1939912059 (R) (37 page)

Hughes lowered his shaven chin, his brown eyes hardening. “I know that look and that tone. You are thinking about that bastard right now. That French duke of yours. Admit it.”

A sentimental breath escaped her. “I always think about Andelot. If I have a thought, he is usually in it. It is something you will have to accept.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Are you devoted to me?”

“Would I have agreed to marry you if I was not?”

“I want to hear you say it. Are you devoted to me?”

Och. Men. Even the less needier ones were still needy. “I am devoted to you. Yes.”

“Good.” He stared her down. “Because your Andelot is in London, you know.”

Her heart skidded. She swung fully to Hughes, eyes widening. “You lie.”

Swiping his face, he shifted from boot to boot. “I am not one to keep anything from you and you know it. This is me setting aside my jealousy and being a friend.” He puffed out a breath. “There is a gentleman by the name of
duc de Andelot
who started frequenting Mrs. Berkley’s whipping club a few weeks ago. Apparently, he is well known in Russia for unusual rope binding techniques. Mrs. Berkley is insisting he try on all the girls so they can learn how to do it. According to gossip, they line up every single fucking night to try it.”

She gasped. Rope binding techniques? Out of Russia? He—

She’d been upset with Gérard for some time given he had not even made an attempt to contact her. Not once. Of course, she
had
told him they were done and
had
left France many, many years ago in order to be with Henri here in England.

A shaky breath escaped her. Gérard went to Russia. Which meant he hadn’t forgotten what they shared, after all. Why else would he have gone to Russia? It was the one place she had always wanted to go.

She was quiet for a moment. “Do you know if he has been asking about me?”

Hughes glared. “What happened to your devotion?”

Of all times to agree to an engagement. “Hughes. Whilst you and I are very good friends and I adore you, you know what Andelot means to me. No man will ever go near it.”

He leaned in close. “He does not deserve you given how long he waited. Let it go.”

A breath escaped her. “I should at least see him.”

“Think twice before you ask for the devil to appear.” From behind a gloved hand, he offered, “Apparently, he wears an array of masks in public. Even in private. No one has ever seen him without it. Something happened to his face.”

Dread scraped her. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Hell if I know. Mrs. Berkley only tells me so much.”

There was only one reason as to why Gérard would have come back into her life after all these years and still not have announced himself. He was out to finish what he had started thirty years ago. Delivering her pain. Rope binding was just the beginning.

She grabbed Hughes arm, shaking it. “Do you know where he is staying?”

He snorted. “Even if I did, dearest, I would never tell you. The man binds up women like little roasts about to go on a spit. Hardly something you want to get involved with.”

She rolled her eyes. “His ropes hardly scare me.”

“Are you insinuating you wish to—”

“If he wishes it, why would I not? I have been waiting for him. I knew it was only a matter of time before he would come back.”

Hughes pulled in his chin, his face flushing. “I will bloody smack him with a duel.”

She glared. “
Non
. Are you a friend to me or not?”

He glared back. “We are engaged, madame. Or did you already forget?”

She adjusted her pearls. The ones Gérard had given her. How fitting that she was wearing them right now. “I will marry you next year if he does not appear to me.”

Rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, Hughes eyed her breasts and pearls. “And what if he appears
after
we marry? What happens then?”

She snapped her fan out at him, hitting his arm. “
Ça suffit.
You are whining now. Whatever will be, will be. You hardly own me nor will you ever. I know all about the women you continue to bed and crop despite the kiss we shared. You are a scoundrel, like the rest.”

He cleared his throat. “I have needs you refuse to meet.”

“I am retired from my profession. What more do you want?”

He muttered something.

She tapped her fan against his shoulder again. “Be the dear friend I know you to be and tell me more about Andelot. Is he married? Does he have a mistress or a lover I can talk to or visit? Do you know?”

He sighed. “I know nothing more except what Mrs. Berkley tells me. She calls him the Messiah and appears intent on turning him into a lover.”

Thérèse almost gritted her teeth. She hated Mrs. Berkley. Hated, hated, hated that woman. That British red-haired vixen was always trying to outdo her and every courtesan and prostitute in London with her crops and whips and shackles and torture devices. Thérèse herself had long tried it all back in France. It was nothing new. Sade was well ahead of his time.

She paused. Ropes. Why ropes? What did Gérard get out of it? Pleasure? A sense of control over a woman? A need to be malicious? All three? It sounded nothing like him. Surely it was nothing but gossip. Surely he had not become the very thing the Revolution had wanted him to be: sordid.

Hughes leaned sideways and squinted toward the French doors leading to the balcony of the garden. “Uh…there appears to be a small crowd gathering. Where is your granddaughter?”

Thérèse froze.
Maybelle
! Her heart pounded. She had
completely
forgotten about the poor girl.

Gathering her skirts, she darted past men and women, shoving her way by the gathering crowd. Pushing through, she stumbled out onto the terrace and jerked to a halt at seeing the Duke of Rutherford on the stairs, his black hair well-mussed as his tall frame lingered before Maybelle who was busily swiping at the front of her skirts, glancing down in the process. Those dainty gloved hands stilled against the cream satin of her gown. Dirt marks and grass stains spattered the entire front of her bosom as well as the length of her knees.

Oh, dear. In only twenty minutes these two started more than a relationship.

Thérèse swept toward them. “
Ma chére
?”

Maybelle paused, turned and met her gaze, her porcelain skin well-flushed.

Smiling in an effort to assure the girl that everything would be all right, Thérèse quickly held out a gloved hand. “It is best we leave. People are beginning to gather.”

Maybelle eyed the lighted balcony of people surrounding them.

