White Collar fic Part 1
Title: Liaison
Recipient: coffeethyme4me
For: wcpairings exchange
Prompt: Historical AU with lots of UST and then smut
Summary: Peter/Neal. AU set in Eighteenth Century France. Peter is new to Paris, and Neal quickly becomes his friend. But is there an ulterior motive? Based very loosely on Dangerous Liaisons. Includes sex and light kink, trust issues, secret plots, etc.
Beta: Thanks for all your help and encouragement, Ash!
Names used in the fic:
Neal = Nicolas Haldon
Peter = Pierre de Burceau
June = Duchesse d’Ellineville: in this AU, she is one of Peter’s aunts
“Would you like to try the Capezzoli di Venere?” the young gentleman said, offering a sweet from his own plate to Pierre de Burceau. The man had dark hair, alert blue eyes, and, like most of the attendees of the salon, was dressed in the very latest fashions.
Still, the confection looked tempting to Monsieur de Burceau, and the man seemed friendly enough, and so he accepted the offer with his thanks.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the gentleman said, “Nicolas Haldon.”
“Pierre de Burceau.”
“I hear you are new to the city, Monsieur de Burceau. Fresh produce from the country, if you will. Congratulations on your many successes. It is not often that one becomes known as the pinnacle of honor and the defender of the innocent in such a short time.”
The man smiled a bit wanly. “I have been in Paris for nearly two months. But I admit, I am still growing accustomed to meeting people who know far more about me than I know about them, especially since so much of it is gross exaggeration.”
Monsieur Haldon gave a sympathetic nod. “Gossip shines brighter than gold to some people. Especially in the salons.”
“You seem to negotiate the salons quite well,” de Burceau said. “Your poem was quite impressive, especially since you composed it off the top of your head.”
Haldon gave a dismissive wave. “You’ll see soon enough, all that transpires in a salon is dust and ribbon. We prepare our poems at home and then pretend to invent them on the spot. It’s no great feat, I can assure you. Many of us even offer bribes to ensure that we are challenged to ‘spontaneously compose’ a poem on the very topic we have prepared.”
“Oh?” he asked with a raised brow.
“The salon is a tricky place, Monsieur de Burceau. You must not think of them as in the old days; they are no longer fountains of intellect -- they are now merely the battlefields of high society. But I would be happy to provide any information that might help you to negotiate these treacherous fields. This is not to say that you should need any assistance. After all, you are praised throughout the city despite your, shall we say, tepid response to some of our more scandalous amusements.”
“You mean when the brightest minds are encouraged to invent the cruelest words possible for the sake of entertainment,” de Burceau stated, his voice free of any irony that would lessen the judgment in his voice. It was astonishing that de Burceau was as popular as he was; a cutting remark - a comment both witty and truly damaging to a man’s standing - was the currency and weapon of choice in the salons.
“Ah,” Haldon said with an amused look, “So you were not truly impressed with my poem.”
De Burceau gave an apologetic smile. “I was complimenting the inventiveness of the words, not the viciousness of the attack.”
“One does not take prisoners in a battle of wits,” Haldon countered, and for some reason de Burceau felt he should take note of Haldon’s expression, the brief flash of coldness beneath the easy smile.
“And I must admit, if anyone deserves your vitriol, it is Monsieur de Ruis,” de Burceau grumbled.
Haldon grinned. “Ahh, so the most upright gentleman of Paris is not a statue. He has warm blood coursing through him after all.”
De Burceau raised an eyebrow. “I am sure that I am not the most upright gentleman in Paris.”
“But your reputation says that you are. And you will find, Monsieur, that in the city, your reputation means far, far more than such trivial matters as the truth.”
De Burceau rolled his eyes, his frustration now in the open. “Ridiculous. A man has more important concerns than his reputation.”
“Not if he wants to survive the Parisian salons. Or the opera, the courts, or anyone where else a gentleman needs to prevail. Our great civilization is built on lies and secrets, and a voice in the wilderness, so to speak, will do little to change it.”
Burceau sighed. He knew it was the truth - in Paris, the whispers of malicious rumormongers ruled over all. But it was an annoyance to him, and an affront to his sense of virtue.
“I admit, I am still growing accustomed to Paris and its… complexities.”
“An impossibly tactful response,” Haldon laughed, “You may survive the city yet. But please, come to call at my residence if you would ever like a few rumors that may be to your advantage. One must always be prepared.” He handed the other man his card.
De Burceau accepted it. “A generous offer, and I thank you for it. Even as I wonder what has inspired such generosity,” he said, with amused curiosity more than suspicion.
“Let us just say that although I am personally not interested in being a man of virtue, I find yours to be … aesthetically pleasing. You wear it well,” Haldon said with a wide, bright smile.
Du Burceau briefly wondered how many Parisians had been ruined by that smile. But he replied, “I’m glad to know you find my sense of honor so entertaining. I know that one gets bored so easily this time of year, and I imagine a man like you would quickly waste into nothing without some amusement. You seem the type to fight boredom the way most men run from the plague.”
A glimmer in Haldon’s eye, then, the pleasure of finding a predator’s smile when one expected the sickly pout of the easily outraged. He smiled, slightly, and it felt to Burceau more truthful than the wide grins that had preceded it. “Indeed. In fact, if you can prevent me from dying of boredom this summer, then I shall owe you a great debt.”
“Then perhaps I will come calling,” de Burceau said, and received a pleased nod from Haldon in return. “And I can see that there are several young ladies on the other side of the room waiting for your attention, and so I will not take up too great a share of your company, Monsieur Haldon. But I do have one question for you.”
“Of course.” The wide smile again. No man could be as innocent as that smile looked, de Burceau thought.
“Why did you let me think that you composed your poem at home? Your opponent obviously did so, but to me it was readily apparent that your verses were indeed composed at the moment of speech.”
Haldon’s eyes went wide with nervousness for the most fleeting of times before his aplomb returned. He answered, “You are a perceptive man, Monsieur de Burceau. I look forward to seeing you at the next salon.” He gazed at de Burceau with great curiosity before heading toward his waiting friends.
Pierre de Burceau watched him as he left, as he charmed the young ladies waiting for him in the corner, and the rest of the night as he conversed with the rest of the attendees, impressing one and all with his easy nature. De Burceau had a feeling that he was going to enjoy dealing with Monsieur Haldon. Even as he kept thinking about the danger in that smile.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
A week passed before Pierre de Burceau saw Nicolas Haldon again. It was at another salon, and the host seemed quite smitten with Haldon, who responded with charm and grace but not quite reciprocity. For a moment, de Burceau found it a bit exasperating, all the attention heaped on Monsieur Haldon, most of which surely came from Haldon’s tendency to flatter. But still, he watched for his moment, when he might get him chance to speak again to one of the few men who have intrigued him since arriving in Paris.
When the time came, it was actually Haldon who approached him, however, rescuing him from a deeply tedious conversation with a marquis who felt that de Burceau’s support of ‘irrigation’ was useless and obviously inspired by radical screeds of anti-monarchist philosophes.
“You are against artificial irrigation?” Haldon had interrupted, “How wonderfully brave. Not many men in your position would come out against the technology that makes our queen’s lovely gardens possible.”
De Burceau tried not to smile as the marquis sputtered.
“I meant irrigating land in the countryside, of course I didn’t mean --”
Haldon continued, “No, no need for a volte-face, dear sir, it is rare to find someone of your caliber willing to attack the decadence of this age.”
“I did not mean that at all - do not spread it around that I - I mean of course I meant in the countryside--”
Pierre, pretending to have mercy, gestured the marquis to speak with him to the side, promising him to have a word alone with Haldon and correct his terrible misconception, upon which the marquis thanked him heartily and - finally - left him alone.
“My gratitude,” Pierre said, as the men met in a hardy handshake.
Nicolas laid a casual pat on Pierre’s forearm, then waist, and smiled. “It is wonderful to see you again. But you have been too busy to come calling, I take it.”
“Indeed, I am sorry,” Pierre said.
“I am hardly offended. You must have so many invitations since you are still the talk of the town, especially after you tidily resolved a conflict that could have easily been a scandal.”
Pierre grimaced. “I hesitate to ask how you heard of such a private matter.” Pierre’s face winced in a way that must have revealed to Nicolas that he had other matters of privacy, other connections, that he for now wished to remain unknown.
