Beloved (78 page)

Denis helped them dress him and finally he was lifted into the coffin and carried down to the entry hall where he would lie for the next two days so that the people of Arles could pay their respects.

Maryse sent to her house to bring Arabella’s things. She would be staying with them. And with Richard.

Stefano returned to Guy’s house for dry clothes. He went on to the warehouse, hoping to distract himself with work. There was no sign of Guy. No one had seen him and he didn’t come in while Stefano was there. While he was glad to avoid him, Stefano was also beginning to resent the fact that Guy seemed to expect him to run the business—no simple matter in midst of the current shipping crisis. They had yet to find a carrier for their silks.

Around four o’clock, he left. Walking home, he passed the Baron’s townhouse where a line of people was standing quietly, waiting for an opportunity to pay their respects. He turned his collar up and kept his head down to avoid attracting any attention.

The house was quiet when he got home. No sign of the servants, which suited him. He picked up the carafe of brandy from the library and took it to his room. Discarding his coat, waistcoat and shoes, he poured a glass of brandy and settled himself on the bed. He needed to think. There were decisions to be made.

He wanted to leave. Guy was growing more difficult. With the business in its current state and with Guy’s lack of interest, he wasn’t sure he could keep it going on his own. He had socked away a good amount of money, enough to last him at least two or three years. And most important, he was convinced Christina was lost to him forever. Perhaps it was time to return to Sabine.

But Stefano didn’t want Sabine, he wanted Christina. The turmoil in his mind faded and he slipped into a fitful sleep. And he dreamed. He dreamed of Christina and their baby, the three of them happy together. It was sunny and warm and light and it was everything he now knew he wanted from life.

He was awakened by the sound of Guy’s voice, shouting for André, for Agnes, for someone. It was full dark and no one seemed to be coming to Guy’s aid, if the sound of him stumbling up the stairs was any indication. He heard Guy coming down the hall. Stefano quietly slipped from the bed and stood against the wall, the armoire between him and the door.

Guy stopped and banged on Stefano’s door. When Guy got no answer, he opened it and looked in. The dim light from the candelabra he carried fell across the empty bed. There was no light in the room, no fire. Where was Stefano? With a mumbled curse, Guy slammed the door and staggered on down the hall toward his own room.

Stefano waited a long time, waited to hear sounds of the servants finally coming to help their master. But Guy must have managed to undress without assistance, for he heard no one. Finally, he quietly made his way through Christina’s room and on to Guy’s, where he stopped to listen at the connecting door. There was no sound. Very slowly, he opened the door.

The only light in the room was from a fire that had burned very low but it was enough for Stefano to read the clock on the mantle. It was nearly ten. Guy lay across the bed, on his back, naked, his clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor. He appeared to have passed out. As Stefano stared, Guy suddenly became the focus of all his sorrow and rage. Guy was at the root of his misery. If it weren’t for Guy, he and Christina and their child would be together. He would be happy! And then, quite clearly, Stefano saw there was only one thing for him to do.

Picking up the candles Guy had been carrying, he lit one from Guy’s fire. Once out of the room, he lit the others. At the door to Christina’s dressing room he pulled the key from the drawer.

The clothes—Richard’s clothes—that he’d worn the night before were still there on the floor. He picked them up and quickly changed. There was a large mirror on the wall and he leaned toward it, critically examining the rope burn along his neck from the night before. Dissatisfied, he slipped back into Christina’s bedroom, rummaging through the things on her dressing table until he found what he wanted. He began to apply some of the rouge to the mark on his neck. He did it carefully until it more closely resembled the mark of the noose he imagined Guy had seen on Richard’s neck. Then he bared his shoulder, working at recreating a recently healed bullet wound. He would rely heavily on low light and Guy’s inebriation to aid him in the deception.

Stefano gathered his own clothes and returned to his room. The house was still completely silent. Pulling a fine black ribbon from one of his wigs, he tied it around his hair. He slipped into his plainest pair of shoes with simple silver buckles—quite like those Richard had worn to the gallows. There was one last thing that he pulled from the pocket of the waistcoat he’d worn that day. He slipped it into the pocket of his breeches, then took a final look at himself in his mirror. Satisfied, Stefano returned to Guy.

