Knaves (3 page)

“
It is.” He was kissing her neck now, moving more deeply inside her. “And you’ll meet him tonight. We’re a team, remember.”

And Karla began to orgasm all over again.

Donatien Alphonse François, nineteenth Marquis de Valmont, was bored.

Around him sat a tawdry group of gamblers (Valmont shuddered at the thought of calling them “fellow” gamblers) that he had seen far too many times before. The German banker, the Lithuanian businessman, the prissy French lawyer who twitched and quivered at the thought of being a compatriot (compatriot!) with a notable member of the aristocracy. Taking money from them was tedious and all too easy—particularly with Eloise at his side—that there wasn’t even the thrill of winning.

Eloise had only joined him that day and in this company (so bourgeois, so mundane) he had half a mind to tell her to wait for him in his room. The others at the table looked at her so greedily that it was far too easy to tell what each one thought. Even the lure of the substantial sums tossed casually by Valmont onto the table failed to concentrate their minds.

She was certainly a piece of work, Eloise. Tall and blonde, with a figure best described as pneumatic, when Valmont had first met Eloise her chosen career had awakened in him a voracity for peculiar appetites that had been most promising. She was at a tipping point in her life: one way led to a grinding endurance that would end in the sewer; at the other extreme, she could be companion to a Marquis.

She was clever, Eloise. It was all too easy for others to underestimate her, especially when, as now, she sat there silently and apparently completely passive, with no trace of thoughts wrinkling her ageless brow. A million men had anointed images of Eloise with their incense and it was tempting to project all their deepest, all their darkest desire onto that flawless perfection.

Valmont knew better.

She was sitting at the table, speaking only when spoken to, her rich, luscious blonde hair pulled tightly to the crown of her head before cascading down the back of her dress, cut low to reveal a sinuous spine, just as the front flowed down so that it appeared to cover those twin, magnificent globes as though by magic. Not even the keenest eye would be able to perceive the subtle techniques used to sharpen her cheekbones, to fill out her lips or add youth to the corners of her eyes
—Valmont had made sure of that, sparing no expense to sculpt her body in the best surgeries across Europe and America. He had toned down some of the more wilful excesses of her previous lifestyle, manicuring her form as exquisitely as one of his ancestors had designed the gardens of Versailles. There were no scars on Eloise’s body that were not placed there by Valmont himself.

She was the most delightful creation of nature and artifice in delicious equipoise, but while for other men Eloise was a dumb goddess, a blonde statue waiting for the crudest of worship, Valmont trusted her to watch, listen and observe. She would know everything that happened in the room that night, and there was no-one else, not even Latour, whom he depended on more to be his eyes and ears.

Yet if Eloise couldn’t be distracted, it was very clear that her presence was distracting everyone else. Perhaps he should send her away. It was after ten and the Englishman—Sebastian Rider—had not arrived. Valmont flared his nostrils and shrugged away his mild annoyance.

Rider had promised a moment
’s relief from ennui, though Valmont was hard pressed to explain exactly why. The man was clearly something of a buffoon, and yet Valmont wondered whether this was an elaborate series of mimes and gestures designed to obscure a deeper intelligence, which itself piqued the curiosity of the Marquis. Rider was handsome—surprisingly so in many ways, and if he turned up at the tables this evening for a brief second Valmont hoped that Eloise herself wouldn’t be distracted. Not that Valmont was jealous: he considered himself too philosophical for such trivial emotions, and indeed a life spent in the saddle, on the fencing court and in a succession of women’s beds had kept his own body lean and strong, suitable accompaniment to his dark, handsome and sardonic face.

Dismissing the thought, Valmont returned his attention briefly to Rider. There were two things, he decided, that intrigued him most. First of all, he had never met a gambler so reckless. The Englishman seemed ready to trust everything to luck, and indeed some spectacular successes the previous evening had made Valmont wonder whether he would be the evening
’s loser—an event so rare that he had felt the blood pulsing through his veins in a way that had eluded him for a very long time.

