The Star of Versailles

by Catherine Curzon

  “Do we really need the diamond, Sylvie?” One last chance to save herself, to prove his suspicions wrong. “We have our children, we could have a quiet life.”

  “With the diamond…” She leaned close enough that he could feel her breath. “We could have anything. Everything.”

  “Would we endanger our friends to get it?”

  “Oh, they’d be all right.”

  “Tessier would look to them for his revenge.” Dee held her gaze, needing her to say something that would convince him he was wrong about her traitorous nature. This pantomime of flirtation might have been ungentlemanly, but to send the party to their deaths was a risk he was not about to take. “And it would be brutal.”

  “We’d have the diamond.” Nothing flickered in Sylvie’s gaze. “As consolation.”

  “I think we will change our route to the coast,” Dee commented idly, catching the flash of panic that crossed her delicate features. “Just in case we are followed.”

  “Why would we have been?” She shook her head. “Surely—”

  “But why take the risk?” He stroked her hair again. “Charron knew all of the contacts. He might have given them away. He told you where to find us, after all.”

  “Which route will we take instead?”

  “I wouldn’t put you at risk by telling you.”

  “We’re in this together.” A flicker of something close to anger passed over her gaze then, her mouth tightening. “Remember?”

  “Just you and me.” He caressed her cheek with one hand whilst he slipped his other arm around her waist, a threat as much as an embrace. For a moment, they were so close it might have been the prelude to a kiss. “And Vincent Tessier?” There was no romance in Dee’s knowing tone, nor his embrace when he tightened his arm around Sylvie.

  “He’d never catch us.” The hint of panic was brief but it was enough. “You know that as well as I do.”

  There was nothing worse than a traitor, he knew, and one driven by money was worst of all. Sylvie Dupire had no ideology by which she was guided, no radical fire, nothing but a love of avarice and influence. In a moment, he had drawn the pistol from beneath his pillow and told her, “Because of you, good people are dead—you are neither half so charming nor half so plausible as you think, Madame.”

  “We can talk about this.” Fear was definitely the dominant emotion then, the color draining from her face. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Your son loved that man. Charron was a father to him, Sylvie.”

  “There was nothing we could have done to save him.” She shook her head. “He’d have wanted us safe.”

  “Did you try, Madam?” he asked frostily. “No, you did not—if you had, you would not be here today.”

  “I’ve got my boy to think of,” she tried then. “You said it yourself, children come first—”

  “And I believe you said that sacrifices must be made…your boy was among them.”

  “You misunderstood my meaning, Professor.”

  “Then clarify it, Mademoiselle, and let us understand one another better.”

  “What sort of a mother would I be?” Sylvie laughed, the sound hollow and desperate, before turning on the offensive. “You have played me most badly, sir.”

  “And you are an innocent in thrall to my cunning?” He could hardly help but smile then, wondering when the world had come to this. “In that case, let us travel to Le Havre by a different route. You will be free to come and go, but only with a chaperone. If I am wrong and no harm meets us at the coast, then I will offer you my abject apologies. If, however, I am right, then Tessier will believe you complicit in the deception and you will be the object of his vengeance.” He watched her for a moment, reading a slight hint of fear in her eyes. “Of course, if I am wrong, then you have nothing to fear from the Butcher of Orléans.”

  “You’d make me a prisoner?”

  He watched unmoved as she mustered outrage out of her panic, twisting in his grip.

  “These are dangerous lands. I would not let any woman travel alone.”

  The laugh that followed was hardly reassuring, much less convincing him that Sylvie was in any way innocent. He tightened his grasp as from the corridor outside came the sound of cheery whistling. Recognizing Adam’s manner, Dee called casually, “Adam, apprehend our traitor on your way down to breakfast?”

  Sylvie flew from the bed at that, face flaming. “Traitor? There are many worse than me. What about the lies your man Morel tells?”

