“I cannot accept your offer,” she said gently. “Not as a mistress, nor as your wife. I am deeply sorry about your wife’s death. Even if you weren’t happy with her, I’m sure that you’re very sad about it. But I can’t marry you.” He stood up then and looked down at her, and for a moment he seemed furious. He was distraught, and seemed unable to believe she had refused him, even with a proposal of marriage. He was willing to put everything on the line for her. But Angélique was adamant. She didn’t want to be pressured by him into something she had told him repeatedly she didn’t want. She didn’t love him, didn’t want to leave Paris. And she didn’t say it to him, but she thought he was too old for her—he could have been her grandfather. But whatever his age, she didn’t love him, which was essential to her.
“I won’t come back to bother you again,” he said, and with a last ravaged look at her, he strode across the room, and walked out the door without looking back. And this time she was certain she would not see him again.
Chapter 16
The fall was off to a pleasant start with old clients and new ones. After the three-day revolution in July and change of monarch, Paris had settled down again, and people were hopeful that the new king would rule better than the old one. And their clients were busy adjusting to the shift of power. New deals and laws and policies were being made. It added both to the tension and to the excitement of the hour, and Angélique and the girls could feel it in the house. A surge of fresh energy had occurred.
“They’re lively right now, aren’t they?” Philippine commented to the other girls one night after the last guest left. Ambre had been constantly busy, and Camille, Agathe, and Fabienne had been in great demand too. It was as though the men had too much energy and didn’t know what to do with it. And Angélique also thought the political discussions had been more heated than usual in the drawing room. The hot weather contributed to it, but so did politics, and they were anxious to relieve their tension upstairs. The girls looked tired that night, and Angélique was too. They had several clients come in late, and some had had a lot to drink, which made them more excitable. And since none of them discussed politics with their wives, they all wanted to talk about the new changes with Angélique, who was so intelligent, and well informed about political events.
And the next night, in a similar atmosphere, in the dense heat that hung in the air, tempers flared. A debate began about the Bourbon kings versus the Orléans, and several men expressed the opinion that Louis-Philippe would be no better than his predecessor, and other clients disagreed. And before anyone could stop them, two men, who’d had too much to drink before they came to the house that night, began shouting at each other in the drawing room. One pushed the other, and others tried to intervene, a punch was thrown, and at a signal from Angélique, Jacques and Luc crossed the room. It was the first time a fight had broken out between her aristocratic clients, and before they hurt each other, she wanted them both removed. They were in no condition to stay, nor did she want them to. Le Boudoir was meant to be a haven for important men, not a boxing ring. And as Jacques grabbed one by the shoulder, before Luc could reach the other, the main aggressor in the argument pulled a pearl-handled pistol out of his pocket and shot his opponent in the chest, and a red flower of blood grew across his immaculately starched white vest. The man who’d been shot wore a look of surprise as he slumped to the floor at Jacques’s feet, and the man holding the pistol attempted to lurch out of the room, as Luc reached out and stopped him with a powerful grip.
Angélique knew the shooter slightly, and his victim was one of their best clients. She bent down to him immediately as he gasped for air, and a dozen men joined Luc to stop the shooter from leaving, as Angélique looked up at them. “Get a doctor,” she said to Luc, just as Thomas emerged from the crowd. For an instant she had forgotten he was there, and she was immensely grateful to see him. She had no idea what to do next. The situation seemed dire to her, and would lead to scandal for all of them. She couldn’t imagine what Thomas could do now. The man who’d done the shooting had slumped into a chair with a dazed look, and was no longer attempting to leave, as Thomas surveyed the scene intently.
Angélique grabbed a cushion and put it under the head of the man who’d been shot. She didn’t know what else to do, and one of the girls came running down the stairs with a stack of towels to stanch the blood—it was all over him by then, and on Angélique’s dress, and his entire vest had turned bright red. He was obviously in extremis, and the pressure she and Agathe put on the wound did nothing to slow the bleeding. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and he could no longer speak. The damage from the bullet had been severe. They had only been a foot apart when his attacker fired the shot. As the men watched, there was a murmur in the room. Many of them knew the victim. He was one of the most respected bankers in Paris, and the shooter was a member of the parliament that had been dissolved by King Charles in July, and he was bitter about it.
The man on the floor gave a terrible rattling sound then, as Thomas knelt beside him with Angélique, and a rush of blood gurgled to his lips and ran down his chin. Angélique held him, hoping to help him breathe, as he gave a last gasp and died in her arms, while they all stared at him in horror. He had been murdered in her drawing room. She gently laid him back down as Thomas checked his pulse. The victim lay with open eyes, no longer breathing. There was a look of panic around the room, and conversations in low voices as they discussed what to do. No one had had time to send for the police or even think of it—everything had happened so quickly. Angélique looked at Thomas expectantly. There were at least thirty men standing in the room, as Thomas took control of the situation. He knew many or even most of them. The shooter sat, dazed at what he’d done, and knew that life as he knew it was about to end. Someone had taken the pistol from him after he shot the fatal bullet, and Angélique had no idea where it was, as Thomas spoke in a strong calm voice.
