The Lady and The Panther~Chapter 10~A Letter From Paris (R)
At long last-the Panther is back! Since our last installment, I have been on a wonderfully relaxing cruise to Mexico and then spent a week with my dear older sister, aka Little Suzy Homemaker. Spouse returned to pick me up over the weekend and we enjoyed taking the (literal) scenic route home by way of the lovely town of Fairhope to visit their Festival of the Arts Sunday.
Now I will have to hunker down to look for a job . . . *sigh* Back to happier topics-the story!
When we last left Lady Montrose, she had just received a letter from Guy, who had gone away on business to Paris. Guy had visited his friend and confederate Renaud, a successful baker, in his shop, and the two men made their way to a secret upstairs chamber, with Renaud telling Guy he has made “a little progress” pertaining to Guy’s mysterious origins. In this chapter, we learn more of Guy’s past and find out what is in that letter that has stirred such emotions in Lizzie . . . and see the bond between the Lady and the Panther appears to be growing ever stronger-whether or not they are ready to admit it.
These are my own characters and there is no copyright infringement intended. All rights reserved. Comments always welcome.
This chapter is rated R for a scene of a sexual nature.
Chapter 10
I pressed Guy’s letter to my breast and, retrieving a handkerchief from my pocket, daubed at the tears rolling down my cheeks. I was not crying from sadness, however. Far from it.
Mon Ange,
I hope this letter finds you well. Pardon me, my dear Lizzie, for I have been remiss in my correspondence with you. Certain matters concerning an old friend have held my attention and delayed my return to England.
However, by the time you receive this letter, I should soon be, if not already, on my way back home, safe and sound.
I must confess I have missed you, Lizzie. It is I who am supposed to be the thief of hearts as well as purses, you know. And yet, you seem to have captured a portion of my own heart, my dear Lady Montrose.
I have thought of you often, recalling the sweetness of your smile and the wit of your conversation, your delightful scent and the pleasure of your touch, and wished for your good health and happiness.
I do not know when or where we shall meet again. But I am certain that we shall. That is, if you wish it.
I certainly do.
Take care, my dear Lizzie. And bid your faithful Amelia-she of the fine grey eyes--good tidings.
Your Most Devoted Servant,
Guy
He was safe and coming back soon. He wanted to see me again.
“And I can lay claim to a piece of his heart . . . ” I whispered.
The skeptic might say those honeyed words were simply a charming rogue’s way of toying with me, a great black cat playing with his vulnerable prey. But I chose to think otherwise.
I did find myself very curious as to the identity of the “old friend.” He mentioned no name. Could it be a woman?
I felt a distinct twinge of jealousy, and chided myself for it. Guy was not my husband nor was he my sweetheart; I had no right to be vexed if he had a lover-or several lovers--in Paris. He had certainly made no promises of undying devotion to me. And I was well aware of his reputation with the fair sex.
Still, I could lay claim to a piece of his heart. He said so himself. That was something. Something I confess I clasped to my own heart with all my might.
Falling in love with a criminal who was as charming and irresistible as Guy had certainly enlivened my existence. And complicated it immeasurably.
I knew I did not want to return to the shadowy existence I had lived before he appeared at my door. My life had been a pretense for a long while; despair, sorrow, contempt and discontent buried beneath good manners, a fine lady’s demeanor and so very many false smiles.
The pretense had grown so overwhelming I had made the decision I could no longer live with Horace, playing the dutiful and decorative wife, and I yet could not leave him without scandal, hardship and shame surely coming to my dear family.
A husband can put aside a wife; a wife cannot so easily set aside her husband. ‘Tis mightily unfair, but it is the way of the world.
Closing my eyes and still clutching Guy’s letter tightly, I suddenly realised how glad I was that I had not shot and killed Horace that night; glad that I did not have his death on my conscience. I felt such relief that I had not pulled poor Amelia, my dear, steadfast servant and friend, worth a hundred jaded and spoiled aristocrats, into such a circumstance.
I had dealt with too much loss since my ill-fated marriage, and quite enough guilt over my inability to be a satisfactory broodmare for my lord.
In his own way, the Panther had proved to be a lifesaver for my husband.
“Horace, you would be very surprised to discover you owe your life to that ‘dastardly rogue,’” I murmured, my lips curving into a wry smile. “Something that would not please you at all, I am certain.”
I do not know when or where we shall meet again. But I am certain that we shall. That is, if you wish it.
If I wished it? Oh, how I wished and hoped and prayed for that meeting, for many more meetings.
I thought of the false name and the address Guy had given me for his London bolt-hole. I made a decision.
I would write him a letter, assuring him I desired such a reunion, and have Amelia post it.
Would it be a mistake to make such a display of my tendresse for him? Perhaps. But caution be damned.
I had come close to killing my husband, hidden a notorious thief in my home and made passionate love with him all in one night. And I had enjoyed- although I am not sure that word truly encompasses the response he stirred inside me--another tryst with him at that inn.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I murmured.
Suddenly invigorated, I hurried over to the secretaire in my bed chamber, took out paper, ink and a quill, and sat down to write my letter. I could only hope my hands would be steadier than they had been for the past nine days . . .
*~*~*~*
Renaud still had a few pieces of the king’s ransom of jewels I had stolen locked away in his secret room above the bakery.
It was wiser, after all, to make certain a sudden large cache of such fine gemstones did not enter the marketplace and thus invite suspicions.
Renaud’s hidden upstairs room looked like little more than a small and rather cozy bed chamber, albeit one without a window. Special vents allowed air to flow into the little chamber, but light had to be provided night and day.
He lit several candles that stood on the small pedestal table in the center of the room, and waved me to one of the comfortable chairs. Pressing another hidden wall panel-the man is nothing if not ingenious--Renaud brought out a bottle and a pair of glasses, wiping them off with the underside of his flour-streaked apron.
“Hmmm-well, a little dust never hurt anyone, mon vieux. It is a very good vintage,” he said with a chuckle as he uncorked the bottle and poured the garnet-coloured liquid into the glasses before taking a seat across the table from me.
“The most-how do you say-recognisable?-of the pieces have been altered by our talented friend Bergeron, who turned them over to Gilbert-and those are now in the safekeeping of their new owners,” he said, raising his glass to me.
I smirked beneath my false whiskers as I clinked my glass against his and took a drink.
“New owners who paid handsomely to get their hands on those jewels. Without regarding from whence those lovely baubles came. So--eager to flaunt their wealth.” I shook my head and gave a little sigh.
“The rich. They have so much and yet never have enough. Their greed astounds me at times, Renaud.”
Renaud raised his bushy black brows at my words. “You almost sound like a radical, mon vieux.” A sly smile crossed his face.
“Ah, but then you are helping to spread the wealth around, n’est-ce pas?” He spread out his hands in a beneficent gesture. “And it all appears very-honest. Gilbert is a respectable jeweller with an unblemished reputation. I am a simple, hard-working baker of some considerable success. Why should anyone question us?”
I tilted my head, returning his smile. “Why, indeed?”
Renaud, rising from his chair, retrieved a strongbox hidden in a compartment beneath the rug and floorboards and removed a purse from it. It sounded with an enticing little jangle as he handed it to me.
“Everyone else has received their agreed-upon portion of what has been dispatched thus far. And here is your share of the transactions to date, mon vieux.”
My smile broadened as I felt the weight of the purse in my palm.
Renaud chuckled at my expression. “You should be able to enjoy much good drink and meat-and the favours of les belles femmes with that. Oh, and a fine new suit of clothes and boots. In spite of your present attire, I know you are a bit of a peacock, mon vieux.”
I could not exactly argue this point without looking the hypocrite. I do like to appear well turned out.
I raised a single mocking brow. “Ah, but les belles femmes have never complained, Renaud. They love their peacock . . .”
He laughed and shrugged. “I am certain that they do. If I were as handsome and dashing as you, Guy, I would take my pleasure with all the ladies, too.” He hastily added, “If I were not married to my Luce, naturellement.”
I smiled and nodded. “Of course.” I knew what Luce-a handsome, buxom woman of rather passionate temperament and not inconsiderable strength-might do to Renaud if he misbehaved.
Pausing, I took another sip of Renaud’s wine. Setting the glass down and turning its stem with my fingers, I expelled a breath.
“And-the other? You said a little progress had been made, Renaud?”
My friend nodded. “I made more inquiries on your behalf about the woman we know as Celestine Martin. Not a very uncommon name. Assuming, of course, that is her true name.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Truthfully, I did not hold out much hope anything would come of it. But-we did find someone who knew her-or rather, knew of her.”
I found myself gripping the glass tightly.
