Master

by Colette Gale

  Something prickled in her fingertips; her head felt light, and her vision was confused. A band encircled her lungs.

  Sinbad. Who’d taken her to the Isle of Monte Cristo.

  She didn’t breathe for a full minute as she considered the possibility.

  Sinbad was tall, with long, straight hair and a beard and mustache—but that was simple to change. There’d been liner around his eyes, subtle, yet it could be used to give them a different shape and weight, and they’d only been together when the light was low and dim. Shadows could hide so much!

  His chest was bare, but hair could be easily shaved. An ear-ring in an ear could be removed, and the hole would hardly be noticeable unless one looked . . . and Monte Cristo wore his hair long, over his ears.

  But the most damning thing of all . . . the clincher . . . was the way she felt when she had been with Sinbad those two times . . . the exquisite, full, deep-seated pleasure. A reawakening of her senses and emotions. A sort of familiarity and release that she’d attributed to . . . well, to the fact that he’d reminded her of Edmond when she first saw him from behind, fleetingly, but he had.

  He’d reminded her of Edmond, even then.

  Mercédès clapped a hand to her chest, making a sharp, hollow sound. Foolish! She’d been so utterly foolish.

  How could she have not known it was he?

  And then it dawned on her. He’d known it was she.

  The realization took her breath away again, and it was as if scales fell from her eyes.

  By God, he’d done it all. On purpose.

  Her faced heated, then cooled as anger barreled through her. Her fingers were shaking. All of this—for revenge? On her? For marrying Fernand after Edmond had disappeared?

  What had happened to turn him into such a man?

  She breathed there for a moment, trying to control her anger, to understand how and why the loving, tender Edmond she’d known and loved could have turned into such a harsh and unfeeling man. One who’d lied to her, humiliated her—who knew who she was but would not acknowledge their past.

  She remembered how Sinbad had trembled gently against her, how he’d been tender yet demanding, how he’d been in Aladdin’s cave, the way he’d touched her and pleasured her . . . and how she’d pleasured him. How he’d called her “Countess” with that odd, sardonic note that made so much more sense to her now.

  Her fingers were still shaking, but her mind had become clearer. If this were to be a game of vengeance, Mercédès had just as much a chance of winning as Monte Cristo did.

  As he led Haydée to their theater box, Monte Cristo nodded to the many acquaintances he’d made since arriving in Paris. Both men and women stopped to greet him, and some to converse, but he never paused long. He preferred to wait for those who wished to speak with him to come to him of their own accord.

  And they would.

  “There are so many fine people here,” Haydée said, sounding more ingenuous than he’d ever heard her. Her large, dark eyes were wide as they cast about the passageway, no doubt taking in every detail of the women’s gowns, gloves, and other fripperies— rather than the paintings and architecture of the theater.

  “You look just as lovely as any of them,” he hastened to tell her. Monte Cristo was fully aware of the curious looks he and the lovely, exotic Haydée garnered as they promenaded to their box. He had no doubt that word would soon spread throughout Parisian drawing rooms of the Count of Monte Cristo and the stunning, mysterious woman he had escorted. “Do you see that man over there, the one with the violet waistcoat?”

  “Yes. He looks as if he is someone very important.”

  “Indeed, he is. That is the author Victor Hugo, who has written a famous book called The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And perhaps you noticed the scaffolding around the Notre Dame Cathedral, that tall building with the two towers?”

  Haydée nodded, her eyes luminous and interested. She had fairly inhaled the city’s sights every time Monte Cristo took her out in the carriage; they were so different from Singapore and Peking, where she had lived for most of the last decade while he was on his travels. “Yes, I know the church you speak of.”

  “It’s one of the most famous landmarks in Paris, but until Hugo’s novel was published, the church had fallen into disrepair. It was only the notoriety of the book that shamed the city into restoring the building,” he explained as they reached the door of their box.

  In the week since the dinner party at the Morcerf residence, Monte Cristo had applied himself to several other aspects related to his purpose for being in Paris. He had waited to give himself some distance from the events of that evening.

