Time for Eternity (5 page)

“But what has my ward to do with all of this?” the duc drawled.

Had her attention wandered? What ward? The duc lived alone in the house next door, if one could call living with at least a score of servants living alone. She glanced around.

Robespierre frowned. “Who might you mean, Citizen?”

The duc gestured idly to Françoise. “This chit. Belongs to me. You’d hardly credit it, what with her appearance.”

Françoise felt her mouth drop open. Only surprise kept her from protesting.

“She was found in the house with the old woman.” Robespierre frowned.

“The citizens report she lives there,” Madame Croûte added, as though delivering a coup de grâce.

The duc raised one arched brow. “How strange that I should find the need to explain myself to you.” He sighed in resignation.

“She plays piquet with the old woman from time to time out of the goodness of her heart. I tried to warn her where it would lead, this having a heart. Personally, I gave it up long ago.”

Robespierre would never believe she was the ward of the wicked duc. He couldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty years older than she was. And what young man would adopt a girl child? Lying to the leader of the Committee of Public Safety would only land him in a tumbrel on the way to the guillotine right behind her. Robespierre and his committee had the power of life and death. They could condemn a person without trial, without witnesses, without evidence. And they did. Thousands had gone to the guillotine in the last months merely on suspicion of being antirevolutionary. Madame Croûte was perhaps even more dangerous. Though she could have no political power because she was a woman, she ruled the mob and they dispensed the committee’s will. Not even the committee controlled them entirely. Robespierre and Madame Croûte would never allow themselves to be intimidated by an aristocrat who had no power at all.

And yet, before her eyes, the little man swallowed. Twice.

“Very well, Citizen Foucault.” His smile was so bland as to be frightening. “I would not dream of threatening your … property.”

He nodded to the gendarmes. They released Françoise.

“What are you doing?” Madame Croûte hissed.

Robespierre did not answer her question. “Quiet, woman!”

“Might you feel the need to apologize?” The duc murmured his question.

Robespierre looked as though he would choke. He took a breath. “I apologize, Citizen.”

The duc shook his head, smiling. “No, no, my good man. Not to me. To the lady.”

Françoise felt a blush rising. Audacious!

Robespierre nodded curtly to her. “I apologize, mademoiselle.”

“You allow this … this aristo to thwart the will of the people?” Madame Croûte accused.

Robespierre did not answer, but turned on his heel and made his way through the line of people passing buckets of water from the fountain through the arcade to the open door of the house and got into a waiting carriage, Madame Croûte haranguing him all the way.

Françoise looked around, feeling not herself at all. What a surprising outcome. Why had Robespierre backed down? And yet it wasn’t surprising at all. If she thought about it, she knew some part of her expected exactly what had happened. Blinking, she turned to the duc. Why had he saved her? There was something she should do, something tickling at her mind. She should be afraid of him. Of that she was certain.

The duc ignored her. He ordered his servants to help douse the flames. People poked their heads out of other houses along the elegant façade, offering buckets and help. The disordered mob turned into a rather efficient machine moving water from the fountain into the house.

The duc held a delicate handkerchief, embroidered and edged with lace, to his nose against the smoke. He seemed to have forgotten all about Françoise. The flames cast his face into satanic relief. Even with the excitement of a fire and the prospect of a mob lately engaged in tearing down the house next to his own, he looked bored, his eyes heavy -lidded, his full mouth curved in what was very nearly a sneer.

After some time, a dapper older man appeared out of the duc’s house and presented a silver salver on which sat a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and a glass. He bowed crisply at his master’s side, but said nothing, just waited.

When at last he deigned to notice the servant, the duc seemed mildly surprised. “Gaston, you anticipate my need. But let us repair to the library. I do not care to imbibe on the street.”

Gaston bowed again and the duc strolled down the arcade to his own door, Gaston in his wake. Françoise watched him go with dismay. She turned to look at the remains of the house she had lived in with Madame LaFleur for the last year. The façade was still intact, but most was a smoking, wet ruin. The door out to the arcade hung at a crazy angle, and people were tramping about inside, dousing the remaining flames. The windows held only broken shards of glazing, the brick above them stained with blackened tongues of soot. The roof had fallen in places.

