The Passion (5 page)

things Tessa had ever seen. There were laundry chutes in every bedchamber, so that guests had merely to open a drawer and deposit their soiled clothing, where it would slide directly down to the washroom and be immediately attended to by any one of five laundresses constantly on duty.

Likewise, dumbwaiters, available with the pul of a tasseled cord, could deliver whatever a guest might desire to his quarters, where he had but to slide back a door and feast in hedonistic privacy.

The master's wine cel ar was extensive, his hospitality renowned. Even when he was not in residence, no fewer than ten of the guest chambers were occupied. It was common knowledge among the staff that his guests were sometimes—the word was chosen careful y and always uttered delicately

—peculiar. But no more so than was the master of the house himself.

Alexander Devoncroix commanded both adoration and fear, unwavering loyalty and unspoken suspicion. He was, they said, a shockingly handsome young raconteur, a rake and a dissolute, a breaker of hearts and a charmer of virgins; an adventurer, a poet, a bon vivant. This was what they said aloud, with the indulgent pride a servant always feels for the qualities—be they vice or virtue—of an infamous employer, particularly if he is of a generous bent toward his underlings and most particularly if his own station in life is highly placed and enhances their own. Al of this Tessa had no doubt was true. What was whispered about him, however, was even more intriguing—and, as Tessa had particular reason to know, even more true.

They cal ed him a devil and a god, a sorcerer and an eater of children. They al uded to strange sounds and inexplicable happenings behind closed doors, in dark gardens and in the deep woods on moonless nights. Lewd things, bizarre things, unnatural things.

Two would leave and only one would return. The footsteps of a man would begin and the tracks of an animal would end. The bedsheets would show traces of fur, though no dogs were kept in the house. And what of the odd structure of the house itself, with its many smal hinged doors and latchless windows through which no grown man or woman could pass? They whispered the word "loup-garou."

Shape-changer. Werewolf.

That was why Tessa had come.

She first spied him—or at least a reasonable representation—in the gal ery on the second floor of the house. There were magnificent paintings throughout the mansion, of course. The master was apparently fond of the Dutch masters; Rembrandt and Vermeer were among the most prominently displayed in the dining hal and study. Tessa, who knew only enough to marvel at their worth, took pleasure in simply wandering around the house, admiring the works of art.

Without a doubt the most striking of al the portraits was at the top of the second-floor landing, conspicuously arranged to catch the eye of everyone who traversed the staircase, entered the bal room, or visited the gal ery. Tessa was not surprised to learn that the portrait was of the master of the house, for she had heard that these creatures were exceptional y vain. She had not guessed, however, that he had so much to be vain about.

The life-sized portrait featured a young man standing before the parklike expanse of grounds that was the east vista of the house. He was dressed in country attire: high boots, folded cravat, woolen jacket unbuttoned over his waistcoat. He leaned back with one elbow propped upon the wal , one leg slightly raised on a mounting block. He gazed at the onlooker with an arrogant, amused air, his aristocratic features managing to look at the same time both relaxed and alert, and his sharp blue eyes possessed of an oddly sardonic twinkle that was observable even through the impersonal medium of oil and canvas. His most remarkable feature was, of course, his hair: it possessed the color and satiny sheen of rich light mink, except for a swath about five inches wide that swept from the right temple back to the ends and which was the most remarkable shade of white gold. He wore his hair unfashionably long, loose about his shoulders like thick shiny satin, but this in itself did not surprise Tessa. She had heard that the hair of such creatures could not be cut. The painting looked improbable; Tessa was certain the artist had employed a certain license for the sake of romance.

She was to learn, from servants' gossip and soon her own eyes, that the portrait did not do its subject justice.

The most unusual aspect of the painting, however, was not the human likeness, or even the skil of the artist. It was the secondary subject with which the master had chosen to pose. It was customary among aristocrats of both England and France to have their portraits painted in the company of a beloved pet—a lapdog, a mastiff, even a cat.

Alexander Devoncroix had chosen to pose with his hand upon the head of a shaggy brown-and-white wolf. The eyes of the wolf were blue, like his own.

Tessa stared at that painting, feeling smal and insignificant in its shadow, until she got the chil s.

She knew then for certain that she had done the right thing in coming here.

He returned, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, to a great fanfare and jingle of horses'

harnesses in a shiny black carriage trimmed with gold. Two buxomous, overdressed and overpainted females clung to his arms like cheap jewel ery, which Tessa did not find in the least surprising.

What did surprise her—only a little, for she had been prepared—was what a striking figure he made.

He was even tal er and stronger than he appeared in the portrait, his sharp features livelier, his sea blue eyes merrier. That champagne-colored hair with its blaze of gold was even more arresting in person, and he displayed it shamelessly as he walked hatless in the sun. His voice was warm and mel ifluous, which she had not expected, and his laugh loud, carefree and inviting, which also surprised her.

No one, however, could have prepared Tessa for the inexplicable power, the almost mesmeric charm, of Alexander Devoncroix. He moved like one of the Greek athletes of old, al power and grace and fluidity of motion. Just watching him brought a clench of pleasure to the throat. When he laughed, joy resonated in al within distance of the sound; when he scowled—which he did very seldom—the sky seemed to darken. In his presence the very atmosphere of the earth was subtly charged with reverent expectancy, as though greatness were an element unto itself and he, Alexander Devoncroix, was its embodiment. Often Tessa had wondered how those within his household, knowing he was a monster, could let him live. Now she knew.

Al the servants were lined up on that bright autumn day to welcome him home; they formed a double column deep into the great hal and spil ed out onto the steps. The most highly ranked were placed first within his sight on the steps, and Tessa, who ranked wel below the parlor staff but somewhere above the scul ery, was relegated to the shadows of the interior hal , where she concentrated on rubbing one foot against the other to keep her legs from fal ing asleep.

