup. In the darkness of these rooms they might not recognize her diseased skin and addled mind, but clearly there were better choices if they chose to take them. Her mother would be gaming, not…

She knew the word for it, the rough, rude, indelicate word for it.
Fucking.
Her father had used it, her mother had screamed it in her endless rages, the people on the street used it, and the lower they sank the more that despicable word abounded.

Indeed, it was probably as good a word as any for her mother. It had been lust that had driven her away from her husband, lust and greed and anger. It had been lust that had changed Elinor's life forever, a strange, dark feeling that she couldn't comprehend. Didn't want to. There was an ugliness to it that spread through this room and indeed the entire château, and the longer she stayed the more unclean she felt as old memories fought to crowd their way back into her brain.

“Could we move on?” she said coolly.

In answer he propelled her forward. It was a strange sensation, moving across the floors in darkness, the man beside her closer than a man had been in many years. And not just any man—the King of Hell himself, or so he was called. In fact, she couldn't really fault him. He'd done her no harm, and seemed intent on helping her. Which was unlike anything she'd heard about him. The Comte de Giverney, the Viscount Rohan, the leader of the Heavenly Host, did nothing that didn't include self-interest. And despite his polite behavior so far, her undeniable nervousness moved up a notch.

She heard the sound of doors being opened, though the man beside her hadn't moved. Servants, stationed throughout this orgiastic celebration—of course there would be. Not one of these pampered creatures had ever had to fend for themselves. They didn't worry about finding enough money to eat, about protecting their beautiful younger sister, about keeping their mother from destroying what small safety they had left.

“You're rumpling my shirt,” he whispered in her ear. “Relax your grip. I promise I won't let anything harm you.”

If she were the emotional sort she would have wept at the words. She would have sold her soul to have someone simply take over the constant worry that beset her, but then she remembered where she was. Who accompanied her. Selling one's soul was de rigueur in such circumstances.

“I'm in a hurry,” she said, trying to sound calm and practical.

“Why?”

“We need to get the carriage back…” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. He wasn't a man who missed anything.

“That brings up an interesting point. You hardly seem wealthy enough to keep a carriage in Paris. In fact, I doubt you were able to hire a carriage. What did you do, steal one?”

“Hardly,” she said with a shaky laugh. “I'm charmed that you think I'm that resourceful, but I could hardly have gone to the nearest hostelry, pretended I was the coachman and taken off with one.”

“I am astounded at your resourcefulness, Mademoiselle Harriman. But no, you must have had help.” He suddenly released her arm. “Stay here for a moment and don't move.”

She had to keep herself from reaching for him. From crying out, “Don't leave me.” It took all her self-control to simply nod, not even knowing if he saw it.

It was a strange and dizzying sensation, standing alone and blindfolded in the crowded room. No one seemed to be paying her any mind in this one, and she knew from the noise that his guests must be caught up in gaming. This was the place her mother was likely to be, and she reached for her blindfold, pushing it off her eyes.

And froze. Some were gaming. A few were even partially dressed, and in her brief glance she saw them writhing on couches and in chairs, performing acts that should have been foreign to her.

But she'd lived too long in poverty, and she'd seen those same acts and more performed in side alleys, for pay. She should have been shocked. But in truth, she was more concerned that it might be her mother's mouth on the young gentleman's—

The blindfold was pulled abruptly back over her eyes, shutting out the disturbing sights. “You're a very disobedient creature, aren't you?”

She dismissed the shocking image, simply because she must. “I'm here, am I not? If I were obedient I would be waiting at home for my mother's safe return. Which, times have taught me, is unlikely.”

Rohan didn't reply to that. “I've sent your coach
man back with his pilfered coach. With luck it will be returned to the Bois d'Or before anyone knows it's missing. I presume he ventured into such a seedy part of the city in order to increase his chances at getting away with it, but he really should have stolen one closer to home. The neighborhood of Rue du Pélican is no place for a young lady, and any coach found there would have been exceedingly uncomfortable.”

