Chapter 15
Antonio took Solange to the Tuileries Gardens, where respectable young women, dressed in the latest fashion, strolled with their mamans to catch the eye of admiring young men. The Tuileries had belonged to the royal court before the Revolution, and the people had only been allowed onto its grounds one day a year, the Feast of St. Louis. Now, anyone could stroll its paths. Solange delighted in the statuary and tightly shaped shrubs in the moonlight, and the sense of intimacy afforded by the shadows of trees and bushes.
Antonio leaned close. “We must be very careful walking these paths,” he murmured.
Solange glanced around her, apprehensive. “Why is that?”
“Because a highwayman may jump out at us at any moment,” he teased.
Her eyes twinkled as she said, “Or perhaps a Shadow might suddenly step from the shades of the trees.”
“Touché.” Antonio chuckled.
After they explored the gardens, he directed her to the Palais Royal, renamed again after its short life as the Palais de l’Égalité during the Revolution. It had been the extravagant home of Phillippe, Duc d’Orléans before his execution. Now, it was a place where the fashionable and wealthy of the city mingled with the scoundrels and villains. One could find anything from shops to gambling casinos, theaters, taverns, or ladies of the evening.
Although Solange ran a salon where wealthy, famous, and infamous men gathered, and although she directed young women in the art of becoming mistresses to those men, she had never been taken to the Palais Royal. She had only seen it as a thief, dressed in her thief’s clothes, on the lookout for an easy victim, and attempting to dodge the gendarmes who patrolled in pairs to keep order. Now, as a fashionable young woman on a man’s arm, she enjoyed the spectacle.
They wandered for a while through the shops. Solange admired the trinkets displayed on the shelves, the lovely bonnets, and the multihued shawls of oriental silk. Antonio bought her a fan of silk, painted with a bucolic scene of shepherdesses and swains frolicking in a meadow. It was a beautiful thing, and she snapped it open and fluttered it coquettishly. When they tired of window-shopping, he took her to Le Grand Vefour, a restaurant in the Palais Royal that had previously been a café where royalists would gather during the Revolution. He obtained a table in a small alcove, private, but with a view of the rest of the room. Solange was fascinated by the other patrons—men entertaining their mistresses, dowagers chaperoning their young charges, groups of men out for an evening’s entertainment. The waiters followed a precise protocol and were as arrogant in their service as any aristocrat had ever been. Antonio ordered for them both, and they were served fish, partridge, fruit, cheese, and custard, washed down with a delicious wine from Burgundy.
When Solange could not possibly eat another bite, she sat back in her chair and fluttered her fan. “This has been a wonderful evening. Merci.”
Antonio smiled. “The evening is not over yet, dolcezza. I have one more surprise for you.”
Solange was touched. She had never felt so cherished. Certainly Vernoux had never treated her in such a way. When Auriano had bargained with her, this night had been the last thing she had expected. The heat rose in her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes. “You have been most kind, mon seigneur. I do not wish to take advantage of your generosity.”
He leaned across the table and covered her hand with his long, graceful fingers. “Solange, you agreed to give me your time. I am not done with you yet.”
Of course. He would expect what every other man would expect—the benefits of her talents. Despite what he had told her earlier, he would have her play the whore for him.
“Solange, do you know how to waltz?” he asked.
His question shocked her. Had she heard correctly? She gaped at him in disbelief.
He chuckled. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “You look like a startled deer,” he said. “Has no one ever taken you dancing?”
She shook her head, caught between surprise and the feel of his lips against her fingers.
“We must put that to rights,” he murmured. “We will waltz to wonderful music.”
“I don’t know how to waltz,” she said. “I’ve never seen it done.”
“Then come, dolcezza. Let me show you.” Smiling, he rose and pulled her to her feet.
Antonio took her to one of the many bals publics that engaged the city. These were places where all classes of the people of Paris gathered to dance, particularly the waltz—that new craze imported from Germany. This one was held in a modest l’hôtel in the Invalides, across the river from the Palais Royal. Despite the smaller scale of the dwelling in comparison to its neighbors, the interior dazzled with crystal chandeliers, gilt-framed paintings on silk-covered walls, and intricate parquet flooring. The mingling crowd buzzed with conversation and glimmered with finery. Many of them wore a thin red ribbon around their throats which marked them as à la victime, a relative of someone who had been sent to the guillotine. Music swept through the air and enfolded the crowd like a fur wrap.