Nicolas laughed, “Do not fret, my friend, in Paris, it doesn’t matter if everyone knows your secret, as long as the gossip suggests that it is still indeed a secret. The deed is well-known, but no one knows that the deed is common knowledge, and so the damage is minimal.”
Pierre sighed. “Yes, Parisian life. I miss the country sometimes.”
“But you are doing so well here,” Nicolas pointed out, “You have the favor of illustrious men and women, you are invited to the finest events on the social calendar, and you have such a reputation for fair dealing that everyone from the court to the guilds trusts you to broker their agreements.”
“You flatter me, my friend.”
“Is that so? Can you point out to me where I have spoken an untruth?”
Pierre laughed. “I am sure you could find a way to promise the moon without technically speaking a lie.”
“And now you flatter me. But truly, the whole city knows how much you have done, encouraging science, advocating reform, resolving conflicts both public and private. Amazing work for such a short time.”
“I simply like to keep occupied,” Pierre deferred. “It is good for a man’s character to stay busy.”
“Yes, I’m quite productive myself. I am perfecting the art of leisure, and it is no easy task. Lots of competition, you see.”
Pierre let out a chuckle and was about to respond, but Nicolas said, “I’m afraid it is late, Monsieur de Burceau. I must be leaving soon, but it was a pleasure to see you.”
They shook hands again, affectionately, and Nicolas went to bid his farewell to the hostess and the most important guests. Pierre was a bit disappointed to see him go, having such a short chance to speak with him. But he supposed he had better join the nonsensical conversation next to him, lest the boring marquis found another chance to chatter at him.
A moment later, however, Pierre was running out, asking the footmen which way Haldon had gone. He caught up with Nicolas, who was walking slowly and jauntily, a few minutes later.
“Monsieur de Burceau,” he said with a smile, “A pleasure to see you again so soon.”
Pierre chose his next words carefully. He was sure of what Haldon did, but he was not sure of the reason. And in Paris, an accusation could easily turn into a duel. Of course, he did not like to think that this Haldon was cruel enough or unwise enough to challenge him. But it was not beyond these Parisians to do a misdeed for the sole purpose of eliciting an accusation, which could then be turned into a dangerous matter of honor. But he surely did not wish to engage in needless harm, and he especially did not wish to harm this Haldon without knowing the source of this sudden antagonism, and so he spoke carefully.
“I think, my dear Monsieur Haldon, that you may have accidentally carried my pocketwatch away.”
Nicolas stared at him for a moment, and Pierre wondered what this moment would become. But then the man grinned and brought forth Pierre’s watch from his waistcoat pocket. He handed it to Pierre and said, “You are most welcome.”
“I am welcome? When it is you who took - rather, when you acci - when-” Pierre threw up his arms in annoyance, “In truth, Nicolas, you act as if you are proud of what you have done!”
Nicolas continued to smile, highly entertained. “You were miserable at that salon. Every time someone misquoted Montesquieu, it practically caused you pain. It was like watching a sheep being slaughtered by an incompetent butcher.”
Pierre let out a breath. This man, Haldon, was truly ridiculous. Thinking that stealing was doing him a favor. But at least his intent was not to hurt Pierre. “In this allegory, am I the butcher or the sheep?”
Nicolas laughed. “You are both, my friend. Your willpower holds you down on the butcher’s table and your true nature bleats to be released.”
“To go back to the country?”
“I hope not. To go to a finer field, perhaps.”
“I don’t mind that they misquote Montesquieu, you know.”
“Of course not,” Nicolas said with sarcasm, “That would make you haughty.”
Pierre managed to give Nicolas a highly amused scowl. “What I mean is that I wouldn’t mind if they merely misquoted. But they use him to argue for positions that Montesquieu would despise. It’s hypocritical.”
Nicolas seemed to find this rather charming for some reason. But Pierre continued, “Very well, I admit I was not enjoying the salon. But to steal my watch?”
“To save your watch from being desperately bored, and you along with it. Again, you are most welcome.”
Pierre quirked an eyebrow for a moment before bursting out laughing. He then offered to accompany him as he walked to his home nearby. Along the way they discussed - or, rather, they argued about -- all manner of topics. Nicolas preferred Italian painters for their passion and grandeur; Pierre preferred the realism of the Dutch. Nicolas thought highly of Ovid, advocating for his lyricism, and for his depiction of a world shaped by instability and constant transformation; Pierre argued the merits of Vergil, the perfection of his verse and the modern relevance of a tale of empire, of an epic that speaks of the responsibility to be an unwavering force of light in a cruel, chaotic world. Nicolas finds it amusing that Pierre imagines that these are the fruits of empire, as if France could do no wrong, and Nicolas of course has the temerity to say so. But later Nicolas is shocked when Pierre admits to preferring Shakespeare to Racine; even to a jaded misanthrope like Nicolas, this seems unbearably unpatriotic. But through their many disagreements, it was clear that each gentleman was enjoying the sharpness of the conversation, the parries and ripostes, the opposition and insistence. By the time Pierre said farewell at Nicolas’s doorstep - it was late, after all - they embraced and promised to converse again soon. As they parted, Nicolas gave a troubled look, conflicted almost, but it faded when Pierre smiled and waved his good bye.
As Nicolas walked into his abode, he heard a familiar voice as he saw a man come out of hiding.
“Was that de Burceau?” Monsieur Matthieu Kelleur asked.
“Yes,” Nicolas answered.
“I heard laughter. I assume that means everything is going according to plan.”
“Perfectly,” Nicolas said, staring out the window. Pierre had already turned the corner, but Nicolas continued to look anyway.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Pierre saw Nicolas often after that. The man had some strange ideas, Pierre thought, but was full of joie de vivre, which was a welcome change from the turbid ramblings of the salon scene with their pitiable attempts to reclaim the glories of the old salons, those fortresses of creativity from a previous generation, presided over by women and men of the keenest wit.
On one occasion, Pierre and Nicolas practiced archery at the training range. Nicolas was quite adept, much to Pierre’s surprise.
“I am impressed, my friend. Are you equally skilled at the blade? Perhaps you would like to practice fencing with me next week, Nicolas?”
Nicolas laughed and gestured no. Nicolas explained that he did not like swords; he largely only carried one out of social expectation.
“Besides, my dear Pierre, your reputation with a sword precedes you. In fact, I am quite sure your fencing renown is the sole reason you have not been challenged to a duel.”
Pierre looked disturbed. “I did not realize that I have offended anyone. Have I committed some wrong of which I am not aware?” He let off an arrow that impressively hit the ring mere inches from the center of the target.
Nicolas smiled. “You have achieved great success in many arenas, and you are immensely popular. I assure you that, for those of a jealous nature, that is more than enough to want your blood as a prize.”
Pierre waved off the compliment. “I am sure I will be the object of disdain soon enough. Once the salons decide that I am too unfashionable or not nearly witty enough.”
“I doubt one could find fault with your wit. But I suppose they might grow weary of your self-righteousness,” Nicolas said with a cheeky grin as he drew back the bowstring, releasing the arrow then to land right next to Pierre’s, just an inch closer to the center.
Pierre laughed good-naturedly, but then turned the matter serious again. “I must admit, this is one of the things I find very troubling about life in the city. I was warned of course that duels are not always for honorable reasons in Paris. I am glad no one has found me so offensive as of yet, but I am a bit surprised at how very common they are. And at how many end in death.”
“Killing in the name of honor is fashionable this season,” Nicolas remarked with disapproval in his voice, “I suppose next year it will be poisonings. Or perhaps treason -- just for the novelty, of course.”
Pierre frowned. “Surely you do not think such things are comparable.” He let an arrow fly and it flew far from the target.
“Killing a man? To uphold one’s reputation? It is barbaric, I am afraid. There are other ways to thwart an attack on one’s fame.”
“To uphold one’s honor. Not merely one’s reputation. I care little for reputation, and they are hardly the same,” Pierre countered.
“In Paris, a man is only as good as his reputation,” Nicolas corrected. “And what people say of your honor has little to do with the kind of man you are and everything to do with what they hope to gain from your demise.” Nicolas gave a wry smile. “But please do not be offended, my friend. I am sure the only men you have killed in a duel are enemies of the state and villains who kill orphans for pleasure. But as far as I can see, most duels are silly men finding excuses to murder each other.”
