The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 17

"Why, for the soiree this evening." Annette peered at her, waiting for a reaction. When Francoise looked blank, she said, "It's Wednesday," by way of a prompt.

"Oh. Oh, yes." The party where Henri was going to present her.

Henri. Last night washed over her. She was still a little sore from their lovemaking. The dream seemed to stand between today and that enchanted night. Well, she wouldn't let it. She was glad she had spent one night with Henri Foucault, Duc d'Avignon. That he had made love to her still seemed miraculous. She wouldn't let some dream make it anything else.

But today was reality.

And reality was that she was only bed-sport to him.

Best she find a way to get on with her life. She'd put her application in at the placement services today.

"What time is it, Annette?"

"Alors, it is nearly four of the afternoon."

"Four? Oh, dear, did I sleep so long?" It was too late to go to the agencies today.

"When one doesn't get to bed until eight in the morning, to sleep until after three is not unexpected." She glanced up at Francoise slyly. "Would Mademoiselle like a bath?"

Francoise cleared her throat. "Yes. Yes, that would be nice." Did Annette know?

Francoise bathed and dressed en deshabille. Footmen appeared with boxes. Mademoiselle Fanchon had disobeyed Francoise's express order for two dresses. She couldn't accept more, of course. Still, she might as well just ... look. Who could blame her for that?

Opening the boxes felt ... like she was Cinderella. Each held a new delight. A riding costume of green with gold braid a la militaire. A walking dress of navy meant to be worn with ... yes, a red waistcoat. It was outrageous, and yet the good citizens could not complain because it was done in the colors of the French flag. Dress after dress, for morning, afternoon, or evening, outrageous, gorgeous, sinful delights all. Fanchon had forgotten nothing. There were stockings and chemises, and more than a dozen pairs of shoes; evening slippers, walking shoes, riding boots. Then there were the reticules, an evening cape, even a sun parasol.

Guilt washed over her. She would leave all but two behind. Perhaps they could be adjusted for Henri 's next mistress. She swallowed hard. Mentally, she chose the walking dress (without the waistcoat) and a morning dress with crisp black stripes on a cream ground. Those would do for making applications. She'd pay Henri back for them, somehow.

Annette cooed and exclaimed as she hung each dress. "Which will you wear tonight?"

Oh, dear. She couldn't wear a morning dress tonight. Well, one of the evening dresses then. Worn just once. She didn't know which one until she opened the last box.

It was white. But that was nearly the only thing virginal about it. It eschewed the fas.h.i.+onable hooped silhouette for a more natural line, and an abundance of bleached white lace in the overskirt. The underskirt was of satin, deep and l.u.s.trous. And it was hardly more discreet than last night's dress. An almost transparent sc.r.a.p of fichu was meant to be tucked into the deep decolletage. Tight, elbow-length sleeves with lace cascades finished the look. White on white. Not a hint of color anywhere. Her gold hair and her blue eyes would provide the only color.

She stared at Annette.

"I'll just hang the creases out, shall I?" Annette murmured, her voice reverent. "Perhaps just touch up the lace with the lightest of irons."

"Yes." That would keep her busy. Just what Francoise needed, because she had work to do. She would not sleep another night with that dreadful leather case beneath her pillow. No wonder she was having bad dreams. She'd take that case and ...

And what? She wanted to throw it away, burn it. But ... a shudder coursed through her.

d.a.m.ned, that's what you'll be.

She couldn't bring herself to do it. She'd put it somewhere safe instead.

Safe from what? From whom? Maybe from herself ...

She reached under the bed and retrieved the case, checked its contents. She'd put it in the stables where it wouldn't disturb her sleep at least. She slipped out the back stairs to the mews while everyone was in a frenzy of preparation and put the bag behind a pile of straw bales.

As she walked away she felt as though a weight had been lifted, even though uneasiness circled in her stomach. She was in a tangle somehow and she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. True, she'd made love to the man who was her protector.