“And what--did you discover?” I kept my eyes on my glass and willed my voice to remain steady, mentally preparing myself for my hopes to be dashed once again.
Renaud drew a document from the strongbox.
“This contains the remembrances of an elderly man, Gaston LeBoeuf, who once lived in the same coastal village as you. He has since moved to Paris to live with his daughter’s family.”
Renaud unfolded the paper and handed it to me. “He can neither read nor write, but his recollections were written down by one of my men exactly as he recited them.”
I took the document and held it up to the flickering flames of the candelabra, narrowing my eyes as I studied it.
“Gaston LeBoeuf. I cannot say I remember anyone by that name, but, then again, Tante Louise did not want us to mix with the ‘common folk’ too much,” I said drily as I began to peruse M. LeBeouf’s words.
“Apparently, LeBeouf was a carpenter by trade, who did some work on the cottage where you once lived. He is nearly deaf and half-blind, but his memories of long-ago events are apparently quite sharp,” said Renaud.
“And he kept a close eye on what happened in that village. Bit of a gossip, I am suspecting. I think we are safe in assuming his recollections are largely correct.”
~It has been at least thirty years, even more, perhaps. I did some work for a woman named Louise-what was it?-Louise Martin. Put on grand airs, she did, with her perfume and paint and frills. You would think she was royalty, that one. She certainly stood out in our little village when she moved there.
There was a girl- I thought at the time her daughter, or perhaps her niece?-who came and stayed with her for a few months. I was repairing the fence around the woman’s cottage. The girl mostly stayed inside the cottage but every so often I would see her in the garden. Very shy, she seemed. Couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17, I suppose.
Looked like a lady to me-something about the way she carried herself, you know? Not like a village girl, or that haughty Madame Louise, either. I spoke to the girl a few times. I remember she had a soft voice, low and pleasant. Not our local accent, either. As I said, a lady.
Still, she dressed like a servant-plain clothing, clean, but faded and patched. She was quite pretty. A great deal of dark hair. Fair, smooth skin, unblemished by the pox, and lovely blue eyes. I believe her name was-Celeste? No, no--Celestine. A very handsome girl-but sad. There was a sort of sadness in her eyes even when she smiled.
There was something else, too. Even though this girl tried to hide it with cloaks and aprons and loose garments, it was obvious. After all, I had seen my mother and my wife in such a state many a time.
This Celestine was expecting a child.
One night, Madame Michaux was called to Louise Martin’s cottage. She was the midwife for the village, you see. Eh bien, the child must have come. Villagers heard a newborn crying.
But we never saw this child. All very mysterious. And Mme Michaux must have been paid well. Not a single peep from her.
I suppose it was few weeks later-a month or perhaps, two?--Celestine was seen hurriedly departing the village very early one morning. She was holding a bundle tightly against her chest. It was assumed to be the little one.
We never saw this Celestine or her baby again.
I do recall this Louise Martin keeping some children she referred to as her nieces and nephews, but that was, oh, several years afterwards.
I always did wonder what happened to that pretty girl and her child. I do not even know if it was a boy or girl.
“I think we know what happened to her child.” My voice was husky. I picked up the bottle and poured myself another drink, suddenly feeling very much in need of it.
“I think, yes, that this Celestine was your mother, Guy.” I saw the kindness in Renaud’s black eyes as he nodded, giving me a small smile.
I rubbed my jaw through the false beard, my eyes narrowing in thought as I pondered the old man’s story.
“I suppose she was unwed and trying to hide her-disgrace-from the world.” I heaved a deep, world-weary sigh.
“More than likely seduced by some rake. It--would appear I am indeed the bastard I thought myself to be.” Smirking, I looked into my old friend’s eyes.
“Not that my illegitimacy comes as any surprise . . .”
I frowned a little, twirling the glass between my fingers.
“A servant-who looked like a lady. Or a lady masquerading as a servant. Where did she go when she left Tante Louise? And how-why-did I end up back in Sainte-Marie?”
Renaud, scratching his head through that mass of grey-streaked black curls, wore a regretful look.
“The trail after she left Sainte-Marie grows cold, I am afraid, mon vieux. She may still be living. Perhaps she married and had more children.”
I bowed my head for a moment and then glanced up at Renaud. “Or-she may be dead.”
He gave a reluctant nod.
“I had hoped we might be able to learn something else from this midwife, but, it appears she died a few years afterwards. We have not been able to locate any of her family. I will have my men continue to make inquiries on your behalf, if you wish, but, naturellement, I cannot promise anything.”
I gave him a half-smile and patted his arm. “I know you cannot, my friend. And I appreciate what you have found out thus far.” I expelled another breath and nodded my head.
“Yes-I want to find out whatever I can. I would like to know what happened to-whatever family I may have.”
I rubbed my forehead. A dull ache had started between my eyes. “And-- Monsieur? I suppose we still do not know his identity. Or whether or not he actually was my father . . .”
“We do know he visited you on several occasions when you lived with the woman you called Tante Louise. You have said he seemed very interested in your welfare.”
The lop-sided smile that crossed my face contained little mirth. “And--we know at the tender age of 17, educated but fit for no practical trade, I was abruptly taken out of my fine school and tossed onto the streets of London to make my own way.” I gave a derisive snort. “So much for concern over my welfare.”
Renaud leaned across the table and clapped me on the shoulder. “Ah, but you have done well for yourself, Guy. You have a sharp and cunning mind. And you have certainly led a life of adventure many would envy.”
He nodded towards the purse sitting beside me. “The wealth, it grows for you. You can easily pass as one of very gentlemen whose fortunes you plunder.” He paused and studied my face.
“Tell me-do you plan to ever disappear quietly and enjoy it all, before a rat such as Monsieur Barkley, or the Bow Street Runners, or, perhaps, an unhappy cuckolded husband, catch up with you?” There was a distinct twinkle on those eyes now.
I sat back and stroked my false whiskers, a smile playing about my lips.
“And stretch my poor neck even longer if they can? I-oh, I do not know, Renaud, about retirement. I must admit I enjoy that element of danger in my profession. And the excitement. The pleasure of being able to outwit-or outlast--my foes . . .”
I smirked as I raised a brow. “However, I also enjoy waking up each morning,” I drawled before taking another sip of wine. “Hard to do that hanging from a gibbet in Hampstead.”
“Too true. And I would certainly miss you, mon vieux.”
I flashed him a grin as I wagged a finger in his direction. “You--would miss my money.”
Renaud gave a hearty chuckle. “Oui, I would miss that, too. Perhaps Luce would miss it even more, if she knew about the nature of our business dealings. You have helped furnish my home, after all. And she is most proud of the handsome new rugs and the sideboard.”
“My pleasure.” I nodded as I arose from the table and extended my hand to my old friend. “As always, many thanks.” I started to turn and leave, and then paused, halted by the memory of a pair of fetching green eyes that shone with golden glints.
“Renaud . . . is that emerald bracelet still here-the one with the very fine stones of the deepest green?”
“Yes-I believe so, Guy.”
“Would you have Bergeron reset those stones for me in gold? A necklace. And earrings. With pearls. Something--simple and delicate in appearance. I would like them done within a week’s time. Tell him I will pay handsomely for his time and trouble.”
Renaud folded his arms and gave me a knowing smile. “Ah-and who is the fortunate lady who will be the recipient of these treasures, mon vieux?”
I shrugged in a nonchalant manner. “Oh, just an emerald-eyed angel I met whilst she was attempting to murder her wretched husband and nearly killed me instead. Lovely creature. You would find her most charming.”
And with that, I picked up one of the candles, gave a mock bow, and left Renaud roaring with laughter as he followed me.
“Ah, I can see why it would be difficult to give up such adventures, mon vieux!”
*~*~*~*
It was a fine spring day in Paris, not too damp; I decided to enjoy a walk before returning to my lodgings for the night. I needed to clear my head.
I straightened my hat slightly. Most of the money Renaud had given me was tucked into a special compartment inside the crown of my chapeau. It made it rather heavy, but I knew the grubby little hands of the Parisian cutpurses and pickpockets were not likely to go after the battered tricorn atop my head-assuming they could reach it.
I had learned such things the hard way. Life can be a harsh but effective master of instruction.
Renaud had supplied me with several loaves of his excellent bread which were now tucked beneath my arm. I could certainly afford to enjoy the best of Parisian cuisine.
It is what I would have typically done on such an expedition: mixing business with pleasure, sampling the local food and drink--and the local femmes.
Not too much of the drink, mind you; many are the highwaymen whose drunken prattle has landed them in the hands of those who would, and did, see them hanged.
