The Star of Versailles

by Catherine Curzon

  “We are leaving today.” She narrowed her eyes. “Once Gaudet stops his dramatics. What do your letters say?”

  “I am recalled to Paris to account for myself before the committee.” He reached out his hand to take hers before quickly withdrawing it, realizing too late he had forgotten his gloves. “I will do no such thing.”

  “You plan to hide?” There was a hint of steel in her voice. “To run away?”

  “I plan to return to Paris with the Star of Versailles in my hand and the spilled blood of the playwright, the spymaster, the lady-in-waiting and her child fertilizing the soil of France,” Tessier corrected.

  “Now that”—a slow smile lifted Sylvie’s full lips then—“is more like it.”

  “And that filthy bourgeois who dared to blacken Morel’s name.”

  “What…” There was a definite flicker of something in her gaze as she reached out to touch his uncovered hand. “Will you do to him?”

  At the brush of her soft palm on his own scarred skin he realized he could not summon the words of cruelty. Instead he felt himself tremble at her tenderness, the tenderness he had not known in too many years.

  “You won’t let anything get in your way.” Sylvie’s tone was gentle and she moved her hand to his arm, gaze fixed on his.

  “And I… I am assured of your loyalty?”

  “What”—Sylvie leaned closer by just a fraction—“do you think?”

  “But you have your child. Your priorities cannot mirror mine.”

  “I would do anything.” The hand was stroking his cheek, caressing with utmost care. “Anything.”

  “But your son.” He remembered the boy he had once been, the mother who had barely looked at him. “He must be your treasure above all.”

  “Don’t you worry about him.” Sylvie’s lips brushed his. “If it comes to it, he can look after himself just fine.”

  The words hit Tessier hard as a slap, but he did not show it, never showed anything when it came to her. Instead, he nodded and asked, “And your destination is once again the next safe house on your cabinetmaker’s list?”

  “We’ll be there by nightfall,” she promised against his lips. “And I’ll find you.”

  “We will leave shortly and be ahead of you.” He nodded, this method of travel having worked so far. “And Le Havre is but days away.”

  “And then…” Sylvie smiled, the smile that always so beguiled him. “We shall have what we want.”

  “Oh, Madame.” He bowed his head subserviently, battling with himself. “We will have that indeed.”

  “You can have some of what you want now,” she promised. “Now.”

  Despite himself, he nodded, the memory of her hand soft atop the scars that maimed his own too beguiling.

  “Sit down.” Sylvie urged him back toward a chair as she spoke, sliding her hands downward to his breeches.

  She would not betray her son, he told himself desperately as he settled into the chair. He had to convince himself of that, after all, because if she would, then what kind of a woman would she be?

  What kind indeed?

  The kind the nation had already driven from the throne, would drive from the land entirely.

  No, Sylvie was not a woman like that, or where would Vincent Tessier be?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The news that they were not to travel on that night after all filled William with a definite sense of irritation, fueling further the feeling that life had gone off-kilter once again. In what would no doubt be termed a sulk he did not join the table for dinner, instead taking himself for an uninspiring walk around the farmyard, just daring the chickens to question him as he stalked among them. He must, he realized with trepidation, speak to Gaudet—whatever had happened had happened, but that was no reason why matters should continue with everyone in a bad temper. With that thought, he strode into the house, heading for the stairs where he believed the Frenchman might well still be concealing himself.

  What greeted William from the landing was the shriek of the playwright’s laughter, followed by the sound of children’s voices sharing his mirth, and, for some reason, this antagonized him further. When he peered around the door of their shared room to see Gaudet completing a very elaborate version of Harriet’s plait whilst a gaggle of farm children watched good-humoredly, his sense of annoyance grew still further.

  All of the trouble was of Gaudet’s making—his sulk had delayed their departure. His childishness had caused the argument earlier, and his ridiculous insistence that he had been used had been the start of the whole sorry affair. Yet here the dandy was, laughing and joking as though there was nothing wrong in the whole world.