And no one could protect her from being alone in the world. Certainly Henri had no intentions of doing that. That would take marriage, or him offering a carte blanche. One he'd never dream of doing. The other she'd never dream of accepting. Making love to Henri was an adventure. She believed that. Truly. That meant she was in no more of a tangle than she had been yesterday.

She'd just get through tonight and tomorrow she'd make her application at the agencies.

She felt lost that afternoon. There was nothing anyone would let her do to help. Henri was nowhere to be seen, though Jean was kept scurrying with letters issuing from his master's room to be delivered posthaste. So she retreated to the library. The duc had not only Mr. Fielding's works in English but the scandalous Choderlos de Laclos's Les Liaisons Dangereuses, in French. Francoise didn't dare address the latter. It would only remind her of her own situation or get her remembering the fevers of last night. So she chose Tom Jones instead.

It was nearly seven when Annette bustled into the room, her hair flying in wisps around her head. Francoise had forgot herself enough to be laughing softly at Mr. Fielding's wry prose. That had apparently given away her location.

"Mademoiselle, I have been looking all over for you. Mon Dieu, but who knew you would be reading?" Annette appeared to think that was akin to eating worms. "Your dress, your hair ..." She s.n.a.t.c.hed the book, snapped it shut, and tossed it onto a table.

"But hurry."

"There is no need of haste." She had heard Henri's parties from the tiny room under the rafters of the house next door often enough to know that they started late and ran until morning.

"His grace has called for dinner an hour early, which leaves ... oh, dear ... less than an hour." She gave a kind of wail.

"More than enough time," Francoise soothed as she followed her into the back hall.

As they pa.s.sed into the central entry, who should be coming down the stairs but Henri, wearing the most delightful burgundy silk dressing jacket? If possible, he looked even more the wicked duc in dark red. He surveyed the scene as the great central chandelier was raised in heaving gasps by three footmen pulling on a rope. The candles had all been lit. The crystal glittered.

Annette froze, eyes downcast, apparently eager to avoid the duc's attention.

Henri raised his quizzing gla.s.s and surveyed Francoise. "I wondered where you were."

How unlike him! "I was reading. You were right about Tom Jones."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Amazing. I was correct about something."

"Do ... do you think we'll be ready?" she asked, just to have something to say.

"I have no idea."

Gaston chose that moment to hurry into the foyer, carrying a stack of silver serving trays that gleamed. He was obviously frazzled. He stopped at Henri's comment. "When have we not been ready to entertain, your grace?" His voice was more an accusation than a question.

"Never, else you would not still be in my employ."

Gaston hurried off, muttering to himself about ducs who had no faith in the talents of their staff. He was wrong. Francoise knew Henri had ultimate faith in Gaston.

The chandelier was duly tied off and the footmen scurried away. Henri turned his gla.s.s back on her. "Are you well?"

Francoise flushed. "Yes." Last night was best forgotten. But of course he didn't mention it. Not in front of Annette and the scurrying servants.

"You do intend to dress for dinner?"

Oh, dear. "I was just on my way."

"Ah." He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a little upholstered box. "In that case, you will need these." Francoise blinked. The box was long, padded with red velvet.

"Aren't you even going to look?"

She cleared her throat. "Of course." This could be bad.

She flicked open the little clasp and took a breath. This was very bad. Gleaming softly in the box was a necklace of delicate pearls. A larger pearl drop hung from the strand in the center from a short link of diamonds. A matching bracelet of two strings of small pearls was fastened with a diamond clasp. Small pearl drop earrings and some hairpins attached to pearls completed the set.

The pearls glowed with a satin l.u.s.ter. The tiny diamonds glittered. She had never touched such expensive jewelry. He couldn't buy her these.

Henri cleared his throat. "I ... I noticed that you had pierced ears."

Francoise tried to say something. She had noticed that he had silver specks in his eyes. But she couldn't say that.

"I ... I trust they go with the dress Fanchon provided for tonight?"

Francoise tore her gaze from the pearls. "How did you know? The dress was just delivered this afternoon."

He shrugged. "She has taste. She would choose white for you on such an occasion. With your hair, your eyes, your skin ... well, she would choose white."

