Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (11 page)

“A mistake?” Mercédès asked. She knew her son would prefer to protect her from the sordid details, but she would not be stopped from knowing all of them. Could it be a coincidence that Sinbad had imagined the possibility of her son being attacked by brigands, and then for it to actually happen?

Albert seemed to realize how disconcerted she was, and holding her hands, he drew her to one of the pink-and-gold brocade sofas in the small parlor, settling himself next to her on a plump cushion. He even helped her to arrange her wide skirts so that they wouldn’t be crushed, and he continued to clasp her fingers. “Mama, it was a mistake. Once the bandit realized I was a friend of the Count of Monte Cristo—”

“Monte Cristo?” Mercédès breathed, feeling the color drain from her face, and then return with such a force that her cheeks felt very warm.

The name of the very island on which she’d been taken and kept in such a decadent, lush state by Sinbad the Sailor . . . and then abruptly and unceremoniously banished the day after her arrival. Indeed, Mercédès remembered only vague details from her time on Monte Cristo, deep beneath the rough, rocky surface—but what she did remember was enough to make her face flush even now. And to filter into her dreams in the night, waking her and leaving her hot and restless and confused.

“Yes, Mama. Franz and I had the pleasure of meeting the great Count of Monte Cristo while we were staying in Rome during Carnivale. In fact, if it weren’t for him, we would never have had such a fine time, for he allowed us to use his carriage while we were there. He was staying in the same hotel, and learned that we had not—well, Mama, you know that Franz and I do not always make our plans in advance,” he said sheepishly.

“When he learned that we had not found a carriage to rent, he offered us the use of his. What a grand gentleman he is, Mama! So learned and intelligent and very well-dressed and very, very rich. I have never seen such grandeur.”

“And how did it come about that the Count of Monte Cristo saved you from the bandits?” she asked, her face having cooled to its normal temperature. “Surely we must pay him back for your ransom.”

“But no, mama. You see, this bandit leader is indebted to His Excellency the count. When Franz learned that I had been taken, he was trying to find the money for my ransom, for we didn’t have enough between the two of us, and there was no time to send to Father for it. He had to do it quickly, for the bandits insisted that if the ransom was not produced by the second day, I would be—well, Mama, it is of no consequence now.”

“What? He would have killed you, wouldn’t he?” Mercédès’ fingers convulsed over Albert’s, and her stomach squeezed anew.

Thank God. Thank God, her son had been spared.

“Well, that is what he threatened—but it did not happen, so there is nothing to be worried about now, Mama. When the count learned of my situation, for he was staying at the same hotel, and the news reached him easily, and he learned that the bandit’s name was Luigi Vampa”—here Mercédès was forced to smother another gasp—“he immediately intervened. Not only did the count intervene,” Albert said, his young eyes shining with admiration, “but he actually rode to the hideout of Signor Vampa and insisted that he release me at once.”

“And you were released? And there was no ransom paid? And they didn’t hurt you?” Mercédès couldn’t stop herself from reaching to touch his handsome, beloved face. Albert was all she had left in the world that she cared for.

“No, Mama, as you can see, they didn’t hurt me.”

“And this Signor Vampa, he knows the man you speak of, this Count of Monte Cristo? What else do you know about this count?”

Albert’s eyes were still shining. “As I said, Mama, I have never seen such power and wealth. He is a fine fellow, very accommodating and agreeable, and quite magnificent when he came bursting into the hideaway where the bandits had kept me. This Signor Vampa is an infamous brigand who strikes fear into the hearts of many in Rome and along the coast, for when he calls for a ransom, it must be produced or he will execute his victim,” he said, seemingly unaware that he had just negated his earlier assurances. “But Monte Cristo had no fear of him at all, and there was no hesitation on Vampa’s part when the count told him that I was a friend of his. In fact, as I have said, he was most apologetic for offending the count.”

“What a debt we owe to this grand man,” she said, real gratitude swelling in her chest, “for if not for him, you would not have returned to me.”

“Indeed, Mama, I knew you would feel this way. And Papa too. And so I have invited him to come to Paris, and agreed to show him around the city, for he has never been here.”

“Then Morcerf and I will be able to thank him ourselves. How splendid!” Mercédès spoke with heartfelt enthusiasm. The man who had saved her son’s life would be more than welcome into her home, into her society, and she would show her gratitude in any way possible.

But she was still disconcerted about the connection with her own experience, of which Albert and Fernand knew nothing.

Could this Count of Monte Cristo have known that she was Albert’s mother, and somehow interfered in Signor Vampa’s plans for her as well?

For when he first abducted her, Jacopo had warned her it would take several days before the ransom request would reach Fernand, and then more days before the money could be delivered . . . and yet, she had been returned to Marseille a total of only five days after she had been kidnapped. She had spent a single night on the island of Monte Cristo, and when she awoke the next morning, she was already on the
Nemesis
being returned to Marseille. She hadn’t seen Sinbad again.

There were days when Mercédès truly wondered if it had all been a dream.

Julie Morrel hadn’t even known she’d been gone, for a message had been sent to her that Mercédès had decided to travel back to Paris for a short time, and so her friend hadn’t worried about her absence.

But, no, this Count of Monte Cristo couldn’t have known of the connection between Mercédès and Albert, for he had not even met her son until February . . . and her abduction had occurred in November.

And she had never met a count called Monte Cristo; she had only been incarcerated on an island with the same name. Neither Sinbad nor Jacopo had spoken such a name either. Perhaps it was simply a wild coincidence. After all, how could anyone be lord over such a piece of rock?