Secondly, there were stories of Rider
’s companion, an elusive Frenchwoman by the name of Jeanne Duval. Some of his friends, who claimed to have met her, told him that this woman was a beauty without compare, and of such wit and élan that they despaired why on earth she had committed herself to this vulgar Englishman. Valmont had Eloise, of course, but just as he refused to feel any jealousy towards her own encounters with other men (or, indeed, women), so he did not even consider that she would stand against his desire in any way. He would meet this Jeanne Duval and, if she suited his tastes, he would have her. There could be no question of things going any other way, of course.

Eloise murmured something and he looked up briefly from his cards. As though
answering a summons, Rider was now making his way to the table and Valmont’s eyes flickered almost immediately back to his hand. It was the woman on Valmont’s arms who caught his gaze, however.

The idle chit chat of his friends had done her a great disservice. Jeanne Duval was not merely beautiful
—that much could be gleaned from the most hastily stolen glance. Her composure, her air, the shimmering atmosphere that seemed to descend upon her like the halo that one saw hovering above the saints in the old, baroque paintings at Valmont’s chateau, all these things indicated that about this woman was a divine presence.

Her hair was as black as Eloise
’s was blonde, and the sheer split of her evening gown revealed a body that was elegant and lithe, a whiplash of pale flesh against the raven fabric of her dress. Unlike the masterpiece at his side, Valmont was sure that this woman was an entirely natural creation, with merely the softest hint of makeup to enhance and embellish the virtues that birth had granted her. She seemed to perceive his gaze and, boldly, without embarrassment, she returned it. Her eyes watched him for a second, perceptive and clear, jade emblems in her face, and then she smiled, a perfect bow of her vermilion lips. Valmont bowed his head slightly and, somewhat to his surprise, stiffened down below. Now that, he thought, was unusual.

As Jeanne Duval came closer to the table with her foolish beau, Valmont looked sideways at Eloise. In so many ways, he thought to himself, she was more much more stunning than the brunette on the other side of the room: her body was more voluptuous, and even to the most casual eye she hinted at that kind of decadence which only a few women were willing to indulge with such reckless passion. And yet, as he considered this stranger whom he had known
—no, not even known, encountered—he wondered whether the eyes of the other players would remain on the blonde or the brunette. Blondes may have more fun, he considered, but brunettes were more clearly creatures of mystery.

Eloise turned to face him, her eyes blue and sharp as the other woman
’s emerald jewels. She raised an eyebrow slightly as she regarded him—a measured, controlled gesture. It was the slightest flaring of her nostrils, evident only to a man such as himself who made it his study to closely watch for any tell on an opponent’s face, which indicated that she was not completely in control of herself. Was it a mark of jealousy towards Jeanne Duval? Or perhaps, thought Valmont with a sudden stab of insight, the slightest hint of her lust to that pack of meat and muscle, Sebastian Rider, was what stirred her now.

Sebastian and Jeanne had arrived at the table. Returning his attention to them, Valmont couldn
’t help but smirk at how the other gamblers turned their gazes towards Jeanne, barely registering Sebastian. Whereas only moments before Eloise had clearly won any contest not directed towards their cards, now they struggled where to gawp discreetly, at the fulsome bosom of the blonde or that slash of pale skin in a dark evening dress.

“
Monsieur Rider,” said Valmont, barely able to suppress a smile at the thought of both women naked before him, simultaneously pleasuring him, “I thought you’d run away after the losses you incurred last night.”

Sebastian gave a wide, stupid grin. A little too wide, thought Valmont, as though his buffoonery
was slightly misplaced. That flash of white teeth against, the Marquis had to admit, very well-formed lips so that his smile emphasised the slight dimple in his chin, had the effect of making him appear even more handsome, in a somewhat oafish fashion. To his surprise, Valmont felt Eloise stir slightly beside him and realised the smile had not been directed towards him at all.

