Fabienne had continued to flirt with Jacques, when she had the opportunity, but now that she was working constantly, she was too busy to pursue it. He was her willing slave and did whatever she wished, and Angélique kept a watchful eye on them to make sure it went no further, and so far it hadn’t.
The names of many of the men in the drawing room were familiar to Angélique. They were men of power, many of them part of the current Bourbon government that had followed Bonaparte, when Charles X took the throne and restored the monarchy. The heads of several banks were there, and she enjoyed talking finance with them, and learning from them. And in the first week of August, an imposing man arrived one night with a group of friends. He looked familiar to her, and she couldn’t place his face. It was Agathe, with her political connections, who told her who he was. She knew many of the politicians through her previous patron, and they came for her at first, and then discovered the others whom they liked as well.
“Do you know who that is?” she whispered to Angélique, impressed herself for once, as they played cards. Angélique admitted she didn’t know, and couldn’t place the face. He had piercing eyes, an almost military bearing, and was strikingly handsome, with a chiseled face. “He’s the minister of the interior,” Agathe told her. “It’s a big statement that he’s here. He’s very careful where he goes. He doesn’t like anyone to know what he’s up to.” He had identified himself only as Thomas, by first name only, which was an invented alias. But everyone knew who he was. He didn’t need to use his real name and was known to be a secretive person, which went with his job.
“Do you know him?” Angélique asked, impressed.
“We’ve met,” Agathe said softly, “but I didn’t invite him here. I don’t know him well enough for that. Someone must have told him about us.” Both women noticed him carefully looking around the room, observing who was there, while smoking a cigar.
Angélique watched him circle the room and chat with some of the men. He smiled at the women, but didn’t engage them in conversation, and then she saw him watching her, and she nodded her head in acknowledgment, and he smiled. And a little while later, after Agathe had gone upstairs with one of her clients, he came over to sit next to her.
“So you are the Duchess all of Paris is talking about,” he said softly, his eyes drinking her in. “Is the title real?”
“It is, but never destined to be mine,” she told him honestly, as their eyes met and held. She could feel him near her, with an almost electric charge.
“Whose then?”
“My father’s, and now my brother’s.”
“Ah,” he said, even more intrigued. “You’re British,” he guessed, although one couldn’t hear it in her flawless French.
“Half. My mother was French.”
“And on her side, equally blue blood?” He was fascinated by her, and could see how highborn she was. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing here, running the house. For a girl of her birth to be running a brothel seemed unthinkable, but she ran it with the grace of a dinner party.
“Bourbon and Orléans,” she answered, which were both of the royal houses of France.
“I’ve been hearing about you,” he said, mesmerized by her.
“Good things, I hope,” she said demurely, her eyes never leaving his. She didn’t try to avoid his intense gaze, and he liked that about her too.
“Only good things. I’m told that you don’t go upstairs with the clients, and have the best girls in the city.”
“I tried to put together an interesting group, in a pleasant atmosphere,” she said modestly, and he smiled at her warmly.
“I’d say you’ve succeeded. I like it here, and so do my friends. Everyone feels at home here.”
“That was my goal. I hope you’ll come to see us often.” She smiled invitingly at him, but not so much as to mislead him. She was exquisitely elegant and well bred in her manner as well as dress, and yet gentle and warm at the same time. He had never met a woman who intrigued him more.
“And if I do, will you come upstairs with me? As a special arrangement?” He was asking her to be his mistress in no uncertain terms, and she understood it perfectly. She had learned a lot in the past three months that she had never dreamed of before. And she could tell he was serious by the way he spoke to her.
“It would spoil our friendship if I did,” she said quietly, with obvious respect.
“Are we to be friends then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, hopeful and disappointed all at the same time. She was setting limits in advance.
“That’s up to you, but I hope so. You are always welcome here,” she said graciously. He looked satisfied for the moment, but not entirely. She wondered if he would actually have gone upstairs with her if she’d allowed it, but knew instinctively she would have been a fool to do so. He was much too dangerous and powerful to toy with, or be dependent on. He was far more valuable to her as an ally, protector, and friend, if he became that. And Agathe had told her he went to the best brothels often, but never went upstairs with the girls. But Angélique had a strong sense that he would have made an exception for her, and perhaps would have come back after hours, if she’d let him. “Thomas” was thoroughly enthralled and enchanted by her, and sat talking to her for a long time. He eventually bade her goodnight politely with a deep bow, and left, promising to return soon.
He appeared again a week later, and had supper in the dining room with her. The crowd had thinned by then, as everyone left Paris for summer holidays, and he said he had stayed in town to work.
“You’re welcome to join me for supper anytime,” Angélique reiterated her earlier invitation to him, and after that, he took her up on it, and came to dine with her, or visit her, or simply sit in the drawing room with her for a while several times a week, sometimes as often as four or five. He couldn’t stay away from her, and they loved talking to each other. He described what they shared as an “amitié amoureuse,” a “romantic friendship,” or a loving one. It involved the meshing of their minds in their exchanges, with a constant aura of flirtation and romance that she allowed to go nowhere except the drawing room. He respected her for that. Their admiration of each other was mutual, and richer for its limitations. He treated her like the lady she was, and not a madam.
