Typically, Daniel St. John barely glanced at her. He appeared a little annoyed and very bored. She half-expected him to yawn and pull out his snuffbox.
He did not really look like a devil. She had given him that name as a young girl because of his eyes. Dark and intense, they were framed by eyebrows that peaked in vague points toward the ends. Those eyes could burn right into you if he paid attention.
Since he never did, she did not find them so frightening anymore.
His mouth was set in a straight, hard, full line, but then it always was. Even when he smiled, it only curved enough to suggest that whatever amused him was a private joke. Along with the eyes and chiseled face, it made him look cruel. Maybe he was. She wouldn’t know. Still, she suspected that women thought him very handsome, and maybe even found his harshness attractive. She had seen Madame Oiseau flush and fluster in his presence.
He was not as old as she had once thought. He had grown more youthful as she had matured. She realized now that he could not be more than thirty. That struck her as peculiar. He had been an adult her whole life, and should be older.
It was easy to forget how hard he could appear. Every year the months hazed over her memory. Seeing him now, she knew that her plan had been stupid. He would never take on more inconvenience, and she would be left here to await Madame Oiseau’s vengeance.
“M’sieur has learned of your disgraceful behavior,” Madame Leblanc intoned. “He is shocked, as one would expect.”
He quirked one of his sardonic smiles at the description of his reaction. He tapped the book. “Is there an explanation?”
Diane made her choice. The safe, cowardly choice. “No explanation, m’sieur.”
He glanced up at her, suddenly attentive. It only lasted an instant. He sank back in the chair and gestured impatiently to Madame Leblanc.
The two women readied the chamber for punishment. A prie-dieu was dragged into the center of the room. A chair was pushed in front of it. The headmistress lifted the willow rod and motioned for the sinner to take the position.
The Devil Man just sat there, lost in his thoughts, gazing at the desk, ignoring the activity.
He was going to stay. Madame Leblanc had insisted that he witness it.
Diane had known remaining here would mean punishment. Madame Leblanc firmly believed that sins deserved whipping, and she did not reserve the rod for her students. Several months ago a serving woman of mature years was caught sneaking out to meet a man and the same justice had been meted out to her.
Burning with humiliation and praying that he remained in his daze, Diane approached the prie-dieu. Stepping up on the kneeler, she bent her hips over the raised, cushioned armrest and balanced herself by grasping the seat of the chair.
Madame Oiseau ceremoniously lifted the skirt of her sack dress. Madame Leblanc gave the usual exhortation for her to pray for forgiveness.
The rod fell on her exposed bottom. It fell again. She ground her teeth against the pain, knowing it was futile. They would whip her mercilessly until she begged heaven’s pardon.
“Stop.” His voice cut through the tension in the room.
Madame Leblanc got one last strike in.
“I said to stop.”
“M’sieur, it must—”
“Stop. And leave.”
Diane began to push herself up.
Madame Oiseau pressed her back down. “It appears her guardian is so outraged that he feels obliged to mete out the punishment himself, Madame Leblanc,” she said in oily tones. “It is appropriate for such a sin, no?”
Madame Leblanc debated in a string of mumbles. Madame Oiseau walked around the prie-dieu. The two women left.
She heard him rise and walk toward her. She hoped that he would be quick about it. She would gladly accept any pain just to be done with the mortification that she felt, positioned there, half-naked.
The skirt fluttered down. A firm grasp took her arm. “Get up.”
She righted herself and smoothed the sack gown. Biting back her humiliation, she faced him.
He sat behind the desk again. No longer bored. Definitely paying attention. She squirmed under his dark gaze.
He gestured to the book. “Where did you get it?”
“Does it matter?”
“I should say it does. I put you in a school that is almost cloistered. I find it curious that you came by such a thing.”
Madame Oiseau’s threat rang in her ears. She could do it. She could kill someone. And when it happened, the Devil Man would not care at all. He would be grateful to be spared the journey each year.
“I stole it.”
“From a bookseller?”
“I stole it and Madame Leblanc found it among my belongings. That is all that matters. Madame says that excuses and explanations only make the sin worse.”
“Does she? What nonsense. Do you understand why Madame was so shocked that you had this book?”
“The women are undressed, so I assume that it is about sins of the flesh.”
That seemed to amuse him, as if he thought of a clever response but kept it to himself. “I believe that you stole this book, but I think it was from someone here. Madame Leblanc?”
She shook her head.
“I did not think so. It was the other one, wasn’t it? The one more than happy to leave you alone with me.” He speared her with those eyes. “Tell me now.”
She hesitated. He really didn’t care about her. This was the first time in years that he had even really looked at her.
