Time for Eternity (7 page)

“Cerise,” he choked. The light died in her eyes, leaving them flat and dull. “Cerise …”

The very act of breathing was an effort. What had he expected? He was a monster. She was right about him. And he
had no right to try to use her hope and innocence to save his soul.

He gathered her in his arms and laid her on the great bed.

He’d poisoned an innocent with his foul nature. She had taken her own life rather than spend even one night with him.

His head sank on his breast. There was nothing for him here now. He drew his power.
Companion!
It shushed up his veins.

The world went red. The whirling blackness rose up around his knees.

He’d sought salvation in a young girl’s arms. What he’d gotten was certain damnation.

Henri closed his eyes, slowly, against the memory. Now he never bedded innocents. Or stayed with any one woman long enough for her to know his secrets. A stable life of love and mutual respect was a dream that could never be real for him. His kind was not meant for the ties that bind. His own vampire mother had abandoned him at puberty when he came into his powers.

Children were so rare for his kind as to be almost a miracle, and yet as soon as the children were full vampires their parents obeyed the Rule laid down by the Elders that vampires live only one to a city and essentially abandoned their children. That Rule was second in importance only to the Rule that forbade making a human into a vampire by sharing the Companion. After all, if vampires crowded into a city, or made other vampires, soon humans would discover them, and the tenuous balance between those who drink blood and those who give it would be broken. So, no connections for his kind were possible, human or vampire, ever.

Not that he didn’t satisfy his needs. But he stuck to worldly creatures; widows, actresses who expected no more than what he was likely to give them—money, pleasure, and the illusion that their beauty would never fade. And he did give them pleasure. He knew how to do that. His own releases couldn’t really be called pleasure anymore but they kept his sexual demons at bay. And always, it was he that left them. In his nature he supposed. Or maybe he took revenge on the distaff world for his mother abandoning him. It was the way of his kind. He couldn ’t break that most harsh Rule of vampire nature, no matter his occasional longing for something stable to anchor his long years.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he not pollute the world more than was absolutely necessary. He could not help showing some his nature. It was how he did his work, after all. But he could refuse to defile innocence. Now he had an innocent in his very house. He could hear her talking to the maid Gaston had remarkably procured. He’d have to think of some way to get rid of her. Quickly.

Four

As Gaston bowed himself out, Françoise found herself not in the lurid boudoir with gold -flocked fleur-de-lis wallpaper on a black background and red carpets she expected but in a very comfortable and stylish chamber. Gold leaf highlighted the intricate curves of delicate, white-painted furniture. A dressing table sat in one corner, a large wardrobe in the other. The bed was hung with sheer blue bed curtains and covered with a very becoming brocaded and embroidered quilt. Dozens of pillows were piled high against the headboard. The draperies were light blue, and the thick carpets were swirls of blue and taupe. The whole thing looked

… feminine.

Françoise felt like such an interloper. What must they all think of her? She wandered from bed to dressing table, touching silver-backed brushes and tiny colored glass bottles that smelled of expensive perfume. Her senses were a little dulled with all the momentous events tonight. She felt as though the world had lost color, somehow, or taste.

A knock sounded at the door.

Françoise almost looked around to see who had the right to allow entry to this lovely room. “Come in.” A young woman hurried in and bobbed a curtsy.

“Annette, if you please, my lady,” she said, slightly out of breath. “I’m to help you dress for dinner.” She had red hair, a plain, round face with light eyelashes, and a dumpling of a chin.

Françoise smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid that will be quick work. My other clothing was destroyed in the fire.” The servants would know she lived next door.

The girl smiled, almost kindly. “Do not worry your head, your ladyship. Gaston, he has ordered the bath, and before you can dry yourself, I will have just what you need all laid out and waiting. Mind you, I ’m not a lady’s dresser, so I hope I’ll do for your ladyship.”

“I’m not a lady, Annette.”
Just someone with nowhere else to go.
Annette opened the wardrobe. It seemed fully stocked. “I’m sure you will be just fine. Are you normally a housemaid here? ” That seemed the most plausible explanation for her sudden appearance.

