Time for Eternity (23 page)

He tottered backward, snarling. It was Henri, but not Henri, and that was most frightening of all.

Somehow she had his neck in one hand and she was squeezing the bottle that wasn’t made of glass. Liquid squirted past
the snarling fangs and into the evil creature’s throat.

He went limp under her hands.

She raised herself and stood, panting. The creature that was Henri but not Henri lay sprawled before her, his chest
heaving. But he would wake soon. And then her soul would be more in danger than ever, and the monster before her
would be angry. Very angry.

Slowly, she turned to the bag. The Roman short-sword gleamed there with its own internal radiance. Images flashed
through her mind of lifting the sword high, bringing it down, and the metal cleaving through flesh, and the blood … the
blood was everywhere.

Françoise gasped. Somewhere a wail still echoed in the air. She looked around wildly. Where was she? Frantic knocking reverberated through the room.

“Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle, are you all right?” Annette’s voice.

She breathed. This was only the luxurious, feminine room that wasn’t really hers.

“Coming, Annette.” She threw back the bedclothes and got up. Her knees were shaky. She started for the door, then paused and looked back. Underneath the bed, right about where her pillows were, that strange leather case squatted like some interloper.

And in it were bottles that weren’t glass, filled with what she was now sure were drugs, and a gleaming sharp -edged sword. A sword that something inside her was urging her to use … Dear God, was she going insane?

She put a hand to her mouth as bile rose in her throat. Nonsense. She wasn ’t strong enough to use a sword to decapitate anyone. That …
that
was what the dream exhorted her to do? Decapitation. A shudder of revulsion rushed through her. She
was
going mad. She must be.

“Mademoiselle?”

“Coming.” Her hands shook as she used the key in the door to let Annette into the room.

“And are we locking our doors these days?” Annette scolded.

“Apparently so.” She didn’t remember locking her door.

Annette peered at her. “Are you ill?”

“A bad dream.” She managed a smile. “No more.” It wasn’t more, was it?

“The noise! How could it not wake you? Such preparations! Everybody’s relatives are here, and still there are not enough hours in the day. A dozen bottles of champagne already have burst their corks. Like a battlefield it is.”

The noise of distant bustle came from downstairs. Was that Pierre shouting something about butter? “What is everyone preparing for?” Françoise felt dislocated, as though she and Annette spoke different languages.

“Why, for the soirée this evening.” Annette peered at her, waiting for a reaction. When Françoise looked blank, she said, “It’s Wednesday,” by way of a prompt.

“Oh. Oh, yes.” The party where Henri was going to present her.

Henri. Last night washed over her. She was still a little sore from their lovemaking. The dream seemed to stand between today and that enchanted night. Well, she wouldn’t let it. She was glad she had spent one night with Henri Foucault, Duc d’Avignon. That he had made love to her still seemed miraculous. She wouldn’t let some dream make it anything else.

But today was reality.

And reality was that she was only bed-sport to him.

Best she find a way to get on with her life. She’d put her application in at the placement services today.

“What time is it, Annette?”

“Alors,
it is nearly four of the afternoon.”

“Four? Oh, dear, did I sleep so long?” It was too late to go to the agencies today.

“When one doesn’t get to bed until eight in the morning, to sleep until after three is not unexpected.” She glanced up at Françoise slyly. “Would Mademoiselle like a bath?”

Françoise cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, that would be nice.” Did Annette know?

Françoise bathed and dressed
en déshabillé.
Footmen appeared with boxes. Mademoiselle Fanchon had disobeyed Françoise’s express order for two dresses. She couldn’t accept more, of course. Still, she might as well just … look. Who could blame her for that?

Opening the boxes felt … like she was Cinderella. Each held a new delight. A riding costume of green with gold braid
à la
militaire.
A walking dress of navy meant to be worn with … yes, a red waistcoat. It was outrageous, and yet the good citizens could not complain because it was done in the colors of the French flag. Dress after dress, for morning, afternoon, or evening, outrageous, gorgeous, sinful delights all. Fanchon had forgotten nothing. There were stockings and chemises, and more than a dozen pairs of shoes; evening slippers, walking shoes, riding boots. Then there were the reticules, an evening cape, even a sun parasol.