“Why this?” he asked her one day about the house and how it had come about.
“It’s a long story, the usual sad tale about a property and title entailed in England, a jealous half-brother who was determined to get rid of me and succeeded, and sent me off to be a servant in someone’s home.”
“And you’d rather die than become a servant?” he teased her as she shook her head.
“Not at all. I was shocked at first, but I came to enjoy it. I was a nanny to six young children, and would have stayed, but one of their friends tried to take advantage of me. I rebuffed him, so he lied to them and said I tried to seduce him, which wasn’t true. I bit him when he tried. They sent me away the next day without a character, and I could get no domestic job in London, or Paris when I came here. I met Fabienne then, one of the girls here, who had been beaten and dumped in a gutter, and I took her in and nursed her. And when she told me about her life, I got the idea of a house where women are protected, respected, and well paid, serving exciting, interesting, powerful men who deserve to be with charming, beautiful women”—she smiled at him—“and treat them well. I pay the girls half of everything we make, and use the rest to run the house, and put money aside for the future,” she said wisely. “It’s working very nicely.” She looked pleased, and he was visibly impressed.
“And you preside over all of it, and engage in none of it, and don’t judge them, or any of us.” He had noticed that about her. She was kind to everyone, but had eyes of steel that saw all. She had that in common with him, nothing escaped his intense gaze, no matter how relaxed he seemed. “You’re a remarkable woman.” And then he thought of something. “How old are you, really?”
“I told you, I’m twenty-six,” sh
e said, smiling.
“Why is it that I don’t believe you?” he said in a low tone so no one would hear him, as he watched her gently.
“Because it’s not true,” she lowered her voice to match his, and hesitated only for the fraction of an instant. She trusted him—they were indeed becoming friends. “I’m twenty, but even the girls here don’t know that, except Fabienne.”
“You are an amazing, amazing girl,” he said admiringly. “And you must be very careful that no one ever tries to hurt you, or destroy you. If they do, I want you to come to me immediately. Paris is a dangerous place these days. Many people are unhappy with the government, they think that Charles is weak and doesn’t understand his subjects. Prices are high, and so is unemployment. Finances are poor. There will be trouble at some point, but not for a while. I will warn you,” he promised. “And there are some who will be jealous of you, if you succeed too well at this.” He gestured around the room. And then he thought of something else. “Would you meet me for a midday meal sometime, in a discreet place?” He liked keeping his personal activities private, to a reasonable degree.
“I’d love to,” she said, smiling at him. She knew that he was married, but was never seen with his wife publicly, like so many of the men she knew now. Someone had mentioned to her that his wife had been ill for years.
Thomas stood up to leave then, and smiled down at her. “I always enjoy talking to you.”
“And I with you,” she said honestly. He was more than twice her age, but by far the most exciting man who came there. And he never went upstairs. And she knew now he never would.
She didn’t see him again after that for a while, and heard he had gone on holiday in Brittany, but she knew he would be back. Of that, she was sure.
Chapter 14
In September, when everyone came back from their vacations, Le Boudoir had been open and business had been booming for four months. They had had a regular stream of clients even over the summer, and their reputation was firmly established by then. Her friend “Thomas,” the minister of the interior, had been telling the truth when he said that the Duchess was the talk of Paris. People didn’t know who she was or where she had come from, but they said she was a breathtaking young woman, and every important man had been to Le Boudoir, and once they’d been, they went frequently, and couldn’t stay away from the cozy, intimate atmosphere she had created and the outstanding women who worked there. She had chosen well.
Angélique had been hoping to find two more girls but hadn’t seen any so far that she wanted to join them, although they had spoken to several. Her standards were high, and she wanted the approval of the other women to make sure that they were comfortable with them too. All the women in the house liked each other and got along, which was important to her.
She interviewed a girl on a September afternoon, who worked at a well-known house that had been the most popular one until Le Boudoir opened and Angélique appeared on the scene. It was run by a madam who was said to be a dragon. She no longer served the clients herself, but was said to have been very skilled in her time. And the girl Angélique interviewed that afternoon had sought her out, and said she wanted to get away from her house and madam. She said they paid her next to nothing, and the caliber of the men who went there had slipped. All the great men were at Le Boudoir now. But Angélique didn’t like the girl. She thought she had a vulgar quality to her, and was common, which was the last thing she wanted in the house. Not with the kind of men they entertained there.
The usual party in the drawing room was in full swing that night, when there was a heavy knocking on the door. Angélique didn’t hear it, with someone playing the piano, but Jacques did and opened the door, as four heavyset men pushed past him. They looked like thugs off the street, and an extremely blowzy, strident woman strode into the drawing room right behind them.
“Where is she?” she shouted, as the music stopped. “Where is this Duchess you’re all talking about?” She looked at the men in white tie and tails in the drawing room, and recognized only a few of them. The cream of le tout Paris had never gone to her, but mostly the nouveau riche, men with fortunes, but not of noble birth. Angélique had all of the elite. The moment they saw her, they knew she was the real thing, whether her title was real or not. They neither knew nor cared about that, but she seemed genuine to them, and very charming.
