The proprietress of the place was an imposing woman under any circumstances, tall
and buxom, with dyed black hair piled high atop her head and an imperious glint in
her eyes. Tonight she looked like a classical Fury, with a whip in her hand, her hair
falling from its pins, her elaborate velvet gown the color of fresh blood.
“
Allez
!” she shouted to the hulking, muscle-bound guards who appeared behind her. “Get downstairs
now and take care of that rabble. I won’t have such
merde
in my place.”
As the guards ran past, Dominic exchanged a quick glance with Brendan over James’s
slumped head. They started to follow the guards back down the stairs to beat a retreat,
but Madame Brancusi stopped them with a shout and a crack of her whip.
“You! Get back here,” she called. “You English are nothing but trouble. Don’t think
I don’t know what happened down there.”
“Then you know more than us,
chère madame
,” Dominic said in his calmest, most soothing voice. “We only just arrived.”
But she wouldn’t be calmed. She stalked toward them, her eyes glittering. “You can’t
fool me. And I know you are his brother.” She spat out the word “his,” gesturing toward
the half-comatose James with her whip. “He began this mess.”
“I’m sure there was some misunderstanding,” Brendan said carefully. “Our brother is
young and can be rash at times, but he doesn’t start trouble.”
Madame Brancusi shook her head. “I have a man in my office, one of my best customers,
who says Monsieur James was drinking heavily and accused him of cheating. When he
tried to talk with Monsieur James to calm him, Monsieur James hit him. I cannot have
such behavior in my place. You see how one drunken
cochon
throwing a punch is like a domino. It becomes out of control in a second.”
James sagged against Dominic’s side, and Dominic scowled. He definitely did not need
this right now—or ever. His own life was enough of a mess without James messing up
his own in the bargain. “Tell that man to call on us tomorrow with his complaints,”
he said brusquely.
“
Non!
You will tell him yourself, right now,” Madame Brancusi shouted with another crack
of her whip. “In my office.
Allez vous en.
”
“I think we should take care of this right now,” Brendan muttered.
Dominic nodded, and between them they hauled James after her through the open doorway.
Where the rest of the house was plush and luxurious, covered with velvet and gilt,
the office was small and utilitarian, with only the desk and a few straight-backed
chairs. The only sign that the room belonged to a bawdy house was a series of framed
prints on the walls—couples in vaguely classical draperies involved in coitus in various
positions. It was obviously a place where patrons who had misbehaved were brought
to be reprimanded, and not in a fun way.
Or there were those with a grievance. A man who sat in the shadows at the far end
of the room rose to his feet as they entered.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man. He looked a bit familiar, as if he
had seen him somewhere in London long ago, but Dominic couldn’t quite place him. He
was tall, well-built, with graying dark hair and sharp dark eyes, obviously a man
of breeding and confidence.
The man smiled, all polite and correct, perfectly calm. Yet there was something in
his demeanor, in that very stillness, that Dominic instinctively did not like. Some
watchful, chilly air. The man’s clothes and hair were not even mussed, as if he had
not dirtied his hands in the business outside, as if the chaos had been created for
some other purpose and he had merely watched it from afar.
“This is Lord Hammond,” Madame Brancusi said. “And these are Monsieur James’s brothers.”
She kicked out a chair, and Dominic carefully lowered James onto its wooden seat,
never taking his attention from the cold-eyed Lord Hammond.
“Ah, yes. The famous St. Claire brothers,” Lord Hammond said, his smile widening.
But it never reached his eyes. “I saw you perform at the Theatre Nationale last week.
Very entertaining.”
“Not as entertaining as tonight, it would seem,” Dominic said.
Lord Hammond laughed. “Indeed not. It appears your brother cannot hold his drink.
You should keep a better eye on him, a poor little cub like that.”
At these seemingly sympathetic, affable words, James suddenly lunged up from his chair.
Dominic was caught by surprise at the quick move—his attention had not been on his
brother, but on this strange man who suddenly seemed to have some sort of problem
with the St. Claires.