“Gentlemen, I suggest you all leave immediately. None of you were here tonight. We have not seen each other. Is that correct?” They all nodded with a look of relief, with no desire to be part of the inevitable scandal that would result if they admitted to being there that night. They filed out quickly, as he told Angélique to tell the girls upstairs to have the other guests leave. The clients in rooms with the girls had no idea what had happened, or that a man had been killed. She sent Agathe to tell them, and within minutes, the remaining men in the house hurried down the stairs, and the minister told them to leave, with the same instructions he had given the others. No one was likely to volunteer that they’d been in a brothel and seen a man murdered in a drunken argument. And as the last clients left, they could see the dead man on the floor in plain view. They left as quickly as the others, and the man who had taken the pistol passed it discreetly to Jacques on the way out. He was still holding it in his hand, as the shooter swayed to his feet, and gazed from Angélique to the minister. He was slightly more sober than when he’d pulled the trigger, but he was still very drunk.
Thomas quietly told Agathe to take him upstairs and let him sleep until he sobered up. He was afraid to send him home now for fear of what he’d say.
“I must go to the police,” he said loudly.
“I am the police,” the minister said angrily. “Go upstairs, and do as you’re told.”
“I killed him,” he said as Agathe led him up the stairs to her room. The shooter was crying as Thomas turned to look at Angélique. She was frightened but trying valiantly to appear calm.
“What do we do now?” Angélique asked Thomas. She was almost as pale as the dead man still lying at their feet.
“We must get him somewhere near his home, where he’ll be found. His wife doesn’t need to suffer the indignity of knowing he was killed here. No one will talk.” It wasn’t the first time a man had died in a brothel. And what Thomas wanted now was to avoid scandal for all of them, and particularly Angélique, even more than the shooter.
“I’ll take Dumas to the police tomo
rrow when he sobers up, and he’ll confess to shooting him in an argument on the street, and leaving him there in his own drunken stupor. Do you have a carriage?” he asked her quickly.
“Yes.”
“Send one of your men to bring it around. They can drop Vincent in a quiet street near his home, where he’ll be found.” He instructed Luc and Jacques to wrap the victim in a blanket, so they could put him in the carriage, and a minute later, Luc went to get the carriage, as Jacques handed Thomas the gun. Angélique was infinitely grateful he was there.
Luc was back with the carriage in a few minutes, rolled up to the door. Fortunately, there were no other houses around them, and Luc and Jacques quickly carried the dead man out, wrapped in the blanket, and laid him on the floor of the carriage.
Thomas told them the area where the man lived, and they left shortly after on their grisly mission to spare her and the house from the notoriety Thomas was trying to avoid. He knew that someone would find the victim soon enough and call the police. Luc and Jacques left without saying a word, as Angélique called one of the maids to clean the carpet, but most of the dead man’s blood was on her dress.
The girls had all come downstairs by then, murmuring over what had happened, and were waiting to hear what should be done next. They all looked desperately afraid. “None of you saw anything tonight,” the minister told them firmly. “Nothing happened. It was an ordinary evening. No one will ask you anything. He wasn’t shot here. He will be found in the street.” He sent the girls back to their rooms then and looked seriously at Angélique, as they went to sit in the dining room. She poured a glass of brandy and handed it to him. He hated what he had to tell her. But there was no other choice.
“You have to leave, Angélique. Not forever, but for now, for six months or a year, to avoid any hint of this touching you. And your clients will be too afraid to come here for a while. They will want no part in this, and neither should you. You can open again, in another house. But not for a while. Things like this have happened before, but you need to give it time for the cloud to dispel before you open again.” She’d been afraid he would say that from the moment it happened, and she knew he was right. She didn’t argue with him, and nodded with tears in her eyes as he took her hand in his and held it. Just as she did, he wished the murder hadn’t happened. Once again fate had intervened to change her life, just when things were going so well. And now a man was dead, she had to close the house, and she had no idea where to go.
“How soon do I have to leave?” she asked sadly. His heart ached looking at her, and it pained him to say the words.
“As soon as possible. This has to cool down before you can come back.” Listening to him, she appeared to be in shock. But she had a powerful protector in Thomas. Without him, the situation would have been infinitely worse.
“What will happen to the girls? Where will they go?”
“They’ve made a lot of money since you opened. They can go somewhere else for a while, or go home. You can all come back—you just can’t be here now. What about you? Where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again and stared sadly at him. She hated to hear it, but she knew he was right. “There’s nothing left for me in England. I have nowhere to go.” As she said it, she wondered why she was always at the mercy of other people’s follies: her brother’s, Bertie’s, and now this.
“New York?” he suggested as she thought about it and nodded.