Antonio, having shown Solange the basic steps of the waltz before they arrived, escorted her onto the dance floor. She was a quick study and a graceful dancer. The feel of her in his arms as she followed his lead was intoxicating. After she became accustomed to the steps and the natural beat of the music, she smiled up at him. Her eyes sparkled. Her lips curved in abandoned joy. Something clenched and unfurled in his chest. He found that giving her this bit of happiness made him happy, perhaps the happiest he had ever been. And that astounded him. At the same time, he became wary. He could not allow himself to become emotionally attached to her. He needed to stay detached, to use her to find the piece of the Sphere and then leave her, despite his reluctance to do so.
They had danced three waltzes in succession when he led her off the dance floor to catch her breath. As they stood together at the edge of the crowd, she looked up at him shyly.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
Surprised at her question, he answered with one of his own. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Very much.” she nodded.
“Then you have your answer.” Smiling, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
She pulled away. “When a man entertains a woman, he usually wants something in return.”
Her refusal to accept his generosity irritated him. “Your time this evening was in payment for my search for your brother, or have you forgotten our bargain?”
“But you have been kind.” A thin line of confusion appeared between her brows.
Her incomprehension tweaked his heart. “Has no one ever been kind to you, Solange?” he asked gently.
She glanced away. “Not for a very long time.” Her quiet words were nearly lost in the music. Then the line of her jaw tightened, and she turned back to him. “We have a business arrangement. You have no need to be kind.”
“That’s true,” he agreed. Lightening his tone, he said, “Would it surprise you if I said I liked you?”
Her eyes widened, and she gave a small laugh. “Even though I have stolen from you and threatened you with a knife?”
He smiled. “I find your spirit exhilarating.”
“You have very strange taste in women, Monsieur le Duc.” She snapped open her fan and fluttered it.
He saw she did not believe him. And he had been a fool to admit to any soft feelings towards her, for that gave her an advantage in their arrangement. The music, the gay atmosphere, her laughter, and her playfulness had lulled him into complacency.
Taking advantage of her skepticism, and relieved he had been saved from emotional entanglement, he said, “Perhaps I have other reasons for enjoying your company.”
She turned a cynical glance on him. “Of course you do. You want what every other man wants from me.”
“No, not every other man,” he said mildly. “You know what I want, Solange.”
Her fingers tightened on her fan. He watched understanding flit through those glorious turquoise eyes. He referred to the piece of the Sphere of Astarte. And she knew it. Instead of acknowledging his statement, she said, “I would like a cup of lemonade, monsieur. I find I am quite parched.”
Amused at her evasion, he smiled, bowed, and left to elbow his way through the crowd and forage for her refreshment.
Hours later, Antonio guided Solange around the corner into the narrow street which would take them to where their coach waited. Antonio enjoyed the feel of Solange on his arm. She was humming a few bars from one of the waltz tunes when the scuff of a shoe alerted him to someone at the end of the street. A figure blocked the small lamp that glowed on the house at the corner. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two others block off the other end of the street.
Solange’s steps faltered.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered quietly.
“I am far from helpless,” she said acerbically. She bent, raised her skirt, and pulled out a dagger she had strapped below her knee.
He grinned. “Bene.”
The man before them was joined by another. As if a signal had been given, the four men rushed them. Antonio flicked his stiletto into his hand and nudged Solange out of the way.
Two of the men came after him. Two went after Solange. He stabbed and kicked, sliced and jabbed. In moments, his two attackers were bloody and unconscious. Their defeat had been easy. Solange was having a more difficult time. Her two attackers were bigger, more vicious. She swiped at one with her dagger, then the other. Antonio stepped forward to help her, but one of the outlaws on the ground grabbed him by the ankle and jerked. Tonio thudded to the dirt, the wind knocked out of him. Black spots appeared before his eyes. He shook them off in time to see a knife slicing down toward his chest. Thrusting up, he slammed his stiletto into the attacker’s throat. As the man collapsed on top of him, he heard Solange cry out.
Antonio struggled from beneath the body sprawled across him and rolled to his knees to see one of the bandits slash at Solange. The knife caught in her cloak.
“Solange, use your power!” he shouted.
She glanced at him blankly, as if she had not understood.
One of her attackers grabbed her. Antonio watched in horror as the other swept his knife in an arc toward her heart.
“Your power,” he yelled again. He leaped to her aid.
Solange brought up her hand. A flash blinded him. He heard a howl of pain. When his sight cleared, one of her attackers was lying on the ground. The other was running out of the alley. Solange slumped against the building and slowly collapsed.
