The Courtesan's Bed (2 page)

Yet as they left Odile's apartment for the last time and Luc handed her into his carriage, Régine had a nagging, uncomfortable premonition deep in her core that she hadn't seen the last of the earl.

When Luc and Régine arrived at her little house, he kissed her cheek tenderly at the door and left, though he would return later that evening.

In the foyer, a large, extravagant floral arrangement of exotic and expensive white and yellow hothouse orchids graced the hall table.

Her English maid Molly appeared. “The flowers are from Monsieur Clement.”

Régine rolled her eyes. “He's such a crude, boring little man. And he snorts like a pig when he laughs.”

Molly chuckled. “But a very rich, crude, boring little man who snorts like a pig.”

“True.” She quickly filed through the pile of calling cards set on a silver salver. “Fortunately, I don't need his money.” She had plenty of her own, ever since Luc started investing for her.

“And how was the auction, miss?” Molly asked.

Tears stung Régine's eyes as she headed for her boudoir. Molly followed with the packages.

“Very sad to see my dear friend's beautiful things sold to strangers. But I was able to buy a few items.” She found the package with the brooch and handed it to the older woman. “For you. A little remembrance of our dear friend.”

“Oh, miss, you shouldn't have.” When Molly opened her gift and saw what was inside, her eyes widened and she gasped. “Oh, miss, what's an old lady like me going to do with such a beautiful brooch?”

“Wear it in good health,” she said.

Molly pinned the brooch on her plain black dress. “I'll never take it off.”

Régine stripped off her kid gloves and kicked off her shoes. “Now, if you'll help me out of this dress, I need a cup of tea and some rest before I have to dress again for dinner.”

Molly unbuttoned Régine's gown. “Was Mademoiselle de la Montaigne's killer at the auction?”

“He was not.” She stepped out of her gown to face her maid, who served as a clucking mother hen as well as a trusted servant. “You must not call him that in public, or you'll get in trouble. He claims he didn't kill her on purpose. The police dismissed it as an accident.”

Molly's broad, homely face darkened with anger. “What sort of man gets drunk, turns out all the lights and shoots up his hotel room in the dark?”

“A hotheaded Russian,” she replied. “They played this game many times before, but this time Mademoiselle Odile did not fall to the floor fast enough.” And was shot through the heart, dying instantly. All of Paris went into shock and then very public mourning for one of their most flamboyant, beloved cocottes.

“If we were in London, he'd be spending the rest of his miserable life rotting in a jail cell. Or swinging from a rope.”

Régine smiled and patted her arm. “But this is Paris, and Dragomilov is Russian nobility. Allowances are made.”

Molly scowled as she picked up the gown carefully and hung it up in the armoire. “It's still not right.”

“Murder never is, but there's nothing we can do about the situation.” As Molly unlaced her corset, Régine debated telling her about the Marquess of Blackwall's son appearing at the auction, but decided the time wasn't right.

Once free of her corset, she put on a comfortable silk kimono wrap, drank a cup of tea and put away her purchases before lying on her bed for a restorative nap.

But sleep eluded her.

She kept seeing Clarridge's face as he watched her with all the single-mindedness of a tiger stalking its prey. She shivered.

Why was he here?

What did he want?

Her thoughts flew unbidden to Blackwall Manor in Surrey, England, where she'd found a safe harbor from her family catastrophe. At first. She'd adored her bright, winning little charges, the Ladies Emma and Kate, but then she'd caught the roving eye of their father, the marquess, and soon learned what it meant to be truly helpless and at a powerful man's mercy.

The past was a lifetime ago and best forgotten. Only the present and the future mattered.

A bitter smile touched her lips when she recalled Mrs. Routledge, head of the employment agency that had assigned her to Blackwall Manor, warning her, “There are two drawbacks for a beautiful woman working as a governess,” she had said on that fateful day. “The master of the house and his sons.”

How right she had been.

Chapter Two

Darius had come to Maxim's three nights in a row hoping to see Regina again.

