Time for Eternity (26 page)

Françoise watched him retreat, his black uniform trimmed with gold braid causing quite a stir among the motley throng crowded into the applications room. Anyone there would have killed to be a paid member of Avignon’s household. Anyone but Françoise.

She turned back to the representative of the agency. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”

“Well,” the woman said, raising her brows, “if you are important enough that the duc sends his carriage …” She glanced to Françoise. “Did he say that the duc was
waiting
in the carriage for you?”

“He did.” This time the voice was baritone.

Oh, dear. The smell of cinnamon and ambergris wafted over the room. She turned. Avignon was squinting against the light from the open door, and his face was turning pink. But his appearance was, as always, impeccable, dressed in black from head to foot except for the white froth of linen and lace at his throat and wrists. The gold of a signet ring and a quizzing glass hanging from an enormous black button on his coat were the only color on his person.

He lifted the quizzing glass to his eye and surveyed the low-ceilinged room. Everyone in it stepped back a pace. “What, may I ask, is my ward doing in such an establishment?”

“Your ward?” the woman behind the desk squeaked. “Oh, excuse me, your grace. I did not know she was your ward. She was looking for a position as a companion to an older lady.”

“Ahhh. A lark no doubt on her part. ” He turned his glass on Françoise. She couldn ’t help but squirm. “But entirely inappropriate.” He turned back to the woman taking applications. “I’m certain you would not insult my ward by actually offering her such a position.” He did not wait for an answer but stepped to the side and motioned Françoise ahead of him. “Come, child.”

This was uttered so firmly Françoise found herself obeying whether she would or no. And it didn ’t matter. The woman behind her believed Avignon a powerful person, Revolution or not. She would never chance offending him.
If
she believed Françoise was only his ward. And if she believed Françoise was something more (or less) than his ward, she would never place her in a respectable household.

Françoise sighed. Avignon put a hand on the small of her back (protectively? possessively?) and guided her to the door.

As they pushed out into the afternoon sunshine, she heard his breath hiss. He hurried her to the carriage. Jean had no time to leap down from where he sat beside the coachman. Avignon ripped open the door and practically pushed her up into the carriage. He climbed in after her, banging the door shut. The shades were down. She could hardly make him out in the gloom. Was his face blistered? He was
that
sensitive to light? A stab of guilt shot through her. He’d come out in the afternoon sunlight to look for her.

His own fault. Your affairs are none of his business. Listen to me. You must—

The voice again. She shook her head to shut it out.

Avignon pushed himself into the opposite corner where he was obscured in shadows. “What did you think you were doing in there?” His voice was thick.

“Trying to find a position. And now you’ve prevented me from ever getting a situation by telling them I’m your ward. Which no one believed.” She knew her tone was huffy.

“I’m sure that wasn’t the only agency you visited.”

“It was not.” She took a breath and let it out. There was no use lying to him. “They found my lack of references a problem.”

“I expect they would. Just as well.” He sounded better now.

Her eyes were growing used to the darkness. She peered at him. She must have been mistaken about the blisters. His face wasn’t blistered at all. Just pink, a little. No, it wasn’t even pink. It must have been the lighting in the employment agency that made her think so.

She resolved not to speak to him again. How would she get through dinner?

What was she thinking? Her problem wasn’t dinner, but how in the world she would support herself. With no friends, no references … And if she didn’t take his money, it would be the same in England. But if she did take it … then he would never be out of her life. And something very bad would happen to her.

The feeling of urgency inside her was almost painful. That something was about to happen. She mustn’t let it. But she knew very well that the voice (the voice that absolutely wasn ’t her—was it?) wanted her to … to try to kill him. She couldn’t do that, of course. What did that leave? She
had
to get him out of her life.

A bleak feeling descended on her. She wanted him gone. Didn’t she?

As it turned out, she didn’t have to get through dinner. She came down, dressed in one of Fanchon’s evening dresses, at nine sharp, and found him at the street door. He carried a snuffbox and a large black silk handkerchief.

