Time for Eternity (12 page)

Yes, my pretty one, that is your problem in convincing me, is it not? And mine in finding a way to live with this burden I
have become to myself.

“Because,” she said slowly, “I think the only way you can overcome what you have done to yourself, and to others, is to resolve to leave yourself open to yet more damage. Yes. Resolve. That is the only cure.” He frowned. Resolve was what he had used to banish his own demons for centuries. She looked up at him. “Can that be right?” She was innocent enough to admit she wasn’t sure. And experienced enough to know everything. How was that possible?

“No. It can’t.” He couldn’t take any more of this. “Now, will you leave me to my bath?”

She was still musing to herself. “But I think it can.” She glanced up at him and shrugged a smile. “You must see that if I believe one must resolve to overcome cynicism and be open to the world and all it can do to one, then I must believe you will help me in spite of your nature, and resolve to see that you do. Which means I’m not going anywhere without your promise.”

He sighed in exasperation. “I shall discuss this with you over dinner. Not while I’m taking a bath. Is that enough of a promise?”

She curtsied, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile, and slid out the door.

Hell and damnation. What kind of a chameleon had he brought into his house? And how the hell did she know him so well?

He strode downstairs half an hour later. He could take no pleasure in his bath. Not when he kept remembering how she had looked at the bed. Or replaying in his mind her tenuous exposition of the exact mental process he had been going through in the last years as he tried to find meaning in his life. The fact that touching her the other night had raised a cockstand on the spot was only because he had not assuaged his Companion’s need for sex of late. Nothing more. His hair was now ruthlessly brushed into a simple queue. Drummond had worked his magic on the coat and he had tied his own cravat in record time.

The amazing thing was that he was going to do something very stupid tonight. It might cut short his usefulness and make Paris impossible for him.

And if he lost his purpose, he might just lose his soul. So why was he going to do it? Because she challenged him? Or was it because she seemed to think one could find hope in spite of how much damage years, and alienation, could inflict on one?

He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew better. And yet he was going to get the old woman out for her. He was not going to tell the girl what he was doing. That would only add to the danger. She’d not have to know his part in the thing at all. So, he’d just put the girl off tonight and avoid her until the thing was done. He’d have to spend all his time away from home.
Merde.

He pushed into the library. She was already there, reading a book, still wearing that awful dress. Which reminded him …

“Gaston tells me you missed an appointment with La Fanchon today.”

She looked guilty. “I apologize for that. I was distracted when Gaston told me the time, and it took me all afternoon to get into the prison to visit Madame once I’d found her.”

“You have no idea how large my order will have to be to smooth her ruffled feathers. ” He strode to the sideboard where the brandy was set out and poured a glass. Gaston had set out ratafia as well. He lifted the decanter and offered it to the girl. She shook her head.

“No, thank you.”

“You will perhaps deign to let her attend you tomorrow?” He raised his brows pointedly.

She was positively pretty when she was embarrassed. “I … I had hoped to visit Madame again and take her something more useful than my comfort.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t need clothing. If your grace could perhaps loan me a small amount of the money that would have gone to dresses, I could bribe the guards to get in with some food and perhaps a blanket for her.”

He set his lips. “I’ll not have you looking like … like a street urchin.”

She looked down at her dress and swallowed hard. “Well, perhaps one new dress.”

“One?” The girl was impossible. “You really must think of my reputation.” He lifted one hand to forestall her protestations. “You will be given an allowance which is yours to spend as you will, on bribes and blankets even. But tomorrow you will wait on La Fanchon.”

He could see she wanted to protest. It was killing her not to tell him she would do as she liked and his priorities were topsy -

turvy. But she couldn’t be ungrateful, and he wasn’t asking much. The dialogue with herself was clearly going on in her eyes. Finally she bit her lip. “Of course, your grace.”

He nodded approval. “Wise decision.” He downed his brandy. “Now, I find I must go out for the evening.”

“But you promised that you would discuss helping Madame with me over dinner.”