She held court at her own reserved table, so he paid the headwaiter handsomely for one not far away where he could watch her and she would see him plainly. As he sat back against the banquette and nursed a glass of incomparable champagne, he scanned the crowded room and absorbed the convivial atmosphere that pulsed with life and never skipped a beat. Conversation flowed as freely as the spirits. An orchestra played sprightly tunes. Many a magnificent woman paraded past him like a sleek thoroughbred at Tattersalls, but he knew exactly what they were, not respectable women of his own class, but high-priced members of the demimonde. Like Regina now.

She'd taken his breath away when he saw her again after what had seemed like a lifetime, walking into that boudoir on the arm of a prosperous-looking gent older than his father. She wore a stunned expression of recognition when her gaze met his, followed by a withering blast of icy contempt.

He sipped his drink. He'd resolved to be very, very patient. For now.

The man seated at his right scanned the room with the concentration of a bird dog seeking game and scribbled in a worn little notebook. No doubt a journalist, a man whose professional knowledge of the city and its people could be useful to Darius.

He leaned over. “Excuse me, monsieur. Would you share a bottle with me, and some caviar? I am new to this city and would appreciate the company.”

The man, with curious, penetrating eyes, a mustache and Van Dyck beard like most of the Frenchmen present, smiled and nodded. “Anatole Beaucaire, reporter for
Le Figaro
, at your service.”

“Darius Granger, from London.” He purposely omitted his title.

He signaled for a waiter and ordered another bottle of champagne and some caviar, which were quickly supplied.

“So, Mr. Granger from London,” the reporter said, proffering his glass to be filled, “what brings you to our beautiful city?”

“Women.” One in particular.

“Ah. You've come to the right place. Paris is famous for its beautiful, charming women. And the cream of the crop can be yours for a mere fifty Louis an hour.”

Darius raised his brows at the lofty amount. “Are they worth it?”

“Some more than others.”

Conversation suddenly stopped, and heads turned as if royalty had arrived. When Darius saw who had caught these sophisticates' attention, his heart thudded like a love-struck schoolboy's.

There stood Regina.

Beaucaire leaned close. “Régine Laflamme, our Queen of Fire.”

She'd abandoned her plain English surname of Willett for a pseudonym as exotic as her beauty. Her thick, wild auburn hair collected all the room's soft light into a fiery mass. A man could burn his fingers sifting through those tresses. She wore an elaborate gold diadem on her head like a regal medieval queen, and small gold ivy leaves sprinkled with diamonds that sparkled in her hair like stars.

“Take notice of her earrings as she passes,” Beaucaire whispered.

Jewelry only interested Darius when he selected a special piece to give a woman. His attention remained fixed on Regina's expressive oval face, with its creamy ivory complexion devoid of paint and those mysterious blue eyes free of kohl that could imprison a man's soul in their depths with one direct, worldly glance.

“They were a gift from the young American heir to a copper fortune,” Beaucaire continued. “He said that when he first beheld her beauty at the opera, he was so overcome, he wept. His tears turned into diamonds, which he had made into earrings for her.” The Frenchman snorted. “Nonsense, of course, but a very romantic tale. We Frenchmen do love a good romantic story.”

Darius tore his eyes away from Regina long enough to notice the old gent standing a little behind her. “Is that the American?”

“Oh, no. Their liaison was over a long time ago. He begged Régine to marry him, but of course her kind wouldn't dream of ruining such a respectable young man by marrying him. The uproar! His family would disown him. So she refused, and he returned to New York City with a broken heart and a lighter wallet. We heard he married a nice respectable heiress and settled down. But practical woman that she is, Régine kept his gift. The diamonds are large and very fine, cut like teardrops and worth a king's ransom, so she won't have to endure an impoverished old age like many of her sisters in sin.”

If Darius offered to marry Regina, would she also reject his proposal? Like Régine's young American, men of his class dallied with but did not marry women of easy virtue.

Beaucaire spread some beluga caviar on a thin piece of toast. “Her companion is Luc Valendry, the banker, her latest in a long line of wealthy, indulgent conquests.”

A long line of conquests… Those other men sharing her bed and possessing her luscious body night after night sent a cold stab of jealousy into his chest.