Pierre stiffened. “You think that a death in a duel is like murder?”
Nicolas shrugged and shot an arrow toward the target; it landed just opposite his previous one. “Not legally, of course. But what kind of man is willing to engage in such a -” Nicolas stopped himself, realizing once again whom he was speaking to. “Again, Pierre, I am sure that you do not enter duels lightly.”
“Indeed I do not. But truly, Nicolas -- you do not think that a man has an obligation to defend his honor when challenged?”
Nicolas paused. “As I said, there is usually another way to counter an attack on one’s reputation.”
“I am not suggesting that you challenge others for no good reason, Nicolas. Particularly if you are as … imperfect with a blade as you claim. But I am certain that you will answer a challenge if one is made. You are an honorable man.”
Nicolas laughed a bit at that, against his will.
“Do you find matters of honor funny?” Pierre asked, eyebrow raised.
“Honor is among the most amusing of human inventions, wouldn’t you say?”
Pierre paused, trying to discern if Nicolas were simply being fashionably scandalous or if he truly did not believe that honor defined a person’s worth. Finally, he answered, “I do not.”
“Then we shall agree to disagree,” Nicolas said with a smile.
Pierre sighed. “May I show you some fencing moves? Just in case.”
Nicolas smiled. “I do not dislike duels out of cowardice, my friend. I could always insist on pistols instead of swords, and I assure you I am a quite the accomplished shooter. But I simply don’t want to shoot anyone.”
Pierre looked relieved. “So if you are ever challenged --”
“Many men have tried to challenge me. Angry that I have made some small joke at their expense. Or accusing me of spreading false rumors about them, or of dalliances with their mistresses or lovers.”
“And I’m certain that those dalliances were merely all in the lovers’ head,” Pierre said with great sarcasm and a roll of his eyes.
Nicolas smirked. “Naturally.”
“And so you answered those challenges?”
“Not at all. I have no desire to kill, and even less desire to be killed. I simply mentioned some interesting facts about the man who challenged me to a few individuals in key social positions. Soon enough, it looked as if the accusation against me were utterly false and the man was thought ridiculous for challenging me, and he knew that he would look even more ridiculous if he injured or killed me. That is generally enough for a challenge to be withdrawn.”
Pierre put his bow on the ground. He looked disturbed, concerned even.
“Surely, you are testing me. This is some joke you are playing, Nicolas.”
Nicolas placed one end of his own bow in the dirt, while he held the other end in his fingers, spinning it back and forth. Nicolas knew that he should assure Pierre that he was merely playing devil’s advocate - a clever argument for the sake of cleverness. It would not do for Pierre to be appalled by Nicolas’ philosophies. But somehow, Nicolas’ good sense left him; he found himself wishing, tragically, to speak his true thoughts more than he desired to weave his words into a snare.
“I am not. As I said, I do not believe in killing for some small-minded man’s pride and I certainly do not believe in dying for such a thing.” Nicolas looked down then, angry at himself for letting the conversation stray so far off course. He had often mocked the very concept of honor - it was always fashionable to mock the passions people are dying over - but he had never told anyone that it was not merely an arch amusement at the concept. He truly hated duels.
Pierre of course looked deeply concerned for Nicolas’ moral state. “You would lie to get out of a duel?”
“Most men would prefer being lied to over being stabbed, I can assure you.”
“I know that that it is the trend to joke about the prevalence of lies. But surely you know that a man is only as good as his word.”
“I know that a dead man hardly ever keeps his word.”
“I wish you would stop making light, Nicolas.”
“It is a light topic, life and death,” Nicolas parried, “There is no substance to it at all; why else would there be plagues and murders and wars? The only thing more trivial, more utterly weightless, than life and death are matters of truth and lies.”
“And now I know for certain you are not arguing from your heart. You wish to defeat me in a battle of words,” Pierre said.
“Perhaps. But I’m afraid that I am indeed one of those immoral Parisians you dread so much. I do not care for honor, my friend, and with few exceptions, I do not care for those who do.”
“But surely you do not think that lies and schemes are acceptable acts for a gentleman?”
“Again, anyone would prefer a lie to a blade.”
“Lies often lead to blades. And at least a duel is a fair contest, done in the open. You know your opponent and he knows you; you never have to wonder who is against you or not. The same cannot be said for gossip and schemes.”
“And what would the world be if no one could tell a lie? Civilization would fall apart, I assure you. But look at the duels that have taken place in the last few weeks - any of them could have been avoided with a few well-placed words. And surely you do not mean to survive the Parisian social scene by telling the truth. That will get you nowhere.”
“I believe that even amid lies, one can be an honest man. One must be cautious and tactful of course - honesty is not the same as indiscreetness. But my word is something precious and I will not give it up.”
Nicolas sighed. “I hope for your own sake you adjust your sense of honor to fit Parisian mores. Otherwise, you may indeed end up killing someone over nonsense.” Nicolas was surprised to find himself speaking from genuine worry - a period of adapting to the unspoken social hierarchy of ridicule and gossip was acceptable, but Pierre would surely come to an untimely end if he could not see Paris for what it was. Seeing Pierre tense, however, he added, “Again, I do not mean to insult you, my friend, I am certain you have never killed over an insult.”
“I have of course been forced to answer in matters of honor,” Pierre said, frowning. He seemed honestly surprised at Nicolas’ comment.
“What sort of matter?” Nicolas asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
“A man disagreed with the changes in local governance that I argued for. He accused me of accepting bribes, which was utterly false. I had to defend my innocence.”
“There was no choice?”
“What was I to do? I am no coward,” Pierre said. For a moment he realized that he was also insulting Nicolas and began to explain, but Nicolas waved him off, unoffended. Nicolas had seen much danger, and he knew that he was no coward, and so others’ opinions of his courage meant little except for its effect on his social standing.
“Fine. An intelligent man such as yourself had no other options,” Nicolas said, his voice perfectly on the edge between understanding and questioning.
“I would have been merciful and allowed him to withdraw the challenge if he had apologized. Even after he slapped me in public. But he did not want to withdraw.”
“And this man… he died?”
Pierre hesitated. “Yes. He lunged at me but left his right flank open.”
“And thus you defended your honor.”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” Nicolas said very little. He picked up the bow again and shot it, several inches off.
“And what you said? That you lie and gossip to avoid duels?”
Nicolas looked at him. “Pierre, I lie and gossip to get almost everything I want. You should try it some time.”
Pierre took Nicolas’ shoulders in his hands then, seeming almost to want to shake the man in fear. “You are better than that, Nicolas. You are much, much better than that. I say that as a friend, with only concern for you in mind.”
Nicolas smiled and let out a breath as he stepped back. “I am sure that is the truth. After all, it is you who is speaking. But I suppose we have quite different ways of navigating the seas of public opinion.” He gave Pierre a friendly pat on the shoulder, as if such gestures meant something. Nicolas knew that he had said far too much, and that Pierre was surely having his doubts about him. And truthfully, Nicolas was surprised that Pierre had killed a man for such banal reasons; this feeling of surprise was most unwelcome, since Nicolas liked to fancy himself far too jaded to be disappointed in human faults. He knew that Pierre was a great swordsman, and he knew that great swordsmen generally become so by lethal experience, but somehow, in spending time with the man, he foolishly assumed that de Burceau might be the exception.
Pierre sighed then and placed his hands on Nicolas’ shoulders once again, this time in a gesture nearing an embrace.
“I see that you wish to speak of this no more this afternoon, my friend,” Pierre said, “But I cannot vow to never speak of it again. Your honor means much to me, even if it does not yet to you. But let us speak of lighter matters. I am going to the provinces next week, to visit my aunt’s country estate. Would you come with me? I think it will avail us both to get out of Paris for a while.”
Nicolas smiled, pleased and a bit surprised that his largely unintentional honesty (about dishonesty) had not driven Pierre away. “I agree completely, my friend.”
They continued their archery practice, then, avoiding such controversial matters. Nicolas was rapt by all that Pierre had to say, almost forgetting the other reason he was supposed to be pleased by Pierre’s attentions. It was easier, truth be told, to try and forget.
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Two months earlier….
Matthieu Kelleur leaned back against the boiserie of Nicolas’ sitting room, his arms crossed and his face fixed in a scowl. “This man, Pierre de Burceau. He sickens me.”