The duke stepped toward them from behind, adjusting his evening coat. “I am to blame for this,” he offered in a low, sincere tone. “Entirely. Allow me to settle this matter in private.”

An offer?
Already
? Now here was a gentleman worthy of consideration. Aside from a title, he was wealthy enough to provide for her granddaughter and good-looking enough to give her those rosy-cheeked great-grandchildren.

Maybelle turned to the duke, startled by the offer.

Commitment was the girl’s nightmare. Och. They would come back to this later. “No need, Your Grace.
Bonne nuit
.” Thérèse gently took Maybelle’s arm, turned her away from the duke, and led them back toward the stairs leading to the balcony.

Toward the gathering crowd.

Leaning closer to Maybelle, Thérèse whispered, “There is no other way to depart except through the ballroom. Walk slowly, with dignity, and pretend all is well.”

They walked up the remaining stairs of the balcony.

The men on that balcony, both young and old alike, openly gaped at them with unwavering fascination as they passed, while several women leaned in toward each other, whispering behind their elaborate, hand painted fans.

They marched on in a slow procession, past all the endless faces of the
ton
. It felt like days of old. Not at all what she missed. The stage is the only thing she missed.

The orchestra’s minuet soon faded and they eventually left the ballroom.

Their steady steps on the marble floor echoed all around them as they headed toward the front entrance. “So,” Thérèse whispered, tightening her hold on her granddaughter’s arm. “Was he worth the parade?”

Maybelle eyed her and whispered back, “I promise to tell you everything later.”

Oho and no. “Later, later. You will have me wait that long? Absolutely not. I—” Thérèse paused, realizing there was a figure standing in the shadows by the stairwell behind them.

A tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled man with silvery-steel hair, dressed in expensive evening attire and leather riding boots leaned against the farthest wall. A cigar dangled from a black leather glove as he lifted it to his full lips, drawing attention to the fact that he wore a well-fitted, black velvet mask that hid half his face. He glanced at her in agitation, revealing only half of his masked face and ice-blue eyes, then pushed away from the wall, smoke wafting around him in the shadows as if he emerged out of hell. He stalked in the opposite direction, disappearing from sight.

Thérèse’s grasp slipped. Dearest God. He really was back. And he was doing what he did best. Watching her from a distance.

Maybelle paused and turned toward her. “
Grand-mére
?”

Thérèse took in several deep, ragged breaths and shakily placed her gloved hand to her heaving bosom, unable to breathe. She felt like she was being shoved into a trunk with no way out. And the worst of it? She wanted him to turn the key.

“
Grand-mére
?” Maybelle’s panicked voice echoed all around them in the now empty corridor. “What is it?”

“I feel...” Thérèse staggered back, trying to reach out for Maybelle with gloved hands to balance herself, then collapsed, allowing herself to careen into the spiraling darkness she had no doubt Gérard wanted her to fall into.

Months later - August 28
^th
, 1830

32 Belgrave Square - evening

At least there were still people in this godforsaken world a man could depend on.

Meaning, the Russians.

Grabbing hold of the brass handles leading into his study, Gérard flung the doors open, sending them slamming into the oak paneled walls that shook the large portraits and mirrors hanging throughout the room. The lit candles flickered, sending disfigured shadows across the high, crown molded ceilings.

Shadows were his domain now. And he was fucking proud of it. He loved it.

He glanced toward the walnut encased burgundy sofa, where a young unshaven Russian lingered. Black hair was scattered beneath a low-slung cap that shadowed the color of his eyes. A pinstripe waistcoat had been unevenly buttoned beneath a wool coat of respectable means. As always, Konstantin Alexander Levine wore no cravat around that neck and his linen shirt was left wide open for all the women to see.

Despite the young man’s inability to properly dress himself and the fact Konstantin was a former guard for criminals, the Russian’s demeanor had always been incredibly polite and noble.

Gérard adored the boy like a son and owed him his life.

Konstantin had taken a bullet to the shoulder for him back in Saint Petersburg when a bunch of anti-aristocratic idiots thought Gérard was a threat to their ‘organization’ given the peasants liked him for not only donating thousands of rubles to the poor every year, but also stripping down to a linen shirt and trousers, with his mask in place, while he went out into the fields with a scythe to muddy his own boots alongside his laborers. Everyone always seemed to have a problem accepting that aristocrats were capable of compassion and generosity and hard work. Fucking idiots.

“We meet again, my Russian friend,” Gérard rumbled out in English. His Russian wasn’t very good. “How is your shoulder?”

Konstantin thudded his left shoulder. “It healed well.”

“I am infinitely pleased to hear it, and I am infinitely pleased you came. Although it took you long enough.” Gérard smirked. “Did the boat sink and leave you to swim?”

Konstantin inclined his dark head. “It might as well have. Russia is not exactly next door, Your Grace. I stayed in Saint Petersburg a bit longer than I planned.”

Gérard entered the room, striding toward him. “Might I offer you a drink, Levin? Sherry? Cognac? Or are you hungry? Shall I have the chef prepare something for you? Is there anything you wanted? Name it, and it is yours.”

“No, thank you. I ate at an inn before coming into London. But I would like to take this moment to thank you for inviting me into a city I have always wanted to see. I only wish I had not arrived at night. I could hardly see anything.”

Like there was anything to see. London held nothing but crowded buildings and a dirty river. Gérard preferred Russia. “There will be plenty of time for that. But I should probably warn you London is a bit quiet this time of year. The Season is long over and most homes are vacated by now. I personally prefer it. A man cannot think with crowds of people around him. So tell me. How was your journey?”