The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  He paused and glanced back. “What?”

  She blew him an ardent kiss and used her sultriest voice. “I wish you could stay. I need someone to help me out of my corset, you know.”

  He groaned and threw back his head. “None of that. I have to go. I have people waiting and things to do.” He hissed out a breath, swung around and stalked away, disappearing around a corner.

  She dreamily set her head against the frame of the doorway, her pearls rustling. She eased out a breath, sensing this was only the beginning of far more than an alliance.

  Three months later

  Théâtre Française – evening

  Thundering applause pulsed around her and mingled with the humming of voices drifting up to the rafters. It made Thérèse breathe in deep in an effort not to…vomit. She fought the rolling nausea that had gripped her all week. The scent of smoking candles that illuminated the expanse of the apron’s stage, along with so many countless perfumed bodies that clung to the stagnant air, made her want to wretch.

  Despite that, she did her best to enjoy the moment knowing there was nothing quite like being adored for more than what God slapped on one’s face. Being able to prove her talent to all of Paris was more than she could have ever dreamed.

  Her life had become amazing. Surreal. A dream.

  Everything had bloomed into being perfect. Too perfect.

  Thérèse scanned the clapping crowd who had risen to their feet in the large auditorium and continued to over-smile, regally sweeping her slim arms wide open to acknowledge that she was deeply touched by the unending applause that had lasted much longer than last night’s performance.

  Only one thing was missing in the glory of that moment: Gérard.

  Her chest tightened at the thought of him.

  She hadn’t seen him since they parted three months earlier. It was wretched of him, regardless of whether the Republic or the world was watching. He could have attended a performance. While Naudet, damn him, had turned out to be a burly man with a squint who offered very few words that never went beyond, ‘He is doing rather well’ or ‘There is no other message’ or ‘I know not’ or ‘May God piss on that.’

  It was anything but helpful.

  Curtseying regally to the crowd one last time, she turned and gathering her lace gown and silk petticoats, she swept off stage. The smile she’d held for her audience faded. She set a trembling hand to her stomacher. Something was not right, but she wasn’t quite certain of it yet. Her menses was never regular and usually skipped two to four months at a time.

  Which meant…she wouldn’t know for certain for another month.

  It was unnerving. She wasn’t ready to have a baby. Not during a revolution.

  “There she be, there she be!” Rémy strutted over to her like a rooster, his elbows out and dressed in his latest burgundy satin and velvet ensemble worth three hundred livre. The man always told everyone what his wardrobe cost given he was so proud of it. “By God, I do believe we made more today on the ticket sales than we have all week. It means I get to keep this here managing position and the clothing that goes with it.”

  Despite the rolling nausea, she smiled. It was easy enough to do. Rémy always made her smile. He was always so cheerful and happy. And now more than ever. “I still cannot believe this is happening to us. Giverny is no doubt pissing itself right along with Mama and Papa.”

  Rémy grinned, displaying crooked teeth that personified him and halted before her. “I knew having you in Paris would change the city.” He nudged her. “How about you and I tell that incredible, overpaid chef of yours to make us some of that fancy food again? You know…with all those-those…meats and gravy? Are you up for a late supper?” He patted his large belly. “Collecting money gives a man a big appetite.”

  She smirked and patted that oversized belly. “Then I say we feed that appetite so you can keep up with all the collecting. The moment you finish counting the rest of the money and organizing the bills, make your way over to my dressing room. I will ensure I stay late.”

  He grabbed her face and rattled it. “A personal blessing is what you are. I knew it ever since you could toddle.” He jumped back and pointed at her in his usual half-squat position that showcased his excitement. “Try not to let your admirers keep you from our supper. I should be done no later than midnight.”

  “Midnight it is.” She did a half-squat herself and pointed back. “I will see you and that big belly later.”

  Rémy smacked his belly and bustled off with the shake of his coat tails, nodding enthusiastically in greeting to everyone he passed. “Best night yet, I say,” he yelled out. “I went ahead and left champagne in everyone’s basket!”