“You bastard! You know it wasn’t like that,” James
shouted. He clumsily lurched toward Lord Hammond, but Dominic caught him by the back
of his collar and shoved him toward Brendan, who caught and held him neatly. “He put
something in my drink. I’m sure of it.”
Lord Hammond shook his head sadly. “I see the theatrics are not confined to the stage.
I fear your brother was in his cups and attempted to cheat at cards. Rather clumsily,
I might add.”
“So that’s how that brawl outside started?” Dominic said. That was a serious charge
indeed, and if Hammond had something to back those words up, James was surely in trouble.
“When you accused James of cheating?”
“I’m afraid that was something of an unfortunate accident,” Lord Hammond answered,
still infuriatingly calm. A small smile hovered around his lips, as if these proceedings
pleased him very much. As if they were all acting according to some hidden script
of his own. Dominic didn’t care to be manipulated, not by anyone.
He glanced over at Brendan, who still held James as he watched the scene. His gaze
flicked to Dominic, and Dominic saw that his brother felt the same way. Something
strange was going on here, something beyond a simple brawl.
“I merely pointed out to your brother his error,” Lord Hammond continued, “and he
attempted to hit me. His fist went astray and landed on some other poor fellow’s jaw,
and—well, forgive me,
chère madame
.” He gave Madame Brancusi a bow. “I am sorry to have marred a most pleasant evening
at your exemplary establishment.”
“Never mind all that,” Madame Brancusi said shrilly. “I want to know who will pay
for the repairs. I can’t be closed to business very long, you know.”
“James will,” Brendan said. James turned red and opened his mouth as if to protest,
only to fall silent at a cold glance from Brendan.
“I would be within my rights to call him out, of course,” Lord Hammond said. “Such
a slur on my honor should not be allowed to pass unchallenged.”
“This isn’t 1750,” Brendan said. “Dueling is illegal.”
“Ah, but what is such a trifle as the law to men like us?” Lord Hammond stepped closer,
a muscle ticking in his lean jaw the only flaw in his cold demeanor. Dominic could
clearly see that the man’s smooth, polished facade was just that—a wall put up to
obscure a deep well of primitive violence.
Dominic knew such a feeling because it was in him as well, far too often. That dark,
wild anger that needed a place to go or it would explode. He poured it into stage
villains, Iago, Don Juan, dark dukes and princes, but often it felt as if it had nowhere
to go but into a storm of violence and passion. He hoped he hid it as well as this
man, but that darkness still lurked there, just as it seemed to for Lord Hammond.
But what he did not understand was why Hammond’s fury would be turned on James at
all. James, who fumbled through life never hurting anyone but himself. It was like
a Renaissance revenge tragedy, played out on the innocent, but surely a man who didn’t
even know them could have no quarrel with them.
“I have heard of your family,” Lord Hammond said. “The famous St. Claires, fallen
from grace so long ago.”
“I am sorry to say we can’t return the favor,” Brendan said. “We have never heard
of you.”
“Ah, well, unlike you and your relations, I live quietly.
I have been gone from England for many months, on work for my uncle,” Hammond said.
“The Duke of Pendrake. Perhaps you have heard of
him
?”
Everyone knew of the Duke of Pendrake. He was one of the wealthiest, and most ruthless,
men in England and was said to have a hand in almost every business endeavor in the
Empire.
“I see you have,” Hammond said, smiling again. “Perhaps then you could see why a duel
would be easily overlooked, even here in France. But I see no need for such extreme
action at present. It seems clear your brother is just a young pup on a spree. I hope
this has taught him a small lesson.”
Hammond stepped closer to Dominic and, still smiling, said quietly, “I am a good friend,
but a terrible enemy, Mr. St. Claire. I don’t care to be thwarted when there is something
I want. You would do well to remember that, should we ever meet in the future.”
Before Dominic could answer, Hammond moved away and made his farewell to the slightly
appeased Madame Brancusi. After leaving a hefty payment, Dominic and Brendan hauled
James out of the now-silent house and bundled him into a cab.
“How did you manage to run afoul of a man like that?” Brendan demanded. “We leave
you alone for one night…”
James groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know! He was the one who
sat down at my table, sought me out. I have never seen him before. I didn’t know he
was a relative of the Duke of Pendrake.”