As I have said, I had no desire to have the handsome neck certain admiring ladies referred to as “swan-like” stretched any longer. Not to mention that too much strong drink did tend to affect one’s performance in certain areas. I did so hate disappointing the fair ladies, you understand.
That night, however, I felt my jumbled thoughts would be company enough.
A bit of good cheese, some ripe fruit and a bottle of wine to go with Renaud’s delicious bread, enjoyed in the solitude of my chamber, would suffice.
As I walked, I thought of that pretty girl with the sad eyes, clad in servant’s garb. The girl that suddenly appeared in Sainte-Marie one day and disappeared just as suddenly a few weeks later. A girl roughly the same age as I was when I found myself turned out of my school and my privileged life.
If I could look into her eyes now, would I see myself reflected in her countenance? Hear something of myself in her voice or glimpse my gestures and mannerisms in hers? I had no memories of what she was like, but it is said blood will oft tell.
My thoughts strayed to Lizzie, and our delightful supper in front of the fire in that monstrosity of a country house. I wondered whether or not she had ever visited Paris. And I contemplated with a considerable amount of pleasure how lovely the emeralds and pearls would suit her creamy skin, chestnut tresses and green-gold eyes.
I imagined Mon Ange wearing those jewels.
~But when would she be able to wear them, save in your presence alone?~
The thought of my sweet Lizzie garbed in nothing but those jewels whilst alone with me in some cozy chamber was most-inspiring.
I laughed at myself and shook my head. Was I returning to the days of my love-struck youth and the lustful ardor I felt for Antoinette?
But it was more than a simple case of infatuation. I was no longer a callow, inexperienced youth, but a worldly man of three-and-thirty who had enjoyed the company of numerous desirable and charming women, from strumpet to aristocrat.
The very fact I had practically rendered myself a monk since our first night together-sweet Bessie being the only exception-surely, this was proof that I perceived Lizzie differently than I had all the others who had come before her?
I thought of Lizzie’s wretched husband and knew my expression blackened even before passersby gave me startled looks and hastened their steps.
Was his lordship demanding she perform her wifely duties again, I wondered. I hated to think of Horrid Horace’s soft, indolent, aristocratic hands so much as brushing against her. She deserved so much better.
The voice in my head began mocking me.
~And you truly think you are ‘so much better,’ Guy? A criminal who must constantly keep watch for those who would do you harm? A wanted man with a price on your head? A man without a proper surname, who does not even know the full circumstances of your birth?~
I had read enough of Lizzie’s letters and heard enough of her story to know she had been through so much, suffered so much, all in an effort to aid her impoverished family.
~A true lady, one whom I can admire. And to whom I can lay no rightful claim, save that she is in my heart~
Did I deserve a woman such as Lizzie? Was I worthy of her? Perhaps not; but I wanted her. God’s blood, how I wanted my Lizzie.
Lust and desire, admiration, affection and tenderness; a sort of sweetness, unfamiliar and yet so very welcome, that vibrated through me and gave me hope again--all these emotions surged through me when I thought of Lady Montrose.
I did indeed have a great deal to mull over that night.
*~*~*~*
Through one of my bedchamber’s windows, I watched Amelia bustling down the street as she returned from her errands. Amelia’s thin cheeks were flushed, her grey eyes sparkling as she entered the house with a distinct spring in her step. I knew it was more than fresh air and exercise that had enlivened my little maid.
“The letter to yer family is posted, my lady,” she said demurely as she appeared in the door to my bedchamber. Amelia bobbed a quick curtsy as one of the maids, her arms laden with bed linens, passed by in the corridor. “May I assist yew in any other way?” she added solicitously, her small hands folded primly in front of her.
“You may,” I responded, giving a cool nod as I took a seat in a chair by the hearth, and gestured for her to close the door behind her.
Once we had our privacy, Amelia rushed over and knelt in front of me, her excited words tumbling out.
“Oh, my lady . . . yew must tell me what the Panther wrote to you. And what yew wrote him. I am certain it must be ever so romantic. I had no idea he had given yew his address, I would wager he’s never done that for any other lady, not even the Duchess of Wimberley, and they say she is so handsome and very skilled in certain-arts-he must be ever so fond of yew. My very own lady. I reckoned yew have captured his heart . . .” Amelia paused long enough to catch her breath and emit a rapturous sigh before she resumed her interrogation.
“When shall you see him again? Is he returnin’ to England soon? I wonder what sorts of adventures he’s been on with the Frenchies and if they have been behavin’ themselves . . .”
“Amelia, you shall have my poor head spinning with all these questions!” I exclaimed, shaking said head. Noting her chagrined expression, I took Amelia’s hands in my own for a gentle squeeze. Smiling into those keen grey eyes, I spoke softly.
“He is returning soon, or so he says. He did not mention the conduct of ‘the Frenchies,’ as you call them. As to where or where I shall see him again-I cannot be certain of that. But he does wish for a reunion.” I paused, biting my lip, measuring my words carefully.
“It-would seem that I have claimed a place in his heart. He has been thinking of me-and indicated he wishes to see me again, so--”
Amelia gave a small crow of delight. “Oh---I KNEW it, I knew it. Oh, my lady, how excitin’--”
I touched my finger to my lips. “Softly, softly, Amelia. Remember, this is our secret, yours and mine.”
Her eyes wide, she nodded mutely. “I shall go to my grave first, s’truth, my lady, before revealin’ anything . . .” Amelia said in a very somber whisper.
“Let us certainly hope it does not come to that, my dearest Amelia.” A smile tugged at my lips. “Oh, I must not forget. Guy also sends good tidings to you. And I do believe he referred once more to your fine grey eyes . . .”
It is a good thing my little maid clapped a hand to her mouth or the fellow inhabitants of Dillingham House might have been alarmed by the shrieks coming from my bed chamber.
“He never, my lady-did he? Truly?”
“Indeed he DID, Amelia. It would seem you made quite an impression on him, also.”
As Amelia basked in the glow of Guy’s gallantry, I could not help but think that surely no highwayman had ever been as sorely missed-and eagerly anticipated-as the man known as the Panther.
“Now, Amelia, let me tell you my plans . . .”
*~*~*~*
I have been summoned to go before the headmaster and I have no idea why.
I observe my headmaster’s smile, even chillier than usual that morning; the way he tents his bony fingers, studying them, avoiding my eyes all the while. It does not bode well for me.
Yet I cannot recall any infraction I may have committed.
Could they have discovered the true identity of my “maiden aunt?”
I soon discovered I had been called before him for circumstances beyond my control.
“I regret, Master Fitzhugh, that, as of to-day, we shall no longer be able to keep you as a pupil here--”
“But-what has happened? What of my benefactor?” I blurt out, interrupting his little speech.
I would have said my benefactor’s name, save for the distressing fact I still do not know it.
It is not offered to me, either.
Stuart gave a dry little cough before continuing in his thin, carefully cultivated voice. “Ah. Yes. It seems there has been some sort of--unfortunate occurrence--concerning your benefactor.” A faint look of distaste crossed his visage.
“I have no other details to share with you--”
I think of the man who has shown me kindness since that day I almost drowned.
“What of Monsieur Clarke? Has some misfortune befallen him as well?”
Stuart, unhappy at being interrupted twice by me, made a moue of displeasure as he cleared his throat.
“I regret I also cannot answer as to the wellbeing of your Monsieur Clarke. I will say, however, we are not ungenerous, Fitzhugh. We would welcome you to continue here--in the role of a servant. The wages would be small-but you would be provided with regular meals and a bed.”
He tilted his head. His pale blue eyes, now fixed on the portrait on the wall behind me, briefly flickered in my direction as he gave a delicate sniff.
“Naturally, it would not be the room you were occupying. Those quarters are only for paying students. As for your studies, we would allow you access to some of the books to use-on your weekly half-day off. A most generous offer, I am certain you will agree.”
I do not agree. I have my pride and I would rather starve than work there. If their taunts had been sly and cruel before-
I rise to my feet and gaze rather imperiously down my nose at my former headmaster. “Thank you, but I have been bred a gentleman, sir, and therefore am unfit to serve in such a capacity. I will not remain at the school. Good day to you.”
His face mottles at my words. He rises to his feet, still forced to look up at me. He is a small man, in every sense of the word. I cannot resist a faintly contemptuous smile.
I do not extend a hand to shake his before turning on my heel and marching out of that room.
And I do not stop walking until I am at Antoinette’s door, hungry, sore of foot and sick of heart.
The bravura I exhibited earlier has quickly dissolved. I realise I have left what few precious possessions I did own-clothing, books, a little money-behind at that wretched school.
Pride will not allow me to show my face there again to retrieve them.