  She tsked. Rémy had a tendency to spoil them and always used his own money to do it.

  Jacques and Léon now hurried toward her, their eyes brightening in rehearsed unison. One held out a crystal glass of gingered tea and the other held up a silver tray, which usually sat in her dressing room.

  “You were glorious,” Jacques announced with the pert wiggle of his powdered periwig. “That was the most incredible rendition of Nina I have seen from you yet.”

  “Quite so,” Léon chimed in. “The audience kept you on stage twice as long. By the end of this week, we may have to set out a chair for you and Nina to sit on. I never laughed so hard.”

  She bit back an exasperated smile, knowing full well these two ambitious blighters were being paid to make her feel glorious. Much like everyone else. “I thank you both for always making me believe in my talent.”

  Removing her satin gloves, she deposited them onto the tray Léon held, along with the lightweight paste jewelry that was part of her costume. She slid a powdered handkerchief from the tray and dabbed at her throat, face and neck, nudging up the heavy black periwig that weighed on her head.

  Barely a month on stage at Théâtre Française, and she felt like it had been a year. So much joy, yes, but…so much work. Her makeup and wardrobe alone took three hours.

  A breath escaped her as she set the handkerchief back onto the tray. “Thank you, Léon.”

  Léon inclined his head and with the puff of his narrow chest, hurried away.

  Turning to Jacques, Thérèse primly took her glass of gingered tea. Her chef had it made that very afternoon and had it delivered to the theatre just for her. She paused, realizing that she, Thérèse Angelique Clavette from Giverny, had a chef. And not just a chef, but also servants for each day of the week. Only they all stayed for the entire week, every single week.

  Nausea aside, she was so in love with her new life she occasionally did a little wiggle.

  When she wasn’t rehearsing or on stage, she went shopping almost every day, and half the time, usually ended up dragging random people off the street who appeared to be in need of good cheer. She very much enjoyed seeing the faces of young and old women with frayed bonnets getting boxes and boxes of new ones. She also enjoyed merrily pushing mothers into toy shops with their children who had all been lingering outside and announcing to them that whatever they wanted was theirs. She loved playing the part of a wealthy godmother to everyone.

  She took a dainty swig, reveling in the spicy taste of her tea. She took another dainty swig. And another. She paused and slowly felt the nausea washing itself away. Thank God. “Jacques, you have outdone yourself. Thank you for fetching this. It seems to be the only thing helping given how bilious my stomach feels.”

  Jacques paused. Clearing his throat, he leaned in and whispered from behind a gloved hand, “You did not hear it from me, but…all this drinking of gingered tea is creating quite a stir amongst the other actors given you usually drink red wine. They seem to think you are expecting the babe of one of your admirers. Are you?”

  She cringed. So much for the actress knowing how to act whilst pregnant. Fortunately, Jacques and his brother Léon were two of the few people she did trust amongst the gossip-hungry trenches of the theatre.

  Taking a dainty swig of her tea, she leaned
in. “Unfortunately, I cannot refute it quite yet.”

  Those dark eyes searched her face and grew serious. “I will take a damn carriage wheel to his head for— The man should have taken precautions.”

  “Yes, well, I should have, too.” She shouldn’t have taken on Gérard knowing he was drunk.

  Jacques squinted. “Who is this bastard? I will ensure he never walks straight again. Do I know him? Is he from the theatre? Or an admirer?”

  Now that she sure as heaven was not saying. Not even to Jacques. Disapproval from the world aside, half-aristo babies were anything but welcome in this new society. “I have no idea who the father is,” she tossed, playing her flippant, usual self. Better to be seen as a whore in complete control of the world than to be seen as virgin who had no control at all. “There have been so many. So, so many. I am downright exhausting myself merely thinking about it.”

  Jacques drew his lips in, taking on the very visible age of what he was: seventeen. “Why do you never give me a chance? I adore you. What will it take for us to—”

  “You and I have had this discussion before. I like you too much for that.”