“Au revoir,
my aggrieved one. You will have to save any choice words you have planned until later. I am promised to Revientot for dinner this evening. Then it’s on to the tables.”

All the man apparently did was gamble. Or consort with women like Madame Vercheroux. What did that say about him? He waved languidly as he went out the door.

Four families in one night. Twenty people including that baby. Quite a haul. He ’d almost been caught. But what could he do?

With babies, he had to take extra care, bring them under his power, prevent them, through the power of suggestions, from feeling the pain of translocation. It took time. They’d barely made it out. But now the whole lot of them were secreted in the rooms behind the back wall of the warehouse. Jennings would take care of them for the next few days. He ’d visit when he could to reassure them.

Henri walked across the park in the center of the Place Royale toward number sixteen under a lightening sky as the city began to wake. He was tired. Transporting himself, and one and sometimes two, others so many times in one night sapped his Companion’s strength. The days ahead would be a strain. He had not much time to fill the warehouse.

The
Maiden Voyage
would arrive in Le Havre from Portsmouth on Sunday. A day to unload. He must have everyone he ’d managed to rescue on the barge and ready to float down the Seine to meet her on Saturday night. They could be away Monday.

The girl wouldn’t want to go. She wouldn’t take his money. He’d arrange with Jennings to set her up.

Why not go with her? An image flashed through his head of an English country manor in Kent, a cozy fire burning in the grate, her head in his lap as he read to her.

Get hold of yourself, man.
He was vampire, for God’s sake. She was not. The minute she found out what he was, she’d leave him. If she didn’t commit suicide, that is.

I haven’t been bored lately.

The thought occurred unbidden, unanticipated. Since she’d come into his life he’d seen the world in a new light. Through her eyes. The trip to Versailles was a revelation; her wonder, the freshness of picnicking in the Hall of Mirrors, making love in the king’s bedchamber.

Merde.
He’d fallen in love with her.

He stopped at the edge of the park and leaned against a tree. Was he insane? How long since he had been in love? Four hundred years? No wonder he hadn’t recognized it. But now that he considered, he could see all the telltale signs. Wanting to be with her. Wanting to protect her. A small trickle of belief that she might be able to save his soul by making his life seem bearable.

Well, this had to be nipped in the bud. She must never know. She would be appalled. She considered him the wicked duc.

Making love with him was an adventure to her. Nothing more.

Good. That was good. He pushed himself off the tree and started across the street.

All this meant was another chip in the carapace that he had built around his soul. It would hold. He had his work. He could probably avoid her until Saturday. Then he would bundle her aboard the barge that would take her to the
Maiden Voyage
and get back to work.

He managed a saunter as he approached number sixteen. The door opened and the day footman ushered him in. He went straight to his room, banished Drummond by saying, to that gentleman’s amazement, that he would change himself, and bolted the door.

Last batch tonight. Good thing. It was perhaps four in the morning. Henri ’s strength was seriously depleted, even though he’d slept like the dead all today, eaten like a horse at a tavern, and taken a cup of blood from a tavern wench. He slid along the familiar corridors of the Conciergerie, a black silk scarf tied about his neck and up over his nose to hide his white lace cravat and his face, the white lace at his wrists tucked up his sleeves. The place was swarming with guards since the screams that indicated an escape had been echoing through the corridors all night. He was forced to draw his power quickly and master many minds at once. And of course there was the extra time he had to take with the children. The whole thing was getting difficult.

He slid up behind the guard outside the cell that held the Rideaux family. The captain had taken to putting families in private cells to better guard them. He motioned to the man holding the bars, for silence, and watched hope bloom in the gaunt face. Rideaux ’s wife, two boys early in their second decade and an older girl, were huddled in the corner, their eyes big.

The guard heard Henri at the last second and turned to face him. Henri called his Companion. The world was washed with crimson. “You will remember nothing,” he whispered.

“Watch out!” Rideaux hissed.