  “Lies?” Dee slipped from the bed calmly as he heard Adam come to rest outside the closed door. He waited for her to elaborate, pulling a shirt on to accompany the breeches it was always germane to wear when sharing a house with a woman who had designs on spoils of one sort or another.

  “If you knew the half of it.”

  “If it involves a drunken stumble and a deep ditch, believe me, I know.” He shrugged on a waistcoat, well used to such empty claims once a villain found their back to a wall. “It won’t buy your freedom, Madame, be assured of that.”

  “No.” There was a pleased little smile then, “No, not that.”

  “God help you, Mademoiselle, if Tessier ever discovers your plan.” Dee’s words were not bitter, not gloating, only honest. “But as long as you travel with us, consider yourself protected—too many children have been left orphans.”

  “You had better watch your back.” She met his gaze, brazen to the last. “Professor.”

  “And if harm comes to me, you had better watch your neck.” He shrugged, plenty of similar threats having come his way down the years. “Because that head won’t be half so smart when it’s resting in the basket.”

  Sylvie had, as he suspected, no response to that, the door slamming behind her before her voice, all sweetness, could be heard responding to Adam.

  “Put her back in her room,” Dee called. “And lock the damn door.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Gaudet awoke from a very cheerful dream in a brighter mood than he had known in what seemed like years. The night had passed too quickly after their union, as Gaudet had drifted into a peaceful sleep in William’s arms. Now, still tangled together in the sheets, he found his good mood abating too quickly as he gazed at the man beside him, wondering what his waking would bring.

  He could not countenance another rejection, he knew, would not stand a second humiliation if it were to come. For long moments, he gazed at William, committing his peaceful features to memory, the face he had come to adore. When this all ended in heartbreak as soon as the other man awoke to the reality of the night just passed, Gaudet would not endure more sadness. He would simply gather up his bag, collect his little girl and find his sister alone, no matter the cost.

  “Is it morning?” The words were barely a whisper, William’s eyes still closed.

  “A beautiful sunny morning,” Gaudet told him gently.

  He could almost feel the effort it took then as William’s eyes opened and he pressed his lips to Gaudet’s again before either had a chance to say a word. Gaudet met William’s gaze, and returned the kiss deeply, a soft sigh in his throat. William slid his hands into Gaudet’s hair, the kiss long and deep. Perhaps, he vaguely reasoned as he sank into William’s arms, this isn’t going to go so badly after all.

  “Is this all right?”

  “Very,” was Gaudet’s response.

  “You must tell me,” came the earnest whisper, “if it isn’t.”

  “Do not fret so,” Gaudet advised, fingertips trailing down William’s back. “It’s wonderful.”

  He shivered at the touch, William’s eyes slipping shut as he kissed Gaudet hungrily, his hands starting to wander. The time was lost to kisses and Gaudet fluttered his fingers into William’s hair, tangling it softly. It did not take much before William was breathless and gasping in his arms, shifting closer in a subconscious, compelling fashion.

  A memory of the night before swept through his mind, the tenderness of William’s hands gentle on his scarred
back, the sense of peace when they had drifted into sleep together. With a sigh, Gaudet ducked his head to nuzzle the Englishman’s neck, utterly enchanted by the soft sounds of pleasure that escaped William’s lips.

  “You’re so good at that.” The words were unguarded, his neck arching to Gaudet’s touch.

  “And you…are inspiring.”

  “What,” came the breathless reply, “do I inspire you to?”

  “I could,” he whispered, teeth just grazing William’s neck, “show you.”

  “Please do.”

  Gaudet could hardly believe that this was happening, that William was still here, everything seeming to suggest that he was very happy with the current arrangement, too. With no thought in his mind other than William’s pleasure he shifted farther down the bed, drawing the tip of his tongue gently over William’s chest, reaching down to stroke him.

  The whimper of pleasure that escaped William’s lips was most certainly unbidden, his hips lifting as he pushed toward Gaudet’s hand. “Yes.”