“Maybe. I have nothing and no one there either.”
“You can have a fresh start and get away from this for a while. It might do you good. This isn’t a life for a girl like you, the daughter of a duke. La Duchesse.” She smiled at the girls’ nickname for her—it sounded foolish on his lips. “You should book your passage tomorrow. Your clients have a lot at risk. They won’t talk. And none of them want to explain why they were here. If you leave now, you won’t be involved.” She nodded and knew he was right again. They sat talking for a long time, until at last the sun came up. Jacques and Luc were back by then, and reported that they had accomplished their mission. They had even placed the dead man’s top hat beside him on the street where they left him. There was no evidence remaining in the house, except Angélique’s bloody dress and two towels, which she would dispose of.
At nine o’clock Thomas went to wake Dumas in Agathe’s room. It was the first time he’d ever been upstairs. Dumas was still slightly drunk when they woke him, and Angélique sent the maid to bring him strong coffee. Thomas informed him that he was going to tell the police that he had shot the victim during a drunken argument in self-defense, and had wandered the streets all night, and then went to find Thomas at home and confessed to him. There was no mention of Le Boudoir in the story, which was what Thomas wanted, and Dumas was more than willing. He didn’t want it known that he’d been in a brothel either. He left with Thomas shortly after, and Angélique went to wake the girls, to tell them what had to happen. Thomas had promised to come back later, and had told her she had to book her passage to New York that day.
She was still wearing her bloodstained dress when the girls came to the kitchen one by one, and waited to hear what she had to say. They were gathered around the table, looking worried, and she gave them the bad news.
“We all have to go. I have to close the house. I’ll put the furniture in storage, and we can open again in six months or a year, but not before that.” She was echoing Thomas’s instructions.
“Six months or a year? What will we do until then?” Ambre asked her, and Fabienne started to cry. She had guessed as much last night, and there was no way she was going back to Madame Albin’s or anyplace like it, nor work the streets alone. This was the only kind of job she’d ever had, and she didn’t know how to do anything else. She had saved her money for the past sixteen months. It had been a wonderful dream and now it was over. Le Boudoir was as dead as the man who had been shot. Angélique might revive it one day, but not for a long time. But all the girls had money now, more than they’d ever had before, thanks to Angélique. It gave them choices they never would have had otherwise. Some or most of them could afford to take a year off. And so could Angélique, with ease.
“I’m not going back to the convent,” Philippine said with a wry smile.
“Some of us could take an apartment and work together while we wait for Angélique to come back,” Agathe suggested, and several of the others liked that idea, if they continued to work. Hiroko said she might go back to Japan and had the money to do so now. Camille said she might go back to the theater. The two new girls, Sigrid and Carmen, both said they would go home with the money they had earned. Because Angélique had paid them fairly, none of them would be destitute when she closed, or be forced into situations they didn’t want. They all were in far better shape financially than they’d ever been before or ever hoped to be. Le Boudoir de la Duchesse had been a huge success, and profitable beyond their hopes in the beginning.
“What about you?” Fabienne asked Angélique. She was worried about her too.
“I’m going to book passage on a ship to New York.” She was sad as she said it, and tears filled her eyes.
“And work there?” They looked shocked.
“No, I think I’ll sit it out. I have nothing to sell without you”— she smiled—“and I can’t be a nanny without a character. I’m past all that anyway. I wasn’t meant for a life of service.” They nodded and knew that was true. But she had an amazing head for business, which had served them all well. It had been magical while it lasted, and hopefully would be again.
They all had much to do that morning, to pack and make their plans. She told them that the clothes she had given to each of them were theirs as a gift from her. She had given them beautiful gowns and accessories to go with them. She had been generous, not just with the money, but all the caring details she’d seen to, to be fair and treat them with respect and kindness, for the first time in their lives. For most, this
was the only safe haven they’d ever had, and they were heartbroken to leave Le Boudoir, and the tiny brave woman who had created it.
She went to the notaire who represented the house’s owner that morning and told him that she was leaving, and taking her family to New York. She paid them three months’ rent, which was what she owed once she gave notice. And he was satisfied. He said the owners would be sorry she was leaving, she had been an excellent tenant and paid her rent on time. No one had ever suspected what really went on in the house, not the neighbors, not the notaire, and not the owners.
She went to a storage company and arranged to have the contents of the house packed up and put into storage, and then she went to the office of the Second Line and booked passage on the packet boat Desdemona to New York. It was the “palace” of the Second Line. And in a moment of madness, she bought a first-class ticket, and a steerage ticket for one of the maids, whichever one was willing to go with her. The ship was leaving in four days, and she had a lot to do till then.
And when she got back to the house, Fabienne said she had something to tell her. She and Jacques had been talking. They were going to get married and move to Provence, and even when Le Boudoir reopened, she would not come back to work.
“I want to have babies.” She smiled at her friend and employer, and Angélique hugged her. She knew their plan was right for her.
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