Listening to my tale of woe as we stand together in her bedchamber, my lover shakes her golden curls over my hasty departure and offers sound advice. Ever the practical one, my Antoinette. Even when I simply wish her to soothe my wounded pride.
“Oh, Guy, you must keep your hasty temper in check. Why not write to them, mon coeur. Have them send your things to this address-to your dearest maiden aunt, with whom you have sought refuge, n’est-ce pas? It is always easier to apologise on paper--”
“A-apologise?” I sputter with indignation. “ But I have nothing to apologise for, surely? It is they who have turned me out after offering to make me a, a mere-servant.” I spit out the final word, sneering as I turned my face from hers.
She takes my chin, turning my head to face her once again, and lightly taps my mouth with one plump ivory finger. “I agree. They have behaved in a most ungallant way, Guy, and that is exactly why you must respond as a true gentleman you claim to be.”
I see the flash of her pearl-like teeth as she brushes back my tousled hair with her hand. “Think of it as-killing them with kindness and courtly manners. Prove you are the better man by your words and deeds. In the end, you, mon coeur, may very well have the final laugh.”
Some of my rage and anger die down as I listen to Antoinette.
I sigh as I take her hand away from my face and press an ardent kiss to the back of it.
“’Toinette. I believe you are the only person in this world who truly--cares for me.” There is a catch in my voice and I have a horrible feeling I am about to cry. And I must not cry. I despise the sense of humiliation running through me.
“Mais oui, I care for you, Guy, how could I not? So gallant and clever and witty. A beautiful creature-on the outside, yes, but also in there.”
She taps my chest. “A good heart, you have. Capable of great tenderness and true nobility.”
A mischievous gleam is in her beautiful violet eyes as she gives an insouciant shrug and gazes up at me through those honey-coloured lashes.
“As for temperament and modesty-eh bien, on these you must work. No one is perfect.”
Antoinette places her hands firmly on my shoulders. “Now, you must sit down and compose a very gracious and somewhat contrite letter to your school . . .”
I groan and roll my eyes, as my shoulders slump beneath her hands.
Antoinette rises on her tiptoes as she tugs my head down, pressing her ripe little mouth to my ear.
“And this will not help your modesty in the least, but let me say, I very much look forward to having you in my bed afterwards. Fresh, ripe fruit and sweet cream . . . and me. And your lovely, lovely cock. Solace for you on this unhappy day, mon coeur.”
I clear my throat and throw back my shoulders. Antoinette’s ministrations would no doubt greatly aid in dissipating my melancholy.
“Pray, where are your writing materials, ma’am?”
*~*~*~*~*
I smell her first, that cloying floral scent assaulting my nostrils. My eyes flutter open and there she is, standing at the foot of my bed, as if standing guard over me. Tante Louise.
Her hand, ropy-veined and heavy with gaudy rings, clutches a handkerchief to her great shelf of a bosom. “You-have not changed, Tante Louise,” I murmur, pinching my nostrils to keep from sneezing.
She gives a great sniff and daubs her powdered and rouged countenance with the handkerchief. “You remember me as I was. Of course I have changed. Mon dieu! I am dead, Guy. And may I say, le mort is not at all pleasant.”
I have a sudden fear Tante Louise-or rather, her ghost?-is going to box my ears. Can apparitions cause bodily harm?
“Pardon, ma tante,” I mumble, and draw my legs up beneath the sheet to wrap my arms around my knees. I feel like a crestfallen eight-year-old boy who is trapped in an overgrown body.
A small white dog dashes out of the shadows to worry the edges of the sheet with its sharp little teeth before it leaps onto my bed-a bed far too small for a man of my size, surely?
“Antigone, calme-toi!” Tante Louise’s voice has changed. I look up into Antoinette’s beautiful blue-violet eyes, shining with laughter as she holds out her plump hands to take that wretched creature from me.
“Keep your temper, mon coeur, and do not lose your head,” she says, her tone a chiding one, even as she graces me with an impish smile, giving an insouciant toss of her golden curls as she strokes Antigone’s fur.
“You look the same, too, ‘Toinette, no older than the day we met at the market,” I say with wonder in my voice. “Are you--”
“Dead?” She shrugs her shoulders.
“Ah, since this is your dream, Guy, I cannot say. If it were my own dream, I would suppose I would still be alive, as the dead surely cannot dream?” A bell-like peal of laughter.
Of course. A dream. I began to laugh. Suddenly we are in each other’s arms and I am holding Antoinette close to me as we cavort about in the dark to a light-hearted tune played by unseen musicians.
“Remember, you must not love me, Guy. Do not forget . . .”
I open my eyes. “Do not forget me, Guy. I am rather fond of you.” The voice has changed.
Antoinette has gone now; I am outside now, near a crackling fire, holding a-highwayman in my arms? A figure dressed in black from head to toe, swathed in a hooded cloak, face hidden by a velvet mask and silk kerchief. Those glittering green eyes look familiar . . .
“Li-Lizzie? Is that-you? Why are you dressed like me?”
Her voice is low and seductive, muffled beneath the silk. “We all have our secrets, Panther . . . pray, when are you going to tell me all of yours?”
She strips off a snug-fitting leather glove and presses her hand against my chest-which, oddly enough, is bare.
As, I suddenly realise, is the rest of me. Thank heavens for the fire. And the amazing warmth Lizzie is giving off. Amazing, delicious warmth.
Oh, I want more of it.
I swallow hard and take a deep breath.
“My--secrets could put you in danger, Mon Ange.”
She tugs the kerchief down to reveal that soft, ripe mouth, and moves her lips to my ear to whisper low and sweet:
“I suspect you are in danger anyway, my darling Panther . . .”
Her moist little tongue darts into my ear; her teeth nip the lobe.
I give a little groan. She giggles. I feel her fingers caress me, my arousal all too obvious now.
“Dear Panther, I do believe you are most happy to see me . . .”
“You-have me at a distinct disadvantage, Mon Ange,” I gasp.
Her lips curve into an enigmatic smile.
“Do you truly mind me having the advantage, Panther?”
She is kneeling down in front of me, a look of mischief on her face as she gazes up into my eyes.
“You could teach me such-interesting things, mais oui?” Her tongue darts out daintily to capture the moisture on the tip of my shaft.
I catch my breath. “Oh-yes. I could-teach you--many things.”
She flashes a very naughty grin. “Then--stand and deliver, Panther.”
I give a longer groan. Women. My weakness. This woman in particular, it seems.
I feel her nails dig into the flesh of my thighs as she takes me in her mouth for the first time, but I do not mind the pain, for the pleasure is so--exquisite.
I push back the hood of her cloak and entwine my fingers in her chestnut tresses, gasping, my eyes closed, as she takes more and more of me inside that hot, sweet, snug mouth.
“I-will tell you-give you--anything you wish, Mon Ange, any treasure . . .” My grip of her tresses grows tighter. I moan.
She pulls her mouth away from my cock for a moment.
“Anything I wish?”
Licking my lips, I nod, desperate to be inside her again.
I look down into those emerald eyes. “Anything-just-do not stop, I beg of you.”
“I want-your heart, your body, your soul, Guy. Do not deny me these things . . .”
“I am-afraid . . .”
I feel her moist pink tongue lapping my head once more. “Do not be afraid of me, Guy.
It is akin to being afraid of yourself . . .”
Suddenly my cock is engulfed by her wonderful mouth once more and all I can say is, “Yes. Yes. Yes . . .”
I opened my eyes and bolted upright in the bed, breathing hard.
~Damn. ‘Twas all a dream~
Fumbling, I managed to light a candle on the bedside table to banish a little of the darkness. My Paris lodgings, where I was warm and well-fed and wealthier than I had been the day before.
I glanced down and sighed. Judging by the tenting of my bed sheets, I was fully aroused as well.
~And completely alone. No Lizzie, no ‘Toinette-~
“And no Tante Louise, thank fortune for that,” I groaned, rubbing my eyes. I truly did not need to have my ears boxed.
I tossed aside the bed linens and padded over to a table by the hearth to seek out the remainder of the wine I had purchased. Uncorking the bottle, I did not bother with a glass, instead raising the bottle to my lips and taking a very long drink.
I collapsed into a nearby chair, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. The bottle still clinched in my hand, a longing sigh escaped my lips as I wearily rolled my head from side to side.
“And what of you, Lizzie? Are you thinking of me as well? Are your dreams so-interesting?” I murmured to myself. “Do you miss me, yearn for me, ache for me as I do you? Oh, what are we to do, my girl? It is a vexing situation.”
There was someone whom I urgently needed to see, with whom I could speak of such things. Someone who could surely provide counsel in matters of the heart.