  “Having fun?” He sounded, he hoped, as put out as he felt.

  “We were,” was the pointed reply.

  “Then I shall leave you to it.”

  “Then do.”

  A call from the farmer’s wife summoned the legion of children and Harriet followed on, hugging Gaudet before she departed. Left alone with William, Gaudet settled at the mirror and regarded his face with a critical eye.

  “I came to see if you were all right,” William told him stiffly, hoping for some sort of a truce. “We can’t be at odds all the bloody way to Le Havre.”

  “What do you want, sir? If it is a repeat of last night, you must find another mark to use.”

  “You enjoyed it— I—” William lowered his voice, feeling his face flame. “I enjoyed it, too. I did not mean to upset you. Can we not just carry on as before?”

  “It is done and gone,” the Frenchman told him as he powdered his face, though the warmth that had characterized their chats over the past days was missing from his tone. “And we will get along again, I am sure.”

  “Let me come with you,” William suggested, in an effort to make a truce. “We can have a drink and put it all behind us.”

  “If you really must, but there will be no replay of last night.” Gaudet announced, “Now away, I must change.”

  “What is wrong,” William wondered aloud, “with how you look now?”

  “I look,” Gaudet said, frowning as though the question were absurd, “like a farmhand.”

  “Hardly!” William just caught himself before he could tell Gaudet that he looked very fine indeed, sure it would provoke just another crow of immodest derision.

  With a shrug, Gaudet pronounced, “I shall see what I can do with this red coat and a few wildflowers—my blue suit is to be kept for occasions… You are dismissed, Bobbins, return in an hour.”

  Finding himself banished from the room, William took his leave. With nothing else better to do, he sat at the top of the stairs, doing his best not to focus on events of the night before. They would have a drink, he decided, and all would be well, and their liaison would be consigned to the mists of drunken encounters.

  “And don’t mope,” came a shout from the bedroom. “I cannot abide misery.”

  He had nothing to say to that, settling for muttering something as he waited for Gaudet to deem himself ready. Yet long before the designated hour had passed, William nodded into a fitful sleep supported by the banister rail. Moments later, Gaudet nudged at his ribs with his shoe and instructed, “Awaken, Bobbins, if you are to join me.”

  The dream he had slipped into took a second to loosen its hold, and he could only blink blearily at Gaudet before telling him, “I’m awake—help me up.”

  “I will not,” Gaudet declared as he swept past, gesturing with the pristine white handkerchief. “Come along, entertainments await.”

  William got to his feet with effort, wondering how on earth Gaudet managed to always look so fine, remembering again the touch of Gaudet’s hands on him, the press of his lips, and the insistent, burning desire even as he followed his companion from the house.

  The ever-present poodle seemed to be the one who knew where they were going and Gaudet strode after her, leaving William to follow in his wake. There were no milkmaids out now beneath the gathering dusk, yet the carnival s
eemed to still be going on, with a small bonfire picking out the village square, jaunty music sounding on the air once again.

  “What do you want to do?” William called to the playwright. “Apart from drink, I mean.”

  “I wish to sing and enjoy the evening. I may also find someone to finish the task that was so abandoned this morning. You?”

  “Me?”

  “That is what I asked. What do you want to do?”

  “Find some of those milkmaids for a start,” William heard himself utter the words even as he wondered what he was saying.

  “Oh, back he scurries to the girls.” Gaudet gave a toss of his head, clearly intended to show that he little cared. “Then I suspect the tavern is your destination. I understand one might buy some comely favors for little more than a few mugs of ale.”

  “As a Frenchman,” he pointed out, “I would have thought you were duty bound to join me.”

  “I would not want to show you up.”

  “We’d give a girl a night to remember between us.” William warmed to his theme, certain that was all that was needed. “Just think of it.”

