Follow The Night (Bewitch The Dark) (2 page)

Yes, but Leo’s foibles were necessary, and not distasteful to the eye.

Dark eyes alighting at Marmonte’s beckoning, the tall stranger crossed the room in a few jaunty strides. He bowed grandly before Leo, sweeping his hand to the ground and stretching a leg out behind him in a courtly bow. Red-heeled shoes, as well—a court standard. Why, then, was he slumming at the Marmonte salon?

“Leo, I take great pleasure in introducing you to Monsieur Anjou.”

No title? Could not possibly be royalty. It had been some time since Leo had appeared at court—wisely, he avoided the king’s wrath. Were they admitting commoners now?

“Monsieur Anjou has been in Paris for a few months after a most adventurous excursion to the Americas.”

“Such adventure.” Despite its vogue, Leo cared very little for any news regarding America. He maintained interest with difficulty.

“Monsieur Anjou, this is our very own Leo, the star of my humble salon.”

“Known by but a single moniker. Intriguing.” The man offered a forced smile. As if he were bothered by such an introduction. Why the rude piece of anachronistic fluff!

“What is infinitely more intriguing,” Leo said tersely, “is your remarkable taste in anachron— er, antique attire. Where
did
you find the gold lace, Monsieur Anjou? It looks to be real, not the gold threading currently the rage.”

The man fondled the jabot coiled about his neck, though he kept a cool eye on Leo. “It is actually an heirloom.” Coal eyes did not waver from Leo. Such nerve to look at him so directly. “I am not much for style, as you can see. That, as I understand, is why Madame de Marmonte displays—er,
invites
you here, yes?”

A verbal cut, but hardly enough to slice. “I suppose it is.”

Madame Marmonte offered, “We’ve been discussing the Rake Ripper, Monsieur Anjou.”

“A popular topic lately. The fellow seems intent on extinguishing every
precieuse
he can place his hands to. Quite the rake yourself, eh, Leo?”

The sudden hysteric gesture of flailing arms from behind Anjou caught Leo’s attention. He tilted his head to peer around Anjou’s bouffant of wig and arched a curious brow.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Leo said, cautioning a smirk. “It appears my valet strives to develop the newest dance.”

He nodded congenially to Monsieur Anjou and Madame de Marmonte as Toussaint crept up and whispered in his ear. Unwelcome tension tightened Leo’s fist. It was not anything he wished to hear. Not now, when he was engaged in the charade. How his past continued to find him, no matter the venue.

“Forgive me, Madame, Monsieur, I must beg off.”

What excuse for leaving? For the truth would surely attract an audience.

A glance fixed to Toussaint, wide-eyed and waiting. Where
did
the man procure his clothing? At the Monday market in the Place de Greve? Did they not sell clothing peeled from corpses there? All the same, it would serve a useful distraction.

“Toussaint is a bit green to see Monsieur Manette dons the same Parakeet Wing as he this evening. It has become so common a color. Alas, I must hurry him away before the lackwit expires from embarrassment.”

With a jerk of his head, Gabriel Renan summoned the valet to his side. His alter ego, the foppish Leo, was always abandoned in the salon—Gabriel’s dignity demanded it.

His strides moved him quickly, heels clicking down the cracked marble floor. Social pretense slipping as quickly as his mincing gait, his jaw tightened and his voice hardened. “Where is he?”

“Out back,” Toussaint instructed. “In the courtyard between the estate and the carriage run.”

Perturbed, Gabriel tugged at the itchy lace ruffled about his wrist. Leo’s lace. He abhorred this fop’s costume. Yet if he wished to succeed at dispersing his inheritance the disguise was necessary.

“Just the one?”

“All alone,” Toussaint verified. “No one to hear his mad meanderings.”

“Thank the gods for that small mercy.” Gabriel turned the corner and slowed his pace. “I do hope Leo begins climbing the social ladder soon. I tire of this charade, Toussaint.”

Stepping outside, Gabriel stretched a look along the parking aisle that hugged the south side of the hornbeam-fenced estate. The air crackled with autumn crispness. Cypress leaves broke from their tethers and drifted to the cobblestones in fluttery winks of amber and gold. A dim oil lamp clinging to the corner of the house painted a pale sheen across the grounds.

A drunken squawk of surprise alerted him. Pale blue damask displayed runnels of burgundy wine down the left side of his coat. He stabbed the air with a finger, piercing Gabriel with an impotent dagger. His porcupine wig askew, and his wrinkled jabot undone, he spat out a spray of wine.

“You!” he managed with slippery lips and uneasy balance. “Her son. I saw you through the window! Oh,” he moaned and clutched his chest. “I loved her…my Juin-Marie. Juin-Marie!”

Gabriel rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What miserable remnant from my mother’s past has come to haunt me this day?”

“She was mine!” the drunk protested to the moon. “
My
Juin-Marie.”

Another outburst like that and the entire salon would crowd outside to witness the spectacle. Gabriel could not have that—nor could Leo.

He twisted the diamond head of his walking stick and drew out a rapier from the cherrywood shaft.

The man stumbled across the courtyard, but saw Gabriel’s intentions and, with a crooked wine-spattered grin, withdrew a rapier from the concealed folds of his sodden frock coat. Not so inebriated as he would appear then.

Gabriel tossed the walking stick to Toussaint, who expertly caught it, crossed his arms and cast an observant eye upon the match.