I would dispatch a letter in the morning. In the meanwhile, I would close my eyes again-and think of Lizzie.
And make good use of those long, dexterous fingers
of mine . . .
Now I will have to hunker down to look for a job . . . *sigh* Back to happier topics-the story!
When we last left Lady Montrose, she had just received a letter from Guy, who had gone away on business to Paris. Guy had visited his friend and confederate Renaud, a successful baker, in his shop, and the two men made their way to a secret upstairs chamber, with Renaud telling Guy he has made “a little progress” pertaining to Guy’s mysterious origins. In this chapter, we learn more of Guy’s past and find out what is in that letter that has stirred such emotions in Lizzie . . . and see the bond between the Lady and the Panther appears to be growing ever stronger-whether or not they are ready to admit it.
These are my own characters and there is no copyright infringement intended. All rights reserved. Comments always welcome.
This chapter is rated R for a scene of a sexual nature.
Chapter 10
I pressed Guy’s letter to my breast and, retrieving a handkerchief from my pocket, daubed at the tears rolling down my cheeks. I was not crying from sadness, however. Far from it.
Mon Ange,
I hope this letter finds you well. Pardon me, my dear Lizzie, for I have been remiss in my correspondence with you. Certain matters concerning an old friend have held my attention and delayed my return to England.
However, by the time you receive this letter, I should soon be, if not already, on my way back home, safe and sound.
I must confess I have missed you, Lizzie. It is I who am supposed to be the thief of hearts as well as purses, you know. And yet, you seem to have captured a portion of my own heart, my dear Lady Montrose.
I have thought of you often, recalling the sweetness of your smile and the wit of your conversation, your delightful scent and the pleasure of your touch, and wished for your good health and happiness.
I do not know when or where we shall meet again. But I am certain that we shall. That is, if you wish it.
I certainly do.
Take care, my dear Lizzie. And bid your faithful Amelia-she of the fine grey eyes--good tidings.
Your Most Devoted Servant,
Guy
He was safe and coming back soon. He wanted to see me again.
“And I can lay claim to a piece of his heart . . . ” I whispered.
The skeptic might say those honeyed words were simply a charming rogue’s way of toying with me, a great black cat playing with his vulnerable prey. But I chose to think otherwise.
I did find myself very curious as to the identity of the “old friend.” He mentioned no name. Could it be a woman?
I felt a distinct twinge of jealousy, and chided myself for it. Guy was not my husband nor was he my sweetheart; I had no right to be vexed if he had a lover-or several lovers--in Paris. He had certainly made no promises of undying devotion to me. And I was well aware of his reputation with the fair sex.
Still, I could lay claim to a piece of his heart. He said so himself. That was something. Something I confess I clasped to my own heart with all my might.
Falling in love with a criminal who was as charming and irresistible as Guy had certainly enlivened my existence. And complicated it immeasurably.
I knew I did not want to return to the shadowy existence I had lived before he appeared at my door. My life had been a pretense for a long while; despair, sorrow, contempt and discontent buried beneath good manners, a fine lady’s demeanor and so very many false smiles.
The pretense had grown so overwhelming I had made the decision I could no longer live with Horace, playing the dutiful and decorative wife, and I yet could not leave him without scandal, hardship and shame surely coming to my dear family.
A husband can put aside a wife; a wife cannot so easily set aside her husband. ‘Tis mightily unfair, but it is the way of the world.
Closing my eyes and still clutching Guy’s letter tightly, I suddenly realised how glad I was that I had not shot and killed Horace that night; glad that I did not have his death on my conscience. I felt such relief that I had not pulled poor Amelia, my dear, steadfast servant and friend, worth a hundred jaded and spoiled aristocrats, into such a circumstance.
I had dealt with too much loss since my ill-fated marriage, and quite enough guilt over my inability to be a satisfactory broodmare for my lord.
In his own way, the Panther had proved to be a lifesaver for my husband.
“Horace, you would be very surprised to discover you owe your life to that ‘dastardly rogue,’” I murmured, my lips curving into a wry smile. “Something that would not please you at all, I am certain.”
I do not know when or where we shall meet again. But I am certain that we shall. That is, if you wish it.
If I wished it? Oh, how I wished and hoped and prayed for that meeting, for many more meetings.
I thought of the false name and the address Guy had given me for his London bolt-hole. I made a decision.
I would write him a letter, assuring him I desired such a reunion, and have Amelia post it.
Would it be a mistake to make such a display of my tendresse for him? Perhaps. But caution be damned.
I had come close to killing my husband, hidden a notorious thief in my home and made passionate love with him all in one night. And I had enjoyed- although I am not sure that word truly encompasses the response he stirred inside me--another tryst with him at that inn.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I murmured.
Suddenly invigorated, I hurried over to the secretaire in my bed chamber, took out paper, ink and a quill, and sat down to write my letter. I could only hope my hands would be steadier than they had been for the past nine days . . .
*~*~*~*
Renaud still had a few pieces of the king’s ransom of jewels I had stolen locked away in his secret room above the bakery.
It was wiser, after all, to make certain a sudden large cache of such fine gemstones did not enter the marketplace and thus invite suspicions.
Renaud’s hidden upstairs room looked like little more than a small and rather cozy bed chamber, albeit one without a window. Special vents allowed air to flow into the little chamber, but light had to be provided night and day.
He lit several candles that stood on the small pedestal table in the center of the room, and waved me to one of the comfortable chairs. Pressing another hidden wall panel-the man is nothing if not ingenious--Renaud brought out a bottle and a pair of glasses, wiping them off with the underside of his flour-streaked apron.
“Hmmm-well, a little dust never hurt anyone, mon vieux. It is a very good vintage,” he said with a chuckle as he uncorked the bottle and poured the garnet-coloured liquid into the glasses before taking a seat across the table from me.
“The most-how do you say-recognisable?-of the pieces have been altered by our talented friend Bergeron, who turned them over to Gilbert-and those are now in the safekeeping of their new owners,” he said, raising his glass to me.
I smirked beneath my false whiskers as I clinked my glass against his and took a drink.
“New owners who paid handsomely to get their hands on those jewels. Without regarding from whence those lovely baubles came. So--eager to flaunt their wealth.” I shook my head and gave a little sigh.
“The rich. They have so much and yet never have enough. Their greed astounds me at times, Renaud.”
Renaud raised his bushy black brows at my words. “You almost sound like a radical, mon vieux.” A sly smile crossed his face.
“Ah, but then you are helping to spread the wealth around, n’est-ce pas?” He spread out his hands in a beneficent gesture. “And it all appears very-honest. Gilbert is a respectable jeweller with an unblemished reputation. I am a simple, hard-working baker of some considerable success. Why should anyone question us?”
I tilted my head, returning his smile. “Why, indeed?”
Renaud, rising from his chair, retrieved a strongbox hidden in a compartment beneath the rug and floorboards and removed a purse from it. It sounded with an enticing little jangle as he handed it to me.
“Everyone else has received their agreed-upon portion of what has been dispatched thus far. And here is your share of the transactions to date, mon vieux.”
My smile broadened as I felt the weight of the purse in my palm.
Renaud chuckled at my expression. “You should be able to enjoy much good drink and meat-and the favours of les belles femmes with that. Oh, and a fine new suit of clothes and boots. In spite of your present attire, I know you are a bit of a peacock, mon vieux.”
I could not exactly argue this point without looking the hypocrite. I do like to appear well turned out.
I raised a single mocking brow. “Ah, but les belles femmes have never complained, Renaud. They love their peacock . . .”
He laughed and shrugged. “I am certain that they do. If I were as handsome and dashing as you, Guy, I would take my pleasure with all the ladies, too.” He hastily added, “If I were not married to my Luce, naturellement.”
I smiled and nodded. “Of course.” I knew what Luce-a handsome, buxom woman of rather passionate temperament and not inconsiderable strength-might do to Renaud if he misbehaved.
Pausing, I took another sip of Renaud’s wine. Setting the glass down and turning its stem with my fingers, I expelled a breath.
“And-the other? You said a little progress had been made, Renaud?”
My friend nodded. “I made more inquiries on your behalf about the woman we know as Celestine Martin. Not a very uncommon name. Assuming, of course, that is her true name.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Truthfully, I did not hold out much hope anything would come of it. But-we did find someone who knew her-or rather, knew of her.”
I found myself gripping the glass tightly.
“And what--did you discover?” I kept my eyes on my glass and willed my voice to remain steady, mentally preparing myself for my hopes to be dashed once again.
Renaud drew a document from the strongbox.