Nicolas Haldon smiled, the perfect balance of sympathy and mockery. “You’re upset about the craftsman guilds. Who could blame you?”
“He has wronged you, too,” Monsieur Kelleur insisted. “If he had not brokered an agreement, there would have been a riot.”
“Yes, stealing amid a riot and blaming hungry peasants. What an intellectual challenge that poses,” Monsieur Haldon said with a sigh, slouching into the softness of his chair.
Kelleur sneered. “I forget sometimes, Monsieur, that you are of such a delicate nature. In our schemes, you must not only be enriched but also entertained.”
“Ah, disdain. Shall I be offended? Or comforted by the familiarity?”
Kelleur walked forward slowly until he stood over the other man. “We haven’t the luxury of our usual antagonism, Nicolas. This de Burceau has been in Paris for only a month, and already everyone speaks his name in adoring tones.”
“Then perhaps he can be useful to us,” Nicolas said. The two often found ways of leveraging men of reputation for their own advantage.
“Perhaps it would be useful to destroy him,” Matthieu countered.
Nicolas studied his partner’s face. “He has gotten under your skin, Monsieur Kelleur.”
“Like an English wart.”
Nicolas chuckled. “He interfered with your plans to pit the guilds against each other. A minor obstacle. You’ll find another alliance to turn rotten, I’m quite sure.”
Kelleur growled, “It was appalling. He did not lay down a single threat or the smallest bribe. Instead, the guild leaders agreed to trust Monsieur de Burceau to enforce the agreement based on his word alone.”
“And this disturbs you?”
Kelleur answered wryly, “It makes me wonder what the world is coming to, when a man is taken at his word.”
Nicolas thought for a moment. “What kind of man garners such trust based on the reputation of a month in the city?”
“Precisely. They say he is the perfect gentleman, the epitome of noblesse oblige, with utter control over his baser impulses, disciplined like a Roman general. They say he is pure of heart and an honest man, like a nobleman from another time,” Kelleur said with disgust.
“No wonder you despise him.”
“Nobody is that pure, Nicolas. Nobody.”
“You know how gossip is. Now he is honored, in another month, he’ll be thought tiresome and dreary. The man has only been in town a couple of weeks.”
“It’s not just the tradesman guilds, Nicolas. De Burceau has prevented several scandals, has spoken out against bribery and blackmail, has offered protection to servants who report the misdeeds of the more powerful, and has simply stuck his nose in where it does not belong all over the city. He is a threat to the way the city works. And especially to the way that we work the city.”
“And so you plan to kill him for making blackmail less fashionable? You know these trends are cyclical,” Nicolas said. He hoped that Kelleur was not planning to dispatch this de Burceau - Kelleur enjoyed duels to a disquieting degree, one of the few topics on which they had great conflict.
“Of course not,” Kelleur grumbled, “His death would only make people revere his ideas even more.”
“Ah. So de Burceau is likely to best you in a duel,” Nicolas concluded with a small smile.
Kelleur glared. “He is, as a matter of fact, said to be one of the most skilled fencers in the nation.”
Nicolas raised an eyebrow. This de Burceau was an experienced killer, then. And here Nicolas was starting to find this ‘gentle soul’ appealing.
Kelleur continued, “We destroy his reputation. And then his ideas about blackmail undermining the nation will be seen as the nonsense that it is.”
“And you will also get to prove that nobody is as pure as they say de Burceau is,” Nicolas observed, “Which you will find deeply satisfying.”
Kelleur smiled. “Are you up for creating a scandal?”
Scandals were their specialty.
“Why don’t you do it?” Nicolas asked.
“The man is known to resist temptation rather well - none of the courtesans, male or female, have gotten to know him at all, despite their attempts. He will require a more… aggressive seduction.”
Nicolas considered this. It did sound like a challenge, and he was indeed bored with all their petty little plots of late. But surely he could not give in so easily to the will of Kelleur, who was as much a competitor as an ally.
“And why should I do this for you, Monsieur Kelleur?”
Kelleur smirked. “To prove that you can.”
“Why should I need proof? Some country gentleman here for a month, impressing the city with his wholesome ways. That doesn’t sound so interesting. He might go on his knees just to see what it’s like.”
“He’s smarter than you think, Nicolas, and more worldly, I assure you. But if you desire incentive, then shall we make it a wager?”
Nicolas smiled, wanly. “So it is now a matter of ‘honor’ that I seduce this man?”
“Indeed. I wager that you cannot seduce Monsieur de Burceau within six months’ time.”
“And if I succeed?”
“Then I shall let you select our schemes for the rest of the season.”
Nicolas looked unimpressed.
Kelleur added, “And, I will avoid duels at any cost.”
Nicolas nodded his acceptance. This was a prize worth fighting for. “And if I lose?”
Kelleur sat on the arm of Nicolas’ chair, letting fall a long pause. Finally, he smiled lasciviously, and said, “If you lose, I can have you any way I want. Do anything to you.”
Nicolas narrowed his eyes. It was an astute wager on Kelleur’s part; to refuse would be to admit fear, and that was a mistake Nicolas was never willing to make.
He nodded his assent.
Kelleur smiled. “Excellent. But remember, it will not be enough to entice him. You must corrupt him. You must destroy that self-control he is so very proud of. And you must humiliate him so that the world knows that he was fool enough to be seduced by the notorious rake Monsieur Haldon.” Anyone could recover from having their dalliances discovered, but to be exposed as a fool - to be the object of ridicule -- could make a man powerless.
“I understand the terms of our agreement, Monsieur Kelleur. But now it is time for you to return to your home. I have plans to attend to.”
Kelleur smirked again but stood up and headed toward the door. On his way out, he muttered, “Don’t forget, Nicolas, I never allow a wager to go unpaid.”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Pierre and Nicolas arrived at the estate of Pierre’s aunt - on his mother’s side, Pierre noted for some reason - the Duchesse d’Ellineville. They received warm welcomes and fine dinners and delightful conversations. Nicolas continued to flirt mercilessly with Pierre, but never quite managed to push beyond flirtation. He was starting to worry that he might be losing his touch.
Nevertheless, the two men spent the better part of the day together, enjoying each other’s minds if not each other’s bodies. Despite the fact that Pierre liked to keep himself busy, they had ample time for leisure. At first, Pierre insisted on taking Nicolas hunting until Nicolas’ foul disposition made it clear that he preferred less taxing activities. And so they rode, they swam, on rainy days they would play cards with the Duchesse and her other guests. Sometimes they simply went on long walks along the path that followed the stream. Pierre thought it was a waste to walk through the woods with no possibility of hunting, but he bent to Nicolas’ desires on this matter. He suspected, however, that Nicolas’ aversion to hunting was perhaps that he had a soft spot for foxes and other prey, and on one warm afternoon, he said so.
“I wonder if you empathize with the fox because you have similar personalities,” Pierre said with a smirk.
“Because we are both crafty and much more clever than the other creatures?” Nicolas countered with a grin.
“You are both adept at escaping tricky situations. I saw the way you ducked out of the sitting room before having to hear the Duke’s cousin talk about how philosophy is destroying the nation. I had to listen to the man for nearly an hour!”
Nicolas laughed, “I see why you brought me here. To provide entertainment. Your aunt is delightful and sharp as a whip, but some of her husband’s relatives…”
“Are insufferable,” Pierre agreed.
“And why aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“A country gentleman with an overdeveloped sense of propriety? You should by all rights be insufferable as well. What’s your secret?” Nicolas teased. He was leaning back against a tree, his hands sloping into his pockets, entirely too nonchalant for Pierre’s tastes.
“And who said I enjoy propriety? Besides, look at you. A Parisian trying to walk a country lane in the latest fashions, imported silks from Florence and Rome? Not only insufferable but also ridiculous,” Pierre said with a laugh. “You look like one of those satirical etchings.”
Nicolas spread his coat open to reveal the ruffled shirt and blue silk waistcoat beneath, the waistcoat cutting a pleasing angle at the man’s waist. “I believe I look splendid. Perhaps you would allow me to assist you with your own wardrobe?” he said with a smile, fully expecting a refusal.
“Stay away from my clothing, Nicolas.”
Nicolas impishly scurried to adjust the casual ruffles at the top of Pierre’s shirt, loose angled cloth that formed a vee down Pierre’s chest. When Pierre tried to stop him, Nicolas slapped his hand away, at which point Pierre guffawed and wrestled Nicolas to the ground.