“She left me,” the drunk spat. He stepped forward a pace, wobbled, shuffled back two steps, countering his wavering equilibrium. Yet his weapon remained on the mark for Gabriel’s heart.

Not yet compelled to go en garde, Gabriel merely shook his head. He strolled a half arc, mirroring his opponent’s ridiculous challenge. To face one in his cups? Hardly a man’s match. And to do so in heels and lace? Bother.

“Tell me where she is! I die a new death each day that passes without my Juin-Marie!”

Yet another of his mother’s discarded lovers. Did they never learn?

A thrust of his arm placed the point of Gabriel’s rapier to the drunk’s bobbing Adam’s apple. Drawing his weapon arm straight, he looked down the blade of cold steel at his misshapen opponent. “Cease your idiot ranting. Go home. Sleep it off. If you do not, you will regret this foolishness in the morning.”

“You are no challenge to me, you frimpy bit of lace!”

Frimpy? Not even on his worst days.

Steel cut steel, dashing away Gabriel’s rapier. Quickly, he delivered a riposte. Sword blades clanged in the chill quiet of the night. Judging the man’s skill in the slight tremor as their blades kissed, Gabriel determined insufficient challenge.

“There is only one man—” he smashed the hilt of his rapier across the man’s right hand. His opponent’s weapon clanged to the ground. “—in all the world—” He pressed the drunk backward, stumbling toward the hornbeam wall behind him. “—who may use that name.”

Too late. Gabriel had touched rage. And this man had named his title correctly. He stabbed the rapier, missing the man’s throat by a hair—then swung up his left fist, connecting with the man’s jaw.

Stepping over the fallen man’s legs, Gabriel tugged at the lace about his neck and wrists. “This party has become dreadfully dull, Toussaint. Bring up the carriage, will you?”

“Of course.” Toussaint skipped around the trimmed boxwood hedge.

Tension slipping away, Gabriel leaned against the wrought iron gate that barred the servants’ entrance from the back courtyard. He drew in a deep breath, the exhale hissing out in a cloud of condensation. The moon expanded well beyond the half-rounded mark. No need for street lamps this night. Not that the miserly lamplighters ever filled the lamps with more oil than to serve a few hours.

A glance to the man sprawled in the thick, hornbeam shadows only raised his ire. He had named him
vicomte
. And he’d known his family. To be recognized, when he thought to remain anonymous in Paris, would not prove a boon to his covert affairs.

He went to great lengths to create a persona that the aristocracy and city officials would be willing to trust.

The click of a heel followed by a staccato of slow, heavy claps alerted Gabriel. A shadow in the shape of a man glided along the limestone wall of the carriage shed, stretching to monstrous proportions. It stopped over the fallen sot and the singular applause ended. A red-heeled shoe toed the inert body.

“I watched from inside,” Monsieur Anjou said. “Impressive.”

“Did anyone else see?”

“Not to worry. Your adventures were discreet. But tell me—” The man approached, hands behind his back, and dark wig obscuring all but eyes, nose and a slightly crooked mouth. “—why did you not kill him?”

“It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Anjou paced closer. “I could not endure the stifling confines for overlong. Madame de Marmonte’s salon is notorious for—”

“—fainting women and swooning men. My valet has expired on occasion.”

Assuming Leo’s loose stance, Gabriel leaned against the iron gate, crossing his feet at the ankle. “The woman insists all windows remain sealed for fear the latest pox or plague will seep in. Pity the old bundle’s a-a-ddiction to vinegar will kill her more slowly and cruelly than any plague might.”

He always stumbled on that word—addiction. His second least-favorite word. The first? Comfort.

“You give her far too much credit.”

Gabriel chuckled at the man who had fixed his gaze high above the estate wall. “What is it that has captured your attention?” He scanned up two windows capped by smiling stone corbels.

“The gargoyle.”

Gabriel startled to realize the man’s whisper had been easily heard. Straining his peripheral vision he found Anjou stood beside him. Scent of something musty—perhaps the man’s clothing—taunted his nose. A flicker of caution traced his spine.

Toussaint had walked away with his rapier.

Good sense emerged and Gabriel shook off his wariness. He was merely an old man with horrible fashion sense. “Yes, that gargoyle. Interesting creature, isn’t it? Face like a mongrel and a body resembling a lion. With the damnedest set of wings.”

“Surprising,” Anjou rasped. “All the city’s sculptures are blackened with soot, but that one is not. The beast appears frozen mid-flight.”

“Fantastical notion.” Gabriel could not prevent a genuine smile. The man possessed a whimsy seldom seen in the social circle he navigated.

Closing his eyes, he took in the calmness of the evening, the crisp scent of dew and the fetid straw Madame de Marmonte kept strewn before her home to muffle the racket of carriage wheels. Tendrils of night jasmine permeated his nostrils, like a ghost beckoning him to follow the night, to surrender to the unknown.

Reacting instinctively, he clenched his fingers and lifted his knee to connect with Anjou—right on target, yet unsuccessful in releasing the clutch. Strong and determined, his attacker.

Attacker
?

The man possessed remarkable strength. Gabriel could not budge. The iron gate dug into his shoulders and elbows. He saw his own reflection in the metallic irises that held him a muffled captive.

“You see what you want, pretty one?”

The Rake Ripper attacks pretty young rakes…

He required a sword, for his strength was outmatched.

Something warm, moist, and sharp touched his neck. Anjou moved his mouth against Gabriel’s neck and began to feed upon him as if a ravenous beast.