Little Red Writing (5 page)

He wasn’t finished with the pretty poetess. She wanted him. Felt the carnal hunger between them, whether she wished to admit it or not. She was playing a cat and mouse game.

Well, he never backed away from a challenge. Nor would he botch this crucial mission—his very first for the King.

She couldn’t hide in her chambers forever.

When she came out, he’d be waiting.

*****

Madame de Montbel blew her nose loudly into her lace handkerchief.

“What he’s done is cruel, I tell you,” she cried. Tears dampened her rounded cheeks, her face mostly crease-free, despite her advancing years. “His misdeeds must be exposed as only Monsieur Leduc’s stories can do—God bless the man.”

Seated at her desk in her antechamber, Anne dipped her quill into the crystal inkwell, ready to take notes. “Yes, of course. He’ll do his best,” she said, compassion in her tone.

She always did her best for the women who came looking for some measure of satisfaction, their woes ranging from moderate to severe.

The men in their lives the root cause.

As master of the household, a man had absolute authority. His actions were above reproach. Uncontestable. It mattered little to him or his male peers if those very actions caused a woman humiliation. Hardship. Heartbreak. Expected to endure it, a woman was without recourse of any kind.

Until Gilbert Leduc came along.

Born of Anne’s imagination for just this purpose, Leduc offered women an opportunity to tell their stories. And exact some revenge.

Each and every story was laced with a healthy dose of scandalous yet factual detail about the men in her tales.

The titillating tidbits were what made Anne’s stories—
Gilbert Leduc’s stories
—wildly popular. And what incensed the men. The angrier they got, the more it pleased the women she wrote for. These men deserved the public scrutiny, and at times, the ridicule. Not to mention the frustration of not knowing who Leduc was or where he got his information from.

It gave Anne great pride to know that the precautions she’d put in place had successfully kept anyone from learning Leduc’s identity. The information that made its way into the stories was carefully chosen, so that it never gave away the woman offering up the details.

Madame de Montbel wiped her tears and leaned closer. “Have you ever met Gilbert Leduc?”

“No, madame. He’s very strict about maintaining his anonymity. We simply take notes for him. The notes are dropped off in various secret locations around the city—and the locations always change. I have no idea who the man is.” That was the usual answer she gave.

Together with the Comtesse, Anne chose the women Leduc wrote about; her patroness knew who could be trusted to come to her home and provide details for Gilbert Leduc’s stories. And despite the cautious selection, none was told Gilbert Leduc and Anne were one and the same.

“Of course. He must be careful not to be exposed. I understand,” Madame de Montbel said. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes, my son-in-law, the Duc de Falloux, asked for a
Lettre de Cachet
to be drawn up against my dear daughter two months ago, forcing her into confinement at a cloister. She isn’t free to leave. Nor is she allowed visitors. Including me and her own children! He forbids it. Her imprisonment there could be indefinite.” She sobbed then blew her nose again.

Sadly, Anne had heard stories like these before. A man could have orders drawn up against his “unmanageable” wife or other female members of his family, and have them confined to a prison or convent, or in some cases, even exiled. Without trial. Sometimes with little or no provocation. It was an abuse of power.

“What is his reason for having her cloistered?” Anne asked. Not that he really needed one.

“He doesn’t approve of his wife having friends. In particular, Madame de Santerre.”

Anne wasn’t surprised.

Madame de Santerre was an educated intelligent woman and a darling of the more prestigious Salons. A young widow, she was independent and witty, with a sharp mind and an impressive knowledge of literature.

“He said that Madame de Santerre wasn’t fit company, that she was too high-spirited for his ‘feebleminded, impressionable’ wife. That’s what he called
my
Eléonore,” she scoffed, disgusted.

What nonsense. More like, the man was afraid his wife might develop opinions of her own, like Madame de Santerre. Or perhaps he was simply looking for an excuse and wanted the Duchesse out of the way.

Keeping her comments to herself, Anne diligently recorded Madame de Montbel’s statements. Dipping her quill back into the inkwell, she said, “Go on.”