He was definitely doing that. Sharply. Deeply. It made her uncomfortable.
He had helped her that time when she complained. Maybe if she told him, he would agree to keep silent and things could continue as before. Or perhaps if he complained, Madame Leblanc would believe him, and Madame Oiseau would be dismissed.
There was something in his expression that indicated he would have the truth, one way or another. Something determined, even ruthless, burned in those devil eyes.
She much preferred him bored and indifferent.
“It belongs to Madame Oiseau, as you guessed,” she said. “There is a young girl, no more than fourteen, to whom she has been showing it. The girl told me how Madame Oiseau described the riches to be had for a woman who did such things. I went to Madame’s chamber and took it. I was looking for a way to bring it down to the fire, but Madame Oiseau claimed a brooch had gone missing and all the girls’ chambers were searched. The book was found in mine.”
“And the brooch never was found, was it?”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully while his gaze moved all over her, lingering on her face. He was trying to decide if she spoke the truth.
“How old are you now?”
The annual question, coming now, startled her. “Sixteen.”
“You spoke of your friend who is fourteen as a young girl.”
“She acts younger than that.”
He scrutinized her. He had never looked at her so long or so thoroughly. No one ever had.
“I brought you here, what, ten years ago? Twelve? It was right after . . . You were a girl then, but not a little child.” His gaze met hers squarely. “How old are you?”
Her foolish plan was unfolding in spite of her cowardice.
Only she did not want it now.
“Sixteen.”
“I do not care for young women trying to make a fool of me. I think if we let down your hair from those childish braids, and see you in something besides that sack, that we will know the truth.”
“The truth is that I am sixteen.”
“Indeed? Indulge my curiosity, then.” He gestured at her head. “The hair. Take it down.”
Cursing herself for having attracted his attention, she pulled the ribbons off the ends of her braids. Unplaiting and combing with her fingers, she loosed her hair. It fell in waves around her face and down her body.
His sharp eyes warmed. That should have reassured her, but it had the opposite effect. Caution p
rickled her back.
“How old are you?” His voice was quieter this time, with no hard edge.
He had her very worried now. “Sixteen.”
“I am sure not. I suspect that you concluded it was in your interest to lie. But let us be certain. The gown, mam’selle.”
“The gown?”
“The gown. Remove it.”
THE CHARMER
On sale November 2003
—May 1831
Adrian crossed the drawing room threshold and found himself in the middle of an Arabian harem.
Women swathed in colorful pantaloons and veils lounged beside men dressed in flowing robes. A fortune in silk billowed down from the high, frescoed ceiling, forming a massive tent. Two tiger skins stretched over the pastel tapestry rugs, and bejeweled pillows and throws buried settees and chairs. An exotic, heavy scent drifted under the fragrances of incense and perfume. Hashish. In the darkest corners some men kissed and fondled their ladies, but no outright orgy had ensued.
Yet.
A man on a mission with no interest in this type of diversion, Adrian walked slowly through the costumed bodies, looking for a female who fit the description of the Duchess of Everdon.
He noticed a canopied corner that appeared to be the place of honor. He aimed for it, ignoring the women who looked his way and smiled invitingly.
The canopy draped a small dais holding a chaise longue. A woman rested on it in a man’s arms. Her eyes were closed, and the man was plying her with wine. Adrian’s card had fallen ignobly to the floor from her lax fingers.
“I am grateful that you have finally received me, Duchess,” he said, announcing his presence. Actually, she had not agreed to receive him at all. He had threatened and bluffed his way past the butler.
Her lids slit and she peered down her body at him. She wore a garment that swaddled her from breasts to bare feet, but that left her neck and arms uncovered, revealing pale, glowing skin. In the low light he could not judge her face well, but her hair was a mass of dark curls tamed by a gold band circling her head.
The duchess gave Adrian a frank assessment and he returned one of his own. The only daughter of the last Duke of Everdon had attained instant importance with her father’s unexpected death. For the past two weeks everyone who was anyone in England had been speculating about Sophia Raughley, and wondering what she had been up to during her long absence from England.
Adrian did not relish reporting the answer to the men who had sent him here. From the looks of things, the new duchess had occupied herself these last eight years in Paris with becoming a shameless libertine.
She twisted out of her lover’s hold and stretched to grope for the card, almost falling off the chaise longue. She appeared childishly clumsy suddenly, and a bit helpless, and Adrian experienced a pang of pity. He picked up the card and placed it in her fingers. She squinted, and gestured to her partner to bring a candle close.
“Mister Adrian Burchard,” she read.
“At your service, Your Grace. If we could speak privately, please.”
Gathering her drapery, she rose to her feet. With the breeding of centuries stiffening her posture, she faced him.