Guilt washed over her. She would leave all but two behind. Perhaps they could be adjusted for Henri ’s next mistress. She swallowed hard. Mentally, she chose the walking dress (without the waistcoat) and a morning dress with crisp black stripes on a cream ground. Those would do for making applications. She’d pay Henri back for them, somehow.

Annette cooed and exclaimed as she hung each dress. “Which will you wear tonight?”

Oh, dear. She couldn’t wear a morning dress tonight. Well, one of the evening dresses then. Worn just once. She didn’t know which one until she opened the last box.

It was white. But that was nearly the only thing virginal about it. It eschewed the fashionable hooped silhouette for a more natural line, and an abundance of bleached white lace in the overskirt. The underskirt was of satin, deep and lustrous. And it was hardly more discreet than last night’s dress. An almost transparent scrap of fichu was meant to be tucked into the deep décolletage. Tight, elbow-length sleeves with lace cascades finished the look. White on white. Not a hint of color anywhere. Her gold hair and her blue eyes would provide the only color.

She stared at Annette.

“I’ll just hang the creases out, shall I?” Annette murmured, her voice reverent. “Perhaps just touch up the lace with the lightest of irons.”

“Yes.” That would keep her busy. Just what Françoise needed, because she had work to do. She would not sleep another night with that dreadful leather case beneath her pillow. No wonder she was having bad dreams. She’d take that case and …

And what? She wanted to throw it away, burn it. But … a shudder coursed through her.

Damned, that’s what you’ll be.

She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d put it somewhere safe instead.

Safe from what? From whom? Maybe from herself …

She reached under the bed and retrieved the case, checked its contents. She’d put it in the stables where it wouldn’t disturb her sleep at least. She slipped out the back stairs to the mews while everyone was in a frenzy of preparation and put the bag behind a pile of straw bales.

As she walked away she felt as though a weight had been lifted, even though uneasiness circled in her stomach. She was in a tangle somehow and she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. True, she’d made love to the man who was her protector.

And no one could protect her from being alone in the world. Certainly Henri had no intentions of doing that. That would take marriage, or him offering a carte blanche. One he’d never dream of doing. The other she’d never dream of accepting. Making love to Henri was an adventure. She believed that. Truly. That meant she was in no more of a tangle than she had been yesterday.

She’d just get through tonight and tomorrow she’d make her application at the agencies.

She felt lost that afternoon. There was nothing anyone would let her do to help. Henri was nowhere to be seen, though Jean was kept scurrying with letters issuing from his master’s room to be delivered posthaste. So she retreated to the library. The duc had not only Mr. Fielding’s works in English but the scandalous Choderlos de Laclos’s
Les Liaisons Dangereuses,
in French. Françoise didn’t dare address the latter. It would only remind her of her own situation or get her remembering the fevers of last night. So she chose
Tom Jones
instead.

It was nearly seven when Annette bustled into the room, her hair flying in wisps around her head. Françoise had forgot herself enough to be laughing softly at Mr. Fielding’s wry prose. That had apparently given away her location.

“Mademoiselle, I have been looking all over for you.
Mon Dieu,
but who knew you would be reading?” Annette appeared to think that was akin to eating worms. “Your dress, your hair …” She snatched the book, snapped it shut, and tossed it onto a table.

“But hurry.”

“There is no need of haste.” She had heard Henri’s parties from the tiny room under the rafters of the house next door often enough to know that they started late and ran until morning.

“His grace has called for dinner an hour early, which leaves … oh, dear … less than an hour.” She gave a kind of wail.

“More than enough time,” Françoise soothed as she followed her into the back hall.

