Lyon (6 page)

Juliette's brow knit. “An Italian with his surname came to Paris several months ago, did he not? A vintner from Tuscany?”

Beside her, Valmont nodded, pleased she'd remembered. “A cold fish, that one—Raine Satyr, the middle son of three. Unfortunately he departed Paris before he could be reeled in.” He gestured toward the room below. “This one tonight is the youngest of the brothers at twenty-six years. There is another in Tuscany—the eldest of them, who has recently wed. After years of fucking anything that moves, all three have recently confounded the gossips by commencing bride searches.”

She soaked up this news of him and wanted more. “Are they attractive prospects?”

“Exceedingly. Among them, they own vast holdings—estates, an immense flourishing vineyard, and coffers overflowing with inherited riches.”

“Their vineyards still flourish?” Juliette asked, glancing at him in surprise. “Untouched by the phylloxera?”

Valmont's expression twisted with bitterness. “
Oui.
Though it's beyond anyone's understanding why that should be so. And it's certainly beyond all fairness.”

In the salon, Fleur had been supplanted on the newcomer's arm by the more aggressive Gina, who was giving him a tour of Valmont's art collection. The hoard of busts, statues, oils, and watercolors was but a small fraction of what his family had once owned. However, it and the rest of the items in the other rooms here were all he'd been able to abscond with before his Burgundy château had been recently claimed by taxmen.

Juliette had been there to watch his once-affluent father's vast winemaking enterprises in Burgundy felled by the phylloxera over the years. It had been among the first of the many to succumb to the ravages of the aphid-like pest, which had gone on to decimate many of Europe's vineyards.

His father had killed himself over the debacle. This townhouse, the smallest property of the many his family had once owned, was now all Valmont possessed of his father's legacy. And he'd filled it with prostitutes to provide his income.

She could almost pity him because of the reversal of fortune the pest had wrought in his family and in his life. Almost. But not quite.

As he escorted Gina, Satyr's panther gait was masculine, easy, and loose-limbed. It reminded her of how she'd seen him in the park, moving on that other woman. Of how she'd felt him moving inside her. Goosebumps rose on her arms.

If he was indeed the same man as the one she'd seen earlier tonight at Pont Neuf, he'd changed his clothing in the last hour. Wool trousers dyed the color of mustard seed faithfully molded his derriere with each shift of his hips or step of his booted feet. These were paired with a natural linen cambric shirt and a casual jacket of drab olive. It was an attractive look on him, but so profoundly
démodé
that it could never have been considered modish in the first place by anyone of society.

Nevertheless, she saw how Agnes and the others eyed him. Against a backdrop of dandified peacocks, he stood out as a brawny, earthy animal in his prime. One who chose his own path and was confident enough not to bow too deeply to the whims of style.

For a man so large, he moved with sleek grace. But even as she made this observation, he contradicted it. She gasped as his elbow caught on the outstretched bow of a statue, sending it rocking. It was a sculpture of Diana, Roman goddess of the hunt, a favorite subject of Valmont's.

Large pawlike hands caught at the wobbling goddess. An awkward juggling act ensued in which he fondled various portions of her anatomy before ultimately rescuing her from peril and returning her safely to her pedestal.

The attention of everyone in the room now on him, the giant rolled his shoulders and heaved a great sigh as though accustomed to causing such calamities in salons. His words didn't reach their hiding place, but whatever he said sent laughter rippling over the room.

“A man who can laugh at himself—a rare animal,” murmured Juliette.

“Buffoon,” Valmont muttered. “He'll pay for that if it's damaged. Among other things.”

Juliette turned her head in time to surprise a vengeful expression on his face. “What do you mean?”

Avoiding a direct reply, he eyed her thoughtfully. “You will favor him tonight. All those years you lived on the fringes of my family's vineyard should be to your advantage in snaring his interest. Flatter him and draw him out regarding his work.”

“What precisely do you wish me to glean from my conversation with him?” she asked guardedly.

“Any details about the inner workings of his estate. Any weaknesses in him or in his family. Ask the source of his vines' immunity to the phylloxera epidemic. If they've been infected and cured by some secret remedy, I want to know of it.”

“And you think he'll simply tell me all this for the asking?”

“Dazzle him in your usual way,” Valmont went on, flicking his fingers in the air as if to whisk away her incredulity. He turned to quit their hiding place, indicating it was time to descend to the salon. “Show him the rooms. Whatever it takes to keep him with you long enough to pump him for information.”

“The rooms? But you never ask that of me! Usually only Agnes or Gina or one of the others…” Stunned by his request, she turned blindly back to her study of the salon below.

Abruptly a pair of jeweled amber eyes cut to the nook where she was hidden. A wave of erotic awareness prickled over her.

God! It was him!
She stepped back, knocking against Valmont. Recoiling from the contact, she whipped around accidentally brushing against the screen. For an instant, the grillwork singed her shoulder blade in that confusing metallic way that made it impossible to determine if it was chilling or heating her skin.

Catching her arm, Valmont jerked her away from it to study her face. Obviously disliking what he read there, he pulled her close and lifted her chin, brushing a dangerously gentle thumb along the underside of her jaw. She hunched her shoulders to keep her breasts from grazing the front of his jacket.

“You find him attractive?”

She shrugged, erasing all expression from her face. “You know I never take particular interest in any gentleman.”

“Your cheeks are flushed,” he accused.

“Only because it's warm.”

His face loomed closer. Absinthe-soaked breath soughed in and out of him. The heady licorice scent of anise reached her, unmistakable at close range.