  Through some well-placed rumors and one very large bribe he’d ensured that the Baroness Danglars (who was a compulsive investor)—and through her, Danglars himself—had a huge loss in the stock exchange this week worth more than five hundred thousand francs. It was only a first step in his plan, and Madam Danglars had brought the loss upon herself through her own greed.

  He’d also learned that the father of Villefort’s first wife had died suddenly, which was not a surprise to Monte Cristo. Not more than two weeks ago, Monte Cristo had had quite an interesting conversation with Madam Heloise Villefort, the crown prosecutor’s second wife, about poisons and their uses.

  That was not all he’d accomplished in the last week, through his other silent manipulations, but the other lines that had been cast had yet to draw in their prey. All in all, events were unfolding just as he’d planned, and the nets would soon catch the four men who’d betrayed Edmond Dantès. The most delicious part of it all was that there would be no nets to catch those men if they had been good, honest, trustworthy men—thus, they would be caught in disasters of their own making.

  And that was what confirmed for Monte Cristo that he was, indeed, acting as God’s Avenging Angel.

  Monte Cristo had ensured that his theater box was the most expensive, most visible one, located at the left side of the stage at nearly the same level as the actors. Ali had gone directly from the carriage to the box and awaited them, standing like a huge black sentinel at the entrance. No sooner had Monte Cristo and Haydée taken their seats on the plush green velvet chairs than there was a knock at the door.

  He nodded at Ali to open it, and was gratified to see his first visitor was none other than Baron Danglars.

  “Good evening, monsieur,” Monte Cristo said, declining to rise from his seat.

  Danglars came in and took an offered chair next to his host, glancing curiously at Haydée. “Good evening, Your Excellency.”

  Monte Cristo smiled pleasantly at him and said, “Ah, what a busy week you bankers have had on the exchange. I understand there was quite a disruption there this week. A telegram was misread, and some misinformation disseminated. Fortunately, it was corrected almost immediately, and likely caused no great harm.”

  He was aware that this was indeed what had happened, but he also knew that because of the baroness’ proclivity for unscrupulous investing, she had asked her lover to make a huge investment based on the bad information. This information, which she’d dishonestly learned about the night before it was made public, had, in fact, caused her great loss. If she had learned the news at the same time as the rest of the city, she would also have heard its correction only moments later—as did everyone else—and would therefore have saved herself the great loss. Thus her greed had caused the Danglars household to choke down a massive monetary loss, one over which her husband must be furious.

  Danglars nodded. “Indeed, it could have been much worse than it was. Still, for me, to be honest, Your Excellency, it was bad enough. In fact, I have suffered quite a few large ones in the last weeks myself.”

  Monte Cristo raised his eyebrows. He, of course, already knew this quite well, for he made it his practice to know everything . . . and to help such imminent events along rather more quickly.

  “Oh, please don’t think I mean to ask you for a loan—no, indeed,” said Danglars. “But I do
wish to ask your advice on one account. Since my finances are—shall we say, a bit out of sorts?—I have been concerned with finalizing the betrothal of my daughter to Albert de Morcerf. And I wondered if you had any advice—or opinion—on the matter, for I have recently begun to question the count’s background. It seems so vague and secretive, and there have been rumors coming from the city of Janina, in Greece, where he fought in the army.”

  Pleased that his work was already coming to fruition, Monte Cristo steepled his fingers and allowed his gaze to travel out over the theater stalls as if he were deep in thought. As he did so, his attention was captured by a slender, dark-haired woman just taking her seat in the box directly across from him. Her head was turned away as she conversed with a companion and sank down into a chair, but he recognized her honey gold skin, the curve of her cheek and, most absurdly, the particular swell of her delicate collarbone exposed by a low—very low—lush red décolletage.

  His fingers flexed against the wooden arm of his chair, and he calmly turned his attention back to Danglars. “And thus you speak of the devil himself,” he commented, with a bored gesture toward the Morcerfs, and their three male guests, in the box. Mercédès was still in intense conversation with the man sitting next to her. He appeared to be quite interested in the large ruby that sat in the deep cleavage plunging into a bodice that surely only barely covered her nipples.