  “Why a girl?” Gaudet challenged, glancing over his shoulder, those green eyes flashing. “I thought you’d got a taste for the chaps.”

  “A girl,” he continued firmly. “Or have you forgotten what that’s like?”

  Gaudet almost physically bristled at that, a slight hint of tension showing in his movements when he turned to ask angrily, “Is it not enough that you humiliate me in the bedroom—must I now endure your idiotic comments in society, too?”

  “We had fun,” William exclaimed. “And we can have more fun—for goodness sake, man, let’s get a drink down you and you may regain your sense of humor.”

  Gaudet’s answer was to throw open the door of the tavern and storm into the crowded interior, transforming from a moody temper to the life and soul of the party in the space of roughly three seconds.

  William rolled his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh as he followed. It was safe to say that all eyes were on Gaudet, so he busied himself with fetching drinks, surprised to find that it was relatively easy to turn on the charm that he had kept buried for so long with the barmaid. Feeling somewhat triumphant with his success he handed Gaudet a glass, telling him, “And there’s plenty more where that came from.”

  “My tumbling friend,” Gaudet took the drink without acknowledgement, preferring to address his admirers, “is seeking a lady to reawaken his slumbering manhood. It is his last chance. If it slumbers much longer, it will wither and die.”

  “Whereas he,” William nudged Gaudet, “does not have one to wither in the first place.”

  “Not got one?” One of the bolder women pressed her hand to Gaudet’s breeches, much to the hooting delight of her friends. She widened her eyes and announced, “He’s got enough down there for two or three if you ask me.”

  At that, Gaudet did look to William, a note of amused just try to better that flashing in his eyes.

  “My colleague,” Gaudet pouted, “is bitter.”

  William simply blinked innocently before slipping his arm around the waist of the nearest girl, who was quite happy with the attention and giggled when he whispered something inconsequential in her ear. If Gaudet noticed he seemed to little care, perfectly happy with the adoring attention of his own gaggle of young ladies.

  The next half an hour was devoted to drink and making sure the girl at his side was kept amused, with the occasional glance in Gaudet’s direction. William noticed, with a twinge of regret, that he would not acknowledge that Gaudet hardly gave him a second glance in return. Instead, the playwright was dividing his time between his several admirers, which now included a couple of rather pretty young men, too.

  Telling himself he didn’t care, he redoubled his efforts, fresh drinks helping as he laughed loudly at something the girl, whose name he didn’t recall, said and he barely even heard. Finally, as the night deepened Gaudet left his seat and, with a young man on one arm and a young lady on the other, made his way through the crowded bar and through a closed door.

  “Will you look at that,” William exclaimed. “Who does he think he is?”

  The girl shrugged, asking, “Jealous?”

  “Jealous?” he demanded, the very thought absurd. “They aren’t that pretty.” He found, however, that he couldn’t tear his gaze from the closed door, irritation growing by the second.

  From within came a shriek of laughter, followed by an answering laugh from the young lady who had accompanied the playwright. A moment later the young man emerged, jacket and waistcoat already discarded, seized a bottle of claret, and darted back inside.

  “They’re very pretty.” She laughed. “All three of them.”

  “Right.” William huffed out a breath, already disentangling himself, and crossing the floor. What he intended to do he wasn’t quite sure until he knocked loudly, waiting a moment before pushing the door open.

  William was surprised to find himself in a small bedroom where, just as he suspected, Gaudet was certainly on the bed, though fully clothed and watching intently the scene of the young man and lady in front of him. The girl was sat on a stool before a mirror whilst the young gent, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tended her hair with utmost care under Gaudet’s expert direction. In the closing stages of an elaborate chignon, none of the trio even breathed, let alone looked to the door.

  “Hair?” William exclaimed. “You are doing hair?”

  “Out!” Gaudet barked, waving a hand. “And close the door.”

  “Not on your life, sir.”

