The Passion (12 page)

He was up and dressed, the remains of his breakfast neatly stacked upon an uncovered tray near the window. He sat at his desk, writing letters.

He had completed quite a stack of them already.

Her heart was pounding with trepidation as she presented him the envelope. He took it without rising, and without expression he opened it. He removed a card, upon which was written a single word. Tessa strained to read it.
Sancerre
.

Calmly, stil having spoken not a word, Alexander returned the card to its envelope. He had a strange look about him, a wildness in his eyes, a sharpness in his profile, and yet there was a stil ness overal , an almost forced self-constraint.

Tessa whispered, "I—I don't…" She cleared her throat. She strengthened her voice, though not by much. "I know you are grieving. But I don't know for whom."

Without looking at her, he said, "Sancerre. He was our pack leader. He was old, his death was not unexpected. It is nonetheless a painful thing, and the rituals must be observed."

Questions burned in her chest—what was a pack leader? Who was this Sancerre and what did his death mean to Alexander? What were the rituals and how were they observed? It was, however, to her credit that she spoke not a word of them, and even lowered her eyes so that Alexander would not see the vulgar curiosity there.

She said simply, "What can I do?"

He smiled at her then, and lifted his hand to caress her cheek. The approval in his eyes was worth al that the silence cost her, a hundred thousand questions unanswered.

"Tessa," he said gently, "I knew I could rely upon you."

Then his manner became brisk, and he turned his attention back to his desk. "Our people wil be gathering from across Europe to attend the ceremony. Those who are prohibited by distance wil commemorate in their own way in their own place. These are my personal letters of condolence to the family, which must be sent with the next post."

"But…" Her eyes widened as she understood the implication. "You knew. Before the card came."

"Of course we knew. We always know. He was our leader." His expression grew serious. "Tessa, I leave my house in your care tonight. You must dismiss the human servants. Send them to their families and their homes. Tel them to bar their doors and stay within until morning's light. And you wil do the same. Stay inside, mourn the passing of an era in the quietness of your own heart. Do not go abroad this night. Do you promise me?"

The urgency in his eyes compel ed her, not that she would ever consider refusing a command of his for any reason. She nodded slowly, solemnly, and said,

"I promise."

She never knew for precisely which reason he had exacted that promise, nor did she know what took place under that evening's moon. But the City of Light was dark that night, and from somewhere deep within the countryside in the blackest hours before dawn there arose a cry, a howling, an ululation of anguish that gathered force as it lengthened and possessed the power to chil the human soul.

Some, awakening in a cold sweat in the dead of night, attributed it to the wind. But Tessa knew differently. Huddled deep beneath her coverlet in the vast, stil emptiness of Alexander Devoncroix's house, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and she knew.

It was days before the household returned to a semblance of normalcy. During that time Tessa put al her skil s to use to maintain order with a skeleton staff and was pleased by the fact that, by the time the senior staff began drifting in one by one, the smooth flow of the household was such that they might never have been gone. Not that any of them noticed, of course, nor that they would have commented upon the fact if they had.

Everyone, including Alexander, was busy; busier than they had ever been. Tessa learned that, in addition to the vineyards and an estate in Lyons that he owned, Alexander Devoncroix also managed control ing interests in several banks, both in Paris and beyond. The demise of the leader Sancerre had apparently caused disharmony and uneasiness in every sector, and Alexander was kept continual y managing one crisis after another. Until now she had known him as a bon vivant and a roisterer, concerned only with personal pleasures and lavish comforts. She found this new side of him—decisive, energetic, commanding—both astonishing and admirable.

At one point he stopped her in the hal just long enough to say, "I hope the invitations for the bal haven't gone out,
chérie
. It would be inappropriate at this time, I'm afraid."

"Of course. But—"

He was gone without a word as to when he would return, and certainly with no indication of interest in rescheduling the bal .

Tessa had looked forward to the bal and was disappointed, but so many things of interest were going on around her that she could scarcely keep up with them al , and had little chance to regret what she'd missed. It was almost a week, in fact, before she had an opportunity to discuss with Alexander what, exactly, had transpired.

Before the upheaval, it had become their custom to share morning chocolate and plans for the day.

Tessa would bring him the early post and he would go through it with wry comments about each sender; she would pelter him with questions and he would answer them until he ran out of patience; then he would assign her little chores to keep her occupied when he could not.

On the day that matters had at last calmed enough for them to resume this morning ritual, there was almost a week's worth of unanswered cards, notes and letters to be sorted through. They met in the sunny little sitting room off his bedchamber, he in his dressing gown and she in a soft cranberry wool skirt and shirtwaist with a white col ar and cuffs that she had had made up only that week. This was the first opportunity she had had to wear it, and she hoped he would notice. He did not disappoint her.

"Very becoming,
chérie
," he exclaimed and made her twirl around to show him the cut and the fal of the skirt. "The color brings a glow to your cheeks. I quite approve."

She wanted to tel him that the glow was more likely due to his compliments than to the color of the shirtwaist, but knew he would only laugh. She sat down across from him at the little table and poured chocolate from a silver pot. He turned his attention to the morning papers, scanning each in turn, as was his custom. He read incredibly fast, and could often quote text after having glanced at it for no more than the blink of an eye.

She gave him a moment, then inquired, "Al is wel abroad now? With the, um, pack?"

"Difficult to say," he murmured, turning pages.

"These things are unpredictable, so much history involved. Damned nuisance from my point of view, of course."

