A Midnight Dance (42 page)

Jules strode into the bedchamber in Marie de Perron’s home. Sabine rose from her chair.

“I have news,” he said. “It would seem we may have some answers yet.” He explained about Claude Cyr and the Marquis de la Rocque.

“That snake, Cyr, is under the same roof?” She shuddered at the thought.

“Don’t worry. He’s tied up and under Raymond’s guard. In fact, Louise, Vincent, and Agnes all gleefully volunteered to help watch him. He’ll not get away.”

“But what do you plan to do with him?”

“I don’t know yet, but I have a feeling that that ambitious vermin has been privy to his share of secrets and gossip. Raymond will interrogate him thoroughly. In the meantime, I intend to get de la Rocque good and drunk. His tongue loosens up considerably when he’s into his cups.”

“How will you do that?”

He smiled broadly. “Marie is having a masquerade ball tomorrow evening. He’s invited.”

“A masquerade? Really? Oh, that’s perfect.” With the anonymity of a mask, they could move around freely.

She looked down at her humble garb. That is, if she had something to wear. She couldn’t very well attend a ball dressed as she was.

Before she could mention her dilemma, he walked up to her and cupped her cheeks.

“Are you all right?” His concern moved her.

“Yes, I’ve been thinking. If you are looking for a possible culprit, why not look to your father’s secretary, Monsieur Bedeau? He had access to the satchels. He could have easily added any and all damning letters.”

“Monsieur Bedeau served my father for three and a half decades, and even insisted on going to prison to serve him while incarcerated, fully expecting him to be exonerated swiftly. Unfortunately, it was not a brief detainment. Bedeau took ill while in the Bastille. Advanced in years, he never recovered and died before my father was hanged. He was loyal until his very last.”

“Then perhaps it was one of your other servants. You had many that could have—”

“I finished Isabelle’s journal last night while you slept,” he injected.

That froze her words on her tongue.

She’d given him permission to read both hers and her sister’s journals.

“I finished yours, as well,” he said. “I’ve learned a great deal from reading them.”

“Oh?” was all she could muster.

“For instance, I know that your sister loved you very, very much.” Lightly he brushed his knuckles down her cheek.

“She still does, Jules,” she countered. “She is not dead.”

His eyes were soulful and sad, but he did not argue the point. “I also know that Ninette spoke the truth when she said Isabelle stole parchments and ink. Her passion for writing was indeed strong. That said, my father’s arrest and false charges couldn’t have been the result of a disgruntled servant or even a group of servants. It would take someone of high rank to topple a man of my father’s standing.”

He tucked an errant tress behind her ear. “I read about your experiences during the
Fronde
. The horror. The terror you felt. If I could, I’d erase them from your heart and soul.”

His words slipped inside her heart.

“I am sorry for the added hardship my family placed on yours,” he said. “The restrictions we put on the mill, the forests and rivers, the constant raising of taxes, each constraint increasing the risk of starvation. I am sorry you suffered through such things.

“My father’s laws were not ideal. I see that now. They were heavy-handed and should have been tempered.”

Her defenses were crumbling. She felt the pieces give way with each soft sentiment he spoke. Tender feelings she’d tried to contain flooded through her.

“Your journals only further enforced what I already know about you,” he continued. “How strong you are. How brave. How compassionate and caring. A woman who longs to live and love passionately. Freely. You don’t need Isabelle to be whole. The woman before me is in no way lacking or incomplete. I see you as you are. And I very much like what I see.”

A single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye.

There was no point even trying to ignore, deny, or fight the truth any longer—she was deeply in love with him. She’d always been in love with him. She’d always had a connection to him. From the moment she first saw his beautiful face.

“You are not ‘Sensible Sabine,’” he quoted. How she hated it every time her father had called her that. “You are so much more. And you should continue to dream grand.”

Another tear slipped down her cheek. She couldn’t do that. He was her dream. Beyond grand. He was too far out of her reach. It didn’t escape her notice that neither of them talked about the future.

Jules wanted to soothe her. He wanted to erase her pain.
Dieu
, he just plain wanted her. In his arms. In his life. And he couldn’t. Not the way he wanted. His familial obligations were a barrier. One that couldn’t be overcome. He couldn’t even ask her to be his mistress. She’d never agree. Too many journal entries were dedicated to her father’s many mistresses and Louise’s suffering because of them.

He slipped an arm around her waist. Her soft form against his body felt so good. And so right.

He nuzzled her neck and pressed a light kiss against the downy skin just below her ear. Her response was immediate. She laced her arms around his neck. His cock hardened.

Jules swept her up in his arms, then placing her down on the bed, he lowered himself onto her soft body and claimed her soft mouth, eager to pull them into the magic that was their very own.

How on earth was he going to have his fill of this woman?