“This contains the remembrances of an elderly man, Gaston LeBoeuf, who once lived in the same coastal village as you. He has since moved to Paris to live with his daughter’s family.”
Renaud unfolded the paper and handed it to me. “He can neither read nor write, but his recollections were written down by one of my men exactly as he recited them.”
I took the document and held it up to the flickering flames of the candelabra, narrowing my eyes as I studied it.
“Gaston LeBoeuf. I cannot say I remember anyone by that name, but, then again, Tante Louise did not want us to mix with the ‘common folk’ too much,” I said drily as I began to peruse M. LeBeouf’s words.
“Apparently, LeBeouf was a carpenter by trade, who did some work on the cottage where you once lived. He is nearly deaf and half-blind, but his memories of long-ago events are apparently quite sharp,” said Renaud.
“And he kept a close eye on what happened in that village. Bit of a gossip, I am suspecting. I think we are safe in assuming his recollections are largely correct.”
~It has been at least thirty years, even more, perhaps. I did some work for a woman named Louise-what was it?-Louise Martin. Put on grand airs, she did, with her perfume and paint and frills. You would think she was royalty, that one. She certainly stood out in our little village when she moved there.
There was a girl- I thought at the time her daughter, or perhaps her niece?-who came and stayed with her for a few months. I was repairing the fence around the woman’s cottage. The girl mostly stayed inside the cottage but every so often I would see her in the garden. Very shy, she seemed. Couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17, I suppose.
Looked like a lady to me-something about the way she carried herself, you know? Not like a village girl, or that haughty Madame Louise, either. I spoke to the girl a few times. I remember she had a soft voice, low and pleasant. Not our local accent, either. As I said, a lady.
Still, she dressed like a servant-plain clothing, clean, but faded and patched. She was quite pretty. A great deal of dark hair. Fair, smooth skin, unblemished by the pox, and lovely blue eyes. I believe her name was-Celeste? No, no--Celestine. A very handsome girl-but sad. There was a sort of sadness in her eyes even when she smiled.
There was something else, too. Even though this girl tried to hide it with cloaks and aprons and loose garments, it was obvious. After all, I had seen my mother and my wife in such a state many a time.
This Celestine was expecting a child.
One night, Madame Michaux was called to Louise Martin’s cottage. She was the midwife for the village, you see. Eh bien, the child must have come. Villagers heard a newborn crying.
But we never saw this child. All very mysterious. And Mme Michaux must have been paid well. Not a single peep from her.
I suppose it was few weeks later-a month or perhaps, two?--Celestine was seen hurriedly departing the village very early one morning. She was holding a bundle tightly against her chest. It was assumed to be the little one.
We never saw this Celestine or her baby again.
I do recall this Louise Martin keeping some children she referred to as her nieces and nephews, but that was, oh, several years afterwards.
I always did wonder what happened to that pretty girl and her child. I do not even know if it was a boy or girl.
“I think we know what happened to her child.” My voice was husky. I picked up the bottle and poured myself another drink, suddenly feeling very much in need of it.
“I think, yes, that this Celestine was your mother, Guy.” I saw the kindness in Renaud’s black eyes as he nodded, giving me a small smile.
I rubbed my jaw through the false beard, my eyes narrowing in thought as I pondered the old man’s story.
“I suppose she was unwed and trying to hide her-disgrace-from the world.” I heaved a deep, world-weary sigh.
“More than likely seduced by some rake. It--would appear I am indeed the bastard I thought myself to be.” Smirking, I looked into my old friend’s eyes.
“Not that my illegitimacy comes as any surprise . . .”
I frowned a little, twirling the glass between my fingers.
“A servant-who looked like a lady. Or a lady masquerading as a servant. Where did she go when she left Tante Louise? And how-why-did I end up back in Sainte-Marie?”
Renaud, scratching his head through that mass of grey-streaked black curls, wore a regretful look.
“The trail after she left Sainte-Marie grows cold, I am afraid, mon vieux. She may still be living. Perhaps she married and had more children.”
I bowed my head for a moment and then glanced up at Renaud. “Or-she may be dead.”
He gave a reluctant nod.
“I had hoped we might be able to learn something else from this midwife, but, it appears she died a few years afterwards. We have not been able to locate any of her family. I will have my men continue to make inquiries on your behalf, if you wish, but, naturellement, I cannot promise anything.”
I gave him a half-smile and patted his arm. “I know you cannot, my friend. And I appreciate what you have found out thus far.” I expelled another breath and nodded my head.
“Yes-I want to find out whatever I can. I would like to know what happened to-whatever family I may have.”
I rubbed my forehead. A dull ache had started between my eyes. “And-- Monsieur? I suppose we still do not know his identity. Or whether or not he actually was my father . . .”
“We do know he visited you on several occasions when you lived with the woman you called Tante Louise. You have said he seemed very interested in your welfare.”
The lop-sided smile that crossed my face contained little mirth. “And--we know at the tender age of 17, educated but fit for no practical trade, I was abruptly taken out of my fine school and tossed onto the streets of London to make my own way.” I gave a derisive snort. “So much for concern over my welfare.”
Renaud leaned across the table and clapped me on the shoulder. “Ah, but you have done well for yourself, Guy. You have a sharp and cunning mind. And you have certainly led a life of adventure many would envy.”
He nodded towards the purse sitting beside me. “The wealth, it grows for you. You can easily pass as one of very gentlemen whose fortunes you plunder.” He paused and studied my face.
“Tell me-do you plan to ever disappear quietly and enjoy it all, before a rat such as Monsieur Barkley, or the Bow Street Runners, or, perhaps, an unhappy cuckolded husband, catch up with you?” There was a distinct twinkle on those eyes now.
I sat back and stroked my false whiskers, a smile playing about my lips.
“And stretch my poor neck even longer if they can? I-oh, I do not know, Renaud, about retirement. I must admit I enjoy that element of danger in my profession. And the excitement. The pleasure of being able to outwit-or outlast--my foes . . .”
I smirked as I raised a brow. “However, I also enjoy waking up each morning,” I drawled before taking another sip of wine. “Hard to do that hanging from a gibbet in Hampstead.”
“Too true. And I would certainly miss you, mon vieux.”
I flashed him a grin as I wagged a finger in his direction. “You--would miss my money.”
Renaud gave a hearty chuckle. “Oui, I would miss that, too. Perhaps Luce would miss it even more, if she knew about the nature of our business dealings. You have helped furnish my home, after all. And she is most proud of the handsome new rugs and the sideboard.”
“My pleasure.” I nodded as I arose from the table and extended my hand to my old friend. “As always, many thanks.” I started to turn and leave, and then paused, halted by the memory of a pair of fetching green eyes that shone with golden glints.
“Renaud . . . is that emerald bracelet still here-the one with the very fine stones of the deepest green?”
“Yes-I believe so, Guy.”
“Would you have Bergeron reset those stones for me in gold? A necklace. And earrings. With pearls. Something--simple and delicate in appearance. I would like them done within a week’s time. Tell him I will pay handsomely for his time and trouble.”
Renaud folded his arms and gave me a knowing smile. “Ah-and who is the fortunate lady who will be the recipient of these treasures, mon vieux?”
I shrugged in a nonchalant manner. “Oh, just an emerald-eyed angel I met whilst she was attempting to murder her wretched husband and nearly killed me instead. Lovely creature. You would find her most charming.”
And with that, I picked up one of the candles, gave a mock bow, and left Renaud roaring with laughter as he followed me.
“Ah, I can see why it would be difficult to give up such adventures, mon vieux!”
*~*~*~*
It was a fine spring day in Paris, not too damp; I decided to enjoy a walk before returning to my lodgings for the night. I needed to clear my head.
I straightened my hat slightly. Most of the money Renaud had given me was tucked into a special compartment inside the crown of my chapeau. It made it rather heavy, but I knew the grubby little hands of the Parisian cutpurses and pickpockets were not likely to go after the battered tricorn atop my head-assuming they could reach it.
I had learned such things the hard way. Life can be a harsh but effective master of instruction.
Renaud had supplied me with several loaves of his excellent bread which were now tucked beneath my arm. I could certainly afford to enjoy the best of Parisian cuisine.
It is what I would have typically done on such an expedition: mixing business with pleasure, sampling the local food and drink--and the local femmes.
Not too much of the drink, mind you; many are the highwaymen whose drunken prattle has landed them in the hands of those who would, and did, see them hanged.
As I have said, I had no desire to have the handsome neck certain admiring ladies referred to as “swan-like” stretched any longer. Not to mention that too much strong drink did tend to affect one’s performance in certain areas. I did so hate disappointing the fair ladies, you understand.