“Did I? I can’t recall. Well, we will talk about it sometime very soon.”

She surprised him by rising and striding over to stand much too close to him, her eyes snapping in anger. “Don’t you dare try to wriggle out of a promise by pretending to forget.”

Caught. But he couldn’t tell her his plan. When she made it to the Conciergerie and found Madame escaped, she’d best think it had nothing to do with one Henri Foucault.

“I’ll talk about it when I choose to talk about it, dear girl. ” That would madden her. It couldn’t be helped. “And right now I choose to have a peaceful dinner far away from talk of Madame LaFleur and Robespierre and prisons and executions.” He sighed with what he hoped was long-suffering boredom.

“You are absolutely … hopeless.”

True. Hope had gone out of his life a long time ago. And he was mad to even think she could bring it back. “Agreed,” he murmured as he set his glass down. “I shall discuss this with you when you are dressed in a way that does not offend my every sensibility.” And with that, he walked out, leaving her sputtering. Not kind, but necessary.

The stone walls of the Conciergerie loomed over him in the darkness. A little after one in the morning. The guards would be bored and getting drowsy. The better to think they ’d been dreaming if one chanced to see the act itself. He sidled up to the guardhouse. He could hear them playing cards. Hell, he could smell them, even over the stink of the place. Everything smelled like a republic rotting from within to him these days.

“Who has drawn making the next round?” one asked.

“Denny.”

“Me? You jest, cur. I just did it last hour.”

“And lost the last hand at piquet, no?”

“I was sure we said it was to be the one who lost the next hand.”

“Mes amies?
Next hand?”

“Last hand.” This from several voices.

Grumbling. Denny would be Henri’s mark. Keys clinked being removed from the wall. Peering through the great iron grate that served the old palace as a portcullis Henri saw him start out the back of the guardhouse. He headed down some stairs.

Henri drew his power and watched the red film pour down over his field of vision. The whirling blackness swept up to engulf him. Then the familiar pain seared through him and he was through the portcullis. He made no sound at the pain transporting caused. He had grown inured to pain after all these centuries. He moved silently down the stone staircase, following the glow of the guard’s lantern, but well back, in the shadows.

The stairs opened out into the huge Romanesque crypts. He remembered when they had housed the stables for Henri IV’s army back in the 1500s. Bobbing ahead was the circle of light. He could hear the guard’s noisy breathing and the echoing clip of his boot heels. The faint noise of the cells began to grow. He quickened his pace into a narrow corridor.

Denny whistled, perhaps to keep away the dark, so he was caught unawares when Henri pulled him around. He stared straight into Henri’s red eyes. Fear bloomed in his expression then faded as Henri held him immobile by the force of his will and the power of his Companion.

“Madame LaFleur. An old woman. You know her? She was brought in yesterday.”

The man nodded, all expression absent from his eyes.

“Take me to her cell.”

The guard turned back down the hall. They passed several cells emitting the stench of human bodies not recently washed, piss, defecation, vomit, and the subtle sweetness of infection and death. He knew it well. He had been to these cells many times. So he ignored the supplicating hands, some holding letters they wished to get to loved ones on the outside, and the faces, some tearful, some stony and still, the eyes dead.

The guard paused in front of the third cell and pointed. “In the back.”

“Let me in.”

The guard opened the small doorway in the larger iron grating without thought for whether anyone inside could overpower him and get out. The guard locked the door. Henri turned to him and whispered, “You will remember nothing.”

Then he let him go. He watched Denny shake his head as though to clear the cobwebs from it then shrug and continue on his rounds.

Henri turned into the cell and swept his crimson gaze around the dazed prisoners. “I am not here. You will remember nothing.”

They took no notice of him, but went on with whatever they had been doing. They parted as crowds always parted for his kind.

He strode to Madame LaFleur, letting his power slide back down his veins. So it was an ordinary duc she saw inside her cell.