  “Albert Morcerf is a fine young man, and I am certain he would be a worthy son-in-law. But if I were you,” Monte Cristo said, focusing back on Danglars and the next nail in Fernand Morcerf’s coffin, “I would send to Janina to learn as much as you can about the Ali Pasha affair before making any final decisions.”

  The count ignored the sudden jerk of tension in Haydée, whose arm rested against his, and simply nodded at Danglars, adding, “That would be my recommendation.”

  The fat baron stood, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and looking immensely grateful. “Merci, Your Excellency. I shall take your suggestion to heart.”

  Monte Cristo inclined his head and didn’t bother to watch Danglars as he pushed his way out of the box. Instead, he leaned over to speak to Haydée, turning toward her and placing a hand on the box’s rail in front of them. “You must remember to give no indication of your relationship to Ali Pasha. . . . the right time will come, and I will tell you when. Now smile brightly and laugh as though you have never been happier.”

  Haydée complied, and Monte Cristo smiled warmly back at her, fully aware of the picture they made there in the most visible seats in the theater: an elegant, handsome, dark-haired couple seeming to be unaware of anything around them as they laughed intimately. Precisely the impression he wished to give.

  The second knock on the door of their box brought a most welcome visitor.

  “Come, come, sit with us, Maximilien,” Monte Cristo said, standing to greet his young friend as he glanced quickly across the way. Now her head was bent toward another of the three men who weren’t family members, and he could see the curve of her cheek as she smiled.

  He was not surprised to see that Salieux was not one of the Morcerf party. Monte Cristo had paid a call on the young man the day following the dinner party. He clarified for the young man the consequences if he continued to be seen in the Comtesse Morcerf’s company. Saliuex had babbled about visiting some family in Italy for an extended holiday, and the count had wished him a polite adieu.

  Monte Cristo now shook Morrel’s hand warmly and kissed both cheeks in a genuine display of affection. Since his arrival in Paris, other than those in his household whom he trusted, Monte Cristo had found no other soul whom he’d come to care for. “But what is it that bothers you?” he asked, immediately recognizing a subdued expression on the handsome young man’s face.

  Maximilien looked at him, his dark eyes earnest, yet carrying a profound wisdom from his years in the military. “I have just learned some terrible news.”

  “Please,” Monte Cristo said, “unburden yourself to me, and I will help you in any way that I might be able to. Or, if I cannot help, I shall at least be a sympathetic ear.”

  The young man seemed to consider for a moment, and he was silent at first. During this time, Monte Cristo was reminded of his own intention of introducing Haydée to young Captain Morrel, and he briefly contemplated doing so. But in the end, he resisted. It was to his advantage at this time for Parisian society—and one member in particular—to believe that he and the young woman were a couple. An intimate couple.

  At last Maximilien spoke. “Please do not ask why or how I came to be in such a position—for that, I cannot divulge—but it happened that I was near the back garden gate of Monsieur Villefort’s residence.”

  Monte Cristo was surprised, but not displeased, at the topic introduced. “I understand that there was a death in the family earlier this week.”

  Maximilien nodded. “In fact, what I learned today was that there have been two deaths in the last week—that of Monsieur Villefort’s father-in-law and then, only two days later, his mother-in-law died at Villefort’s home.”

  “Not Madam Heloise’s parents?” Monte Cristo feigned surprise. Madam Heloise was the very young, second wife of Villefort, with whom he’d had that enlightening conversation regarding poison only two weeks earlier.

  “No, these were the grandparents of Monsieur Villefort’s daughter, Valentine. Her maternal grandparents. Her mother died many years ago.”

  “Indeed. And they were quite wealthy individuals, were they not?” Monte Cristo said. “I do recall hearing that. So this means that Mademoiselle Valentine will now inherit their fortune.”