  He went lower still, whispering soft endearments before he withdrew his hand, moving his tongue against William very softly.

  “Oh, God.” William’s hips jerked suddenly and he grasped the sheets.

  At the reaction, Gaudet lost no time in taking him fully into his mouth, fingers curling around him again.

  It was heady indeed to see the usually so restrained Englishman gasping and writhing under his ministrations, gripping Gaudet’s hair as he moaned his approval.

  He could hardly drag his gaze from William, could barely recall a sight so utterly glorious and it was with that thought in his mind that Gaudet slipped a hand beneath his companion and, without any attempt at a warning, pushed a finger into him.

  “Christ!”

  That was all the compliment Gaudet needed and he moved his hands and mouth in rhythm, teeth scraping gently now and again. He could, he thought, get very used to doing this for William Knowles.

  It seemed that the Englishman was of the same opinion, gasps growing in intensity before he was suddenly pushing Gaudet away, a breathless moan warning what was to come. Gaudet, however, had other ideas. He was not, after all, the sort of chap not to finish what he had started and he tightened his lips, urging William on.

  And finish he did a moment later, with a most loud cry of Gaudet’s name, hips moving furiously before he spent hard and fast.

  Only when he was sure that William was sated did Gaudet finally lift his head and withdraw his hands. He took his time returning to lie on the pillow beside the Englishman, placing tender kisses on his chest and stomach on his way back up the bed.

  “Bloody hell.” William’s eyes were tightly closed, his breathing still heavy even as one hand smoothed shakily through Gaudet’s hair.

  “There is nothing so lovely,” Gaudet whispered, nipping at William’s ear, “as you like this.”

  “I think…” William said, “my mind has ceased to work entirely.”

  With a very soft sigh, Gaudet snuggled against William, finding, not at all to his surprise, that he could barely keep from touching the man at his side. He trailed his hand down William’s chest, resting his lips on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he admitted sleepily, “that I am an idiot.”

  “You are a ruffian, not an idiot.”

  “Is that better or worse?”

  “It is you.” Gaudet lifted his head to kiss William’s cheek. “And that makes it wonderful.”

  “How do you do that?” William asked. “How do you always have the right words?”

  “I am a playwright,” was the answer. “Words and sauce are my stock in trades.”

  “Whilst I am hopeless at both.”

  “You could give the latter a try,” Gaudet suggested, rather opportunely, the evidence of his own desire all too clear between them.

  The Englishman’s face colored considerably at that, William murmuring a moment later, “Do you want—?”

  “I want whatever you want, chérie.”

  It turned out that what William wanted was much in keeping with his own thoughts on the matter, the next good while devoted to bringing Gaudet to a point where he was shuddering and gasping, given over completely to his pleasure. His hand was tight in William’s hair, hips bucking hard as he surrendered to the man with him.

  “Sorry.” He was dimly aware of William whispering the word into a kiss, followed by a laugh. “I don’t know what for—”

  There was suddenly a thunderous knock at the door followed by Dee calling, “House meeting, gents, ten minutes—we travel within the hour.”

  Gaudet, however, barely heard it, far too occupied with deepening the kiss and when he did reply, “Indeed, sir,” it was in a strangled tone.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said…oh…” Gaudet gave a whimper of pleasure, the words lost in a gasp of William’s name as release swept through him.

  He was aware of William’s lips on his hair and he floated for a long, blissful moment, thinking this was indeed a most perfect start to the day.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At the discovery that Sylvie and Bastien were nowhere to be found, the window pane in her room expertly picked open, the house fell into an uproar. Search parties failed to find any trace and, with Dee declaring that time was of the essence, the party prepared to make its farewells. His warnings that Tessier’s own forces may be nearby drove everyone along at some speed, yet Adam was distracted, something about Bastien’s disappearance striking him as a little off-kilter.

