Part 8 (1/2)

She curtsied, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile, and slid out the door.

h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation. What kind of a chameleon had he brought into his house? And how the h.e.l.l did she know him so well?

He strode downstairs half an hour later. He could take no pleasure in his bath. Not when he kept remembering how she had looked at the bed. Or replaying in his mind her tenuous exposition of the exact mental process he had been going through in the last years as he tried to find meaning in his life. The fact that touching her the other night had raised a c.o.c.kstand on the spot was only because he had not a.s.suaged his Companion's need for s.e.x of late. Nothing more. His hair was now ruthlessly brushed into a simple queue. Drummond had worked his magic on the coat and he had tied his own cravat in record time.

The amazing thing was that he was going to do something very stupid tonight. It might cut short his usefulness and make Paris impossible for him.

And if he lost his purpose, he might just lose his soul. So why was he going to do it? Because she challenged him? Or was it because she seemed to think one could find hope in spite of how much damage years, and alienation, could inflict on one?

He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew better. And yet he was going to get the old woman out for her. He was not going to tell the girl what he was doing. That would only add to the danger. She'd not have to know his part in the thing at all. So, he'd just put the girl off tonight and avoid her until the thing was done. He'd have to spend all his time away from home. Merde.

He pushed into the library. She was already there, reading a book, still wearing that awful dress. Which reminded him ...

”Gaston tells me you missed an appointment with La Fanchon today.”

She looked guilty. ”I apologize for that. I was distracted when Gaston told me the time, and it took me all afternoon to get into the prison to visit Madame once I'd found her.”

”You have no idea how large my order will have to be to smooth her ruffled feathers. ” He strode to the sideboard where the brandy was set out and poured a gla.s.s. Gaston had set out ratafia as well. He lifted the decanter and offered it to the girl. She shook her head.

”No, thank you.”

”You will perhaps deign to let her attend you tomorrow?” He raised his brows pointedly.

She was positively pretty when she was embarra.s.sed. ”I ... I had hoped to visit Madame again and take her something more useful than my comfort.” She squared her shoulders. ”I don't need clothing. If your grace could perhaps loan me a small amount of the money that would have gone to dresses, I could bribe the guards to get in with some food and perhaps a blanket for her.”

He set his lips. ”I'll not have you looking like ... like a street urchin.”

She looked down at her dress and swallowed hard. ”Well, perhaps one new dress.”

”One?” The girl was impossible. ”You really must think of my reputation.” He lifted one hand to forestall her protestations. ”You will be given an allowance which is yours to spend as you will, on bribes and blankets even. But tomorrow you will wait on La Fanchon.”

He could see she wanted to protest. It was killing her not to tell him she would do as she liked and his priorities were topsy - turvy. But she couldn't be ungrateful, and he wasn't asking much. The dialogue with herself was clearly going on in her eyes. Finally she bit her lip. ”Of course, your grace.”

He nodded approval. ”Wise decision.” He downed his brandy. ”Now, I find I must go out for the evening.”

”But you promised that you would discuss helping Madame with me over dinner.”

”Did I? I can't recall. Well, we will talk about it sometime very soon.”

She surprised him by rising and striding over to stand much too close to him, her eyes snapping in anger. ”Don't you dare try to wriggle out of a promise by pretending to forget.”

Caught. But he couldn't tell her his plan. When she made it to the Conciergerie and found Madame escaped, she'd best think it had nothing to do with one Henri Foucault.

”I'll talk about it when I choose to talk about it, dear girl. ” That would madden her. It couldn't be helped. ”And right now I choose to have a peaceful dinner far away from talk of Madame LaFleur and Robespierre and prisons and executions.” He sighed with what he hoped was long-suffering boredom.

”You are absolutely ... hopeless.”

True. Hope had gone out of his life a long time ago. And he was mad to even think she could bring it back. ”Agreed,” he murmured as he set his gla.s.s down. ”I shall discuss this with you when you are dressed in a way that does not offend my every sensibility.” And with that, he walked out, leaving her sputtering. Not kind, but necessary. The stone walls of the Conciergerie loomed over him in the darkness. A little after one in the morning. The guards would be bored and getting drowsy. The better to think they'd been dreaming if one chanced to see the act itself. He sidled up to the guardhouse. He could hear them playing cards. h.e.l.l, he could smell them, even over the stink of the place. Everything smelled like a republic rotting from within to him these days.

”Who has drawn making the next round?” one asked.

”Denny.”

”Me? You jest, cur. I just did it last hour.”

”And lost the last hand at piquet, no?”

”I was sure we said it was to be the one who lost the next hand.”

”Mes amies? Next hand?”

”Last hand.” This from several voices.

Grumbling. Denny would be Henri's mark. Keys clinked being removed from the wall. Peering through the great iron grate that served the old palace as a portcullis Henri saw him start out the back of the guardhouse. He headed down some stairs.

Henri drew his power and watched the red film pour down over his field of vision. The whirling blackness swept up to engulf him. Then the familiar pain seared through him and he was through the portcullis. He made no sound at the pain transporting caused. He had grown inured to pain after all these centuries. He moved silently down the stone staircase, following the glow of the guard's lantern, but well back, in the shadows.

The stairs opened out into the huge Romanesque crypts. He remembered when they had housed the stables for Henri IV's army back in the 1500s. Bobbing ahead was the circle of light. He could hear the guard's noisy breathing and the echoing clip of his boot heels. The faint noise of the cells began to grow. He quickened his pace into a narrow corridor.

Denny whistled, perhaps to keep away the dark, so he was caught unawares when Henri pulled him around. He stared straight into Henri's red eyes. Fear bloomed in his expression then faded as Henri held him immobile by the force of his will and the power of his Companion.

”Madame LaFleur. An old woman. You know her? She was brought in yesterday.”

The man nodded, all expression absent from his eyes.

”Take me to her cell.”

The guard turned back down the hall. They pa.s.sed several cells emitting the stench of human bodies not recently washed, p.i.s.s, defecation, vomit, and the subtle sweetness of infection and death. He knew it well. He had been to these cells many times. So he ignored the supplicating hands, some holding letters they wished to get to loved ones on the outside, and the faces, some tearful, some stony and still, the eyes dead.

The guard paused in front of the third cell and pointed. ”In the back.”

”Let me in.”

The guard opened the small doorway in the larger iron grating without thought for whether anyone inside could overpower him and get out. The guard locked the door. Henri turned to him and whispered, ”You will remember nothing.”

Then he let him go. He watched Denny shake his head as though to clear the cobwebs from it then shrug and continue on his rounds.

Henri turned into the cell and swept his crimson gaze around the dazed prisoners. ”I am not here. You will remember nothing.”

They took no notice of him, but went on with whatever they had been doing. They parted as crowds always parted for his kind.

He strode to Madame LaFleur, letting his power slide back down his veins. So it was an ordinary duc she saw inside her cell.

She raised eyes that were very wise for one who had lived only a single lifetime and smiled. ”Francoise sent you.”

It wasn't a question. And it was the truth. He wouldn't be here without the girl's prodding. ”I've come to get you out of here.”