He came into Guy’s room soundlessly and set the candles on the table near the window. All but one, he blew out. He wanted Guy to be able to see him, but not too clearly.

“Guy?” Stefano pitched his voice a little lower than normal. More as he remembered Richard’s. Guy stirred but didn’t wake. “Guy!”

“Wha…who is it?” Guy seemed unwilling to rouse himself.

“It’s Richard.” Stefano waited.

Guy pushed himself up on his elbows, unsteady as he squinted in the direction from which the voice had come.

Stefano took a step forward though he was still a good distance from the bed.

“Stefano?”

“Not Stefano, Guy. It’s Richard.”

Guy was obviously startled. He struggled to sit up, pushing his hair out of his eyes in an effort to see.

“Are you surprised? It’s me. See?” Stefano bared the side of his neck so Guy could see the mark. “You remember the rope, don’t you?”

Guy was struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. Was it possible Richard had survived?

“Do you remember this?” Stefano asked, baring his shoulder with the false wound. “You shot me. You do remember, don’t you?”

“Rich…ard?” Suddenly it seemed to Guy that it could only be Richard standing there in his room.
Richard…so close
. “Is it really you?” he whispered. There was a note of wonder coupled with yearning in his voice.

“It’s me,” Stefano purred.

Guy’s heart began to pound. “What do you want?” He found he was frightened and at the same time, thrilled.

“I have something for you. Something you’ve always wanted.” Stefano took a step closer to the bed. He could see that Guy’s body was beginning to react.

Guy couldn’t move. “But you’re…I saw…”

“Shussss…” Stefano whispered. “I know…and we have so very little time. We mustn’t waste it.”

“What do you want?” Guy was burning with desire…he couldn’t help himself. And as drunk as he was, he didn’t care. All he could see was the shape of Richard, outlined by a soft nimbus of candlelight. Even if this were a dream, still, it was what he wanted.

“Tell me what
you
want.” Stefano took another step toward the bed.

Guy’s eyes closed. “I want you,” he said so softly that Stefano could barely make out the words.

“I want you, too.” Stefano kept his voice throaty, sounding as seductive as he could.

Guy’s head was swimming and he thought he might pass out. The blood pounded through his body. But he had to open his eyes. Would Richard still be there?

As he slowly pulled his shirt over his head, Stefano heard Guy catch his breath. He tossed his shirt aside and stood next to the bed looking first at Guy and then letting his eyes slowly travel over Guy’s body. He could see how desperate Guy was and he prolonged the moment with a smoldering appraisal of Guy’s flesh.

Guy groaned and when Stefano’s fingers lightly brushed his chest, then moved lower, fluttering over his navel, he seemed to abandon himself to the sensation. Stefano began to stroke him. Guy whimpered.

“Oh, Guy…” Stefano said, sounding as if he, too, were breathless. He waited until Guy opened his eyes again, then, with tantalizing slowness, he undid one of the buttons at his waist, and then the next, as Guy watched in stunned silence.

“Turn over,” Stefano whispered.

Guy did as he was told, barely daring to breathe. He didn’t want anything to interfere with this moment, this dream. Whatever it was—dream, ghostly visitation—the sensations were real and he wanted it to go on and on.

Stefano ran his hand slowly down Guy’s back. Guy squirmed with pleasure. Then Stefano stepped out of his shoes and got on the bed. Kneeling behind Guy, for a moment he didn’t touch him, and then, he raked his fingers down Guy’s sides, the pressure increasing as they moved lower. Guy gave an ecstatic cry as Stefano’s strong hands held his hips. But it was too soon. Stefano released him and slowly began to massage his buttocks—rubbing, pinching, spreading.

He leaned forward and whispered in Guy’s ear, “Put your hands under the pillow. Imagine I’ve tied you.”

Guy immediately did as he was told.

“Imagine the rope. Can you feel it?”

“Yes, yes…” Guy’s voice was muffled by the pillow.

“Is it tight?”

“Oh yes…”

“Like the rope this morning?” Stefano gently spread Guy’s legs wider, caressing the inside of his thighs as he did so, lifting his hips. Guy offered no resistance.