  “Close the damn door.” Gaudet flew from his place on the bed and slammed the door, asking William, “Do you want everyone to see how the festival queen will be wearing her hair this carnival?” He turned his attention back to the couple, telling them, “That is perfect—you are a master.”

  Certain that he was in some sort of strange dream William found himself meekly taking a seat, glowering at the trainee hairdresser. “It’s crooked.”

  Both Gaudet and his protégé rolled their eyes and the girl chirruped, “To balance the roses that I will wear on the day.”

  “Of course.” William threw his hands up. “I shall keep my opinions to myself then.”

  “My colleague believes it unbalanced. Monsieur le Tumbler… Would you like a turn?”

  “No.” He gave Gaudet a look. “Are you nearly finished?”

  “All done.”

  “Then for Heaven’s sake, come and have some fun.”

  “I’ll give you a good time.” The girl who had sat with William appeared in the doorway. “If you’re looking for something to remember the village by.”

  “Hear that?” William turned to Gaudet. “That is fun. You should come along.”

  “Perhaps I am just not of a mind to, but I can see that I will get no peace until I perform.” Gaudet turned to the young hairdressing couple. “Good luck in the carnival. Now we will take our leave.”

  “Drink,” William was saying to the girl. “We’ll take some with us.”

  “Come on then, gents,” she told them with a crook of her finger as she opened the door. “Upstairs we go.”

  “Don’t look so glum,” William told Gaudet and slipped his arms around the girl. “She’s pretty enough, isn’t she?”

  “She is delightful.” He shrugged, kicking at the straw-covered floor.

  William reached back with his free hand, holding it out to Gaudet then, determined that he—they—were going to enjoy this and put things back on a better footing between them.

  Instead, however, Gaudet placed his brandy flask into the outstretched hand and shrugged again. “I am following on, never fear.”

  With his own shrug, he opened the flask, drinking deeply as they made their way upward.

  The girl led the way to a perfectly serviceable bedroom, telling William, “You’d better have the money.”

  With an assurance that he had more than enough, he waited until Gaudet clo
sed the door, then the woman looped her arms around William’s neck and said, “A few coins first.”

  He rolled his eyes but rummaged for a moment before producing a more than adequate amount that he tossed down onto the bed. “Yours—with more to come.”

  “That’ll do.” She laughed, settling back on the bedcovers. “Come on then, gents, let’s get to it.”

  William turned to glance at Gaudet, eyebrows raised in question.

  “You first.”

  “I thought the point was it was together,” William objected, something in Gaudet’s expression troubling if he would let it be.

  “Well, I don’t fancy doing it ‘together’,” Gaudet replied, the way his gaze roamed the room betraying his obvious discomfort.

  William let out a sigh, making for the bed. Moving to lie beside the waiting girl, he pulled her mouth to his, pushing aside the sudden comparison that came to mind when he remembered the night before.

  “He don’t fancy it,” she lamented, urging his hand to her skirts. “Let him be.”

  “He doesn’t know”—William glanced back at Gaudet once more, expression almost pleading—“what he’s missing.”

  If he cared, it did not show, and as the prostitute made the occasional sound of pleasure to cover her obvious lack of interest, Gaudet was instead fussing with a curtain tieback, fashioning it into a flamboyant bow around the fabric.

  William tried to concentrate on the girl, urging her hands to his breeches, but he found himself as uninterested in her as she was in him, even as he kissed her deeply.

  “Better,” Gaudet said softly, repeating the bow with the other tie. “One simply needs a little imagination.”

  “Then come over here and show us what a bit of imagination can do,” the girl called. “Tell me what you fancy?”

  “Him.” Gaudet shrugged and stooped to pick up Papillon. “But it’s not mutual.”

  William’s heart lurched, the air suddenly filled with tension. His head snapped up, eyes wide and fixed on Gaudet.

  Another shrug and the Frenchman left the room, leaving the girl to say, “It is mutual, isn’t it, lovey? See it all the time.”