  Gone Sylvie may have been, but her son’s belongings remained, including the walnut box so lovingly crafted by Thierry Charron, sat atop the tricolor flag that the disappeared woman fashioned into a sash when she fancied some flare. It was this discovery that caused Adam to search the yard and pastures, the pig field where the boy had taken to roaming, yet there was no sign of the child to be found. Adam was almost ready to admit defeat when he decided to look once last time around the yard, alerted to the child’s presence in the corner of the stable block by the sound of soft sobs.

  In the days they had known one another, Bastien Dupire had become a constant shadow to Adam. He was always somewhere nearby, watching, questioning, learning all he could absorb about caring for the horses for which he seemed to have such an affinity. Sure that he was not the sort of child who would welcome being caught with tears on his cheeks, Adam stood in the doorway to give him time to recover and called, “You in there, lad?”

  There was a scuffling sound and a possible sniff before Bastien appeared, sporting his usual swagger despite the redness of his eyes. “I was just checking the horses. They want to know what we’re hanging around for.”

  “Got something for you,” Adam told him casually, heart going out to the boy whose mother had left him without a second thought as the child dragged his sleeve across his nose.

  “What is it?” Bastien’s words were studiedly careless.

  “One thing about being a coachman, I always seem to have these hiding in the pocket of every coat I own.” He held out a single key. “So this one’s for you.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “My house in Dublin.” Adam shrugged. “So you’ve always got a place to call home.”

  “Why would you do that?” The boy peered at him, curiosity and suspicion warring in his eyes.

  “Because that’s what mates do—they help other mates.”

  A flash of something that looked like pleasure passed across Bastien’s face, chasing away the misery for just a second. He took the heavy key in his hand, examining it for a moment before slipping it into a pocket. “Better hang on to it then.”

  “Just don’t bring too many girls back,” Adam told him. “The beds squeak.”

  “Not too many,” Bastien agreed with the slightest hint of a grin. “One or two.”

  “I know you Frenchmen.”

  “Put you English to shame.” The boy sniffed. “As it should be.”

  “En
glish?” Adam drew in a deep breath, looking with comical shock at the boy. “Did you call me English, laddie?”

  “Might’ve done!” Bastien turned, the swagger he had already learned from Adam evident as he started to whistle the coachman’s favorite tune.

  “Aye, well, maybe I’ll start calling you a…a bloody Prussian.”

  “You’d better bloody not.”

  “I’m Irish, you cheeky bugger.”

  “You and that professor both.” He rolled his eyes. “I know, I know.”

  “You going in the carriage or up at the business end?” Adam reached out to scrub Bastien’s hair. “We get the guns and the brandy at the front.”

  “All those hours in a carriage?” The boy shuddered. “I’ve had enough polite conversation to last a lifetime.”

  “And before we hit the road, you got anything you need to get off your chest?”

  Something passed across the youngster’s face and for a moment Adam didn’t think he would answer.

  “I hope—” Bastien admitted, his voice small and soft, that of the child he tried to hide. “I hope she’s all right.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out for her.” Adam scrubbed the boy’s hair again. “And for each other.”

  “Sounds good.” Bastien ducked away, familiar grin firmly back in place. “Now get to work.”

  “Me?” Adam shook his head. “I’m the foreman, lad. You’re harnessing the horses, so get to it.”

  With a roll of his eyes, the boy did so, whistling and decidedly more cheerful than he had been.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  For all that had gone wrong, Sylvie could at least take satisfaction in the fact that she had chosen her mount for the escape well. The animal had carried her admirably on her journey, fueled, it seemed, almost by her own grim determination to save herself, to find Tessier at all costs. As she rode, she allowed herself to think of nothing else, self-preservation the only spur necessary as they went on, covering mile after mile. It was hard going, but perseverance paid off when the familiar ebony carriage came into view in the distance. She kicked the horse on, drawing closer.