Authors: Diane Whiteside
“Of course, mademoiselle.” He bowed, just a shade more deeply than strictly necessary to a
comte
’s unmarried youngest daughter. At least she hadn’t needed to provide formal introductions to Celeste, which would have been incongruous under these circumstances.
His voice gentled, dropping into genuine consideration. “May I inquire as to the
comte
and
comtesse
de Sainte-Pazanne?”
“They have gone to join their ancestors,” Hélène forced out from a suddenly tight throat. Would this ever become easy to discuss or remember?
“My deepest sympathies, madame, mademoiselle.” He bowed again, seemingly with great sincerity.
Both Hélène and Celeste acknowledged him silently.
“May I offer you and your sister safe passage to England, madame?”
“Thank you.” She had very little money in England, since Bernard had not chosen to place his investments with France’s sworn enemy. But perhaps her knowledge of explosives might earn them a little money.
“This way, my ladies. A boat awaits us on the river.”
Hélène paused for a last look before the cliff blocked all view of the house, although Celeste hastened down. She needed the reminder of what she’d lost, and learned, and why she’d fight to the death for revenge, burning it into her brain through her headache’s raw agony.
The house roared its fury, destroying all traces of their parents. Flames leapt to the skies, competing with the black smoke. Sparks swirled across the landscape like demons, seeking to destroy the unwary. The heat was like a living enemy, pushing them away from everything she’d loved. And the smell—of burning sweet hay, of crisp wood, charred meat, sweet flowers, and the mustiness of old books and older furniture…
The flames hammered at the barn’s roof, ripping through sections of it. With a great whoosh and crackle of sparks, the entire thatched expanse slowly fell in upon itself. The walls swayed, battered by the wind, and tumbled toward the house—into the courtyard, onto her family’s bodies.
Now her parents’ remains were beyond their enemies’ most twisted notions of revenge, together with the Blues officer.
Hélène crossed herself and turned away, her lungs and heart seared.
DOVER, TWO DAYS LATER
“Good morning, madame. A word alone, if I may?” Sir Andrew ffoulkes bowed politely.
It was a very direct approach from a man she’d already learned favored indirect tactics whenever possible. Even so, she could agree to it, since Celeste was out walking with their hostess and a young naval lieutenant.
“Certainly, Sir Andrew. Please sit down.”
He did so with his usual grace, and Hélène poured him a cup of coffee, reflecting on the differences a few hours had made. She was clean, well fed, as well rested as her nerves would allow, and certainly quite safe under the roof of a retired general. She’d cried but not much, possibly because she was still vibrating with rage at how her parents had died.
Her clothes were the only oddity. She and Celeste were both now wearing new and very fashionable garments, although wholly suitable for full mourning. When she’d attempted to demur, her hostess had waved off the subject, saying something about Hélène’s protection and necessities coming from the Crown.
It was probably a misunderstanding. Someone was being kind because of Papa’s valor.
She considered Sir Andrew over her coffee cup’s rim. He had something of Donal O’Malley’s restrained lethality, although she didn’t think he would ever dominate a room as well as
Monsieur
Perez could. He certainly had nothing of Jean-Marie’s elegance, or the lurking laughter living side by side with the ability to whip a blade up against a bully’s throat.
She bit back a sigh and waited, calling upon all of her training as Bernard’s hostess to conceal her thinking.
Sir Andrew briefly lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. She had the strange notion he might have caught her thoughts, which was impossible.
“Madame,” he began sweetly enough, “have you considered what you will do next?”
“As the
marquis
d’Agelet’s widow,” she began, concealing her surprise at his frontal attack, “I have some expertise in explosives, vouched for by my lectures to the Royal Academy and the Gunpowder Administration. I had hoped the British Crown might find my skills useful.”
“So you’d be willing to risk your life, even kill your fellow countrymen?”
Hélène lifted an eyebrow at his idiotic question. Did he think explosives experts grew flowers? How did he imagine Bernard had died so abruptly—falling into a pond while throwing bread to ducks? She snorted privately.