Mercédès realized that Albert had continued to describe his plans for meeting the count here in Paris, and she said, “When he arrives, you must tell me so that your papa and I might invite him to dinner.”

“But, Mama, I already know when he is to arrive. On May the twentieth, exactly three months after we left each other in Rome. He will take breakfast with me here at ten o’clock in the morning.”

Mercédès looked at him. “And you believe that he will be here for this appointment?”

“Mama, if you had met this amazing gentleman, you would have no question in your mind. He will be here. And you will meet him then.”

She nodded, keeping her skepticism hidden. “An event I greatly anticipate.”

On the twentieth of May, just past dawn, a magnificent carriage rolled along the most famous street of Paris, and stopped in front of the grand residence at number 30 Champs-Élysées.

The Count of Monte Cristo waited until the door of the well-sprung black velvet interior barouche was opened before taking his first steps onto a street of the famed city. He sniffed the air, noted that it smelled far cleaner than that of Singapore, but not nearly as crisp and pleasant as he’d expected for springtime, and nodded to the man who’d opened the door for him.

“Be prepared to leave again at precisely nine forty-five,” he told him, and then strode up the walkway of his new residence.

Before he even considered raising his hand to knock, the door opened. With a flourish, a rather stout man with thinning brown hair and small, sharp eyes, very correctly attired and standing quite erectly, bowed. “Welcome, Your Excellency. I hope that you will find everything as you desire.”

Monte Cristo nodded to his majordomo. “I am quite sure I shall, Bertuccio. You have never disappointed me.”

“Your chamber has been prepared if you wish to freshen your toilette.”

Although anyone who might have seen the count would have considered him more fashionably appointed than even the most fastidious of courtiers, Monte Cristo fully intended to attend to his appearance and preparation in the four hours before he renewed his acquaintance with young Albert de Morcerf.

“Haydée and Ali and the others shall be arriving shortly,” Monte Cristo informed Bertuccio.

The other man bowed. “I shall see that the lady is made comfortable, Your Excellency. If you wish, I’ll have a hot bath drawn for you. And perhaps a shave, if you require it.” Even though Monte Cristo would have shaved already this morning, Bertuccio was aware of his master’s meticulousness when it came to his appearance and grooming.

“I will bathe in one hour. Now I require some time alone.”

By now the two had reached the massive chamber that would serve as the master’s private apartments in the Paris mansion. Monte Cristo did not expect to be here above three or four months, at the very longest. And then he would leave Paris, leave all of this behind, and never return to France again.

Once Bertuccio closed the door and left him alone, Monte Cristo allowed himself to relax—something he did only in the presence of one other person on this earth, and even then, with some caution.

He examined the chamber, wandering through the spacious six-room suite appointed with a tasteful and luxurious combination of European and Oriental furnishings. Red-and-sapphire velvet brocade, edged with gold fringe, hung on the walls. Gold-and-silver brocade drapes were pulled away from tall floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Champs-Élysées, as well as the colorful gardens that wrapped around the side and back of the mansion. The furnishings were similar to that which he’d become accustomed to during his decade traveling the Orient: low, flush with cushions, and sparing on wooden arms, legs, and headboards.

There was a spacious dressing room, an adjoining room with one of the largest tubs Paris had ever seen, along with running water, and in a third chamber, the massive round bed piled high with tasseled pillows and silk cushions. A large mahogany table, complete with two lamps, ink pens, papers, blotter and ink, dominated one of the rooms. Potted plants and tall, formal flower arrangements brought the gardens into the apartments— a characteristic that, along with many windows and lots of light, Monte Cristo required of his living space. Bowls of fresh fruit, along with water, wine, and brandy, adorned at least one surface in each room as well.

Monte Cristo walked out onto the private balcony of his suite. Paris lay beyond, with its pale blond buildings like decorative cubes of Montrachet in the early-morning light, and the fountains and walkways of Marie de’ Medici’s famous avenue below. The Seine sparkled some few streets away, and the rising sun cast long dark brown shadows as it lifted over the city.

To his right, away from the river, rose the Arc de Triomphe, that massive archway celebrating the arrival of Napoleon in the city. Only four years since its completion, it blazed new and white in the bright sun as Monte Cristo’s mouth firmed and his eyes narrowed. Any reminder of the emperor and politics— either that of the dead ruler or that of the Royals—lit a deep burn in his chest. Politics and greed and jealousy had destroyed the life of an innocent man. And now all of Paris was awash with talk about the possible return of the man’s ashes to his city. Monte Cristo could care less, for he was concerned with another man’s arrival: his own.

He was here, in Paris.

At last.

Monte Cristo grasped the wrought-iron balcony rail, marveling at the array of sins and miracles it had taken to get him here. Paris, the location in which he would wreak his holy vengeance on the four men who had betrayed Edmond Dantès and sent an innocent man to prison for fourteen years.

Twenty-four years ago, Dantès had everything to live for.

Now the young, uneducated man who’d once made love to his woman under an olive tree no longer existed.

He fingered the large onyx pin he always wore to remind himself of his duty—the duty he’d accepted in exchange for the miracles that brought him here. Inside was a list of names. Monte Cristo didn’t need to open the pin’s secret catch in order to review them, but he did, now, as he stood looking over the city. It seemed fitting, a necessary ritual.

The paper shuffled gently in the light morning breeze as he looked down at the small scrap and the names written on it. There were five.

The first four names were scribed neatly, with well-formed letters and without ink blotches. The last one was not. Though written with the same hand, the final name was scrawled so hard that the pen nib had scraped the paper.

His heart beating rapidly, his fingers trembling, Monte Cristo folded the paper along its well-worn creases and replaced it in the black brooch.