The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 7

"Thank you for coming, child. But don't come again."

Francoise's eyes filled.

"Au revoir," the comte said. Emile waved a still-chubby hand.

"Get along, now. My wine waits for me." The guard pushed her back down the corridor.

She had to get Avignon to intercede for Madame.

Francoise trudged up to the front doors of number sixteen, intending to knock. The door opened as she raised her hand to the knocker.

"Mademoiselle," Jean said. "Come in, come in."

Gaston hurried up as she entered. "But where have you been, mademoiselle?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. "You crept out without letting anyone know. La Fanchon waited for three quarters of an hour before she stormed out. After I had arranged at great personal cost that she do your fitting here. And now you are in that dreadful, smoking dress." His hands fluttered in distress. "What will his grace say?"

"Oh, dear." She had forgotten. Gaston had said something about an appointment when she was so distressed this morning.

"Who is Fanchon?" Francoise hardly felt up to all the emotional energy in the foyer. Another footman was busy closing all the draperies. Why did they keep the house so dreary and dim?

"A dressmaker," Jean explained.

"Dressmaker?" Gaston rolled his eyes. "That is like calling ... calling Michelangelo a stone cutter." Gaston was about to go on, but he peered at Francoise and abruptly shut his mouth. "Well, nevermind all that. Jean, get ratafia and bring it to the library." When Jean did not move fast enough he added, "Rapidement, s'il vous plait?"

He gestured Francoise down the ground-floor hallway. "Or perhaps Mademoiselle would like some cakes to sustain Mademoiselle until supper?" He opened the doorway to the library in which she had first met Avignon last night.

Francoise sat gratefully in one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace. Today no fire burned there. "I am just a little tired." In truth the visit to Madame was the perfectly dreadful cap to a very long day. She ran her fingers through her curls.

"Where is that lazy Jean? Oh, here you are. Bring that tray here." He took it from the footman. "Now go tell Pierre we need sustenance for Mademoiselle."

Jean took himself off. Gaston poured ratafia. "And what has so fatigued Mademoiselle?"

"I went to see Madame LaFleur in the Conciergerie." Her eyes filled again.

"Quel horreur! But that is no place for a young person." He handed her the wine.

"It isn't a place for anyone but there are hundreds there. Children too." She sipped. Gaston motioned for her to take another drink. She did.

"There, that is better, no?"

She did feel a little better.

"We will not speak to his grace of this visit to a place it is not at all comme il faut to go, will we, Mademoiselle?"

"That would offend the duc's sensibilities, would it?" She shook her head. "I might have known. It must be horrible to work for such a man."

"Horrible?" Gaston seemed surprised.

"Does he throw things? He would be just the type. I'll wager he has a dreadful temper."

Gaston gave a very tiny smile. "When his grace is displeased he becomes very quiet and polite. His voice is like silk. " He shuddered. "A terrible thing to experience, I a.s.sure you."

Not what Francoise expected. Still ... "Why do you stay?"

Gaston drew himself up. "Does Mademoiselle know how difficult it is to find a patron worthy of my skills in this time of rabble and cowards? Nor would I deign to leave France for some barbaric outpost like London or Rome or ... dear G.o.d save me, Vienna." He shook his head sadly. "No, when one must work for the best, there is little choice. The duc is far above the compet.i.tion in the best of times ... the nicety of his taste, the demanding trust he puts in one to accomplish the impossible on a moment's notice, and of course, the fact that he recognizes my superior skills. What is a little silken tone to those accomplishments?"

Interesting perspective. She was about to ask more when the double doors to the library were flung open. A large man filled the doorway. He wore a starched white coat, an ap.r.o.n smudged with various sauces over his ample girth, and a hat that bloused over one ear. He was followed by a bevy of other servants, all male, carrying trays.

"Never fear, my little pate a choux. I, Pierre, have come with sustenance." He waved the servants forward and pulled a low table in front of Francoise. The footmen put three trays down. Jean brought up the rear with a silver coffee service. Pierre pulled the cover off the first tray. "Voila, quenelles. Salmon with a dill sauce, chicken with a curry sauce, and a light white fish with the lemon.

A bite of each?" He did not pause for her consent but dished her up three of the delicate little pillows and covered them with sauces from silver gravy boats.

"You ... You should not have troubled yourself."

"Trouble? I made these for your luncheon. Should such brilliant food go to waste? I think not!" He poured some wine. "Here, a little white bordeaux to wash them down. And then I think you will not disdain this small souffle with the cheese? " He pulled up another cover and added it to her dish. "And you may finish with the candied quinces and the b.u.t.tered nuts. Just a little soupcon of pleasure to tide you over until you can eat properly with his grace tonight."

Francoise had to laugh. "If this is a soupcon, I am afraid to see what an entire meal would be." Wait, might that not be an insult?

"Actually, I have had an entire meal. Last night was supremely satisfying. The ragout of sweetbreads was extraordinary."

The large man's florid face lit up like a lighthouse. "Ah, the duc, he demands the best. But he provides the best ingredients. A fair trade, I think. And of course, I never disappoint."