“Of course I would. The revolutionaries killed my parents. I will risk everything, to make sure no one else goes through the same agony.”
“What else would you do?” He leaned forward.
“M’sieu?”
Her gut tightened, bringing her alert as it always had before a key discovery. He was too intent, making this interview very tricky.
“At Sainte Marie des Fleurs, the wood was very wet since it had been raining for several days. Yet it managed to catch fire and blaze very quickly.” He leaned forward, watching her intently and speaking intimately.
“So? The Blues brought incendiaries, as they always did.” Hélène watched him placidly, refusing to be drawn into any trap. Firestarting without any visible aids would be considered witchcraft in most places, making one liable to be hanged or worse.
He drummed his fingers for a moment on the arm of his chair, watching her face very closely, before he spoke again much more softly.
“What if Shakespeare spoke the truth when Hamlet said there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy? What if there are firestarters—and vampires. Or, more properly,
vampiros
?”
Hélène’s eyes widened. Memories flashed past, of a summer day and a man groaning in delight while a woman drank from his neck.
“Do you believe in firestarters, madame?” Sir Andrew’s voice was very soft, scarcely loud enough to be heard two paces away.
“Why are you asking?” she parried, recovering some of her nerve.
“Because explosives experts are easier to find than firestarters. I didn’t see all of the fight at Sainte Marie des Fleurs, but I saw you start the fire.”
She turned pale, her skin rapidly flashing hot and cold.
“And I’m damned glad you did because otherwise you and your sister wouldn’t have lived. Please believe me. You know those troops would have searched the house and killed you both, long after you’d started begging them to grant you mercy.”
She flinched, but gritted her teeth and nodded.
“You could fight Paris far better as a firestarter, madame,” he coaxed.
She snorted with disgust at the unlikely role. “What, torch the entire Committee of Public Safety?”
“Unlikely. They have their own guards, who are very powerful. But we play our own nasty games on them.”
Mon Dieu
, he sounded completely serious. Perhaps she could probe for a few of his plans. “Such as?”
“You could become more powerful. Mind powers, like firestarting, increase when someone becomes a
vampiro
.”
She set her coffee cup down so abruptly, she completely missed the saucer, and it landed in the tray. “
Vampiro?
Me become a vampire?”
“So you have seen them before,” he purred triumphantly.
She nodded distractedly, a thousand possibilities chasing themselves through her mind—mixed with relief at finally being able to speak freely. “But how could I do that? I’d have to drink blood for the rest of my life!”
“We live on the emotional energy carried in the blood, not the blood itself. The more powerful the emotion, the less often we need to feed.”
“Carnal pleasure.” As in the passion on the
vicomte
’s face.
“It’s one of the greatest. But so is death and terror.”
She sprang out of her chair. “I would never do that!”
“Nor have I, nor will you be asked to. Please calm yourself, madame, and return to your seat. We have much to discuss.”
“Will you swear to me that I will never kill for food?”
For the first time, he allowed his mask of indolent good humor to slip and show the steel underneath. His gray eyes were very hard above his strong jaw.
“You have my most solemn oath. The first emotion a
vampiro
tastes is the emotion they must feed upon for the rest of their lives. Should you agree, you would not be taught to feed upon death or terror—since the British Crown would never trust a
vampiro
who required such meals.”
She propped her fists on her hips and hooted with cynical laughter. “So very pragmatic of you. Very well, I believe you now and I will listen to the rest of your proposal.”
She sat back down with all the elegance of a
marquise
, who’d been born to the ancient régime’s oldest and proudest class of nobility.
“You would also live forever,” he added.
“Years and years as a servant of the
British
Crown? No!” Better to die now.
“It’s a powerful gift and takes long, difficult training.” Granite was more flexible than his countenance. “A suitable period of service must be given in recompense.”
“Such as?” Why was she considering this?
