Time for Eternity (25 page)

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 Croûte, 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 Croûte. 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.” Croûte’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 Croûte 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,” Françoise gasped, laughing. “I cannot, I assure 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.”

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

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

Françoise 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?” Françoise 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 Françoise. “In fact, I doubt he knows I’m here.”

“I’m certain he would welcome you if he knew.” Françoise took refuge in politeness.

The woman laughed, a throaty contralto. “A man never welcomes a former mistress.” She raked her gaze over Françoise. “I wasn’t quite certain I was ‘former’ until now.”

Françoise 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.”

Françoise 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 Françoise 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 lust. 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 bitch, but you ’re not. More’s the pity. He’ll hurt you, the callous bastard, 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.

Françoise 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 Françoise.

He handed her a cup. “And what did the so
chère
Madame Vercheroux have to say?”

“She says you’re the devil,” Françoise 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 Croûte, as well as the vicomte and several others. Henri ushered them out the door at near dawn.

Françoise 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 Croûte, Robespierre, and Vercheroux. He’d give a good deal to know what that woman had really said to Françoise. 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.

“Françoise.” 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 God. 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.

“See to her,” he ordered, his voice rougher than he planned.

And he made his escape. He had lists to make and plans to lay if he was going to fill a ship with families before the week was out.

Fourteen

“You’re keeping his nighttime hours and falling in love with him,” the voice accused. “Yet you won’t let me out to take
control and protect you.”

The voice was so clear. Where was it coming from?

The stable in the mews behind the house.

She tiptoed through the deserted house and out into the bright sun. How long since she had seen the sun? She darted
across the carriageway and slid through the doors into the dimness beyond. No one was about here either. She could
hardly see after the bright morning outside. The stable was lit only by the thin channel of light from the door behind her.

But beyond that knife blade of sunshine, all was darkness. Horses moved in their stalls, blowing softly. The stables smelled
of hay and oiled leather.

Someone was in the stable with her. It would be the owner of the voice.

Fear rushed through her. But she had to know who owned that voice and what made it so clear inside her head. It was
all she could do to stand there, waiting.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A figure moved out from behind the last stall. From the place where
Françoise had hidden the leather bag full of sharp shiny steel and strange-smelling liquid in soft bottles. It was a small
figure. A woman?

“You are in terrible danger,” the voice said. It was clear the voice came from the figure for she could see the shadowy
lips moving, but it echoed inside her brain as well. “Let me help you,” the voice said. “You must do as I say.”

The figure walked forward. Françoise began to tremble.

“I’ve lived what will happen if you don’t.” The figure was still in shadows. The outline of the woman was … familiar.

“What will happen?” Françoise breathed.

“You’ll lose your soul and burn in hell for eternity.”

That sounded melodramatic.

“But true,” the woman said as if she could read Françoise’s thoughts. The figure walked forward. “You know what you
must do. I know you do. You must kill him.”

And the figure walked into a channel of light. The face was hers.

Françoise jerked upright with a gasp, emotions making her heart pound in her chest. What kind of a dream was that? She felt full to overflowing. There wasn’t room in her chest to breathe. The voice telling her to kill Henri was her own.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare. Nightmares didn’t make sense. So it was not a problem that a voice she’d been hearing quite clearly lately turned out to be herself. Better she talk to herself than that she hear other people inside her head. It made her less mad, didn’t it? But she was telling herself to kill Henri? How could that be? She would never kill anybody. Especially not Henri.

And never with drugs and decapitation with a sword, for goodness’ sake.

Nothing about this was real. She had to cling to that.

Except the leather bag and its ominous contents. That was real.

She was
not
going to kill Henri. The only way he could damn her soul was if love for him festered in her, knowing he didn’t love her back. But she wasn’t going to fall in love with him. She ’d made love to him. That was different. A lark, an adventure. She wouldn’t take back that night at Versailles for the world. But how could she love a care -for-nothing smuggler? The voice was wrong about that.

But
was
he a care-for-nothing? He had tried to save Madame LaFleur. He had said the benediction over her. That had been kind. Or maybe it had just been expedient, to get Françoise to stop importuning him. In that case why didn ’t he just throw Françoise out on her ear? Why did he buy her clothes and jewels and introduce her to his friends to make certain all knew she had his protection? Why did he bother?

Maybe because he wanted to give her a carte blanche.

Well, she wasn’t going to accept a carte blanche from Henri. No, Avignon. She wasn’t going to call him Henri anymore, even in her mind. And she wasn’t going to kill him with that sword either. She’d just leave. As she’d planned. She’d find a situation and go.

She got up and went to the window. The sun was high. It must be early afternoon. Plenty of time to present herself at the agencies. She had to believe she’d find a suitable situation.

But somewhere inside she felt that it was useless to hope. She’d done all this before and it had been useless.

“You’ve forgotten to complete the section on references. ” The dour-faced woman sitting behind the desk adjusted her spectacles and frowned at Françoise over them.

Well, there was the problem, wasn’t it? There were really only three reputable placement agencies left in Paris, and the other two had already refused to even accept an application without references. Françoise swallowed. All she could do was try to explain a third time.

“I did not forget. I … I have good references. But they are not available for consultation.”

“What do you mean … not available?” The interviewer frowned.

Françoise gathered her wits. “Well, Lady Toumoult, sister of the Marquis d’Evron, has unfortunately passed on. The marquis and his remaining family emigrated.” Let this woman think she had served the family. “And my latest employer, Madame LaFleur, died just Sunday. That’s why I’m applying for another position.”

“Well, we really don’t have a call for ladies’ companions these days.” The woman looked pointedly at Françoise’s walking dress. Françoise blushed. She had realized at the first agency that Fanchon ’s creation was much too stylish for a servant. But Fanchon’s dresses were all she had. “You are too young to teach children. Obviously not a maid. And with no references, I can hardly …”

Françoise felt a little swirl of panic in her throat. Avignon had been right. But if she couldn’t find a situation, she couldn’t support herself. She’d be dependent upon Avignon. And if she couldn’t escape Avignon, something dire would happen to her. Or maybe she would go mad entirely and do something dire to him instead.

She took a breath and plunged ahead with the only piece of information that might sway her interlocutor, for better or for worse.

“I … I have been working in the Duc d’Avignon’s household since Sunday.” Well, maybe not working, but it was only a small lie.

“He lives next door to Madame LaFleur’s house, and kindly took me in when Madame died. Of course, it ’s a bachelor’s household, so I can’t remain there.” She dared not offer him directly as a reference.

The woman chewed her lip. “A bachelor’s household. Hardly suitable. Still … the Duc d’Avignon is extremely …”

Françoise would never know what the woman would have said.

At her back a familiar voice said, “Excuse me, mademoiselle, but his grace is waiting for you in the carriage.”

She turned to see Jean bowing, his face totally impassive.

Avignon had found her.

“I’ll just conclude my business here, Jean, and be right out. Thank you.” It was amazing she could make her voice sound calm.

Jean took a breath as if to say something, thought better of it, and turned on his heel. “Very good, mademoiselle.”