“The battle is won,” Pierre announced, laughing as he held Nicolas gently down on the path, “My attire is still the territory of France!”
Nicolas laughed and managed to free an arm to fix the collar of Pierre’s coat. “This is not a war, Pierre. Fashion is progress, and you can’t fight progress.”
Pierre chuckled again and wrestled with Nicolas a bit more, each man acquiring a few small victories before Pierre pinned him to the ground, his body weight pressing down on him as their faces were merely inches from each other.
For a moment they were perfectly still. The sound of their breathing seemed loud and heavy in their ears. Their game had been an exertion, and Nicolas watched as a bead of sweat, glistening in the softened afternoon light, trailed down Pierre’s brow until it fell, cool and startling, on Nicolas’ face, just above his upper lip.
“You see what I mean about the country?” Pierre finally spoke, still gasping. “One never has such fun in the city. It would cause a scandal.”
He grinned appreciatively as he stood up, seeming to let his gaze linger on Nicolas’ body as it lay supine before him. He held out a hand to assist Nicolas and the two men continued on their way, their conversation a bit subdued after that. They both blamed their quietness on the rising afternoon heat. But Pierre noticed that Nicolas seemed suddenly quite preoccupied.
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Part 2 here: http://daria234.livejournal.com/41895.html
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Recipient: coffeethyme4me
For: wcpairings exchange
Prompt: Historical AU with lots of UST and then smut
Summary: Peter/Neal. AU set in Eighteenth Century France. Peter is new to Paris, and Neal quickly becomes his friend. But is there an ulterior motive? Based very loosely on Dangerous Liaisons. Includes sex and light kink, trust issues, secret plots, etc.
Beta: Thanks for all your help and encouragement, Ash!
Names used in the fic:
Neal = Nicolas Haldon
Peter = Pierre de Burceau
June = Duchesse d’Ellineville: in this AU, she is one of Peter’s aunts
“Would you like to try the Capezzoli di Venere?” the young gentleman said, offering a sweet from his own plate to Pierre de Burceau. The man had dark hair, alert blue eyes, and, like most of the attendees of the salon, was dressed in the very latest fashions.
Still, the confection looked tempting to Monsieur de Burceau, and the man seemed friendly enough, and so he accepted the offer with his thanks.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the gentleman said, “Nicolas Haldon.”
“Pierre de Burceau.”
“I hear you are new to the city, Monsieur de Burceau. Fresh produce from the country, if you will. Congratulations on your many successes. It is not often that one becomes known as the pinnacle of honor and the defender of the innocent in such a short time.”
The man smiled a bit wanly. “I have been in Paris for nearly two months. But I admit, I am still growing accustomed to meeting people who know far more about me than I know about them, especially since so much of it is gross exaggeration.”
Monsieur Haldon gave a sympathetic nod. “Gossip shines brighter than gold to some people. Especially in the salons.”
“You seem to negotiate the salons quite well,” de Burceau said. “Your poem was quite impressive, especially since you composed it off the top of your head.”
Haldon gave a dismissive wave. “You’ll see soon enough, all that transpires in a salon is dust and ribbon. We prepare our poems at home and then pretend to invent them on the spot. It’s no great feat, I can assure you. Many of us even offer bribes to ensure that we are challenged to ‘spontaneously compose’ a poem on the very topic we have prepared.”
“Oh?” he asked with a raised brow.
“The salon is a tricky place, Monsieur de Burceau. You must not think of them as in the old days; they are no longer fountains of intellect -- they are now merely the battlefields of high society. But I would be happy to provide any information that might help you to negotiate these treacherous fields. This is not to say that you should need any assistance. After all, you are praised throughout the city despite your, shall we say, tepid response to some of our more scandalous amusements.”
“You mean when the brightest minds are encouraged to invent the cruelest words possible for the sake of entertainment,” de Burceau stated, his voice free of any irony that would lessen the judgment in his voice. It was astonishing that de Burceau was as popular as he was; a cutting remark - a comment both witty and truly damaging to a man’s standing - was the currency and weapon of choice in the salons.
“Ah,” Haldon said with an amused look, “So you were not truly impressed with my poem.”
De Burceau gave an apologetic smile. “I was complimenting the inventiveness of the words, not the viciousness of the attack.”
“One does not take prisoners in a battle of wits,” Haldon countered, and for some reason de Burceau felt he should take note of Haldon’s expression, the brief flash of coldness beneath the easy smile.
“And I must admit, if anyone deserves your vitriol, it is Monsieur de Ruis,” de Burceau grumbled.
Haldon grinned. “Ahh, so the most upright gentleman of Paris is not a statue. He has warm blood coursing through him after all.”
De Burceau raised an eyebrow. “I am sure that I am not the most upright gentleman in Paris.”
“But your reputation says that you are. And you will find, Monsieur, that in the city, your reputation means far, far more than such trivial matters as the truth.”
De Burceau rolled his eyes, his frustration now in the open. “Ridiculous. A man has more important concerns than his reputation.”
“Not if he wants to survive the Parisian salons. Or the opera, the courts, or anyone where else a gentleman needs to prevail. Our great civilization is built on lies and secrets, and a voice in the wilderness, so to speak, will do little to change it.”
Burceau sighed. He knew it was the truth - in Paris, the whispers of malicious rumormongers ruled over all. But it was an annoyance to him, and an affront to his sense of virtue.
“I admit, I am still growing accustomed to Paris and its… complexities.”
“An impossibly tactful response,” Haldon laughed, “You may survive the city yet. But please, come to call at my residence if you would ever like a few rumors that may be to your advantage. One must always be prepared.” He handed the other man his card.
De Burceau accepted it. “A generous offer, and I thank you for it. Even as I wonder what has inspired such generosity,” he said, with amused curiosity more than suspicion.
“Let us just say that although I am personally not interested in being a man of virtue, I find yours to be … aesthetically pleasing. You wear it well,” Haldon said with a wide, bright smile.
Du Burceau briefly wondered how many Parisians had been ruined by that smile. But he replied, “I’m glad to know you find my sense of honor so entertaining. I know that one gets bored so easily this time of year, and I imagine a man like you would quickly waste into nothing without some amusement. You seem the type to fight boredom the way most men run from the plague.”
A glimmer in Haldon’s eye, then, the pleasure of finding a predator’s smile when one expected the sickly pout of the easily outraged. He smiled, slightly, and it felt to Burceau more truthful than the wide grins that had preceded it. “Indeed. In fact, if you can prevent me from dying of boredom this summer, then I shall owe you a great debt.”
“Then perhaps I will come calling,” de Burceau said, and received a pleased nod from Haldon in return. “And I can see that there are several young ladies on the other side of the room waiting for your attention, and so I will not take up too great a share of your company, Monsieur Haldon. But I do have one question for you.”
“Of course.” The wide smile again. No man could be as innocent as that smile looked, de Burceau thought.
“Why did you let me think that you composed your poem at home? Your opponent obviously did so, but to me it was readily apparent that your verses were indeed composed at the moment of speech.”
Haldon’s eyes went wide with nervousness for the most fleeting of times before his aplomb returned. He answered, “You are a perceptive man, Monsieur de Burceau. I look forward to seeing you at the next salon.” He gazed at de Burceau with great curiosity before heading toward his waiting friends.
Pierre de Burceau watched him as he left, as he charmed the young ladies waiting for him in the corner, and the rest of the night as he conversed with the rest of the attendees, impressing one and all with his easy nature. De Burceau had a feeling that he was going to enjoy dealing with Monsieur Haldon. Even as he kept thinking about the danger in that smile.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
A week passed before Pierre de Burceau saw Nicolas Haldon again. It was at another salon, and the host seemed quite smitten with Haldon, who responded with charm and grace but not quite reciprocity. For a moment, de Burceau found it a bit exasperating, all the attention heaped on Monsieur Haldon, most of which surely came from Haldon’s tendency to flatter. But still, he watched for his moment, when he might get him chance to speak again to one of the few men who have intrigued him since arriving in Paris.
When the time came, it was actually Haldon who approached him, however, rescuing him from a deeply tedious conversation with a marquis who felt that de Burceau’s support of ‘irrigation’ was useless and obviously inspired by radical screeds of anti-monarchist philosophes.