She tasted the chicken quenelle. It melted in her mouth. "Monsieur, this is heaven."

"But of course." He bustled out, followed by footmen like a mother quail by her chicks.

Gaston bowed crisply. "I must leave you also, mademoiselle. His grace will soon be rising, and he will require a bath."

"Thank you," she murmured. "You have all been so very kind."

She was alone. Her wits came back slowly. The wine helped and the food. But nothing could erase the feeling that Madame was doomed unless Francoise could free her.

And no one could do that but Avignon. He must help Madame. He just must.

She couldn't let him put her off. He might throw her out of the house if she importuned him. Without anywhere else to go ... It didn't matter. She had no choice. She was going to ask him and she wouldn't take no for an answer. She had to do it now while she had her courage in her hands. And she knew where he was at this moment. Somewhere he couldn't avoid her. He was about to take a bath.

Six

If only his servants weren't all hovering about him when he bathed. Francoise wanted him alone, no servants there to throw her out, and he unable to leave because he was naked. Oh, dear. That caused the most distressing cascade of images.

How did she know these things?

She mustn't think of that. She should think only of Madame. She stole up the stairway, her blood starting to pool in her center.

Avignon naked. Shoulders, chest, belly, and ...

She shook her head to banish thought-at least those thoughts. She knew which room was his. He had shown her only this morning. Now she was glad the house was so dim. The lamp at the top of the stairs cast wavering shadows from its candle, but the light did not reach down the hall. She sidled up to the far side of the door to listen.

He wasn't alone. She could hear him giving orders to someone. His valet, Drummond? Whoever it was responded, "Very good, your grace," to every command. How Avignon must love that clear, competent acquiescence. He was never challenged, was he?

She heard footsteps approaching the door from inside the room and melted into the shadows at the end of the hall. A dapper man dressed with immaculate precision appeared and trotted down the main stairway. She crept up again and pressed her ear against the door. She could hear him moving in there, but he seemed to be alone. Perfect.

She was almost shaking. Think of Madame LaFleur. She cracked the door and slid inside.

The room was lit by candelabrum everywhere. She was aware of a ma.s.sive bed off to the right, a dressing table holding gleaming silver brushes and a small knife for paring nails, a fireplace, several comfortable chairs. The impression was of red and black masculinity. But her gaze was captured by the figure in front of the large porcelain bath. His dressing gown was laid over a chair. At least he had his back to her. Golden light played over the muscles moving in his broad back, the gleaming roundness of his b.u.t.tocks, the thick bands of muscle in his thighs. A coruscating vibration shouted that he was more alive than anyone she had ever known.

He stilled under her gaze. "To what do I owe this honor?"

She hated that insolent a.s.surance. How did he know it was she? But she had no right to hate it. That insolent a.s.surance was what could free Madame if he applied it to Robespierre. "For my friend, I would dare anything." She felt herself blus.h.i.+ng from head to toe.

He turned. Dear G.o.d. Shocking. Yet not shocking at all. More ... intriguing. A throbbing began between her thighs.

"Was this what you wanted?" His tone was calm, bored even. Well, it wasn't as if he needed to be embarra.s.sed by his body.

That seemed a very fine specimen. As if she knew anything about men's bodies. And yet she did know this man's body. The black hair on his broad chest, the small dark nipples, peaked just now, the veins that fed his biceps, the bands of muscle over his abdomen, the bulge of his upper arm, all seemed incredibly familiar. She resolved not to stare at the most interesting part of all. At least not for long. But she didn't have to. She knew that the vee of hair pointing downward led to an organ that was most impressive. And it wasn't even roused. She could picture it erect. Mother of Jesus. She'd never had thoughts as graphic as these.

She was getting wet.

She tore her gaze away from him. But it only landed on the bed. And she thought of that naked body lying in that bed, tangled in the sheets, with a woman. With her. Kissing her, stroking her, gently, as though she were a treasured possession to be cared for ...

loved ...

She shook her head, took a breath, and turned back to him. He didn't care for anyone, least of all her. She wanted to tell him that he must use his influence with Robespierre to save Madame. But she couldn 't make her throat move. He was becoming aroused, that much was evident. She wanted to run from the room. But she also wanted to stay. He was dangerous. Not only to her virginity, but also to her soul. She felt it. Part of her knew everything and was screaming to her to protect herself. And part of her knew nothing, and was just rebellious enough to want to know everything.

Well, it hadn't taken her long to throw herself at him. He couldn't quite figure her out. The blush had certainly been maidenly. But then there was her frank appraisal of his endowments. As though she were most familiar with men and their parts. Still, she had grown uncomfortable and turned away. But as she stared at his bed he could see her considering all the games one might play in bed together. And he started thinking about that too. Mistake. She might be wearing that sooty, tawdry dress but he could still see the curves she had displayed last night in that blue dress he'd had made for ... for whatever her name was. This girl's body was pet.i.te but lush. He could feel himself growing tight and heavy, the ache beginning that signaled some desire that would never be fulfilled, no matter that he spent himself in a woman. He smelled the musk of her own desire on her. He could always smell when they l.u.s.ted after him. She turned back. And he thought her reaction to his coming erection would tell him whether she was bawd or innocent. It didn't.