She was getting tired of this. “Where do you think we live, my lord? Jacobs had only to walk a short way to steal from that particular inn. We live on the edge of ruin. Our lives are disastrous enough without your mockery reinforcing the misery.” There was something liberating about finally saying it out loud. She was tired of pretending that things were better than they were. That they didn't spend their days and nights cold and hungry and afraid of what might happen next. “And how do you suggest I get home, once I find my mother?”

“I'll arrange a carriage for her. In the meantime I've found St. Philippe, and he should provide us with the information we need.”

“A carriage for
her…?
” Elinor echoed, but he'd already moved on, steering her through the noisy room. At least in this one the inhabitants were too busy with their licentious behavior to bother with catcalls.

“How many circles of hell are there?” she demanded, breathless, as the next set of doors opened.

“Nine, child. Haven't you done your reading? I'm beginning to wonder whether this isn't all a ruse. Whether you've come here on your own, on a trumped-up excuse.”

“Why in heaven would I do that?” she said, mystified.

“To ensnare a husband, perhaps? Or at least money. You're not pretty enough to be a whore, but perhaps you heard that the members of the Heavenly Host prize innocence before beauty.”

It shouldn't have hurt. She'd never had any delusions about her beauty. She was the plain one—too tall, her hair too brown and straight, her nose too aquiline, her nature too outspoken. She was made for spinsterhood, and she'd accepted it long ago. But hearing her attributes dismissed so lightly in Francis Rohan's pitiless voice was a cruelty she'd not expected.

“Do you get pleasure from inflicting pain, my lord?” Her voice was calm and practical, denying the hurt.

There was a moment's silence. “Occasionally,” he said after a long moment. “There are times when hurting and being hurt are the only way to feel anything at all.”

“Pray, excuse me from my part in that game then. I'm certain you'll find any number of people here who would enjoy being hurt by you,” she said.

“Did I hurt you? You seem so very calm and practical.”

“You simply spoke the truth. It was, perhaps, unnecessary, but I would be a fool to let my feelings be hurt by something so insignificant.” There, she thought. That should convince him.

Or perhaps not. “You're an interesting child, Miss Harriman.”

“I'm not a child. I'm twenty-three.”

“Such a great age,” he said, mocking. “From my viewpoint you are very young indeed.” He started forward, and she wanted to pull back, but he was too strong, drawing her into the next room.

This one was overheated. The sounds were muffled and still—the sound of cards being dealt, the roll of dice. They'd found the room for serious gaming, at last.

She reached up for the neck cloth again, but this time he stopped her, wrapping his hand around her wrists and imprisoning them. “St. Philippe,” he said, his voice barely raised. And suddenly the overheated room felt cold and still.

“Monseigneur?” Came the answer, the voice slurred, drunken.

“I've been informed you've brought an unwanted guest into our midst. Where is she?”

“I don't know what you—”

“Where is she?” He didn't raise his voice, but the room grew colder still, and for a brief moment Elinor wondered how Rohan's control of his followers was so absolute.

“Gone,” St. Philippe said, his voice sulky. “She had barely enough money to game, and once that was gone no one was willing to advance her credit. I expect she's out in the stables, trying to earn enough on her back.”

Elinor couldn't help her instinctive flinch, both at the thought of her mother and at the loss of their only money. It was a disaster, total and complete, and she tried to yank her hands out of Rohan's grip. He tightened his hand, and it hurt enough to make her stop struggling.

“You've displeased me, Justin,” he said calmly. “May I suggest you get dressed and come see me in the anteroom? In a few minutes, shall we say?”

“Of course, monseigneur,” he stammered, sounding terrified.

Rohan released her wrists, snaking an arm around her waist, his grip unbreakable. “Then I will take my prize back with me,” he said, his voice more pleasant. “The rest of you may continue.”

“I don't…” Elinor began, but he moved her so swiftly her words died away. She expected him to move her back through the series of rooms he'd brought her, but a moment later they were in the pitch darkness, someplace enclosed and silent, and he pulled the neck cloth off her face.

They were in a hallway, lit only by torches, and he no longer touched her. She found that for the first time she could breathe normally. “The problem is solved,” he said. “Your mother is here after all. It won't take long to locate her—my servants are very good. I'll take you somewhere to await her.”