“I think that I know what service you offer, and you have wasted your journey. I am not going back with you.”
Of course she was. “Again, I ask to speak with you privately.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“I have come the last two days, and now tonight. It is time for you to hear what I have to say. It is time for you to face reality.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. She advanced toward him. For a moment she appeared quite formidable. Then her foot caught in the flowing silk. She tripped and hurtled forward, right into his arms.
He grappled with the feminine onslaught, gripping her soft back and bottom. She wore no stays or petticoats under that red silk. No wonder her blond Arab gleamed with expectation.
She looked up in dazed shock, her green eyes glinting. Her smile of embarrassment broadened until he expected her ears to move out of the way.
She was drunk. Completely foxed.
Wonderful.
He set her upright and held her arm until she attained some balance.
“I do not much care for reality. If that is what you offer, go away.” She sounded like a rebellious, petulant child, provoking the temptation in him to treat her like one. She waved toward the drawing room. “This is real enough for me.”
“Hardly real. Not even very accurate.”
“My seraglio is most accurate. Stefan and I planned it for weeks. Delacroix himself designed the costumes.”
“The costumes are correct, but you have created a European fantasy. A seraglio is nothing like this. In a true harem, except for the rare visitor, all the men are eunuchs.”
She laughed and gave Stefan a playful poke. “Not so loud, Mister Burchard, or the men will run away. And the women? Did I get that right at least?”
“Not entirely. For one thing, an entire seraglio exists for the pleasure of one man, not many. For another . . .”
Stefan’s expression distracted him. His smile revealed the conceit of a man who assumed that if only one sultan were to enjoy the pleasures of this particular harem, it went without dispute that it would be him.
Stefan was going to be a problem.
“For another, except for a few ornaments, the women in a harem are naked.”
Suggestive laughter trickled to the dais from the onlookers. Bawdy shouts pierced the smoky shadows. As if his words had been a cue, a woman on the other side of the room rose up from her circle of admirers and unclasped a brooch. Her diaphanous drape fluttered to the floor amidst shouts and clapping.
Another woman rose and stripped. The situation deteriorated rapidly. Garments flew through the air. The shadows filled with the swells of breasts and buttocks. Embraces became much more intimate.
The duchess’s eyes widened. She appeared dismayed at the turn things had taken. Ridiculous, of course. She had just explained that she had planned it herself.
Stefan reached for her. “Come, Sophia, moi skarb.”
The duchess staggered back with his pull and fell onto his lap. Adrian watched, a forgotten presence. Stefan began caressing her arm while he held the goblet to her mouth.
Adrian turned to go. This promised to be a distasteful task.
Still, it was essential for him to complete it. A lot was riding on this foolish, debauched woman. Quite possibly the future of England itself.
He glanced back to the chaise longue. Stefan had loosened her gown from one shoulder and now worked on the other. Her head lulled on his shoulder but her dull reaction did not deter Stefan in the least. She sat limply while the man undressed her.
Adrian stepped back onto the dais just as Stefan bared the duchess’s pretty breasts.
“Perhaps in your amorous zeal you have not noticed, my friend, but the woman is no longer with you. She is out cold.”
Stefan was pulling the canopy’s drapes closed. “Mind your own affairs.”
“Gentlemen rarely mind their own affairs when a lady is about to be raped. But then, you would not know how gentlemen react, would you?”
Adrian bent and slid his arms under the duchess. “I am taking the duchess to where she can recover. Interfere, and I will kill you.”
Stefan was almost drunk enough to ignore the threat, but, to Adrian’s disappointment, not quite. With a scowl he moved away.
Adrian carried the duchess off the dais. Movement caused the loose garment to shift so that a breast peeked out of the red silk. Noting once more that her breasts were quite lovely, he bore the duchess out of the seraglio with as much dignity as he could muster for the two of them.
The old butler lurked in the corridor. Adrian called for the man to accompany him.
“Your name.”
“Charles, sir.”
“Show me her chambers, Charles, and call for Jenny and two other women whom you trust. Then I will give you instructions for p
acking. The duchess will be leaving Paris. If you have any doubts regarding my authority to initiate these plans while she is indisposed, I should tell you that I have a letter from King William himself summoning her home.”
Charles pointed him down a corridor and they stopped at large double doors. Charles turned the doors’ handles.
Adrian entered and stopped in his tracks. Dozens of inhuman eyes peered at him from around the chamber.
He had escaped a harem only to find himself in a menagerie.
THE SAINT
A Bantam Book / November 2003
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2003 by Madeline Hunter
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.
Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Published simultaneously in Canada
eISBN: 978-0-553-89806-4
v3.0
The Saint Page 32