  He gave her a withering look. “Then I suggest you start hating me.”

  She let out a pert laugh, tapping his arm. “Cease. The last thing you need in your life is an actress who has no time for you. I would neglect you.”

  A look of anguish overtook his boyish features. “Am I really that unattractive?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why do women avoid me? Not even the ones here at the theatre scrubbing floors want to look my way. For some reason you women only ever prefer the broody, moody, muscular types. Why?”

  A laugh escaped her. “The moody, broody, muscular types attract most women, yes, but they cause far too many problems. Believe me. Never change anything about yourself. Gallantry, my dear friend, is always rewarded, and the moody, broody types only appeal to certain girls. Not all of them. That leaves you a sizable selection of women to choose from. You simply have to wait for the right girl.”

  He puffed out a breath, grudgingly looking off to the side. “What is the point? No girl is even willing to kiss me.”

  Men were so grouchy when it came to women. She sighed, leaned in and gently kissed his smoothly shaven cheek. “There. Now you can you say you are no longer a virgin. Go tell the boys.”

  His lips parted. He gaped. “You kissed me.”

  She patted his shoulder, still smirking. “I told you gallantry is rewarded. But that is where this ends. You and I are friends, and I will not repeat that. Now cease gaping and go. Go, go, go. I will see to it my cousin issues you and Léon an additional five livres a week. Given every seat has been accounted for every night since Nina took to the stage, you both earned it with all the hours you put in.”

  Jacques’s brows went up. “Five more livres a week? Are you certain you are not madly in love with me? Maybe we could attend a musical together? Or…visit your flat?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Cease being a flirt and remember to be outside my dressing room in twenty-five minutes to help me with the crowds. I have countless letters to write and plan to have supper with Rémy later tonight. The only person you may allow entrance is Citoyen de Sade. Everyone else, give them my apologies and turn them away.”

  Jacques hesitated. “Did you not see Citoyen de Sade yesterday?”

  “Yes. But he forgot his gloves.”

  “No doubt strategic.”

  “Everything you men do around women is strategic.”

  “Then why entertain the bastard? Why—”

  “Because he is part of the convention nationale and given the way some of these theatres are being shut down for content by the Republic, I cannot afford to agitate the wrong men and put us all out of business.” She sighed and rubbed his shoulder. “I thank you for the tea. Now, go. I will speak to Rémy later tonight about you and your brother getting an additional five livres starting next week. Agreed?”

  He hesitated, then grabbed her face with both hands and startled her with a sound kiss to her lips. “You, madame, are the reason why I breathe. Never forget it.” He released her and lowered his voice. “Friends can turn into lovers, you know. It will happen.” He slowly grinned and waggled his brows. “We already kissed twice.” Still smugly grinning, he trotted backward, then turned and with the click of boots into the air, scurried off.

  She tsked and called after him, “Do not make me hire a new apprentice!”

  He turned and amorously set a hand to his heart. “One day, ma poupée, you and I will make passionate love under the stage lights for the world to see. One day!” He thudded his chest with an assured fist and darted off.

  Gah, gah, gah. Even the ones she trusted turned against her and only ever wanted sex.

  Taking another sip of tea, she sighed and sashayed toward her dressing room, which she knew she had better get to before the crowds descended in the next twenty minutes. Making her way through the bustle of actors in costumes, angling left and right, she turned into a private, narrow corridor leading to her dressing room.

  She paused.

  The long private corridor, which was usually well lit with more than sixteen candles, was barely lit with a single one by the door, blackening everything except for a sliver of the door itself. She couldn’t see anything before or after it.

  Something was not right. Jacques always ensured the candles were lit.

  Not trusting it, she quickly set her glass down outside the corridor and hitched up her skirt, tugging out the small blade she always carried with her. Her admirers had a tendency to be a bit more amorous than she liked.

  Angling the blade out, she cautiously made her way into the darkness toward the door.

  Someone was hiding in the darkness. She could feel their presence.