Antonio reached her just before she crumpled to the ground. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was cold. Her pulse barely fluttered beneath his fingers.
He could see little in the dark, but blood stained her clothes. Panic ripped through him as he searched for a wound, but she appeared uninjured. Cradling her against him, he tried to warm her. Her hand twitched. She drew a deep breath, and her eyes opened.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“You vanquished them, dolce mia,” Antonio said, as he brushed a stray curl from her face.
Her gaze went to the man lying on the ground near her. A large hole was burned through his chest. “Did I do that?”
“Si.”
She shivered and turned her face into Antonio’s shoulder. “Take me home, s’il vous plait.”
Antonio helped her stand. He was about to guide her away from the spot when she halted. She bent over the man near her, gasped, then studied the other two nearby.
“What is it?” Antonio asked.
“Nothing. It’s… nothing,” she said, turning away.
Antonio knew it was not nothing. Something about those men disturbed her.
He was about to ask her when she cried out and clutched her chest. Before he could help her, icy tentacles grabbed at his heart. Solange swayed, and he barely caught her as he fought off his own pain. Nulkana was once again taunting them. He glanced around but saw nothing else threatening from either end of the narrow street. But there, atop the building, sat her owl silhouetted against the night sky. As he watched, it spread its wings and silently took flight. The sense of evil retreated with it.
“The sorceress,” Solange said.
“Si. Come, dolce mia. We must get you home where it is safe.” He hurried her back to his carriage.
Once safely inside the vehicle, Solange slumped into the corner. Antonio wanted to comfort her, keep her safe and forget their agreement to keep their relationship cool and practical. She kept her eyes closed, and Antonio knew she was avoiding conversation, either because she was too spent after using her power, or because she had no wish to reveal who their attackers were. Their ride through the streets was fast. When they finally reached her door, she allowed him to help her from the coach and swept into the house. Grimly, he followed. Now he could question her about the identity of their attackers, for he had a suspicion that it was no coincidence that Nulkana’s bird appeared at the same time as the attack.
Solange’s first thought after stepping through her front door was for Gide. She feared that her brother might also have been a target this night. Ignoring Antonio, she raced up the stairs to Gide’s bedchamber, where she found him sleeping peacefully.
Antonio’s servant, Piero, rose and bowed. “Your brother’s fever has broken, ma donna. He will surely return to good health in a few days.” He glanced from her to Antonio, who stood close behind her. “You have been attacked. By Nulkana?”
Solange realized they must look a sight. Her gown was ripped and filthy. Locks of hair had escaped from their pins and hung in tangles down her back. Antonio’s breeches were covered in mud. The ivory satin lining of his cloak was torn and dragged on the floor. A scrape reddened one cheekbone.
He shook his head. “Not Nulkana, but she sent her bird to watch. Merely some outlaws.” His tone was carefully level.
Solange ignored the prick of guilt at his words. She was not about to draw him deeper into her world by revealing her suspicions about the attack.
He shifted, as if uncomfortable. It was an odd movement for him. She caught sight of a red stain on his waistcoat. “You’re bleeding!” Solange pushed open his coat to reveal the slice through his clothing and across his ribs.
“It’s nothing, merely a scratch.” He shrugged it off, then lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. “You have also been injured, dolce mia.”
Solange covered the spot, surprised to find a bruise. “I’m fine. But we must take care of your wound.”
“Piero will see to it later,” Antonio said, as he took her by the elbow and steered her out of the room. “Besides, I heal very quickly. Come, let me help you to your room and then call your maid to look after you.”
Solange caught the glance he sent to Piero, a silent message. He was hiding something. Annoyed, she allowed him to escort her into her bedchamber. He had her sit, then poured water into the washbasin and wet a cloth. Crouching before her, he pressed it against her cheek.
“I am sorry you were injured,” he said as he dabbed the spot. “I shouldn’t have allowed those thugs near you.”
His touch was gentle, and the coolness of the cloth felt good against the bruise. For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of his ministrations. But she could not fall under his spell. Their relationship was supposed to be practical, unemotional. That glance he sent Piero underscored the many secrets he still kept, secrets that could cost her her life. She pushed away his hand.
“I am fine, mon seigneur,” she said.
“No, you are not fine. You are hurt.” He pressed the cloth against her cheek again. “The evening is not quite over. You still owe me your time, and I wish to spend it caring for you.”
Solange subsided into stillness. The less she objected, the sooner he would leave. Then she would not have to fight to retain control of her senses.