Now Regina and the banker followed the maitre d' slowly toward her table, her tall, willowy body moving with the effortless, sensual grace of an odalisque. She did not wear green, as one would expect of a woman with her vivid autumnal coloring, but a gown the intense blue in the heart of a peacock's feather, cut low to show off the gentle swell of her full bosom. What would it be like to pull down that blue gown's bodice and bare those enticing pale ivory breasts to stroke and suckle until she climaxed, crying his name in a frenzy of desire? His cock stirred with heat, and Darius suspected that every man here tonight was experiencing the same fierce, painful arousal.

When Regina noticed him sitting there, watching, her step faltered for just a second and her warm blue gaze turned to ice. Then she looked beyond him at Beaucaire, and it was as if the radiant sun broke through black rain clouds on a cold winter day. She smiled, winked and blew the reporter a kiss.

He reached up, pretended to catch her kiss in midair and placed his hand against his heart with a dramatic, rapturous sigh. Other men who saw the gallant gesture chuckled and nodded in approval, to the chagrin of their female companions, who stared daggers at their rival.

Then she and the banker swept by and were seated at her table, with Regina on the banquette, on display for all to see.

Darius damped down his jealousy and asked the reporter, “Were you and the lady…?”

“Lovers?” He shook his head. “Alas, no. I am far too homely and far too poor for the Queen of Fire, but she does find me clever and amusing. Also, why spoil a beautiful friendship with sex?”

“How long have you two been friends?”

Beaucaire stroked his beard. “Ever since she first conquered our fair city five years ago.”

Darius's stepmother had thrown Regina out of Blackwall Manor seven years ago. Where had she gone, and what had happened to her in the two years between leaving his family's employ in unjustified disgrace and arriving in Paris to lead a life of decadence? Obviously she'd overcome her gentlewoman's high morals enough to sell her body and had acquired enough skill in the amatory arts to rise to the heights of her profession and become a
grande courtisane.

Beaucaire studied him out of narrowed eyes. “Would you like me to introduce you? She is English herself, though she's more Parisian now than many of us natives. She might enjoy meeting one of her countrymen.”

Darius doubted that, but he was tempted, just to see her reaction. But no. He must be patient and approach her in his own time. “I'm afraid the lady is too rich for my blood. Besides, wouldn't her banker object?”

The reporter raised one shoulder in a Gallic shrug. “Just because I introduce you doesn't mean that Régine will discard Valendry.” He smiled. “Though you are quite the dark and handsome one, with the advantage of virile youth, and I'm sure she'd be tempted if your pockets are deep enough.”

“Alas, they are not.” Darius gave a cocky grin and refilled the reporter's glass. “But otherwise, I've never had any complaints from the fairer sex.”

Beaucaire laughed and lifted his glass in a silent toast.

Darius watched a waiter approach Regina's table and proffer a bottle of vintage champagne. Instead of accepting it, she turned an angry shade of pink and sent the waiter away with an imperious flick of her hand. The waiter turned, looked at a group of four men seated together, shook his head and shrugged apologetically before taking the bottle away.

Everyone who saw her gesture fell silent and exchanged nervous looks.

One of the men, a tall, muscular sort with a thin red dueling scar slashed across his left cheek, scowled and almost turned purple with anger. Regina ignored him, bestowing a warm smile on her banker instead, and conversation resumed.

Beaucaire gave a disgusted grunt. “I can't believe Dragomilov would have the audacity to send a bottle of champagne to Régine's table. Poor de la Montaigne isn't even cold in her grave. What a sadistic pig. But all those Cossacks are sadists. Bah! I have no use for them. None at all.”

So that fuming boor was none other than Count Serge Dragomilov. Darius had heard the story of course, how the Russian had accidentally shot his mistress in a fit of drunken high spirits. Since Regina and Odile de la Montaigne had been close friends, she would naturally be offended by the attentions of her friend's killer.

But as he watched the waiter return with another bottle of champagne and some caviar, he wondered if her very public rejection of the volatile Russian nobleman had been wise.