That night, however, I felt my jumbled thoughts would be company enough.
A bit of good cheese, some ripe fruit and a bottle of wine to go with Renaud’s delicious bread, enjoyed in the solitude of my chamber, would suffice.
As I walked, I thought of that pretty girl with the sad eyes, clad in servant’s garb. The girl that suddenly appeared in Sainte-Marie one day and disappeared just as suddenly a few weeks later. A girl roughly the same age as I was when I found myself turned out of my school and my privileged life.
If I could look into her eyes now, would I see myself reflected in her countenance? Hear something of myself in her voice or glimpse my gestures and mannerisms in hers? I had no memories of what she was like, but it is said blood will oft tell.
My thoughts strayed to Lizzie, and our delightful supper in front of the fire in that monstrosity of a country house. I wondered whether or not she had ever visited Paris. And I contemplated with a considerable amount of pleasure how lovely the emeralds and pearls would suit her creamy skin, chestnut tresses and green-gold eyes.
I imagined Mon Ange wearing those jewels.
~But when would she be able to wear them, save in your presence alone?~
The thought of my sweet Lizzie garbed in nothing but those jewels whilst alone with me in some cozy chamber was most-inspiring.
I laughed at myself and shook my head. Was I returning to the days of my love-struck youth and the lustful ardor I felt for Antoinette?
But it was more than a simple case of infatuation. I was no longer a callow, inexperienced youth, but a worldly man of three-and-thirty who had enjoyed the company of numerous desirable and charming women, from strumpet to aristocrat.
The very fact I had practically rendered myself a monk since our first night together-sweet Bessie being the only exception-surely, this was proof that I perceived Lizzie differently than I had all the others who had come before her?
I thought of Lizzie’s wretched husband and knew my expression blackened even before passersby gave me startled looks and hastened their steps.
Was his lordship demanding she perform her wifely duties again, I wondered. I hated to think of Horrid Horace’s soft, indolent, aristocratic hands so much as brushing against her. She deserved so much better.
The voice in my head began mocking me.
~And you truly think you are ‘so much better,’ Guy? A criminal who must constantly keep watch for those who would do you harm? A wanted man with a price on your head? A man without a proper surname, who does not even know the full circumstances of your birth?~
I had read enough of Lizzie’s letters and heard enough of her story to know she had been through so much, suffered so much, all in an effort to aid her impoverished family.
~A true lady, one whom I can admire. And to whom I can lay no rightful claim, save that she is in my heart~
Did I deserve a woman such as Lizzie? Was I worthy of her? Perhaps not; but I wanted her. God’s blood, how I wanted my Lizzie.
Lust and desire, admiration, affection and tenderness; a sort of sweetness, unfamiliar and yet so very welcome, that vibrated through me and gave me hope again--all these emotions surged through me when I thought of Lady Montrose.
I did indeed have a great deal to mull over that night.
*~*~*~*
Through one of my bedchamber’s windows, I watched Amelia bustling down the street as she returned from her errands. Amelia’s thin cheeks were flushed, her grey eyes sparkling as she entered the house with a distinct spring in her step. I knew it was more than fresh air and exercise that had enlivened my little maid.
“The letter to yer family is posted, my lady,” she said demurely as she appeared in the door to my bedchamber. Amelia bobbed a quick curtsy as one of the maids, her arms laden with bed linens, passed by in the corridor. “May I assist yew in any other way?” she added solicitously, her small hands folded primly in front of her.
“You may,” I responded, giving a cool nod as I took a seat in a chair by the hearth, and gestured for her to close the door behind her.
Once we had our privacy, Amelia rushed over and knelt in front of me, her excited words tumbling out.
“Oh, my lady . . . yew must tell me what the Panther wrote to you. And what yew wrote him. I am certain it must be ever so romantic. I had no idea he had given yew his address, I would wager he’s never done that for any other lady, not even the Duchess of Wimberley, and they say she is so handsome and very skilled in certain-arts-he must be ever so fond of yew. My very own lady. I reckoned yew have captured his heart . . .” Amelia paused long enough to catch her breath and emit a rapturous sigh before she resumed her interrogation.
“When shall you see him again? Is he returnin’ to England soon? I wonder what sorts of adventures he’s been on with the Frenchies and if they have been behavin’ themselves . . .”
“Amelia, you shall have my poor head spinning with all these questions!” I exclaimed, shaking said head. Noting her chagrined expression, I took Amelia’s hands in my own for a gentle squeeze. Smiling into those keen grey eyes, I spoke softly.
“He is returning soon, or so he says. He did not mention the conduct of ‘the Frenchies,’ as you call them. As to where or where I shall see him again-I cannot be certain of that. But he does wish for a reunion.” I paused, biting my lip, measuring my words carefully.
“It-would seem that I have claimed a place in his heart. He has been thinking of me-and indicated he wishes to see me again, so--”
Amelia gave a small crow of delight. “Oh---I KNEW it, I knew it. Oh, my lady, how excitin’--”
I touched my finger to my lips. “Softly, softly, Amelia. Remember, this is our secret, yours and mine.”
Her eyes wide, she nodded mutely. “I shall go to my grave first, s’truth, my lady, before revealin’ anything . . .” Amelia said in a very somber whisper.
“Let us certainly hope it does not come to that, my dearest Amelia.” A smile tugged at my lips. “Oh, I must not forget. Guy also sends good tidings to you. And I do believe he referred once more to your fine grey eyes . . .”
It is a good thing my little maid clapped a hand to her mouth or the fellow inhabitants of Dillingham House might have been alarmed by the shrieks coming from my bed chamber.
“He never, my lady-did he? Truly?”
“Indeed he DID, Amelia. It would seem you made quite an impression on him, also.”
As Amelia basked in the glow of Guy’s gallantry, I could not help but think that surely no highwayman had ever been as sorely missed-and eagerly anticipated-as the man known as the Panther.
“Now, Amelia, let me tell you my plans . . .”
*~*~*~*
I have been summoned to go before the headmaster and I have no idea why.
I observe my headmaster’s smile, even chillier than usual that morning; the way he tents his bony fingers, studying them, avoiding my eyes all the while. It does not bode well for me.
Yet I cannot recall any infraction I may have committed.
Could they have discovered the true identity of my “maiden aunt?”
I soon discovered I had been called before him for circumstances beyond my control.
“I regret, Master Fitzhugh, that, as of to-day, we shall no longer be able to keep you as a pupil here--”
“But-what has happened? What of my benefactor?” I blurt out, interrupting his little speech.
I would have said my benefactor’s name, save for the distressing fact I still do not know it.
It is not offered to me, either.
Stuart gave a dry little cough before continuing in his thin, carefully cultivated voice. “Ah. Yes. It seems there has been some sort of--unfortunate occurrence--concerning your benefactor.” A faint look of distaste crossed his visage.
“I have no other details to share with you--”
I think of the man who has shown me kindness since that day I almost drowned.
“What of Monsieur Clarke? Has some misfortune befallen him as well?”
Stuart, unhappy at being interrupted twice by me, made a moue of displeasure as he cleared his throat.
“I regret I also cannot answer as to the wellbeing of your Monsieur Clarke. I will say, however, we are not ungenerous, Fitzhugh. We would welcome you to continue here--in the role of a servant. The wages would be small-but you would be provided with regular meals and a bed.”
He tilted his head. His pale blue eyes, now fixed on the portrait on the wall behind me, briefly flickered in my direction as he gave a delicate sniff.
“Naturally, it would not be the room you were occupying. Those quarters are only for paying students. As for your studies, we would allow you access to some of the books to use-on your weekly half-day off. A most generous offer, I am certain you will agree.”
I do not agree. I have my pride and I would rather starve than work there. If their taunts had been sly and cruel before-
I rise to my feet and gaze rather imperiously down my nose at my former headmaster. “Thank you, but I have been bred a gentleman, sir, and therefore am unfit to serve in such a capacity. I will not remain at the school. Good day to you.”
His face mottles at my words. He rises to his feet, still forced to look up at me. He is a small man, in every sense of the word. I cannot resist a faintly contemptuous smile.
I do not extend a hand to shake his before turning on my heel and marching out of that room.
And I do not stop walking until I am at Antoinette’s door, hungry, sore of foot and sick of heart.
The bravura I exhibited earlier has quickly dissolved. I realise I have left what few precious possessions I did own-clothing, books, a little money-behind at that wretched school.
Pride will not allow me to show my face there again to retrieve them.
Listening to my tale of woe as we stand together in her bedchamber, my lover shakes her golden curls over my hasty departure and offers sound advice. Ever the practical one, my Antoinette. Even when I simply wish her to soothe my wounded pride.