“You are against artificial irrigation?” Haldon had interrupted, “How wonderfully brave. Not many men in your position would come out against the technology that makes our queen’s lovely gardens possible.”
De Burceau tried not to smile as the marquis sputtered.
“I meant irrigating land in the countryside, of course I didn’t mean --”
Haldon continued, “No, no need for a volte-face, dear sir, it is rare to find someone of your caliber willing to attack the decadence of this age.”
“I did not mean that at all - do not spread it around that I - I mean of course I meant in the countryside--”
Pierre, pretending to have mercy, gestured the marquis to speak with him to the side, promising him to have a word alone with Haldon and correct his terrible misconception, upon which the marquis thanked him heartily and - finally - left him alone.
“My gratitude,” Pierre said, as the men met in a hardy handshake.
Nicolas laid a casual pat on Pierre’s forearm, then waist, and smiled. “It is wonderful to see you again. But you have been too busy to come calling, I take it.”
“Indeed, I am sorry,” Pierre said.
“I am hardly offended. You must have so many invitations since you are still the talk of the town, especially after you tidily resolved a conflict that could have easily been a scandal.”
Pierre grimaced. “I hesitate to ask how you heard of such a private matter.” Pierre’s face winced in a way that must have revealed to Nicolas that he had other matters of privacy, other connections, that he for now wished to remain unknown.
Nicolas laughed, “Do not fret, my friend, in Paris, it doesn’t matter if everyone knows your secret, as long as the gossip suggests that it is still indeed a secret. The deed is well-known, but no one knows that the deed is common knowledge, and so the damage is minimal.”
Pierre sighed. “Yes, Parisian life. I miss the country sometimes.”
“But you are doing so well here,” Nicolas pointed out, “You have the favor of illustrious men and women, you are invited to the finest events on the social calendar, and you have such a reputation for fair dealing that everyone from the court to the guilds trusts you to broker their agreements.”
“You flatter me, my friend.”
“Is that so? Can you point out to me where I have spoken an untruth?”
Pierre laughed. “I am sure you could find a way to promise the moon without technically speaking a lie.”
“And now you flatter me. But truly, the whole city knows how much you have done, encouraging science, advocating reform, resolving conflicts both public and private. Amazing work for such a short time.”
“I simply like to keep occupied,” Pierre deferred. “It is good for a man’s character to stay busy.”
“Yes, I’m quite productive myself. I am perfecting the art of leisure, and it is no easy task. Lots of competition, you see.”
Pierre let out a chuckle and was about to respond, but Nicolas said, “I’m afraid it is late, Monsieur de Burceau. I must be leaving soon, but it was a pleasure to see you.”
They shook hands again, affectionately, and Nicolas went to bid his farewell to the hostess and the most important guests. Pierre was a bit disappointed to see him go, having such a short chance to speak with him. But he supposed he had better join the nonsensical conversation next to him, lest the boring marquis found another chance to chatter at him.
A moment later, however, Pierre was running out, asking the footmen which way Haldon had gone. He caught up with Nicolas, who was walking slowly and jauntily, a few minutes later.
“Monsieur de Burceau,” he said with a smile, “A pleasure to see you again so soon.”
Pierre chose his next words carefully. He was sure of what Haldon did, but he was not sure of the reason. And in Paris, an accusation could easily turn into a duel. Of course, he did not like to think that this Haldon was cruel enough or unwise enough to challenge him. But it was not beyond these Parisians to do a misdeed for the sole purpose of eliciting an accusation, which could then be turned into a dangerous matter of honor. But he surely did not wish to engage in needless harm, and he especially did not wish to harm this Haldon without knowing the source of this sudden antagonism, and so he spoke carefully.
“I think, my dear Monsieur Haldon, that you may have accidentally carried my pocketwatch away.”
Nicolas stared at him for a moment, and Pierre wondered what this moment would become. But then the man grinned and brought forth Pierre’s watch from his waistcoat pocket. He handed it to Pierre and said, “You are most welcome.”
“I am welcome? When it is you who took - rather, when you acci - when-” Pierre threw up his arms in annoyance, “In truth, Nicolas, you act as if you are proud of what you have done!”
Nicolas continued to smile, highly entertained. “You were miserable at that salon. Every time someone misquoted Montesquieu, it practically caused you pain. It was like watching a sheep being slaughtered by an incompetent butcher.”
Pierre let out a breath. This man, Haldon, was truly ridiculous. Thinking that stealing was doing him a favor. But at least his intent was not to hurt Pierre. “In this allegory, am I the butcher or the sheep?”
Nicolas laughed. “You are both, my friend. Your willpower holds you down on the butcher’s table and your true nature bleats to be released.”
“To go back to the country?”
“I hope not. To go to a finer field, perhaps.”
“I don’t mind that they misquote Montesquieu, you know.”
“Of course not,” Nicolas said with sarcasm, “That would make you haughty.”
Pierre managed to give Nicolas a highly amused scowl. “What I mean is that I wouldn’t mind if they merely misquoted. But they use him to argue for positions that Montesquieu would despise. It’s hypocritical.”
Nicolas seemed to find this rather charming for some reason. But Pierre continued, “Very well, I admit I was not enjoying the salon. But to steal my watch?”
“To save your watch from being desperately bored, and you along with it. Again, you are most welcome.”
Pierre quirked an eyebrow for a moment before bursting out laughing. He then offered to accompany him as he walked to his home nearby. Along the way they discussed - or, rather, they argued about -- all manner of topics. Nicolas preferred Italian painters for their passion and grandeur; Pierre preferred the realism of the Dutch. Nicolas thought highly of Ovid, advocating for his lyricism, and for his depiction of a world shaped by instability and constant transformation; Pierre argued the merits of Vergil, the perfection of his verse and the modern relevance of a tale of empire, of an epic that speaks of the responsibility to be an unwavering force of light in a cruel, chaotic world. Nicolas finds it amusing that Pierre imagines that these are the fruits of empire, as if France could do no wrong, and Nicolas of course has the temerity to say so. But later Nicolas is shocked when Pierre admits to preferring Shakespeare to Racine; even to a jaded misanthrope like Nicolas, this seems unbearably unpatriotic. But through their many disagreements, it was clear that each gentleman was enjoying the sharpness of the conversation, the parries and ripostes, the opposition and insistence. By the time Pierre said farewell at Nicolas’s doorstep - it was late, after all - they embraced and promised to converse again soon. As they parted, Nicolas gave a troubled look, conflicted almost, but it faded when Pierre smiled and waved his good bye.
As Nicolas walked into his abode, he heard a familiar voice as he saw a man come out of hiding.
“Was that de Burceau?” Monsieur Matthieu Kelleur asked.
“Yes,” Nicolas answered.
“I heard laughter. I assume that means everything is going according to plan.”
“Perfectly,” Nicolas said, staring out the window. Pierre had already turned the corner, but Nicolas continued to look anyway.
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Pierre saw Nicolas often after that. The man had some strange ideas, Pierre thought, but was full of joie de vivre, which was a welcome change from the turbid ramblings of the salon scene with their pitiable attempts to reclaim the glories of the old salons, those fortresses of creativity from a previous generation, presided over by women and men of the keenest wit.
On one occasion, Pierre and Nicolas practiced archery at the training range. Nicolas was quite adept, much to Pierre’s surprise.
“I am impressed, my friend. Are you equally skilled at the blade? Perhaps you would like to practice fencing with me next week, Nicolas?”
Nicolas laughed and gestured no. Nicolas explained that he did not like swords; he largely only carried one out of social expectation.
“Besides, my dear Pierre, your reputation with a sword precedes you. In fact, I am quite sure your fencing renown is the sole reason you have not been challenged to a duel.”
Pierre looked disturbed. “I did not realize that I have offended anyone. Have I committed some wrong of which I am not aware?” He let off an arrow that impressively hit the ring mere inches from the center of the target.
Nicolas smiled. “You have achieved great success in many arenas, and you are immensely popular. I assure you that, for those of a jealous nature, that is more than enough to want your blood as a prize.”
Pierre waved off the compliment. “I am sure I will be the object of disdain soon enough. Once the salons decide that I am too unfashionable or not nearly witty enough.”
“I doubt one could find fault with your wit. But I suppose they might grow weary of your self-righteousness,” Nicolas said with a cheeky grin as he drew back the bowstring, releasing the arrow then to land right next to Pierre’s, just an inch closer to the center.