She took a breath. "Wil you tel —what was it that took place that night when you and the others went away?"

He folded the paper and met her eyes sternly.

"Some things," he replied, "are not to be known by humans. Ever."

Nothing in his tone or manner left room to pursue that subject. Tessa didn't try.

In a moment she said, "But if you have no leader, what wil happen now?"

"We have a leader," he replied absently, scanning another paper. "The little Devoncroix queen wil take her place, for as long as she is able to hold it."

Tessa gasped excitedly. "But you're a Devoncroix!

Does that mean—?"

He shook his head. "No, no, there is no relationship.

A long time ago there was a struggle for succession and the Devoncroix won. Those families who wished to ingratiate themselves to the new ruling class changed their names to indicate their loyalty.

We are nothing if not practical." He folded the paper and glanced at the basket of sweets the cook had prepared. "Is that plum cake?"

She served him a cake and presented him with a stack of invitations. "I wil answer them if you like,"

she volunteered. "Just sort them according to Yes or No."

"My dear, how did I get along without you?"

"Do you know the new queen?"

"Hmm. Only to dance with."

"What's her name?"

"Elise. Elise Devoncroix."

"I don't know that name."

"You would if you'd lived in France instead of England these past ten years. She's at al the best parties during the season, never misses an opening night at the Opera. Of course, she is in seclusion now. But perhaps I'll introduce you this spring."

"Wil there be a coronation?" demanded Tessa eagerly. "A grand bal , a promenade—"

He chuckled, stil sorting cards. "It's rather more complicated than that. The line of descent passes through the youngest, you see—providing the youngest is qualified to rule, of course. So, much like human monarchies, we know who wil be our next leader as a matter of tradition. But it doesn't become official until the naming ceremony, at which time the old leader virtual y steps down and turns the scepter, as it were, over to his successor. This Sancerre did some years ago. However, without the protection of the old ruler, the new ruler is always vulnerable to chal enge until she—or he—chooses a mate, at which time there wil be a coronation. It's a grand affair, too, lasts for days."

"Are humans al owed to attend?"

"No,
chérie"

She was disappointed, and it showed in her tone. "I don't know what you need a queen for anyway.

What is there for a ruler to do?"

He looked up, thoughtful for a moment. "Why, that's an interesting question," he observed, and seemed surprised by it. "In times of old, when the pack was smal and lived in the wild, it was very important to have strong leadership, of course. But in practical terms today—in human terms, if you wil —I can't think of anything of particular merit that the pack leader does. Stil …"—and he smiled—"like your human monarchies, it is very important for us to have one.

"Yes," he said, handing her the stack of cards in his right hand, "and 'No.' " He gave her the ones in his left.

Tessa passed the letters over to him, thumbing curiously through the "yes" stack of invitations he had returned to her. "Which of these wil be at the homes of loups-garous? Wil the new queen attend any of them? May I?"

He didn't reply, which was not so very unusual.

Patiently, she started to repeat herself, but he held up a hand for silence.

His face was very stil as his eyes moved over—no doubt for the second time—the single sheet of paper in his hand. When he finished, there was a slight knotting in the muscle at the back corner of his jaw, but no other change of expression. And his voice was mild as he murmured, "
Alors
. I can't say this is completely unexpected. But no more is it welcome."

He refolded the letter careful y, but not before Tessa had seen the bold black signature at its end.
Denis
Antonov
.

"Who is he?" she inquired. "What—"

"My brother," replied Alexander. The slightest sardonic edge colored his tone as he added, "He has asked me for a visit."

"But your names—"

"A long story." He indicated dismissal with a wave of his hand and got to his feet. "My dear, I'm afraid al those lovely invitations wil have to be regrets. Find Gault, if you please, and send him to me at once.

And, oh—there's a case of cognac in my cel ar of which my brother is particularly fond; Poinceau wil know the one. He must make arrangements to ship it out at once. Now, quickly, quickly, there's no time to waste and a hundred things to do."

Alexander left the fol owing afternoon, having arranged to depart from Gare de l'Est on a train that departed within the hour. No amount of pleading, pouting or threats from Tessa would persuade him to al ow her to accompany him.

"But where are you going?" she cried. "How long wil you be gone? What am I to do with myself in al that time? What if you need me? How wil you—"

He quieted her with a finger placed firmly across her lips. ' "
Mais, chérie
, how can you be so selfish? To whom would I entrust my household if you were to come with me? No, no, you must stay here, and take charge. I'll not travel easy until I know it is so."

She regarded him skeptical y, particularly when she saw the twinkle come into his eyes as he glanced at Gault. But before she could voice another protest he turned to Poinceau, who was in actual fact in complete charge of the household staff and before whose quiet commands al others—even, on occasion, Tessa—bowed. He said in smooth, quiet, melodious French, "My old friend, this young female is the daughter of a man I have held close to my heart since childhood. She is without a family now, and has no protection but my own. She is my ward.

I commend her to your safekeeping until I return."

This last he said clearly, so that al the servants assembled in the hal might hear. Poinceau, who had been at best indifferent to Tessa's fate since her arrival, looked at her steadily, turned his gaze to the master, and nodded. The vow was made.

Others—Mme. Crol iere, for example, who had longed to put the impertinent little human in her place for weeks now and, perhaps, envisioned the master's absence as a perfect opportunity to assert her opinions—chafed under the restraint, but there was no doubt that compliance would be given, and without question, simply because he had commanded it.