“Oh, Guy, you must keep your hasty temper in check. Why not write to them, mon coeur. Have them send your things to this address-to your dearest maiden aunt, with whom you have sought refuge, n’est-ce pas? It is always easier to apologise on paper--”
“A-apologise?” I sputter with indignation. “ But I have nothing to apologise for, surely? It is they who have turned me out after offering to make me a, a mere-servant.” I spit out the final word, sneering as I turned my face from hers.
She takes my chin, turning my head to face her once again, and lightly taps my mouth with one plump ivory finger. “I agree. They have behaved in a most ungallant way, Guy, and that is exactly why you must respond as a true gentleman you claim to be.”
I see the flash of her pearl-like teeth as she brushes back my tousled hair with her hand. “Think of it as-killing them with kindness and courtly manners. Prove you are the better man by your words and deeds. In the end, you, mon coeur, may very well have the final laugh.”
Some of my rage and anger die down as I listen to Antoinette.
I sigh as I take her hand away from my face and press an ardent kiss to the back of it.
“’Toinette. I believe you are the only person in this world who truly--cares for me.” There is a catch in my voice and I have a horrible feeling I am about to cry. And I must not cry. I despise the sense of humiliation running through me.
“Mais oui, I care for you, Guy, how could I not? So gallant and clever and witty. A beautiful creature-on the outside, yes, but also in there.”
She taps my chest. “A good heart, you have. Capable of great tenderness and true nobility.”
A mischievous gleam is in her beautiful violet eyes as she gives an insouciant shrug and gazes up at me through those honey-coloured lashes.
“As for temperament and modesty-eh bien, on these you must work. No one is perfect.”
Antoinette places her hands firmly on my shoulders. “Now, you must sit down and compose a very gracious and somewhat contrite letter to your school . . .”
I groan and roll my eyes, as my shoulders slump beneath her hands.
Antoinette rises on her tiptoes as she tugs my head down, pressing her ripe little mouth to my ear.
“And this will not help your modesty in the least, but let me say, I very much look forward to having you in my bed afterwards. Fresh, ripe fruit and sweet cream . . . and me. And your lovely, lovely cock. Solace for you on this unhappy day, mon coeur.”
I clear my throat and throw back my shoulders. Antoinette’s ministrations would no doubt greatly aid in dissipating my melancholy.
“Pray, where are your writing materials, ma’am?”
*~*~*~*~*
I smell her first, that cloying floral scent assaulting my nostrils. My eyes flutter open and there she is, standing at the foot of my bed, as if standing guard over me. Tante Louise.
Her hand, ropy-veined and heavy with gaudy rings, clutches a handkerchief to her great shelf of a bosom. “You-have not changed, Tante Louise,” I murmur, pinching my nostrils to keep from sneezing.
She gives a great sniff and daubs her powdered and rouged countenance with the handkerchief. “You remember me as I was. Of course I have changed. Mon dieu! I am dead, Guy. And may I say, le mort is not at all pleasant.”
I have a sudden fear Tante Louise-or rather, her ghost?-is going to box my ears. Can apparitions cause bodily harm?
“Pardon, ma tante,” I mumble, and draw my legs up beneath the sheet to wrap my arms around my knees. I feel like a crestfallen eight-year-old boy who is trapped in an overgrown body.
A small white dog dashes out of the shadows to worry the edges of the sheet with its sharp little teeth before it leaps onto my bed-a bed far too small for a man of my size, surely?
“Antigone, calme-toi!” Tante Louise’s voice has changed. I look up into Antoinette’s beautiful blue-violet eyes, shining with laughter as she holds out her plump hands to take that wretched creature from me.
“Keep your temper, mon coeur, and do not lose your head,” she says, her tone a chiding one, even as she graces me with an impish smile, giving an insouciant toss of her golden curls as she strokes Antigone’s fur.
“You look the same, too, ‘Toinette, no older than the day we met at the market,” I say with wonder in my voice. “Are you--”
“Dead?” She shrugs her shoulders.
“Ah, since this is your dream, Guy, I cannot say. If it were my own dream, I would suppose I would still be alive, as the dead surely cannot dream?” A bell-like peal of laughter.
Of course. A dream. I began to laugh. Suddenly we are in each other’s arms and I am holding Antoinette close to me as we cavort about in the dark to a light-hearted tune played by unseen musicians.
“Remember, you must not love me, Guy. Do not forget . . .”
I open my eyes. “Do not forget me, Guy. I am rather fond of you.” The voice has changed.
Antoinette has gone now; I am outside now, near a crackling fire, holding a-highwayman in my arms? A figure dressed in black from head to toe, swathed in a hooded cloak, face hidden by a velvet mask and silk kerchief. Those glittering green eyes look familiar . . .
“Li-Lizzie? Is that-you? Why are you dressed like me?”
Her voice is low and seductive, muffled beneath the silk. “We all have our secrets, Panther . . . pray, when are you going to tell me all of yours?”
She strips off a snug-fitting leather glove and presses her hand against my chest-which, oddly enough, is bare.
As, I suddenly realise, is the rest of me. Thank heavens for the fire. And the amazing warmth Lizzie is giving off. Amazing, delicious warmth.
Oh, I want more of it.
I swallow hard and take a deep breath.
“My--secrets could put you in danger, Mon Ange.”
She tugs the kerchief down to reveal that soft, ripe mouth, and moves her lips to my ear to whisper low and sweet:
“I suspect you are in danger anyway, my darling Panther . . .”
Her moist little tongue darts into my ear; her teeth nip the lobe.
I give a little groan. She giggles. I feel her fingers caress me, my arousal all too obvious now.
“Dear Panther, I do believe you are most happy to see me . . .”
“You-have me at a distinct disadvantage, Mon Ange,” I gasp.
Her lips curve into an enigmatic smile.
“Do you truly mind me having the advantage, Panther?”
She is kneeling down in front of me, a look of mischief on her face as she gazes up into my eyes.
“You could teach me such-interesting things, mais oui?” Her tongue darts out daintily to capture the moisture on the tip of my shaft.
I catch my breath. “Oh-yes. I could-teach you--many things.”
She flashes a very naughty grin. “Then--stand and deliver, Panther.”
I give a longer groan. Women. My weakness. This woman in particular, it seems.
I feel her nails dig into the flesh of my thighs as she takes me in her mouth for the first time, but I do not mind the pain, for the pleasure is so--exquisite.
I push back the hood of her cloak and entwine my fingers in her chestnut tresses, gasping, my eyes closed, as she takes more and more of me inside that hot, sweet, snug mouth.
“I-will tell you-give you--anything you wish, Mon Ange, any treasure . . .” My grip of her tresses grows tighter. I moan.
She pulls her mouth away from my cock for a moment.
“Anything I wish?”
Licking my lips, I nod, desperate to be inside her again.
I look down into those emerald eyes. “Anything-just-do not stop, I beg of you.”
“I want-your heart, your body, your soul, Guy. Do not deny me these things . . .”
“I am-afraid . . .”
I feel her moist pink tongue lapping my head once more. “Do not be afraid of me, Guy.
It is akin to being afraid of yourself . . .”
Suddenly my cock is engulfed by her wonderful mouth once more and all I can say is, “Yes. Yes. Yes . . .”
I opened my eyes and bolted upright in the bed, breathing hard.
~Damn. ‘Twas all a dream~
Fumbling, I managed to light a candle on the bedside table to banish a little of the darkness. My Paris lodgings, where I was warm and well-fed and wealthier than I had been the day before.
I glanced down and sighed. Judging by the tenting of my bed sheets, I was fully aroused as well.
~And completely alone. No Lizzie, no ‘Toinette-~
“And no Tante Louise, thank fortune for that,” I groaned, rubbing my eyes. I truly did not need to have my ears boxed.
I tossed aside the bed linens and padded over to a table by the hearth to seek out the remainder of the wine I had purchased. Uncorking the bottle, I did not bother with a glass, instead raising the bottle to my lips and taking a very long drink.
I collapsed into a nearby chair, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. The bottle still clinched in my hand, a longing sigh escaped my lips as I wearily rolled my head from side to side.
“And what of you, Lizzie? Are you thinking of me as well? Are your dreams so-interesting?” I murmured to myself. “Do you miss me, yearn for me, ache for me as I do you? Oh, what are we to do, my girl? It is a vexing situation.”
There was someone whom I urgently needed to see, with whom I could speak of such things. Someone who could surely provide counsel in matters of the heart.
I would dispatch a letter in the morning. In the meanwhile, I would close my eyes again-and think of Lizzie.
And make good use of those long, dexterous fingers
of mine . . .