Remy skimmed his hand across the page. With an arc here, a shadow there, his impression of the line of dancers blurred, sharpened. A rush to capture their expressions and exertions in graphite flitted through his imagination. All were impressions to develop later when he was alone tomorrow morning as he drank his coffee.

He cocked his head, stopping to consider his sketch. Not bad for midnight and a liter of wine. He liked the idea of painting a chorus line, the women laughing, hoping for a few men to seek them out backstage. Remy had made one of these women famous and sought after last spring when he debuted a portrait of her alone in the dressing rooms, her long red hair falling to her shoulders, her hand to her pert breast. Pretty thing, she’d retired from the cabaret line to one comte’s love nest in the Rue Moncey.

Remy was a connoisseur of bodies. Their form. Their function. The supple flow of muscles beneath the obliging skin. The toned ones that showed dexterity. The thin ones that showed their poverty.

The fat ones, the gross ones, whose gluttony had induced an effluence of flesh. The crippled ones. The children, too pale, too pocked to have ever been a heavenly cherub. The deprivation that deformed the perfection of their birth and left a wreck prone to disease and catastrophe. All showing the disease that could kill and the charm that could enchant.

Remy folded his foolscap sketch pad and tucked his graphite into the special pocket in his waistcoat that he’d designed so it didn’t mark his clothing. He hailed the garçon to deliver another flask of vin rouge for him and his friend.

“No, don’t,” said Julian Ash, the Marquess of Chelton. “I’m ready to leave. You appear to be too.”

“You’re right. I’m done for tonight.” Andre Claude Marceau, Duc de Remy, Prince du sang, and the English marquess had been friends for years. Fellow bon vivants since their mothers had introduced them eight years ago, they traveled the city together whenever Julian’s business brought him to Paris. Though Julian was five years Andre’s junior, they shared a view of the world that accommodated them as aristocrats with land and a greater desire than skill for administering it. That was why Julian applied his nighttime activities to gambling and Remy himself to the pleasures of molding bodies. In bronze or marble, graphite or pen, Remy called himself an artist. More than that, he styled himself a lover of bodies.

Human bodies. Strong or weak, lean or well-fed. A man, now and then. A child, less often. But women. Ah, the female of the species lured him as no other fascination. And tonight’s bevy of women at this cabaret could appeal for perhaps another five minutes.

“I like Sabine there.” Remy lifted his chin toward the woman who pranced onto the riser, her glossy cheap red satin skirts hoisted to her waist.

“Her charms are—” Julian choked on a laugh. “Abundant.”

“Certainly.” Sabine, spicy dish that she was, loved to display her copious charms. In particular, she was adept at the new sensation in this northern arrondissement of Paris, the cancan. She drew an audience—and embellished her salacious reputation—by her acrobatic skill to kick high and yet keep time with the three musicians. More than that? Well, few could say her best offering was her long Gallic face. Nor her curvaceous legs. Non. What attracted attention to her was the thick curly black hair at the junction of her thighs.

Remy considered what it would be like to make love to Sabine. “She provides a good cushion for the romp, would you say?”

“I will pass, thank you.” Julian downed his glass. “I bet you have too.”

“You know me too well.”

“Time to go to Tourelane’s,” Julian said.

“You’ve a desire to lose more money to the marquis?” Remy asked him. Julian was a gambler who had motivation to play, but not the persistent skills that could embellish his meager coffers.

Julian stood, straightening his white shirt collar and sapphire waistcoat. His dark good looks cut a fine figure in his black evening clothes. A few ladies cast their greedy glances down his elegant form. “A man must try.”

Patrons were clapping in time to the raucous music, leering, laughing and pointing at Sabine and her distinguishing charm.

“Agreed. We can find better amusement.”

Remy stood, waved their garçon over and pressed a few francs into his hand.

“Monsieur le duc, merci,” the waiter began. “You and le Marquis have not finished your wine.”

“Take it for yourself, Henri. Tell the owner I said it is yours. With my regards.” Remy put his top hat on his head, adjusting it to the wealth of tawny curls he could never seem to tame.

“Sabine will finish this number but we have a new dancer you may like better.” Henri liked his money from Remy and wished to keep him here drinking.

“Non, Henri. Le Marquis and I have another engagement. Pardon e moi. We’ll see you soon.”

The man bowed with small deference. “Merci, a bientôt. Merci.”

“You overpay him,” Julian remarked with a smirk. “Again.”

“He’s good. Knows what we like.”

As Remy turned, an ostrich plume caught his eye. A flash of platinum hair followed. Pink lips. Skin of cream topped with cheeks that spoke of strawberries. The colors of her, the health of her, the wealth she wore were complements to the symmetry of her long winged blonde brows, the perfect oval of her face and the wide lush sweep of her mouth.

He paused. “Who is that, Henri?”

“Pardon? Que?” The waiter followed Remy’s line of sight.

“The lady with the white feather in her hat?” Remy cursed the flickering gaslight that gave him nothing more of the champagne blonde with the expressive brows and kissable lips. “The one with the dark-haired woman in blue and the tall blond man? There.”

“I’m certain I do not know, Monsieur, but I can inquire and—”

“No, merci, Henri. That—” That would be improper. And he’d learn who she was. Well dressed, expertly coiffed, she was graceful as she crossed the room and took a table with her escort and her companion. “That won’t be necessary.”

Julian had already made it to the door. Pushing aside the heavy red velvet drape covering the entrance, he raised his brows at Remy as if to ask what the delay was.

He’d just seen an angel.

But he’d find her again.

Watch her.

Memorize her.

Draw her.

He smiled. And if he were fortunate, he’d do more.