  Coming to a halt before the closed door that bore the gilded letters of MADAME DE MAITENON, she touched a hand to her stage name and called out in firm tone, “I have a blade. Leave, or by God, I will use it.”

  The shadow of a tall, male figure pushed away from the nearest wall, startling her.

  Tightening her hold on the blade, she scrambled back, her heart pounding. “Do not dare come any closer or everything below your waist will get sliced into too many pieces for you to pick up!”

  A gruff laugh reverberated in the narrow corridor. “Still the butcher’s daughter, I see,” a deep male voice rumbled out, stepping toward her from the shadows. “Despite all the finery, you are still the same girl I met in the forest.”

  She gasped and almost dropped the blade. She dragged in a disbelieving breath, her gaze veering up past an expensive ensemble of smoke grey and dark blue even the shadows could not hide.

  Steel blue eyes and a rugged good-looking face with a square jaw she knew all too well made her almost drop the blade again. “Gérard,” she breathed.

  He eyed her. “I am pleased to know you still remember my name. Now put the blade away. God forbid you try to hug me.”

  A startled laugh escaped her. She frantically hitched up her skirt and scrambled to slide it back into the leather belt and sheath attached to her thigh. She peered up at him in between attaching it. “My. You look divine.” She skimmed his outfit that showcased those broad, muscled shoulders and wide chest. “Bravo for finally wearing something worthy of you.”

  He shifted his jaw and held her gaze for a long moment in the sliver of light from the lone candle. “Is that all you have to say after three months?”

  She puffed out an exasperated breath, letting her skirts drop and glanced down the empty, shadow-infested corridor. She knew it wouldn’t remain empty long. They barely had twenty minutes.

  Opening the door, she peered into the well-lit room of pale blue velvet, to ensure it was empty, then grabbed that muscled arm and shoved him into the room, slamming the door behind them. She latched the door, then turned and fell against it in an effort to keep her heart from popping out of her chest.

  Calm. Sh
e had to remain calm. He didn’t need to know she wanted to grab him and kiss him and molest him beyond measure for turning her life into a fairy-tale.

  Potential pregnancy aside.

  He adjusted the red ribbon in his dark hair, indicating she had overly mussed his appearance, and turned toward her, widening his stance with each boot. “Next time, ask me to come in. Because my queue barely survived that, and I have places to be and countless women to see.”

  Well, well. Someone wanted to look good and brag about his life.

  Annoyingly, she felt a large pinch of jealousy. Was he really entertaining other women? And why did it bother her? It wasn’t as if they were married, but the last time they had seen each other had given her hope for…more.

  She stared him down, scraping her nails down the wooden surface of the door she leaned against. “It certainly took you long enough to make time for me. I wore several white ribbons in my hair over these past few weeks and yet you never once bothered to see me. You keep sending over Naudet who rarely speaks enough to make up for the disappointment.”

  Gérard searched her face and offered in a cool tone, “I am a very busy man and have little time for socializing with overambitious actresses.”

  She blinked, sensing he was anything but pleased. “Overambitious? What is this? Have I not been producing enough leads?”

  “Quite the contrary. You have been keeping me busy and are performing well beyond my expectations. We have already used most of your leads to prevent thirteen arrests.”

  She lowered her chin. “Then what is it? Why are you upset?”

  “Do you really expect me to say it?” Gérard scanned the dressing room surrounding them, momentarily pausing on an array of her satin corsets piled on a red velvet chaise lounge. A large pair of male leather gloves were still draped over one of the corsets. A muscle flicked in his square jaw. “I did not realize your hands had grown so large.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks, knowing full well what he was thinking. “They were left there last night. They belong to Citoyen de Sade.” She lowered her voice. “He visited me yesterday after the performance and will be coming back to fetch them shortly. I am still getting to know him, but he is about to become a member of the Piques section that is part of the committee of the Convention. Unlike the rest of these men coming to my door, his elbow is about to rest on the very same bench with that of Citoyen Robespierre. This man will have the ability to give us the sort of information you seek pertaining to Sa Majesté.”