“
Gosh,” said Sebastian, smoothing away a faint crease on his white jacket before holding a chair for his companion to take a seat. “It was quite a drubbing, wasn’t it. Bit of a glutton for punishment, though, if you know what I mean.”

As she sat almost directly across from him, Jeanne
’s eyes were cool and collected. Interestingly, she ignored everyone at the table other than Valmont—and, the Marquis noted, Eloise. There was something a little too cool, a little too hard about her stare. Was she here because of the recklessness of Sebastian the night before? It was plain that whatever her attractions to the Englishman, physical looks and money obviously among them, she wasn’t with him because of his brains.

“
I do know what you mean, Monsieur Rider. Punishment, administered in the proper way, can be the sweetest of pleasures.”

Valmont himself was pleased to see Jeanne Duval
’s own nostrils flare, though whether through recognition of the truth of his statement or through anger he couldn’t tell. It would take a little longer than normal to read this woman, but Valmont was sure that winning her affections from the coarse Englishman beside her would be easier than he expected.

“
Oh, Marquis,” interrupted Sebastian, as though only just remembering the social niceties. “Please allow me to introduce Madame Jeanne Duval. Jeanne, the Marquis. Marquis, Jeanne…”

To everyone but Valmont
’s surprise, the German banker stood, his corpulent body swaying slightly as he stood and his face sweating slightly as he stared at the two new arrivals. Offering some hasty excuses, he left the table, leaving everyone but Valmont, Jeanne—and Eloise, of course—frowning.

“
I believe our friend heard of your excesses last night,” Valmont offered sardonically by way of explanation. “I do not believe his prudence will allow him to be quite as effusive as us, Monsieur Rider.” As Sebastian’s face spread into another slow grin, Valmont ignored him and turned his full gaze on his companion. “Madame Duval,” he said, his voice expressing some of the warmth he felt in his body, “je suis enchantée de faire votre connaissance.”

With a slight, graceful inclination of her head, Jeanne responded:
“
Monsieur le Marquis, j’ai bien l’honneur.”Her voice was fluid, golden.

Frowning at this, Sebastian took a seat next to her.
“Quite!” he muttered audibly then clapped his hands together, looking around the table gleefully. “So, what is it? Baccarat? Trente et Quarante?” He paused to beam as a man, smartly dressed, brought across a pile of chips which were deposited at the table. Valmont couldn’t be entirely sure, but he thought that for a second Jeanne’s face blanched slightly. Interesting.

As though catching herself, the beautiful brunette raised her eyes to his and smiled before looking more pointedly at Eloise.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Marquis,” she said, returning to English (no doubt for the benefit of her ignorant friend who mangled every word of French he spoke with his stiff, plummy accent). Her eyes flickered towards Eloise before returning to him. “Yet I know nothing about your companion.”

“
Isn’t that the truth?” said Rider with a loud guffaw. “You’re a dark horse, Valmont, and that’s no mistake!”

Valmont
’s smile was a little more strained than he intended. “Allow me to introduce Eloise Bissette.” Beside him Eloise said nothing, though he saw her bend her head slightly from the corner of his eye.

“
Can’t help but feel I’ve seen you somewhere before,” mused Sebastian, rubbing his chin. “Bad of me to forget a face like yours, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“
I don’t mind at all.” Eloise almost purred and Valmont glanced at her sharply. She merely smiled at him, enigmatically. He looked back at Sebastian and Eloise.

“
Eloise and I met at Cannes, she was an actress of some, ah, repute in those days.”

Jeanne frowned slightly at this, a delicious gesture that wrinkled her pretty nose slightly.
“I don’t recall the name,” she said. “And I consider myself an aficionado of our cinema.”

“
I would hope,” Valmont interrupted, “that you were not an aficionado of Eloise’s productions. She tended to go by the name Lupa in those days.”

Sebastian slammed his hand down on the table, causing the chips
—and the prissy lawyer beside him—to jump. The Lithuanian scowled at this and stood up. “I thought we were here to play,” he muttered, aware that something was going on. “Marquis, perhaps another night.”