“I believe you’re asking for me,” Angélique said quietly as she stepped forward, a tiny figure in a beautiful gray evening gown with her back straight and her head held high. She looked more like a queen. The minister of the interior was watching—he had just been talking to her—and waited to see what would happen. He was like a tiger ready to spring. Angélique didn’t notice as she addressed the woman. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
“You know who I am. Antoinette Alençon. Madame Antoinette. You tried to steal one of my girls today,” she said, sounding vulgar, as Angélique faced her with courteous disdain.
“Not at all,” Angélique said coolly. “I told her to go back to you. I have no wish to hire her. Now please remove yourself from my drawing room. There is a private party under way.” The thugs around the older woman coiled as though ready to strike, but weren’t sure at whom. And Jacques was no match for them. Angélique prayed that they would attack no one in the drawing room, or cause them to send for the police. She wanted no notoriety of that kind for the house.
“She told me you offered to pay her more, and tried to get me to increase her wage.”
“That is neither true nor of any interest to me. Goodnight, madame. Please take your friends and leave.” She stood staring the woman down, as no one moved in the room. No one wanted to be involved in a scandal, or even worse, a brawl. And turning on her heel, Madame Antoinette gave a signal to her henchmen, and they followed her out the door, which Jacques closed and locked behind them, as everyone in the room heaved a sigh of relief.
“Good lord, what an awful woman,” Angélique said, laughing, to conceal her trembling knees. She whispered to one of the maids to pour champagne for everyone, and more for those already drinking it. She then went on as though nothing had happened, and everyone relaxed, as her powerful friend came to stand next to her.
“Well done, my dear,” Thomas whispered, and they exchanged a warm, affectionate look. They had had dinner several times by then and had gotten to know each other better. He had told her of his wife’s long illness in an asylum, and she sensed his loneliness. He lived only for his work. She was flattered by his confidences, and loved his explanations of politics. And had he been single, and their lives different, she would have been happy to be more than his friend. But she had made it clear to him that could not be. She didn’t want to be any man’s mistress, and he accepted that from her. He loved being with her, and they went for long walks together in the Tuileries Gardens, with her small hand tucked into his arm. She was always exquisitely dressed when she had dinner with him, and was truly the most beautiful woman he knew. She already had a reputation for wearing the most fashionable clothes, and she dressed her girls well too. There was none of the vulgarity of other women of their kind. There was nothing shocking about them except upstairs, where it belonged, which had been her intention all along. “Are you all right?” he asked after the intrusion, and she nodded, but he could tell she had been frightened and covered it well. It reminded him of how brave she was. The four men Madame Antoinette had brought with her had looked dangerous to all of them, and probably were. And she clearly hadn’t expected the reception she’d gotten, and had no bone to pick there.
“Of course, I’m fine.” Angélique brushed it off to him. She didn’t want her other clients upset.
“I want you to get a second man. The one you have isn’t enough. Something like that could happen again, or worse. You never know. We’re all gentlemen here, but you can’t predict when the wrong sort will wander in. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His concern for her and affection showed in his eyes.
“I know everyone here,” she reassured him, looking around.
“So do I.” He smiled at her. “But please get a second man.”
“I will,” she promised. He left shortly after, he rarely stayed too long, but he came only to see her, and talk to her. He always had work he had to attend to, and secret missions he couldn’t tell her about, and she knew not to ask.
As promised, she had Jacques find another man to work with him, which he thought was sensible too. They shared the room in the carriage house, and Jacques didn’t mind. He was always kind and willing to do anything he could to help. And the appearance of the four tough men in the drawing room had worried him too. He agreed that it would be better with two. Luc, the man they hired, was young, barely more than a boy, but he was huge. He was a blacksmith’s son, so he was good with the horses, but more than anything, he was an imposing figure with Jacques at the door, which made everyone, clients and girls alike, feel more secure, as well as Angélique.
As it turned out, the protection they needed was not outside, but upstairs. A school friend of one of their favorite clients, a regular of Yaba’s, came with him one night for the first time, after his friend had raved about Le Boudoir. And the new client was particularly intrigued by the services of Ambre, when he heard that she was well versed with her small whip, and willing to tie him to the bed. He had been very pleasant in the drawing room, and rather meek, and had gone upstairs with her. They were absent for a long time, which no one thought unusual, until Ambre crawled out of her room on all fours, barely conscious and dripping blood. It was the first time one of the girls had gotten hurt, and they were horrified, as were the clients in the hall who saw it and rushed to help her. One of the men in the drawing room was a doctor and came upstairs to care for her. Apparently before she could apply a flick of the whip or use any of her tantalizing toys, he had beaten her to within an inch of her life with his fists, and punished her in every way he could. Before he could say a word, the other clients, who’d seen the condition Ambre was in, dragged him down the stairs and threw him into the street. They were appalled at what had happened. Many of them knew who he was. The friend who had brought him apologized profusely to Angélique and left a huge sum of money especially for Ambre. It was a very bad night.
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