“When he caught Eléonore with books given to her by Madame de Santerre, he had her tossed into the cloister. He felt she’d been corrupted and needed to spend some time in religious devotion ‘
to reflect on her behavior,
’ he’d said. He, on the other hand, immediately moved his favorite paramour into the hôtel—under the same roof as my grandchildren—and carries on openly, making no attempt to be discreet at all. Can you believe that?”

She could indeed. Men thought nothing of the hypocrisy of it all. A man could easily see a woman’s actions as corrupt but never recognize his own wrongdoings.

Madame de Montel shook her head and dried more tears, clearly heartbroken. Anne wanted to offer consolatory words, but what could she say to diminish the woman’s misery?

Setting a blue velvet purse down on the desk, Madame de Montel said, “This is compensation for Monsieur Leduc’s trouble.”

Anne pushed the purse back. “He accepts no payment from those who provide him with stories, madame. Your satisfaction with the work is compensation enough for him.”

“Then please provide him with a note expressing my thanks and stress to him that I want him to show, through his pen portrait and story, just what kind of scoundrel the Duc is. He’s to spare him no mercy.” No longer did Madame de Montel weep. Her expression was hard, her eyes now narrowed.

“Of course,” Anne assured.

“And now to address that aspect of the story that Leduc’s readers love—that scandalous morsel they all devour.” For the first time since Madame had been escorted to Anne’s private apartments, she formed a smile, a bit of joy entering her eyes. “There is something I have learned about the Duc that I’m certain he wouldn’t want others to know. He dares to question my daughter’s character. Well, I have a bit of information to expose that will have everyone questioning his.”

Uncertain what she was about to hear, Anne waited, quill inked and ready. There was nothing anyone could do to have Eléonore de Falloux freed. Or reunited with her children. Gilbert Leduc was not about to right a wrong here, but he was going to make sure that the Duc’s callous actions didn’t go unpunished.

*****

Nicolas ran his fingertips along the top shelving in the library, his arm stretched high. Methodically moving around the perimeter of the room, row by row, he glided his fingers over the smooth wood, until he’d checked them all.

No key
.

Frustrated, he glanced across the room at the locked desk near the windows.

He’d already searched his grandmother’s chambers. There, too, he’d located a writing desk.

Also locked.

He’d looked under the furniture and in every nook and cranny where a key could be hidden in his grandmother’s rooms, and had stopped the search only when it was clear the key wasn’t in her private apartments.

And—
merde
—he wasn’t having any more success here in the library than he’d had upstairs.

With Henriette, Anne and Camille in their respective rooms, their private apartments couldn’t be searched. Nicolas had hoped instead that a search of the Comtesse’s desks would yield the evidence needed to prove Henriette was Gilbert Leduc.

Nicolas raked a hand through his hair. One master key could very well open both desks. If hidden in the library, it was possible the key was between the pages of one of the thousands of books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

How was he ever going to locate something so small in such a vast collection of volumes? He didn’t want to resort to trying to pick the lock, but would if he didn’t find the key. Soon.

One of the volumes near the door caught his eye. Nicolas pulled it off the shelf. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gazed at the title. He’d read this book.

A book of poetry written by an alluring woman with the most magnificent red hair.

Anne de Vignon.

A hot rush streaked through him. He was anxious to see her, more than he could ever comfortably admit, and wondered how much longer she’d be sequestered in her rooms.

This time there’d be no holding back. This time he was going to give her what she’d been begging for with her eyes last night.

Nicolas opened the book and thumbed through it. He’d enjoyed Anne’s poems. Her romantic verses at times were moving. He found himself—to his astonishment—lost in its pages.

He could only imagine the amusement Thomas would derive from
that
.

Nicolas turned back to the first page, where it indicated that the book had been printed in Paris and—more important—that it had passed the Royal Censor and had received permission to be published.

The book was completely legal.

Unlike Gilbert Leduc’s books.