Where was she to stay?

A liveried footman opened the door for the duc. Light spilled into the street. Before the duc could pass inside he paused and looked back. He had obviously forgotten her. But he covered well. “Are you not coming in, my dear?”

Françoise froze. She was not the duc’s ward. No man with the reputation of being the devil himself would ever have a ward.

Entering that portal would put her entirely in his power. All her upbringing told her that her very soul was in danger if she set foot inside that house. And yet part of her felt that there was something she must do, and that doing it required that she be near the duc.

What was the matter with her tonight?

None of her scruples mattered. She had no choice. The old lady’s rheumatism had made getting her out of the flaming house slow work. There had been no time to grab any belongings. Françoise had no money, no friends to take her in tonight. No respectable inn would take her without money and looking like she did.

The duc waited, amusement lurking in his eyes. When he saw that she had fully comprehended her dilemma, he raised one brow.

Françoise bit her lip. Something inside her whispered that she must go with him.

The duc did not wait longer but turned into the house, knowing she would follow.

She trailed after him, under the impassive gaze of the footman.

She might be confused, but she did not doubt that entering this house was dangerous.

Françoise passed into an elegant foyer. The duc’s house was impeccable on the inside. The central houses on the grand façade of the Place Royale were much larger than Madame LaFleur’s, which was the first in the line of smaller residences beside them.

The Hôtel d’Avignon was almost a palace. Black and white tiles stretched away on the floor of the foyer and twin staircases joined halfway up to the first story, where she knew for a fact there was a huge ballroom. She had seen the duc’s decadent revelries from the street on many a night as she came home late from the market. Several delicately carved chairs and tiny tables were set about the foyer for the convenience of visitors seeking admittance. The chandelier that hung from the high ceiling held fifty candles at the least and dripped sparkling crystals. Françoise had never felt so out of place, with her cheap, dowdy clothes, soiled with soot, the hem of her dress muddied with runoff from the burning house. Most absurdly, she wished she had used some of her small salary from Madame LaFleur to buy one modish dress.

Her host seemed to have forgotten her again. He was strolling through the hall under the stairs, Gaston in his wake.

Very well. She might have to stay here tonight, but tomorrow she would seek out another position. And she ’d tell Monsieur le Duc just that. She set off across the foyer, shoes clicking on the marble tile, and pushed her way in behind Gaston before the door could close. This room was much cozier than she imagined. It was lined, floor to ceiling on two sides, with bookcases. Two comfortable-looking wing chairs sat facing a grate with a small table between them. A low fire burned and, even though it was summer, the crackle was not unwelcome. These old houses were always a little damp in the evening. At one end was a large desk, inexplicably covered with papers. She couldn’t imagine the duc doing anything that required a desk. Surely his minions paid his tailor’s bills and household accounts.

The duc collapsed into a wing chair, one slippered foot negligently out in front of him. Gaston set down the brandy, murmuring,

“Dinner at the usual time, your grace?” The duc could afford brandy, even taxed as it was these days. No one drank brandy anymore.

“But of course. And see that another place is set.”

Well, at least he remembered her existence, not that she could touch a bite of food while in the devil ’s lair. As Gaston left, said devil peered around the wing of his chair. “Well, are you going to sit down or stand there like a pillar of salt?”

Stung, she started forward and stood next to the other chair. “Which would make this house Sodom and Gomorrah?”
Where
had that come from? She would never have thought she had the courage to retort to the devil that way …

He apparently didn’t either. His brows lifted. “Many think so.” He motioned to the chair.

She cleared her throat. “I … I thank you for your thoughtful gesture and … and assure you that I shall not trespass upon your hospitality for more than one night.”

“I
am
relieved.” He poured a brandy as he glanced up at her. “You have relatives in Paris other than the old woman?”