A relation of the Duke of Pendrake—and he seemed to have a grudge against the St.
Claires. Dominic frowned as he stared out the window at the dark streets flashing
by.
He was sure he had never met Hammond before, yet that glint in the man’s eyes, the
hard note to his strange words, said that
he
knew
them
. And he had something against them.
Dominic resolved to find out as much as he could about this Hammond. The man would
discover that the St. Claires were not without resources of their own. Resources those
in polite Society didn’t have.
That was the one advantage of living on the shadowy margins. Of being, as Hammond
had put it, “fallen from grace so long ago.”
“Perhaps it would be best if you went home soon, James,” Dominic said.
“No!” James cried. “I can’t go home alone. Our parents would think I disgraced myself.”
Brendan snorted. “And you surely will if you keep going on this way. Would you rather
explain to our parents—or to Isabel?”
James sank back against the seat. It was clear he wouldn’t want to talk about tonight’s
debacle with his twin sister. “Why does this keep happening to me?”
“Because you are young and green,” Brendan said in a hard voice. “You will learn soon
enough, as we’ve all had to.”
Dominic almost laughed aloud. Once he would have agreed with Brendan; life was a stern
teacher indeed, and no one in their position could afford to remain innocent for long.
But some lessons it seemed would never be learned.
Why else would he keep going back to Sophia Westman, when she was the last woman in
the world he should want?
S
ophia leaned her hands back on the grass and gazed up into the pure blue sky above
her. She had been reluctant to go with Camille and her friends to this picnic in the
hilly village of Montmartre, but now she was glad she had. A lazy afternoon was just
what she needed, and this was a most unexpectedly pretty spot. A pastoral little place
high above Paris, dotted with windmills and an abandoned shepherd’s hut at the foot
of the hill. An afternoon of laughter and good conversation—and watching Dominic.
Now they were all content with languor, resting on the picnic blankets as the afternoon
slowly waned away.
“I say, you are all being far too quiet now,” Camille’s Russian count said, his voice
slurred due to the wine they had been consuming. “I suggest we play a game.”
Sophia laughed to think of anyone in the party being “quiet,” especially after all
the wine and brandy, the oysters and music. She felt dizzy with the sunshine and the
alcohol, almost reckless—which was never a good sign. That was always when she got
into the most trouble. But if she was able to return to her family there wouldn’t
be many more days like this one.
She leaned back against the rough trunk of the tree and looked across the clearing
to where Dominic lolled on the grass. His face was turned up to the sunshine, his
hair burning in the light, and a faint smile touched his lips. How very handsome he
was. She wanted to be closer to him, to let some of that warmth into herself.
“Charades, maybe?” Camille suggested as she collapsed onto the blanket next to Count
Danilov, her pale green skirts puffed out around her like a flower.
“Or cards?” someone else suggested. “We could play whist.”
“We play cards all the time,” Camille protested.
Count Danilov laughed. “And we are not a group of creaky old ladies waiting on your
English queen, are we? No, I propose something much more fun. A way for everyone to
get to know each other better.”
Camille laughed and leaned on Danilov’s arm. “I think we all know each other too well
already,” she said. “And as hostess today, I really should discourage your mischief,
mon cher comte
.”
“Are you going to discourage me?” Danilov said with a teasing grin, plucking at the
ruffles of Camille’s skirt.
Camille giggled. “Certainly not! Mischief is what this party is all about,
non
? So what game do you suggest?”
“Blindman’s buff!” one tipsy lady cried.
“No, better.” Danilov paused to sweep an arch glance over the lazy company. “A game
that is quite popular at house parties in St. Petersburg. Hide and seek.”
A wave of laughter swept over the group, like a small breath of life in their laziness.
“What fun!” the tipsy lady cried, then shrieked as someone secretly pinched her.
“A nursery game?” someone else protested.
Sophia laughed. She had the feeling this would not be quite like the games of nursery
days. She peeked over at Dominic and saw that he still lay in the sun, his eyes closed.
Something in her wanted to wake him up. “Who shall hide and who shall seek?” she said.