“La, no, mademoiselle. The duc has no female servants. I’m housemaid three doors down. Or was until ten minutes ago.”

Françoise blinked, not sure which part of this speech to question first. “So you just … quit without notice?”

Annette chuckled. “Don’t expect Madame even knows I’m gone. But when my brother tells me that my salary just tripled if I’m here within five minutes, I don’t ask questions.”

“Your brother?”

“Footman here,” Annette said proudly. “Name is Jean. He’s been with the duc near on three years, and everyone knows the duc only takes the best.”

So that’s how Gaston had provided a maid on short notice, and why Annette’s red hair seemed familiar. No wonder Avignon had thought it a hard task to procure a female attendant —he employed no females himself. She would have expected a man of Avignon’s morals to keep a host of girl-servants he could take advantage of at a moment’s notice whenever the latest in his string of paramours was unavailable. That was the lot of young women. It might be her lot when Avignon ended his charade. If she was lucky. If not, it might be the brothel.

“You’re not afraid to serve here?”

“Well …” Annette looked dubious for a moment, then she shrugged. “Jean says the devil … his grace, I mean, won’t bother about me as long as you’re here.”

Oh, well, that made Françoise feel better all around.

Her grim thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and two footmen brought in a bath three times larger than any she had ever used and set it by the fire. They were followed by a line of servants all carrying buckets. The room overflowed with activity, then emptied. Before she knew it the room held only Annette and a steaming bath, lavender -scented soaps, and thick towels, all looking more inviting than she would have imagined. The water didn ’t even smell. Wasn’t it from the Seine? But water from the system of wells that sold water privately was horrendously expensive. Could Avignon be rich enough to use it for
bathing?

“Now just you let me help you out of that nasty dress,” Annette fussed, unbuttoning and unhooking and untying.

Françoise stepped into the steaming tub. “Thank you,” she breathed, sinking in to the nape of her neck. Heaven. Her hair would still smell like smoke, she was sure, but the rest of her would be clean, cleaner than a bath with river water could ever make her.

And Madame LaFleur was spending the night in who knew what horrible cell? Guilt slapped her. Conditions in the Conciergerie were rumored to be deplorable. But even imprisonment would be better than Madame’s plight as soon as she had stood before the committee. If only the duc could have saved Madame as well. She had no idea why Robespierre had backed down, even offered Françoise an apology, instead of arresting her.

What hold could the duc have over the chairman of the Committee of Public Safety? Whatever it was kept him out of the clutches of the mob, no matter how blatantly he flaunted his aristocracy. He hadn ’t even been wearing a ribbon with the French colors on it to show his support of the Revolution. She should be grateful for whatever his influence was, or she would be sharing Madame’s lot tonight. Poor Madame.

Françoise stepped out of the cooling bath and wrapped herself in a towel. Annette was sorting through a heap of clothing on the bed. “This looks like it might fit you, little thing that you are. ” She held up a frothy cerulean-blue confection with actual lace at the neckline.

Françoise blinked. She had never had such an expensive dress in her life. It was not made in the severe revolutionary style. If it wasn’t au courant, neither was it left over from the prerevolutionary excess. There were no hooped panniers or elbow -length sleeves with ruffles. It had a square décolletage and long, translucent sleeves that ended in narrow cuffs at the wrist. It was an altogether original look, much too beautiful to be worn except if one wanted to be riding in a tumbrel to the Place de Revolution surrounded by a mob shouting for your blood. She had never seen anything like it.

Yet it was totally familiar. She reached out to touch it.

“Oh, my.” Stupid. But it was all she could think to say. The fabric was silk.

What was a dress like this doing in the house of an unattached man?

She snatched back her hand. There could be but one answer to that. She looked around at the feminine furniture and the cut -

glass bottles of perfume. How stupid she was.

“My dress is good enough.” It cost her something to say that.

Annette’s eyes went wide. “You’re never going to wear that sooty thing to dinner!”