For a man who always had a plan, he had no idea how to sate this untamable desire she inspired or how to conquer what he felt for her.

Leon slammed open the door to his study. Hubert scrambled to his feet.

Leon stalked over to the side table and snatched up the decanter of brandy. “I warn you, Hubert, I am in a foul mood. You’d better have news that pleases me.” He filled a goblet with the amber liquid and downed it with a toss of his head.

“As a matter of fact—”

Leon spun around to face the burly brute. “Do you know where I have been all night?” he injected.

“N-No.”

“With my future bride and her boorish father.” He slammed the goblet down. “Who does he think he is, speaking to me that way, the condescending pompous ass. I’m not some common riffraff. He should be grateful to me. He should get down on his knees before me and thank me for agreeing to take that ugly sow he calls his offspring as my wife!”

Seething, he walked over to his desk and flopped down onto his chair. “He’ll pay for this offense,” he swore with clenched teeth. “And so will his daughter.” He conjured up deliciously violent images of their mangled bodies to assuage his rage. “I’ll keep her only until she provides an heir, then the fucking bitch dies. Of course, her father’s demise will follow close behind. And I’ll move on to a wife that isn’t quite so vomitous.”

He returned his attention to Hubert and found the man standing in the middle of the room, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. There it was. Fear. Each time he invoked it, it was a heady rush. It was power.

Leon rose. “Well? Tell me you found the Moutiers. Tell me you found that snake Cyr.” He smashed his fist down on the desk. “Tell me you bloody well found
someone
.”

“All of them. We found them all.”

His fury ebbed instantly. “Oh? Where?”

Hubert smiled, flashing a display of rotten teeth. “At the home of that courtesan—Marie de Perron. The Moutiers weren’t easy to follow, especially in the large crowds of Paris. They were cautious and clever. We lost them for a short time. But then, Victor caught sight of Cyr. He was entering Perron’s townhouse.”

“So Cyr is busy social climbing. Why on earth would Marie de Perron entertain his company?”

“Don’t know. But that was yesterday, and she’s still entertaining it today. He’s still there.”

Leon cocked a brow. “Really?”

“Yes,” he responded smugly. “And so are both Moutiers.”

Leon stepped out from around his desk. “Go on.”

“We were outside her townhouse waiting for Cyr when the brothers arrived with the acting troupe and your mademoiselle. We didn’t recognize them at first. They are wearing peasant disguises and they arrived in separate groups and entered using the servants’ entrance.”

“Interesting. Moutier brings his present mistress to the home of his former one. Is he fucking both of them under the same roof?” A fresh wave of rage crested over him. He paced. “He thinks he’s going to regain his rank and lands by using Perron’s social clout, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know, but you can ask him tomorrow, if you want,” Hubert said.

Leon arrested his steps. “Tomorrow? Why tomorrow?”

“I heard it on good authority that Madame de Perron is having a masquerade ball tomorrow night.”

It was Leon’s turn to smile. “A masquerade, you say? Well, well.”

He strode up to Hubert. “Bring enough men and make certain they don’t fail this time. Slaughter the Moutiers and that band of no-account actors they’re with.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“As for Cyr, he’d sell his own mother for coin. Question him first. Learn how loose his tongue has been, then kill him as well.”

“As you wish.”

Leon crossed his arms, feeling much more content than when he’d walked into the room. “The mademoiselle is all mine.” He’d secure an invitation to the ball.

Tomorrow, Sabine would finally be his.

And she had some major penance to pay.

“You look like an angel . . .” Agnes dabbed her teary eyes with a handkerchief and then blew her nose in it.

Standing in the long corridor, she and Sabine could hear noise from the masquerade, the mingling of music and chatter rising up the distant stairwell.

“Thank you.” Sabine’s stomach was in knots.

It was incredible. Magnificent. Nerve-wracking. She hadn’t worn a gown like this in years. Her silver and blue gown was so luxurious. So sumptuous. She couldn’t help touching her skirts every so often.

She couldn’t help noticing the startling similarity between this evening and one she’d dreamed about many years ago.

Strange, how destiny had arranged the stars. How fate had aligned the events that led to this night. Sabine Laurent dressed in such elegance. Jules de Moutier waiting for her downstairs. A masquerade. Music. Dance. Perhaps even magic and a miracle or two.

“You look so lovely.” Agnes smiled. “I am grateful to Marie for her generosity.”

Marie had lent Sabine not only her gown, but also the staff to make any necessary alterations. She’d even sent maids to help with Sabine’s hair, now in perfect fashionable curls—and of course, there was the gilded demi-mask with colorful silver plumes.

Best of all, Agnes, who had managed to keep her silver coins hidden, had purchased her the most beautiful slippers. Silver with tiny glass beading. So reminiscent of her former pair.