She raised eyes that were very wise for one who had lived only a single lifetime and smiled. “Françoise sent you.”

It wasn’t a question. And it was the truth. He wouldn’t be here without the girl’s prodding. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”

“How?” she asked.

He wouldn’t answer that. He examined her carefully. She might be old, but she looked healthy enough, if a little drawn about the mouth and eyes. Spending a night and a day in the Conciergerie would do that to one. “It will involve a little pain.” He smiled. “Can you bear it?”

She nodded and a roguish twinkle came into her eyes. “The alternative has a little pain involved as well.” She looked around.

“The others …”

“No.” He cut her speculation short. “Only you.”

She drew herself up. “There is a man with a child here. Take them instead of me.”

A family? He hadn’t noticed. He looked around now. No one paid attention to him. There they were. A man in his early thirties and a boy of perhaps three.

He turned back to the old woman. “I’ll come back for them. But first you, or Françoise will never forgive me.” As if he cared for her forgiveness. But the old woman didn’t need to know he was lying.

“You are not who we thought you were.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and drew his power. The world went red again. She lifted her face to his in question as the blackness began to whirl around them both. She would feel the thrumming energy racing through her. As she saw his red eyes, her own opened wide in astonishment. The blackness engulfed them. Pain struck through him. He heard her scream.

What appeared around him was his warehouse down at the quay off the Seine. Dark barrels and crates were stacked in regular heaps. He still gripped Madame’s shoulders. That was why he felt her legs give out. He lifted her into his arms before she could fall.

She weighed almost nothing. She had probably just fainted from the shock of transporting. It was even more painful for humans than it was for him.

He strode through the maze of cargo to a desk illuminated by a cone of light from a lamp sitting on it. The desk was empty now.

Jennings should be about somewhere. His crew and his warehouse manager were all English, though they spoke excellent French and could pass when necessary. A long table to the side of the desk was covered with inventory ledgers. Henri swept them aside and laid the old woman across the table.

Her right hand grabbed her left arm. She moaned, blinking to consciousness. Her left hand curled into a claw. That was bad. He lifted her shoulders. Her face was paper-white.

Jennings hurried up. “My lord, what are you doing here … ?”

“Get me some water, man, or better yet brandy.” He turned to Madame. “Your heart?”

“It has always been weak,” she whispered.

“Damnation. I would not have taken the chance had I known.”

Again her eyes crinkled at the edges. “I’d rather this way than on the guillotine.”

“People survive such incidents.” Not many. Jennings poured from the jug on the desk.

She shook her head, ever so slightly. “I am old. I have no regrets.” She looked up at him. “One. One regret.”

“What is it?” He shouldn’t ask. She’d make him promise to take care of an aged cat or some task equally distasteful.

“I should like to see Françoise once more.”

He chewed his lip. His night was complete. Why not take another dreadful chance? He nodded. “Jennings, stay with her.” He laid her down and walked into the shadows.

“Just you drink this,” Jennings was saying in French as Henri drew the darkness. “Finest French brandy. Set you up all right and tight.”

Seven

Françoise couldn’t sleep. Instead she stood at the open window of her room and looked out over the dark Place Royale watching the shadowy trees dance in the hot wind. The experience of seeing the duc at his bath had been deeply disquieting, as much because she had known how he would look as for the overwhelming desire she ’d felt. It seemed as though everything she experienced were just a memory. The dreams she’d been having (she’d decided not to call them visions) only made her feel more on edge. Was it the edge of madness?

And then there was the terrible sense of danger she felt all around her. It wasn’t just the danger to Madame. She still had hope that she could convince Avignon to help her friend. It was some danger to herself. And it had to do with Avignon. She felt beleaguered, assaulted by her feelings for him. And she’d had all evening to think about that. Dinner had been a lonely affair. The evening stretched and even books from the duc’s library could not distract her.

A shower of rain flapped over the park. Drops splattered her face but Françoise didn’t move. The air cooled with the shower, and that cooled the hot blood that pumped in her veins.