Guy sobbed, “Yes, yes.”

Suddenly, Stefano rammed into him and Guy cried out, in both pain and ecstasy.

“Remember, your hands are tied,” Stefano said sternly as he slipped the little fruit knife from his pocket.

“Yes, yes,” Guy said. “Please…”

“Please? Please, what?”

“Hurt me,” Guy begged.

“Oh, I will.” Stefano slammed him again and again. “Like this?”

“More,” Guy cried.

Stefano took a handful of Guy’s hair and pulled his head back and whispered next to his ear as he pressed him harder. “Like this?”

Guy could hardly speak, hardly breathe. He felt like he was dying and it was the most wonderful sensation he’d ever experienced.

Stefano pressed the razor sharp blade against Guy’s throat and pulled it across, immediately pressing his head back down against the pillows. Guy bucked against him, from fear or pleasure, Stefano couldn’t tell. He continued slamming into him, even as he felt the life draining from the body beneath him. But still he pressed Guy’s head down, taking out all his anger and frustration on the man who was no longer participating in his own punishment.

When it was over and when he was sure Guy was dead, Stefano climbed off him. He wiped the blood from his knife and his hand on the sheets, then straightened the covers and pulled them up so that only Guy’s hair was visible. The blood had gone into the pillows and mattress. It would be a while before anyone noticed that Guy was not merely sleeping off another binge.

Stefano gathered his shirt and shoes, returned the breeches and shirt to Christina’s dressing room and went back to his own room. He cleaned himself up, redressed in the clothes he’d worn that day, and straightened the bed. He took the brandy decanter back to the library and quietly left the house. He saw no one until he was on the next street.

It was Stefano’s turn to celebrate. He took himself to Madame Dijol’s where he was far more welcome than Guy had been of late. He asked if anyone had seen Guy but no one had. He ordered a bath, a late supper and chose a lovely young girl with long chestnut hair who smelled of bergamot.

At three in the morning Arabella was startled by the clatter of hooves in the courtyard. She had been sitting with Richard while Maryse and Christina tried to rest. Denis was with her. They both went to the door.

Robert was startled to see Arabella. “What are you doing here, my dear?” And then it struck him that something might have happened. “Is it Christina?”

“No, she’s fine.” Arabella reached for his hand, even as his head turned toward the casket and the candles. He looked from Denis to Arabella and back to where Richard lay.

His cry of anguish woke the house.

C’est l’encre sur le papier qui s’avance l’amour a travers le tunnel de temps.

—Tillier

Ink on paper pulls Love through the tunnel of time.

Mars 1760

Arles

André greeted Stefano at the door when he returned to the house the next morning.

“’Morning, Sir. Will you be wanting breakfast?”

“Yes, please. I’d like to change first.” Stefano started up the stairs, pleased that the household seemed to be in its normal routine. He paused on the stairs. “Has Guy been home?”

“Still asleep, Sir. Do you want me to wake him?”

“Let him sleep. I’ll see him later today.”

Stefano changed quickly, had a leisurely breakfast, and went on to the warehouse. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It remained to be seen what would happen next, but he was confident that he was above suspicion. While going about his business as though nothing were amiss, he started to make plans for the future.

Robert was devastated. Mute, he sat with Arabella and Denis, staring at the body of his beautiful little brother, who had often seemed more like a son to him. His heart was broken.

At dawn, Maryse came down to take her turn and Arabella and Denis helped Robert upstairs.

“My Lord, the Baron left some papers for you. You might want to look at them now?”

It took a minute for the young man’s words to register.

“Yes, of course. I should have asked before.”

Arabella noticed a spark of interest. Perhaps Robert thought there might be some clue to be found, which would explain how this terrible thing had come to pass.

“You know, he and Christina were married. We can all be grateful for that,” Arabella said softly. She wanted very much to find a way to ease his pain.

Robert looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. He’d lost track of the hours since he’d returned.

“How did you come to be here, Arabella?” He had to regain some sense of what had happened in his absence.

“I was there…in the square. Christina wanted me with her and Maryse. When it was over, she asked me to come back with them.”