Pierre laughed good-naturedly, but then turned the matter serious again. “I must admit, this is one of the things I find very troubling about life in the city. I was warned of course that duels are not always for honorable reasons in Paris. I am glad no one has found me so offensive as of yet, but I am a bit surprised at how very common they are. And at how many end in death.”
“Killing in the name of honor is fashionable this season,” Nicolas remarked with disapproval in his voice, “I suppose next year it will be poisonings. Or perhaps treason -- just for the novelty, of course.”
Pierre frowned. “Surely you do not think such things are comparable.” He let an arrow fly and it flew far from the target.
“Killing a man? To uphold one’s reputation? It is barbaric, I am afraid. There are other ways to thwart an attack on one’s fame.”
“To uphold one’s honor. Not merely one’s reputation. I care little for reputation, and they are hardly the same,” Pierre countered.
“In Paris, a man is only as good as his reputation,” Nicolas corrected. “And what people say of your honor has little to do with the kind of man you are and everything to do with what they hope to gain from your demise.” Nicolas gave a wry smile. “But please do not be offended, my friend. I am sure the only men you have killed in a duel are enemies of the state and villains who kill orphans for pleasure. But as far as I can see, most duels are silly men finding excuses to murder each other.”
Pierre stiffened. “You think that a death in a duel is like murder?”
Nicolas shrugged and shot an arrow toward the target; it landed just opposite his previous one. “Not legally, of course. But what kind of man is willing to engage in such a -” Nicolas stopped himself, realizing once again whom he was speaking to. “Again, Pierre, I am sure that you do not enter duels lightly.”
“Indeed I do not. But truly, Nicolas -- you do not think that a man has an obligation to defend his honor when challenged?”
Nicolas paused. “As I said, there is usually another way to counter an attack on one’s reputation.”
“I am not suggesting that you challenge others for no good reason, Nicolas. Particularly if you are as … imperfect with a blade as you claim. But I am certain that you will answer a challenge if one is made. You are an honorable man.”
Nicolas laughed a bit at that, against his will.
“Do you find matters of honor funny?” Pierre asked, eyebrow raised.
“Honor is among the most amusing of human inventions, wouldn’t you say?”
Pierre paused, trying to discern if Nicolas were simply being fashionably scandalous or if he truly did not believe that honor defined a person’s worth. Finally, he answered, “I do not.”
“Then we shall agree to disagree,” Nicolas said with a smile.
Pierre sighed. “May I show you some fencing moves? Just in case.”
Nicolas smiled. “I do not dislike duels out of cowardice, my friend. I could always insist on pistols instead of swords, and I assure you I am a quite the accomplished shooter. But I simply don’t want to shoot anyone.”
Pierre looked relieved. “So if you are ever challenged --”
“Many men have tried to challenge me. Angry that I have made some small joke at their expense. Or accusing me of spreading false rumors about them, or of dalliances with their mistresses or lovers.”
“And I’m certain that those dalliances were merely all in the lovers’ head,” Pierre said with great sarcasm and a roll of his eyes.
Nicolas smirked. “Naturally.”
“And so you answered those challenges?”
“Not at all. I have no desire to kill, and even less desire to be killed. I simply mentioned some interesting facts about the man who challenged me to a few individuals in key social positions. Soon enough, it looked as if the accusation against me were utterly false and the man was thought ridiculous for challenging me, and he knew that he would look even more ridiculous if he injured or killed me. That is generally enough for a challenge to be withdrawn.”
Pierre put his bow on the ground. He looked disturbed, concerned even.
“Surely, you are testing me. This is some joke you are playing, Nicolas.”
Nicolas placed one end of his own bow in the dirt, while he held the other end in his fingers, spinning it back and forth. Nicolas knew that he should assure Pierre that he was merely playing devil’s advocate - a clever argument for the sake of cleverness. It would not do for Pierre to be appalled by Nicolas’ philosophies. But somehow, Nicolas’ good sense left him; he found himself wishing, tragically, to speak his true thoughts more than he desired to weave his words into a snare.
“I am not. As I said, I do not believe in killing for some small-minded man’s pride and I certainly do not believe in dying for such a thing.” Nicolas looked down then, angry at himself for letting the conversation stray so far off course. He had often mocked the very concept of honor - it was always fashionable to mock the passions people are dying over - but he had never told anyone that it was not merely an arch amusement at the concept. He truly hated duels.
Pierre of course looked deeply concerned for Nicolas’ moral state. “You would lie to get out of a duel?”
“Most men would prefer being lied to over being stabbed, I can assure you.”
“I know that that it is the trend to joke about the prevalence of lies. But surely you know that a man is only as good as his word.”
“I know that a dead man hardly ever keeps his word.”
“I wish you would stop making light, Nicolas.”
“It is a light topic, life and death,” Nicolas parried, “There is no substance to it at all; why else would there be plagues and murders and wars? The only thing more trivial, more utterly weightless, than life and death are matters of truth and lies.”
“And now I know for certain you are not arguing from your heart. You wish to defeat me in a battle of words,” Pierre said.
“Perhaps. But I’m afraid that I am indeed one of those immoral Parisians you dread so much. I do not care for honor, my friend, and with few exceptions, I do not care for those who do.”
“But surely you do not think that lies and schemes are acceptable acts for a gentleman?”
“Again, anyone would prefer a lie to a blade.”
“Lies often lead to blades. And at least a duel is a fair contest, done in the open. You know your opponent and he knows you; you never have to wonder who is against you or not. The same cannot be said for gossip and schemes.”
“And what would the world be if no one could tell a lie? Civilization would fall apart, I assure you. But look at the duels that have taken place in the last few weeks - any of them could have been avoided with a few well-placed words. And surely you do not mean to survive the Parisian social scene by telling the truth. That will get you nowhere.”
“I believe that even amid lies, one can be an honest man. One must be cautious and tactful of course - honesty is not the same as indiscreetness. But my word is something precious and I will not give it up.”
Nicolas sighed. “I hope for your own sake you adjust your sense of honor to fit Parisian mores. Otherwise, you may indeed end up killing someone over nonsense.” Nicolas was surprised to find himself speaking from genuine worry - a period of adapting to the unspoken social hierarchy of ridicule and gossip was acceptable, but Pierre would surely come to an untimely end if he could not see Paris for what it was. Seeing Pierre tense, however, he added, “Again, I do not mean to insult you, my friend, I am certain you have never killed over an insult.”
“I have of course been forced to answer in matters of honor,” Pierre said, frowning. He seemed honestly surprised at Nicolas’ comment.
“What sort of matter?” Nicolas asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
“A man disagreed with the changes in local governance that I argued for. He accused me of accepting bribes, which was utterly false. I had to defend my innocence.”
“There was no choice?”
“What was I to do? I am no coward,” Pierre said. For a moment he realized that he was also insulting Nicolas and began to explain, but Nicolas waved him off, unoffended. Nicolas had seen much danger, and he knew that he was no coward, and so others’ opinions of his courage meant little except for its effect on his social standing.
“Fine. An intelligent man such as yourself had no other options,” Nicolas said, his voice perfectly on the edge between understanding and questioning.
“I would have been merciful and allowed him to withdraw the challenge if he had apologized. Even after he slapped me in public. But he did not want to withdraw.”
“And this man… he died?”
Pierre hesitated. “Yes. He lunged at me but left his right flank open.”
“And thus you defended your honor.”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” Nicolas said very little. He picked up the bow again and shot it, several inches off.
“And what you said? That you lie and gossip to avoid duels?”
Nicolas looked at him. “Pierre, I lie and gossip to get almost everything I want. You should try it some time.”
Pierre took Nicolas’ shoulders in his hands then, seeming almost to want to shake the man in fear. “You are better than that, Nicolas. You are much, much better than that. I say that as a friend, with only concern for you in mind.”
Nicolas smiled and let out a breath as he stepped back. “I am sure that is the truth. After all, it is you who is speaking. But I suppose we have quite different ways of navigating the seas of public opinion.” He gave Pierre a friendly pat on the shoulder, as if such gestures meant something. Nicolas knew that he had said far too much, and that Pierre was surely having his doubts about him. And truthfully, Nicolas was surprised that Pierre had killed a man for such banal reasons; this feeling of surprise was most unwelcome, since Nicolas liked to fancy himself far too jaded to be disappointed in human faults. He knew that Pierre was a great swordsman, and he knew that great swordsmen generally become so by lethal experience, but somehow, in spending time with the man, he foolishly assumed that de Burceau might be the exception.