“She was no relative. She employed me as a companion.” He would despise Françoise for that. She raised her chin.

“Ahhhh.” He examined her critically. She detected a faint scent of … cinnamon. And something else. Something sweet. Unusual scent for a man. They always chose sandalwood or some such in her experience, limited as that might be. And in spite of his languid manner there was that sense that he was more alive than anyone around him. That, added to his other not inconsiderable charms of person, combined into a package nearly lethal to a young girl. It was to her. She’d daydreamed about the wicked duc since he had moved into the house next door.

“You’re not of the servant class,” he remarked.

How did he know that? It wasn’t by her dress. She was not about to tell him that she was the bastard daughter of the Marquis d’Evron and an opera chorus girl. “I might as well be.” She couldn’t keep a hint of defiance from her tone. “I shall seek another position tomorrow.”

After you’ve done what you must.

What? Where had that thought come from? What was she supposed to do?

“You can have no family if they allowed you to so demean yourself.”

The duc was obviously not one to mince words. “I do not,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Distressing situation.” There was no sympathy in his voice.

What had she expected? If she couldn’t find a place immediately … Well, she wouldn’t think about that.

A knock sounded and, without waiting to be invited in, Gaston entered the room. He bore a heavy silver tray on which was balanced a single stemmed glass and another cut-glass decanter filled with some kind of light red wine.

The duc raised his very black and mobile brows. “I do not recall asking for anything, Gaston.” His deep voice was silky, yet a threat of power hummed under it.

“I felt sure, your grace, in all the excitement, that you had forgotten to order ratafia for the young person.”

Françoise, who was still standing, saw the duc’s mouth tighten. “Thank you for reminding me of my manners.” He was probably a horrible master. She hoped he didn’t take revenge on Gaston later.

But Gaston seemed unperturbed. He set down the decanter and the glass, poured a goodly portion of ratafia into it, bowed and withdrew.

“Since my servants will no doubt take me to task if you are still standing when next they enter, I beg you to seat yourself, for my sake if not for your own.” She would not have thought him capable of that wry, even self-deprecating tone. She sat on the edge of the wing chair. He gestured vaguely to the glass.

The wine would be welcome after all that had happened. He waited, sipping his own brandy, until she had taken several sips.

She watched the glow of the coals and the random flicker that remained of the fire. Strange that fire could feel like the end of the world one moment and comforting the next.

“I cannot help but feel that your efforts to find a position may not meet with success.”

She looked up to find he had been watching her, his dark eyes heavy-lidded. He wasn’t telling her anything new but she didn’t care for his tone. “I’m sure to find something suitable.”

“Most of the aristocracy has left France to escape the Terror. Of those that remain a goodly portion are in prison or likely to be so shortly. For those few that remain free and happen to be in the market for household help, you can hardly be suitable.”

She found herself flushing. He was right. Madame’s other three servants had planned to go back to their relatives in the country if ever Madame could not keep them. That’s probably where they were even now, turned into farmers or working in small taverns in the countryside.

He continued, not heeding her discomfiture. “You are too young for a governess or a housekeeper, too refined for a chambermaid …” Here he seemed to consider. His brows drew together. “And how did you come by your education? Your diction and your demeanor do not fit with your clothing or your situation.”

Ahhh. That was how he knew she wasn’t of the servant class. Perceptive. She was willing to wager he would smell a lie at thirty paces. She decided not to answer at all. “That is hardly your concern, your grace.”

“You might repay my efforts to keep you out of gaol by reassuring me that I am not harboring a murderer or a thief.”

“I hardly think your grace is afraid of a girl like me.”

His mouth twitched. “You feel you owe me nothing in the way of explanation?”

Oh, dear. She
was
beholden to him. She swallowed once then decided that another sip of ratafia was in order. The sip turned to a gulp. He was right. She would repay him by telling him what she never admitted. She was a castoff. “I am the bastard daughter of the Marquis d’Evron and an opera singer, I am told.” She lifted her chin again. He might as well have the whole sordid story.