He consigned his two females to the care of his personal valet, who had arrived with him, and began a leisurely strol down the line, pausing to greet each and every member of his staff and taking time to carry on long conversations with many concerning matters that had transpired during his absence. Occasional y he would inquire about a family member or the state of one's health. Some might have found such a gracious display of concern for the personal affairs of one's underlings admirable, particularly in a bachelor, but Tessa, whose back hurt and whose toes tingled unbearably, found it annoying in the extreme. Until he came to her.

She had hoped he would pass her by, that he would be tired or bored by the time he got to the chambermaids and let her go with merely a nod. He did seem to pause less often as he came down the line to the lower ranks, and except for a flirtatious word or two with the prettiest of the girls, he did little more than cal a name. But when he saw her an alert spark came into his eye and he said, "Ah, Poinceau, what have we here?"

The majordomo, who walked beside him, explained,

"A new chambermaid, monsieur, passably good, but stil in training."

Alexander Devoncroix reached out his hand, took her chin lightly in his fingers, and tilted her face so that it caught the light. He was smiling, in a gentle, amused way that seemed to be designed to put her at her ease. "
Enchanté
," he said.

He moved on, but she would feel the warm imprint of his fingers on her face, see that smile and feel the sweetness of his breath across her skin—
Enchanté

—for days afterward.

He was a monster, but he was beautiful. And for a glimpse of that kind of beauty, that essential charm, human beings wil forgive a great deal.

From the day of his arrival the bal s and banquets and musicales became constant, the house overflowing with guests. The young master loved to entertain, and when he was not entertaining he was being entertained elsewhere. One was likely to meet a wandering guest—or even the master himself—in the corridor at any hour of the day or night, and he rarely slept alone. It was a singularly licentious household, but Tessa had been warned about that.

She had also been warned about the times a group of them would assemble out of doors and be gone al night, and the sounds that came from the parks and al eyways, the river-banks and dark fields on those occasions would chil the blood. Tessa heard no such sounds, but it was true that more than once the master disappeared from his chamber, along with several of the guests, and was gone the night through, only to return unheard or unseen by any of the servants and be found sleeping in his bed with the bright morning sun.

And so it was that between one event and another, no clear opportunity presented itself for Tessa to conclude her business until this, the night of the October moon. The initial spate of parties and houseguests had faded as al of Paris entered a smal respite to prepare for the advent of the holiday season, M. Devoncroix included. He had been to the theater, and afterward to a soiree at the home of the Marquis de Fortier; this Tessa knew because she made it a habit to look at his cards and because his personal secretary, Crouchet, thought she was amusing and could be teased into sharing information with her he probably ought not to have.

Tessa waited, wakeful, until she heard the carriage pul up before the front door and, peeking out of her window, saw him enter the house alone. She knew then that this was to be the night.

She slipped the knife out of its hiding place and waited, clutching the weapon to her bosom, the eternity of an hour to make certain he was abed.

Then, with a tread as soundless as hours of practice could make it, needing no light to guide the path that was etched in memory, she made her way down the stairs and through the corridor that led to the master's chamber.

There she paused with one hand on the latch and the other fiercely clenching the knife in a high position against her breast, her heart pounding with triumph and excitement and the certainty of the moment that had come at last—and also with dread of what she might find beyond that door. Would it be the monster, crouched in waiting with its glinting eyes trained upon her from the darkness? Or would it be the beautiful young man, peaceful in his sleep and never guessing it would be his last? Perhaps he wouldn't be asleep at al . Perhaps he had heard her outside the door and was prepared to spring upon her the minute she stepped through. Perhaps he wasn't even inside, and she would have it al to do again another night.

Then do it she would, she resolved, but she couldn't stand in dry-mouthed fear outside his door another moment. With a silent turn of the wel -oiled latch, the door swung open and she stepped inside.

No monster awaited her.

He lay naked and sprawled atop the covers, his limbs silvered in the moonlight that spil ed from the open window. One leg was bent slightly toward the other, his hands loose at his sides, his rich hair with its enchanting pale streak fanned out upon the pil ow. His chest was firm and oddly devoid of hair, as was his entire body, even beneath his arms and that place low on his abdomen where al adults had hair. His sex was pink and half plumped upon one thigh. His face was turned to the side, his lips parted in deep and even breaths. Tessa could smel the wine as she approached; wine and musk and the sharp evergreen scent that seemed to be his signature. Odd, but she had never noticed the smel of a man before and cal ed it pleasant. But then M.

Devoncroix was no ordinary man. He was not, in fact, a man at al .

It was with this assurance—
he is not a man, he is
not
—that Tessa gripped her courage and stepped even closer, clenching the knife as though it were a lifeline rather than an instrument of death. She stood over him. Stil he did not arouse from his alcohol stupor to notice her.
So he is not
, she thought a trifle smugly,
perhaps as magical as one
would think
…

But he looked magical, lying there atop the rumpled covers with his strong, lean calves and his smooth, open palms, like something an Italian artist might have sculpted. Magical, lovely, vulnerable. Look there, the way a strand of satin hair was drawn across his face and fluttered with each breath, and yes, was that not the pulse of a heartbeat visible in the strong vein of his throat? Alive, vital. Beautiful.

She remembered his smile, the gentle grasp of his fingers on her chin. He had soft hands, like an aristocrat, but strong, like a craftsman. His touch was nothing like she had expected it to be.

Tessa's heart felt bruised from the power with which it flung itself against her rib cage, and the knife was slippery in her hand. Not a man, she reminded herself fiercely. Not a man but a monster, a kil er…