Nicolas had to give Henriette credit. She’d cleverly twisted the law to her benefit. Leduc’s books claimed to be printed by a foreign publisher—which made them legal for purchase in France.

Foreign books didn’t need royal consent the way domestic books did.

But the claim was false. The volumes weren’t being printed out of the country by a foreign publisher. They were
not
foreign at all. Acting on a suspicion he’d had from the beginning, Nicolas had tracked down the press printing Leduc’s books—located right in Paris.

In short, it wasn’t just the sensational subject matter that made the books a problem. The entire illegal operation—from author to printer—would have to be brought to the attention of the King.

Nicolas heard fast footsteps approaching the room. He jerked his head up, froze, and listened.

Anne swept into the library and stalked straight to the desk. Instinctively, Nicolas slipped behind the nearby door. There was a brown ledger in her hand.

Setting the ledger on the desk, Anne pulled at the gold chain around her neck. A locket slid out of her bodice. She opened it, took out a key, and unlocked one of the desk drawers. Putting the ledger inside the desk, she relocked it, placing the key back in the locket.

Transfixed, Nicolas watched as the gold pendant slid down her smooth skin into her bodice once more.

Now there’s a hiding place worth exploring
.

Nestled between her soft breasts was the very item he needed. The very item he intended to get his hands on. He was about to have the key and the beautiful author. He liked this mission more and more with each passing day.

Nicolas stepped out from behind the door, hiding his smile.

Anne looked up and started.
“Nicolas . . .”
she breathed. The breathless way she’d uttered his name made his heart hammer and his sac tighten.

Clearly, she hadn’t expected to see him. It confirmed for him—just as he’d surmised—that she’d sent the trunk of books to his chambers for reasons other than to better acquaint him with his grandmother. She was trying to keep him busy—a clever parry on her part. She was attempting to elude him. Moreover, she was trying to avoid the sexual lure between them.

There was no way he was going to let her.

Nicolas stopped before the desk. His cock was already stiffened and eager. “I’ve startled you.”

“No . . . well, yes. I thought . . .” She was adorably flustered. She wasn’t a giddy woman. She was educated, intelligent and always poised, and he loved that he could fluster her. However, that she caused him to make missteps was something he didn’t find quite as appealing.

“Rather . . . I didn’t see you there.” She bit her lip.

Oh, how he was going feast on that pretty mouth. In fact, on her entire sweet, edible form until he got his fill.

Before she left this room again, she was going to express, not avoid, her desire for him.

“Was that your intrigue and adventure story you placed in the desk?” Nicolas kept his tone light, feigning mild interest.

“No. It was simply an accounting ledger. Henriette often helps your grandmother with accounting matters. I was placing it there for her.”

“I see.” He would see—the ledger and the rest of the contents of the desk. Later. After he had the key. And the woman before him. “It was very kind of you to send the trunk of books. Thank you,” he said.

She formed a smile, donning a cordial mask. One he wanted stripped away. Her writings had given him a glimpse of the real Anne de Vignon. Definitely passionate. He wanted to see more. Know more.

Sample some of that very passion firsthand.

“You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy them as much as the Comtesse. You may discover you have more in common with her than you think.”

Jésus-Christ
, he hoped not. “Perhaps so. But I noticed that some books were missing. Ones I’m sure she loves.”

Her delicate brows drew together. “Oh?”

He held up the book still in his hand. “Like this one.”

Anne pulled her gaze away from his handsome face to the brown leather volume. Her book of poems.

“This is yours, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

In his dark blue justacorps and breeches, he looked so good. So tall and strong. So potently male. Was it possible that he looked even more beautiful today?

“Why didn’t you add this to the trunk? Surely the Comtesse loves your work,” he said. “I doubt she’d be your patroness otherwise.”

Her two volumes of poetry had been written when she was a different person. With whimsical ideas of love. Before Roland had disillusioned and disenchanted her.

Both she and Henriette had had the misfortune of knowing love and its stinging effect.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested in reading a book of love poems.”