“Do not look so put out, dolce mia. I am trying to help you.” Amusement threaded his words. “Did those ruffians hurt you any other place?” He reached up as if to brush her jaw, but instead of touching her, his fingers hovered a minuscule space above her skin. The sensation mimicked his touch as Shadow. Her jaw tingled. Warmth spread across her cheek, down her neck.
She gasped. “What was that?”
The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Did you not like it?”
“I—” Of course she liked it. But she was not about to reveal that to him. She stood. “I think you should go, Monsieur le Duc.”
Antonio also stood. He traced the air above the contour of her bare shoulder. Those tingles sparkled on her skin.
“I think,” he said, “you liked it very much, si?”
Yes, she did. So much that she wanted to curl into his hand, lean against him, have him wrap his arms about her. Instead, she turned away.
“If you want my services, then please just say so, mon seigneur,” she said. “I believe our agreement stipulated that you wished my time. I have given that to you already this evening.”
His hand dropped. He took a step back. His warmth chilled. “I told you that was not the purpose of this evening. I wanted to give you pleasure. To enjoy your company.”
She swallowed, fighting back tears. He had given her pleasure. He had treated her like a lady.
“You did. Merci,” she said, her words barely above a whisper.
His manner softened. “Solange, who were the men who attacked us?”
She hesitated. Le Chacal had sent those thugs. If she revealed that, he would seek the outlaw in the Catacombs and get himself killed. She could not allow that. She very much did not want Antonio to die. She could not imagine her world without him.
“The men, Solange,” he prompted. “Who were they?”
She straightened her shoulders. She could not tell him who they were. She would deal with it on her own. Le Chacal had betrayed her.
She gave a little shrug. “I don’t know who they were.”
He expelled a breath. “Do not lie to me.”
“Why do you say I am lying?” She looked him squarely in the eye and tried not to blink.
“Solange.” His fingers traced across the pulse below her ear. “You know I can easily get the answer from your mind.”
“And I can just as easily think you out of my mind,” she snapped.
“Only if you truly don’t want me there,” he murmured. His fingers floated down to her collarbone, then back up and across her shoulder.
She took a shuddery breath at the warm tingles that made her throb.
“I do not think you would deny me,” he whispered.
She would not give in to his seduction. She forced herself to knock his hand away and broke his hypnotic gaze. “I told you I don’t know who they were.”
His eyes narrowed. “But you have an idea who they might be,” he guessed.
Her mouth tightened, and she turned away.
“Le Chacal’s men,” he surmised.
She pinned him with her gaze. “You don’t know that.”
“But you do,” he said with conviction.
Her glance slid away. She was unable to deny it.
A puzzled line appeared between his brows. “Why would he send men after you?”
“I don’t know.” She gave a casual shrug as if Le Chacal’s maliciousness meant nothing.
His chin rose. “Then I shall go and have a chat with him.”
“No!” Panic made her breath catch. Le Chacal would kill him. She could not, would not have Antonio’s death on her conscience. “I will go myself. I can do this on my own.”
“Of course you can, dolcezza,” he agreed, “but I wish to accompany you.”
That was not going to happen. She needed to confront Le Chacal alone. Her position within his gang of thieves demanded it. Besides, she needed to keep Antonio safe. If necessary, she would deceive him to keep him from going with her.
He reached out and let his hand hover above her jaw. “Do not even consider doing this without me, dolce mia. His hand wafted down her neck, across her shoulder, down her arm.
Solange wanted to close her eyes and revel in his magical touch, to feel that tingly warmth. Instead, she forced herself to turn away.
“Deceiving you is the last thing I would do.” How easily the lies fell from her lips.
He took her arm and turned her to face him. “Deceiving me is the first thing you thought of, dolce mia.”
Solange gritted her teeth, then released a sigh. “I will go to Le Chacal tomorrow night. Meet me here, and we will go together. At midnight.”
Tipping up her chin with his finger, he placed a small kiss at the corner of her mouth. “I will be here.” He kissed the other corner. “If I find you have gone without me, well…” He rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip. “I have the most pleasant means of punishment.” He kissed her jaw. “Pleasure can be exquisite torture,” he murmured.
Solange shivered, not sure whether it was from fear or anticipation.
“Buona sera, dolce mia,” he whispered. “Until tomorrow evening.”
With a gentle smile and a trace of his fingers across her shoulder, he was gone. Several heartbeats later, Solange remembered to breathe.