“I … I don’t care to wear the clothes he keeps for his … his companions.” She sounded stuffy even to herself.

“Me, I’d give my eyeteeth to wear a dress like this, don’t matter where it comes from.” Annette’s hands were absently stroking the almost transparent sleeves. “And his grace has taste that’s nice to a fault,” she continued briskly, coming to herself. “Won’t do to spoil his dinner looking at that nasty dress.”

“I … I shall take a tray in my room.” Oh, but the dress was lovely.

Annette’s eyes opened wide. Then she set her lips. “Yes, mademoiselle.” She was clearly miffed. “I’ll tell his grace that you chose not to take advantage of his kind offer to dine with him—him that Jean says dines alone so often. Still, I expect he’s used to it.”

The wicked duc, dining alone? Not one night in twenty, she wagered. Still, it was rude to refuse his offer, even if, as he said, he hadn’t made it to be kind. He had saved her from Robespierre and Madame Croûte, after all.

Could he do the same for Madame LaFleur? The thought popped into her head. Why not? There was no one else who could help her. But would he? She doubted it. He didn’t extend himself for anyone. And yet, he had extended himself for her …

But she must go carefully. She must find out why he had bothered himself with her plight. If she knew that, maybe she could convince him to do the same for her friend.

“Annette,” she called as the young woman was pulling open the door. “You’re right. It’s not the first time I’ve had hand-me-down clothes and it won’t be the last.”

The girl turned, all smiles over teeth that weren’t quite straight. “That’s the way, mademoiselle. And I’m not much of a hand at dressing hair, but I expect I can manage yours.”

Henri put one foot up on the andirons of the fireplace in the smaller dining room. He’d pack her off to England. That’s what he’d do. But he must wait until the end of the week and ship her off with the others. He didn’t trust Robespierre not to have her arrested on the way to Le Havre just to spite him if he sent her ahead on her own.

She was right about England though. Without connections or position, emigrating was a dicey business, and for a woman alone

…

He sipped his wine, annoyed. The ornate water clock on the mantel had chimed the hour five minutes ago. He liked to dine sharply at nine. And tonight he had much to do.

Well, he’d give the girl some money at least. What else could he do? He ’d saved her from losing her head at the Place de Revolution. The rest was up to her.

He tapped his finger on the mantel. A dull dinner this was likely to be, though she had surprised him with a sharp tongue. She ’d lose her wit and her tongue soon enough when she fell under the spell of his magnetism. They always did.

The hell of it was that with her around, not even dining alone would be a refuge. Over the years, alone as he felt inside, he had grown to like his privacy at dinner. It was a nice contrast to feeling alone in the crowds of bored revelers and ne ’er-do-wells. The servants thought him mad for serving himself. Let them.

It occurred to him that he had lost heart. Not courage. A creature such as he was beyond fear. He would keep to his chosen course. It was a matter of will and he still had resolve. But hope had vanished centuries ago. He had seen too much and it all ended the same way no matter what one did. So he had ceased putting his heart into it. Still, he continued. What else could one do except go mad?

The doors to his right opened.

One of the servants ushered in the most surprising creature. How long since he had been surprised?

It was only a few minutes after nine when Françoise came down the curved stairway to the ground floor, following Jean, of the red hair and the sister. She felt like someone else entirely in this dress, not least because Annette could find no fichu to cover her breast. At least none that matched. She wore no jewelry, of course. But the dress itself felt like a jewel. The slippers Annette had produced might not be a perfect fit, but a little tissue stuffed into the soft white satin made them serviceable. Her hair had been coaxed into its usual soft curls, a little longer at her nape. Annette had offered rouge and lip color and something to darken her lashes, but she had refused. She did
not
want to look like a loose woman.

He has no interest in someone like you,
she recited to herself.
You’re just here to see if there is any chance he’ll help
Madame.
She was about to beard the lion in his den.

The footman opened the door. “The smaller dining room, mademoiselle.”

Again the room was not what she expected. She’d thought the duc would prefer a grandiose setting to match his consequence.