“As long as you’re a ‘creature of the night’ who must avoid sunlight at all costs, without considering twilight. I myself have never been able to see twilight since I became a
vampiro
.”
“How long would I have to serve, in years?” Did he think French-women were so foolish as to be tricked by pretty words from
Englishmen
? Dolt. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.
“Approximately two hundred years.”
“That’s far too long!” Twenty decades sworn to a foreign king?
“As one, you would be able to start a fire so quickly and precisely you could kill a
vampiro
before he took a step. That’s faster than a cannonball can leave the gun’s muzzle.”
Hélène shot him a sideways glance and stirred more cream into her coffee. “Impossible.”
“No.” The very flatness of his response made it believable—and tempting.
“I would be your
creador
, unless you object to me.”
“My
creator
? Is the bond very intimate?”
“More than you can imagine.” His eyes danced briefly, unsettling her stomach. “My loyalty to the British Crown is absolute, and your loyalty to me, as your
creador
, would also be certain.”
She whistled unhappily but said nothing.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Our branch of the Secret Service is deeply hidden but we are controlled from the very top.”
On the other hand, who else did she know in England since she’d never been here before? He had brought her out of France, and he’d always been very kind to her and Celeste. “Your handlers are trying to be generous to me.”
He shrugged, a small splotch of color appearing high on his cheekbones.
“They truly must want me.” She probed a little harder.
“Very much so.” His tone was extremely dry and she laughed for the first time in days.
“Will they pay me well?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?” She’d obviously shocked him out of his British sangfroid.
“No war between Britain and France has ever lasted for two full centuries. Besides, I can hardly believe that those Parisian donkeys are competent enough to provide for an army that long,” she announced haughtily, testing the limits of her newfound influence. “So I will need some diversions, which means fashionable clothing for every season. I am a Frenchwoman, after all.”
He gaped at her. Excellent; she’d managed to completely knock him off balance. She needed at least one victory in this sea of newness and uncertainties.
“And my sister…”
“Has already accepted the same offer.”
Hélène glared, catching his momentary smugness. “How dare you seduce an innocent like Celeste?”
“Mind powers run in families, and we need every possible advantage in this war. Besides, she is twenty-six, madame.”
On the other hand,
la petite
was distraught from seeing her parents’ murder. Hélène had noticed she’d seemed calmer this morning. Perhaps Sir Andrew’s body had provided some comfort. Hélène could hardly deny her sister the right to find healing wherever she found it—and revenge, as well.
Even so, as her older sister, she did need to keep an eye out for her.
“If you hurt her, I will gladly kill you. Slowly,” she warned him.
“Understood.” He bowed slightly. “She has also received one last warning: Very, very few females’ sanity passes intact through
El Abrazo
, the process of becoming a
vampira
. The worst will be
La Lujuria
, the lechery at the beginning.”
“Oh, I will survive your
El Abrazo
, Sir Andrew,” Hélène assured him. “It will be a pleasure to do so, in order to protect my sister and avenge my parents.”
She had no doubts at all.
OXFORD, JUNE 1795
Celeste revolved slowly, examining herself critically in the mirror from every possible angle.
The peignoir and nightgown were both made of the finest silk, trimmed with exquisite Valenciennes lace and fluttering ribbons. The entire ensemble was dyed black and slightly transparent, to remind Andrew she’d been his lover for months. The neckline exposed her breasts, which fascinated him—the masculine idiot!—and also allowed free access to her neck.
She would have worn something far less revealing with fewer ribbons for Raoul, of course. White and virginal, to celebrate the perfection of her life and the hope of a child. Displaying the beloved ring he’d given her, the one she’d been forced to destroy, lest its implication of a lover be questioned.
Her eyes closed in agony.
“Ma’am?” the maid questioned cautiously.
“Go!” Celeste waved her off, for once not throwing something at the clumsy bitch.
All Englishwomen were bitches; it was an article of faith. She had to believe that, if she was to have revenge on the entire race for Raoul’s death.