As they passed into the central entry, who should be coming down the stairs but Henri, wearing the most delightful burgundy silk dressing jacket? If possible, he looked even more the wicked duc in dark red. He surveyed the scene as the great central chandelier was raised in heaving gasps by three footmen pulling on a rope. The candles had all been lit. The crystal glittered.

Annette froze, eyes downcast, apparently eager to avoid the duc’s attention.

Henri raised his quizzing glass and surveyed Françoise. “I wondered where you were.”

How unlike him! “I was reading. You were right about
Tom Jones.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Amazing. I was correct about something.”

“Do … do you think we’ll be ready?” she asked, just to have something to say.

“I have no idea.”

Gaston chose that moment to hurry into the foyer, carrying a stack of silver serving trays that gleamed. He was obviously frazzled. He stopped at Henri’s comment. “When have we not been ready to entertain, your grace?” His voice was more an accusation than a question.

“Never, else you would not still be in my employ.”

Gaston hurried off, muttering to himself about ducs who had no faith in the talents of their staff. He was wrong. Françoise knew Henri had ultimate faith in Gaston.

The chandelier was duly tied off and the footmen scurried away. Henri turned his glass back on her. “Are you well?”

Françoise flushed. “Yes.” Last night was best forgotten. But of course he didn ’t mention it. Not in front of Annette and the scurrying servants.

“You do intend to dress for dinner?”

Oh, dear. “I was just on my way.”

“Ah.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a little upholstered box. “In that case, you will need these.”

Françoise blinked. The box was long, padded with red velvet.

“Aren’t you even going to look?”

She cleared her throat. “Of course.” This could be bad.

She flicked open the little clasp and took a breath. This was very bad. Gleaming softly in the box was a necklace of delicate pearls. A larger pearl drop hung from the strand in the center from a short link of diamonds. A matching bracelet of two strings of small pearls was fastened with a diamond clasp. Small pearl drop earrings and some hairpins attached to pearls completed the set.

The pearls glowed with a satin luster. The tiny diamonds glittered. She had never touched such expensive jewelry. He couldn’t buy her these.

Henri cleared his throat. “I … I noticed that you had pierced ears.”

Françoise tried to say something. She had noticed that he had silver specks in his eyes. But she couldn’t say that.

“I … I trust they go with the dress Fanchon provided for tonight?”

Françoise tore her gaze from the pearls. “How did you know? The dress was just delivered this afternoon.”

He shrugged. “She has taste. She would choose white for you on such an occasion. With your hair, your eyes, your skin … well, she would choose white.”

“She did,” Françoise whispered. She shook her head.

“Don’t say you won’t accept them,” Henri interrupted. “I want everyone to know tonight that … that I value you. They must not question that you are under my protection.”

Françoise bowed her head. “Thank you.” He might have declared her his ward on a whim, but he didn’t have to give her pearls.

To refuse them would be churlish. But she would be certain to leave them behind when she left.

“Trumpery things. Not even diamonds enough to mention.” He cleared his throat again. “Dine at eight?”

A small, strangled sound came from Annette. Françoise smiled. “I’d better go.”

Henri nodded and turned on his heel, heading back up the stairs without another word.

Thirteen

Annette was a miracle worker. Françoise descended the stairway to the small dining room no more than five minutes after eight.

She was nervous. The people who would be here tonight were so far above her in station. And she was inherently an imposter. It was some comfort that this was the best she had ever looked. The dress was perfect. The pearls were not ostentatious yet obviously expensive.

Avignon was staring into the grate in the dining room, even though it held no fire. She had resolved to give up his first name. She had no right to use it. And it recalled an intimacy she must forget. He looked up at her entrance. He blinked. Twice. And then he seemed to find himself and smiled. She liked the fact that he blinked.

“Fanchon has outdone herself.” He gestured to a seat at the table and held out her chair.

“So have you. The pearls are lovely. I wonder how you managed to procure them in daylight, and when?”

He seated her and moved to the sideboard. “I patronize Coulet. He opens his establishment at night for me. I saw them a few weeks ago. It occurred to me today that they would be perfect for you. So I sent a footman for them.”