She cringed inwardly, but was careful not to reveal her distaste as cold, moist lips touched hers. Once, as a girl, she'd thought him handsome and good and she'd wanted his kiss. How foolish she'd been.

Heedless of the roomful of guests that waited for them below, he brushed his mouth over hers, back and forth. “Such an attraction would be understandable,” he murmured. “He
is
handsome. And rich, with an impeccable title. The names of Satyr scions have been inscribed in the registers at the
Libro d'Oro della Nobiltà Italiana
for centuries.”

“If you don't trust my word on my feelings, how can you trust me to be alone with him?”

“You won't be alone. I hire many eyes to watch for me in this house and elsewhere. I'm well aware that women are wicked and untrustworthy by nature. You more than most.”

“That's untrue. You know it is.”

Fingers slid under her hair and gripped her nape to hold her and underscore her entrapment. A pale hand found her breast in a hard massage meant to hurt. She clutched at his hand, but his grip only tightened. His eyes smiled into hers, daring her to rebel.

“Your mother abandoned you—something only the lowest slut would do to her child. What's bred in the bone…”

“You're hurting,” she gritted.

He ignored her. “You
will
take Satyr to the back rooms if he requests it. In fact,
you
will suggest such a move. You will elicit the information I desire. And no matter what pressure he applies, you will resist the temptation to whore for him.”

His kissed her then, eagerly sampling her powerlessness. His tongue struck, filling her mouth and nearly choking her on her own revulsion. Her hands dropped, fisting at her sides.

Finally he seemed to remember their guests. He drew away.

“Gina, Fleur, and the others are not what our patrons come for, you know,” he said, cupping her face. “It's you they want. Though beautiful women proliferate here in Paris, something about you draws men like bees to your honey pot. Little do they know it's dry and unused, eh? More fools they.”

His reptilian tongue stroked over the seam of his lips, as though savoring a last taste of her. Pulling a square of linen from his pocket, he delicately dabbed his mouth and turned away to stare through the screen again.

“Go to your chamber and make yourself presentable.”

She stared at his back, imagining herself striking a dagger into it. But instead she only scurried off, despising herself for a coward. She hadn't always been so.

“Don't take too long,” he warned as she slipped through the door.

By the time she reached her room, she was breathing hard from her rush and from frustrated anger.

With trembling fingers, she splashed wine into a glass, then opened the vial on her washstand and extracted a measure of laudanum. It fell from the dropper's tip into the wine, like tears on blood. She stirred the tincture with the dropper and drank.

She didn't meet her eyes in the mirror as she scrubbed the rouge from her lips and refreshed it. She didn't like herself at the moment. Wouldn't like herself again until she left Valmont and this place far behind. With any luck, that day would come soon.

The pleasant floating feeling, which the tincture could be relied upon to supply, slowly began to enfold her in its calming caress. She rolled her neck in a languid circle.

Umm.
It was pleasurable sensation not unlike a much gentler version of the orgasm the golden giant had supplied earlier today.

Sighing, she powdered her cheeks and straightened her hair and gown, primping like an actress about to go on stage.

“First time here?” a heavily accented male voice enquired at Lyon's elbow.

Lyon swirled the wine in his glass, studying its sparkle as candlelight danced through its amber depths. Not a Satyr Vineyard label, he noted absently. Still, the
Clairette
his host had served was adequate and no doubt meant to dull his wits and lure him into bidding generously on tonight's prize.

And bid he would. For whatever the cost, he intended to win the jewel on offer here—one Mademoiselle Juliette Rabelais, who it seemed was a courtesan.

Eyes that were the precise color of the wine he drank rose to observe her where she perched on a tufted chaise across the room. From beneath her dark lashes, a flash of sea green flickered, then darted away. She'd been watching him.

Her remarkable eye color was identical to Sibela's. The shape of their faces and their features were strikingly similar as well. So much so that it couldn't be coincidence. This one and the Nereid had to be related.

Incredibly, it appeared that King Feydon had spawned four daughters instead of the three his letter had indicated. Did this woman know she had a sister? As he lay dying, had Feydon known? It would have been typical of his tricks to take the secret to his grave.

Lyon nodded an assent in the general direction of the Cossack who'd spoken to him, responding to his question belatedly and without words. These flamboyant Russians in their fleece hats and wide trousers were rife in Paris these days, lingering long after they'd come to help the allies repel Napoleon.

After the one called Agnes had given up on him, Lyon had sensed the Russian's approach and had deduced a great deal about him without so much as a glance in his direction. His boots had been recently polished with bear grease, he wore a tonic on his mustache, and his body reeked of desire. This last made him no different than any other gentleman in this salon.

Though less acute than that of his brothers, Lyon's olfactory sense was far more finely honed than that of any Human. Which made it all the more bizarre that he could detect nothing of Mademoiselle Rabelais's scent.

Yet he'd detected a scent from the female voyeur on the bridge. Weren't the women one and the same? It was puzzling and he had no patience for more puzzles.

Perhaps if he made his way closer. No. It was that sort of rambling that had very nearly led to the demise of a statue earlier. Numerous other
objets d'art
were displayed along the path to her. Better to maintain his position and hope she approached him. He'd been here nearly an hour and she was the only female in the room who hadn't.

The Cossack spoke again, raising his glass in a caricature of a toast. “Good luck to you then. I've attended these salons every Thursday for the past three months and still haven't won a turn in that one's bed. My pockets are deep enough, so I can only assume it's my pedigree that Mademoiselle Rabelais's guardian finds objectionable.”