Her eyes were the strangest mixture of naive shock and experienced appreciation. He stared in fascination. Some part of her might almost be as cynical, as damaged, as he was himself. And yet there was a halo of hopefulness that still believed in new possibilities hanging around the edges of her eyes. Innocent? Or worldlier than anyone else he had ever known? Which was she? What was she?

Sacredieu, she was his ward. What was he thinking? "Vous permettez?" He glanced to his robe pooled over a chair.

She came to herself and nodded convulsively.

He reached for his dressing gown and shrugged into it. He pulled the belt ruthlessly around his waist to cover his erection, which might not be increasing since he had realized she was his ward, but was not exactly subsiding either.

The girl was trying to find her voice. To his surprise, he wondered exactly what she would say. He had long ago ceased to find humanity a surprise.

"I went to visit Madame LaFleur today. I finally found her in the Conciergerie." She said it as though it were a challenge.

"You what?" Surprise indeed. She'd combed the prisons for her friend? That took courage. She might also have ruined his efforts to save her by a.s.sociating with the old woman.

"The conditions are appalling."

As he knew only too well. "I am aware."

"Illness may take her before she can be guillotined." Her eyes welled with tears again.

Spare me tears, he thought, grimacing. He'd seen enough tears, both crocodile and real, that he never wanted to see more in his lifetime.

"You could help her. I know you could."

The d.a.m.nable part was that he was probably the only person in Paris besides Robespierre or his h.e.l.l-sp.a.w.ned b.i.t.c.h who could, though not the way the girl thought. "You think I am someone I am not." He made his voice hold finality and a hint of derision.

"Someone who has influence, or someone who will care enough to try?" she challenged.

She was persistent. "Your choice," he murmured. He made his eyes bore into hers, telling her his heart was stone, making her believe his refusal as no protestation could. That would stop her.

"You can sit by with your salt and well water and your brandy and lift not even a finger to relieve the suffering around you?"

"I lifted a finger to save you," he reminded her gently. "Don't make me regret it."

She swallowed. She'd heard the threat in what he said. That would do it. "And me, I am grateful. But you could do more. What kind of a man are you, that you will not even try?"

He retreated behind a mask. She challenged him after he 'd threatened her? "No kind of man at all." He let his voice drip boredom. A monster, maybe, a freak, but not a man.

"You have influence with Robespierre. I saw it. The most he can say is no."

She didn't understand. The old woman was long past using influence. Robespierre would never let her go once she was in prison. That would give the other prisoners hope. The only way she could be saved was the way he saved the others. But the old woman didn't fit the pattern. That would draw attention to her. And she was his neighbor. They would connect him to her. Trying to save her would jeopardize all his work for the others. He half wanted to explain to the girl. Surprising. He couldn 't of course.

"The cost would be too great."

"What cost?" she pressed. "To your pride? A small price on the whole."

"What do you know of cost?"

That expression of lurking pain that said she knew ... everything, just as he did, crossed her face. And then the innocence prevailed. "I am not experienced, as you are." She was embarra.s.sed by her innocence. He saw her gather herself and resolve to press her case. "But I know the cost. Madame's life. Your soul may have many stains on it, Monsieur le Duc, but that only means it cannot stand another."

A perspective that could only be held by someone young. "You know nothing of stained souls."

"But I do." She looked surprised at herself and then her eyes unfocused as she looked within. "You become disconnected from humanity. You believe you are different, a monster even, and then, because you cannot change anything you have done, or felt, or been, your only choice is to become numb to others' pain. Because if you can't become numb to their pain, you will never be numb to your own, and that, in the end is the best you can hope for."

He blinked. Then he cleared his throat. "If that is what you think, how ... how could you believe that I would trouble myself over someone else's pain?"

She frowned, puzzling over it.

Yes, my pretty one, that is your problem in convincing me, is it not? And mine in finding a way to live with this burden I have become to myself.

"Because," she said slowly, "I think the only way you can overcome what you have done to yourself, and to others, is to resolve to leave yourself open to yet more damage. Yes. Resolve. That is the only cure." He frowned. Resolve was what he had used to banish his own demons for centuries. She looked up at him. "Can that be right?" She was innocent enough to admit she wasn't sure. And experienced enough to know everything. How was that possible?

"No. It can't." He couldn't take any more of this. "Now, will you leave me to my bath?"

She was still musing to herself. "But I think it can." She glanced up at him and shrugged a smile. "You must see that if I believe one must resolve to overcome cynicism and be open to the world and all it can do to one, then I must believe you will help me in spite of your nature, and resolve to see that you do. Which means I'm not going anywhere without your promise."

He sighed in exasperation. "I shall discuss this with you over dinner. Not while I'm taking a bath. Is that enough of a promise?"