"She did," Francoise whispered. She shook her head.

"Don't say you won't accept them," Henri interrupted. "I want everyone to know tonight that ... that I value you. They must not question that you are under my protection."

Francoise bowed her head. "Thank you." He might have declared her his ward on a whim, but he didn't have to give her pearls.

To refuse them would be churlish. But she would be certain to leave them behind when she left.

"Trumpery things. Not even diamonds enough to mention." He cleared his throat again. "Dine at eight?"

A small, strangled sound came from Annette. Francoise smiled. "I'd better go."

Henri nodded and turned on his heel, heading back up the stairs without another word.

Thirteen.

Annette was a miracle worker. Francoise descended the stairway to the small dining room no more than five minutes after eight.

She was nervous. The people who would be here tonight were so far above her in station. And she was inherently an imposter. It was some comfort that this was the best she had ever looked. The dress was perfect. The pearls were not ostentatious yet obviously expensive.

Avignon was staring into the grate in the dining room, even though it held no fire. She had resolved to give up his first name. She had no right to use it. And it recalled an intimacy she must forget. He looked up at her entrance. He blinked. Twice. And then he seemed to find himself and smiled. She liked the fact that he blinked.

"Fanchon has outdone herself." He gestured to a seat at the table and held out her chair.

"So have you. The pearls are lovely. I wonder how you managed to procure them in daylight, and when?"

He seated her and moved to the sideboard. "I patronize Coulet. He opens his establishment at night for me. I saw them a few weeks ago. It occurred to me today that they would be perfect for you. So I sent a footman for them."

He'd seen them when he was buying jewels for someone else. Someone who was not his ward. She wouldn't think about that.

"You trust a footman with so much money?" He was choosing food for her plate.

"Coulet trusts me to address his invoice when it is presented."

He lived a different life than she did.

He set her plate in front of her. It was such an intimate gesture, serving her without the aid of servants. And this was the third time he'd done it. He poured her some claret and turned to his own plate. "I have been thinking. I must insist you go abroad-at least while revolutionary fervor rules France. One of my s.h.i.+ps is leaving at the end of the week for England."

"We've been through that. Without friends or money, England is no better than France."

"You would have money."

There it was. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "I won't be kept by you."

He stilled. His back was to her. She saw his shoulders sag, ever so slightly. But when he turned, his plate full, his voice was light.

"What kind of a protector would I be if I let my ward live in such a dangerous place as France or in England without resources?"

That's what she was, his ward. Was he denying what had happened between them last night? Evidently. That was what she wanted. Wasn't it? "We'll talk again at the end of the week, " he said, realizing apparently that pressing her would not bring results. He was preparing to move on to more innocuous topics.

She couldn't let him. "I w-want you to know that last night, while a fine adventure, won't be repeated." She had to get it straight between them.

"A sad lapse." He shrugged. "For both of us. You needn't fear I'll importune you further."

And that was that. He whiled away dinner talking about the people she would see tonight and what they were to France then or France now.

"At least Monsieur Robespierre and Madame Croute will not be here," she managed. "I find those two frightening."

"I'd wager a set of sapphires to match those pearls they will arrive early and stay late."

"At one of your soirees? It's contrary to everything they believe in."

"When beliefs are in conflict with one's emotions, emotions always win."

"But why would they want to come?"

"Ahhh. Robespierre would not. But Madame Croute? I think she craves what has been denied her. She is stronger than Robespierre. And more emotional, therefore more dangerous."

Francoise widened her eyes. She felt so young. And yet another part of her, the part that recognized the truth of what he said, didn't feel young at all. "You're right. They'll come. I wonder what she'll wear?"

Avignon smiled and raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Let's see. Aubergine, I think. Just dustier than royal purple, which is what she'd like to wear. Too much jewelry, too much lace."

"You are severe. I'd better look to my lace." She cast a glance to her dress.

"Your lace is where lace ought to be. Hers won't be. You'll see what I mean." He examined her. "Are you nervous?"