  Maximilien seemed miserable. “But there is more to tell, for while I was at the back garden gate”—he stole a look at Monte Cristo, who took care to keep his expression bland, for he didn’t care what reason the young man might have had for being in the vicinity of said gate—“I overheard a discussion between the monsieur and the physician, in which the doctor told him that the cause of the deaths was most definitely that of poison.”

  “So Monsieur Villefort harbors a poisoner, does he?” mused Monte Cristo, successfully keeping his satisfaction to himself.

  “It appears so. But there is even more.” Now Maximilien looked wholly dejected. “Not long after the physician was there to examine the woman’s body, Mademoiselle Valentine was with her grandfather—Monsieur Noirtier, who is Monsieur Villefort’s father and an old Bonapartist, who cannot speak or move—and she delivered a glass of lemonade to him. Before he could partake of it, the old man’s devoted servant, who was feeling weary and thirsty, took it himself to drink. He became ill, and went into frightful convulsions and expired on the spot.”

  Monte Cristo looked grave. “So there have been three murders—poisonings—in Monsieur Villefort’s home in less than a week. Based on what you have told me, it appears that Mademoiselle Valentine must be the culprit—for she has the most to gain from the deaths of her maternal grandparents, who were very wealthy, and her grandfather, Monsieur Noirtier, who also, I understand, has made her his heir.”

  “But no, it could not be V—Mademoiselle Valentine!” exclaimed Maximilien. “I-I do not believe she would do such a thing, for I-I met her at the Morcerfs’ dinner party, which you also attended.”

  Monte Cristo raised one eyebrow. “Maximilien, my dearest friend, one can never be certain of a woman, the depths of her loyalty—or how far she will go in betrayal. That is one thing I have learned overwell. And it is said, and I believe it to be true, that the sins of the father will be visited upon his children. I am not altogether certain that Monsieur Villefort, for all of his power and social standing, is the fine and honest man he makes himself out to be. Perhaps his inclinations have merely manifested themselves in his daughter.”

  “I do not believe that is so. Mademoiselle Valentine loves her grandpère more than anyone in the world,” Maximilien said. “She would not poison him.”

  Monte Cristo chose not to comment on Maximilien’s suppose
d knowledge of Mademoiselle Valentine’s affections; instead, he looked kindly at his friend. “I hope that you will keep me apprised of anything that might trouble you, my friend . . . but at this time, I sense only your kindness and misery toward three innocent people and their deaths.”

  Maximilien nodded, his face still grim. “Indeed, that is so. But”—he looked Monte Cristo straight in the eye, steadily and intensely—“there may be a time in which I find I may need more than a sympathetic ear, Your Excellency.”

  Monte Cristo leaned toward him, closing his fingers firmly around the young man’s muscular arm. “And you can be certain, Maximilien, that if you ever come to me for assistance for any reason, for anything, I will move heaven and earth to help you. I give you my word, on my life. You have only to ask.”

  Perhaps there might have been a tear that glistened in his friend’s eyes. Perhaps not. Regardless, Morrel’s next words served to startle Monte Cristo so much that he almost jerked in his seat. “There has only been one other person I’ve known—besides my father, of course—who has been so kind and so generous to me and my family. I do not even know who he is, only his name: Lord Wilmore. My sister, Julie, and I have long thought that this man, who saved my father from certain ruin and suicide by forgiving a huge debt just at the moment of disaster, is none other than an old friend of ours: Edmond Dantès, who disappeared more than twenty years ago. I hope you will take this in the manner in which it is intended—that is, as a compliment, sir—but you remind me very much of him.”

  For a moment, Monte Cristo couldn’t speak. He felt his face drain of warmth, and knew that it must have gone pale. But he quickly recovered, and replied in an uneven voice, “I will indeed take it as the greatest of compliments.”

  So it was true.

  Mercédès couldn’t keep her gaze from returning to the box across the stage from her, where Monte Cristo sat with an incredibly beautiful, young, exotic woman. Even when the play began, and her attention should have transferred to the actors only a short distance away, she kept looking over at them. They were easy to see, for although the stage lights had been illuminated with the commencement of the show, the other lamps throughout the theater remained lit as well.