It was too late. A sword found Henri’s shoulder as he whirled. Where had this one come from? Henri didn’t draw his sword. He just locked his gaze into the man’s eyes. The guard’s sword clanked to the stone floor as the man stood there, wavering.

Henri put a hand to his shoulder. The wound was deep. It would heal, but he couldn’t chance infecting the Rideaux family with his blood.

“Fear not,” he said to Rideaux, his eyes still red. “I’ll be back tomorrow night for you.”

The man’s face went blank. He nodded.

Henri heard the gallop of many feet.
Companion!
he called silently. Darkness whirled up and engulfed him. The familiar pain swept through him.

He materialized in the mews behind number sixteen and staggered in through the servant ’s entrance to avoid leaving a trail of blood to his front door. At the back door that blood might have come from a beefsteak or a chicken. Stumbling through the kitchen, he surprised the cook’s boy lighting fires for the coming day. Did his kitchen staff rise so early? Henri leaned on the butcher block and grinned conspiratorially. “Little the worse for wear tonight.” As if that would explain the master of the house using the servants’ entrance. The lad’s eyes widened, but he pulled his forelock in the ancient gesture of obeisance.

Henri pushed through, up the stairs, into his rooms.

Drummond would not be expecting him so early. That was good. He stripped off his coat. Blood had soaked through the waistcoat. His shirt was drenched with it. The wound would cost him strength. He ’d need to feed again before he tried for the Rideaux family tomorrow. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled off his shirt. Striding to the dressing table mirror, he examined his shoulder. Hurt like the devil, but it was already healing. He poured a basin of water and ran a washcloth over his chest to clean off the blood. Then he dumped the basin out the window.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Not now,” he barked.

He pulled on a silk dressing jacket from the wardrobe. The knock was not repeated, but he hadn’t heard steps retreating down the corridor.

The door opened, and Gaston presented himself with a bow. He had dressed hastily.

Henri froze. “Well. This is interesting. You’ve disobeyed a direct order.”

Gaston’s eyes slipped to the pile of bloody clothes. “The cook’s boy got me out of bed to tell me your grace left a bloody handprint on the butcher block. I dismissed him for the day and came to see if your grace needed assistance.”

He could turn this to advantage. “Duels,” he sighed. “But what can you do with a challenge direct? Especially when the man is in the right. Since you are here regardless of my wishes, you may dispose of those.” He sighed and pointed to the bloody shirt and waistcoat.

Gaston blanched. “Shall I summon a physician?”

He frowned as though Gaston could not be that stupid. “Not
my
blood. What could one do but lift his head in spite of the danger to one’s toilette? The man was gurgling.” He did not need to ask for Gaston’s discretion. Dueling was a capital crime. It was considered an aristocratic way of settling disputes.

Gaston bowed crisply and retrieved the ruined clothing. “I shall burn them.”

“Excellent.” Gaston turned to go. “And Gaston?”

“Your grace?”

“I will pass on this disobedience. I shall not pass on another.”

“Very good, your grace.”

By the time Henri had had two glasses of brandy and was ready to retire, the wound in his shoulder was only a pink weal. Soon even that would be gone. The sun would be up in another hour. He needed rest. He rose from the wing chair. He ’d go to bed a little early.

A commotion downstairs was followed by hurried steps in the hallway. One set, followed immediately by several others. This was not propitious.

A brief knock sounded. “Come in.” Poor Gaston. He’d taken the rebuke to heart. Those behind him would not have knocked.

Gaston poked his head in. “Your grace …”

The door was shoved open and Robespierre, Madame Croûte, and several uniformed soldiers pushed into the room. “Where were you last night?” Robespierre barked.

“Here, there … the usual haunts.” Henri sipped his brandy.

Françoise scooted up through the guards. Damn. Was this going to be a public trial?

“What is the matter?” she asked. He could see fear in her eyes. She was afraid he would be arrested just like her former employer.

“We’re apparently receiving visitors at a very odd hour.” He smiled to reassure her. “Perhaps you could ask Pierre to supply some refreshments? He will no doubt know what one is to serve at … er … five in the morning.”