Pierre sighed then and placed his hands on Nicolas’ shoulders once again, this time in a gesture nearing an embrace.
“I see that you wish to speak of this no more this afternoon, my friend,” Pierre said, “But I cannot vow to never speak of it again. Your honor means much to me, even if it does not yet to you. But let us speak of lighter matters. I am going to the provinces next week, to visit my aunt’s country estate. Would you come with me? I think it will avail us both to get out of Paris for a while.”
Nicolas smiled, pleased and a bit surprised that his largely unintentional honesty (about dishonesty) had not driven Pierre away. “I agree completely, my friend.”
They continued their archery practice, then, avoiding such controversial matters. Nicolas was rapt by all that Pierre had to say, almost forgetting the other reason he was supposed to be pleased by Pierre’s attentions. It was easier, truth be told, to try and forget.
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Two months earlier….
Matthieu Kelleur leaned back against the boiserie of Nicolas’ sitting room, his arms crossed and his face fixed in a scowl. “This man, Pierre de Burceau. He sickens me.”
Nicolas Haldon smiled, the perfect balance of sympathy and mockery. “You’re upset about the craftsman guilds. Who could blame you?”
“He has wronged you, too,” Monsieur Kelleur insisted. “If he had not brokered an agreement, there would have been a riot.”
“Yes, stealing amid a riot and blaming hungry peasants. What an intellectual challenge that poses,” Monsieur Haldon said with a sigh, slouching into the softness of his chair.
Kelleur sneered. “I forget sometimes, Monsieur, that you are of such a delicate nature. In our schemes, you must not only be enriched but also entertained.”
“Ah, disdain. Shall I be offended? Or comforted by the familiarity?”
Kelleur walked forward slowly until he stood over the other man. “We haven’t the luxury of our usual antagonism, Nicolas. This de Burceau has been in Paris for only a month, and already everyone speaks his name in adoring tones.”
“Then perhaps he can be useful to us,” Nicolas said. The two often found ways of leveraging men of reputation for their own advantage.
“Perhaps it would be useful to destroy him,” Matthieu countered.
Nicolas studied his partner’s face. “He has gotten under your skin, Monsieur Kelleur.”
“Like an English wart.”
Nicolas chuckled. “He interfered with your plans to pit the guilds against each other. A minor obstacle. You’ll find another alliance to turn rotten, I’m quite sure.”
Kelleur growled, “It was appalling. He did not lay down a single threat or the smallest bribe. Instead, the guild leaders agreed to trust Monsieur de Burceau to enforce the agreement based on his word alone.”
“And this disturbs you?”
Kelleur answered wryly, “It makes me wonder what the world is coming to, when a man is taken at his word.”
Nicolas thought for a moment. “What kind of man garners such trust based on the reputation of a month in the city?”
“Precisely. They say he is the perfect gentleman, the epitome of noblesse oblige, with utter control over his baser impulses, disciplined like a Roman general. They say he is pure of heart and an honest man, like a nobleman from another time,” Kelleur said with disgust.
“No wonder you despise him.”
“Nobody is that pure, Nicolas. Nobody.”
“You know how gossip is. Now he is honored, in another month, he’ll be thought tiresome and dreary. The man has only been in town a couple of weeks.”
“It’s not just the tradesman guilds, Nicolas. De Burceau has prevented several scandals, has spoken out against bribery and blackmail, has offered protection to servants who report the misdeeds of the more powerful, and has simply stuck his nose in where it does not belong all over the city. He is a threat to the way the city works. And especially to the way that we work the city.”
“And so you plan to kill him for making blackmail less fashionable? You know these trends are cyclical,” Nicolas said. He hoped that Kelleur was not planning to dispatch this de Burceau - Kelleur enjoyed duels to a disquieting degree, one of the few topics on which they had great conflict.
“Of course not,” Kelleur grumbled, “His death would only make people revere his ideas even more.”
“Ah. So de Burceau is likely to best you in a duel,” Nicolas concluded with a small smile.
Kelleur glared. “He is, as a matter of fact, said to be one of the most skilled fencers in the nation.”
Nicolas raised an eyebrow. This de Burceau was an experienced killer, then. And here Nicolas was starting to find this ‘gentle soul’ appealing.
Kelleur continued, “We destroy his reputation. And then his ideas about blackmail undermining the nation will be seen as the nonsense that it is.”
“And you will also get to prove that nobody is as pure as they say de Burceau is,” Nicolas observed, “Which you will find deeply satisfying.”
Kelleur smiled. “Are you up for creating a scandal?”
Scandals were their specialty.
“Why don’t you do it?” Nicolas asked.
“The man is known to resist temptation rather well - none of the courtesans, male or female, have gotten to know him at all, despite their attempts. He will require a more… aggressive seduction.”
Nicolas considered this. It did sound like a challenge, and he was indeed bored with all their petty little plots of late. But surely he could not give in so easily to the will of Kelleur, who was as much a competitor as an ally.
“And why should I do this for you, Monsieur Kelleur?”
Kelleur smirked. “To prove that you can.”
“Why should I need proof? Some country gentleman here for a month, impressing the city with his wholesome ways. That doesn’t sound so interesting. He might go on his knees just to see what it’s like.”
“He’s smarter than you think, Nicolas, and more worldly, I assure you. But if you desire incentive, then shall we make it a wager?”
Nicolas smiled, wanly. “So it is now a matter of ‘honor’ that I seduce this man?”
“Indeed. I wager that you cannot seduce Monsieur de Burceau within six months’ time.”
“And if I succeed?”
“Then I shall let you select our schemes for the rest of the season.”
Nicolas looked unimpressed.
Kelleur added, “And, I will avoid duels at any cost.”
Nicolas nodded his acceptance. This was a prize worth fighting for. “And if I lose?”
Kelleur sat on the arm of Nicolas’ chair, letting fall a long pause. Finally, he smiled lasciviously, and said, “If you lose, I can have you any way I want. Do anything to you.”
Nicolas narrowed his eyes. It was an astute wager on Kelleur’s part; to refuse would be to admit fear, and that was a mistake Nicolas was never willing to make.
He nodded his assent.
Kelleur smiled. “Excellent. But remember, it will not be enough to entice him. You must corrupt him. You must destroy that self-control he is so very proud of. And you must humiliate him so that the world knows that he was fool enough to be seduced by the notorious rake Monsieur Haldon.” Anyone could recover from having their dalliances discovered, but to be exposed as a fool - to be the object of ridicule -- could make a man powerless.
“I understand the terms of our agreement, Monsieur Kelleur. But now it is time for you to return to your home. I have plans to attend to.”
Kelleur smirked again but stood up and headed toward the door. On his way out, he muttered, “Don’t forget, Nicolas, I never allow a wager to go unpaid.”
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Pierre and Nicolas arrived at the estate of Pierre’s aunt - on his mother’s side, Pierre noted for some reason - the Duchesse d’Ellineville. They received warm welcomes and fine dinners and delightful conversations. Nicolas continued to flirt mercilessly with Pierre, but never quite managed to push beyond flirtation. He was starting to worry that he might be losing his touch.
Nevertheless, the two men spent the better part of the day together, enjoying each other’s minds if not each other’s bodies. Despite the fact that Pierre liked to keep himself busy, they had ample time for leisure. At first, Pierre insisted on taking Nicolas hunting until Nicolas’ foul disposition made it clear that he preferred less taxing activities. And so they rode, they swam, on rainy days they would play cards with the Duchesse and her other guests. Sometimes they simply went on long walks along the path that followed the stream. Pierre thought it was a waste to walk through the woods with no possibility of hunting, but he bent to Nicolas’ desires on this matter. He suspected, however, that Nicolas’ aversion to hunting was perhaps that he had a soft spot for foxes and other prey, and on one warm afternoon, he said so.
“I wonder if you empathize with the fox because you have similar personalities,” Pierre said with a smirk.
“Because we are both crafty and much more clever than the other creatures?” Nicolas countered with a grin.
“You are both adept at escaping tricky situations. I saw the way you ducked out of the sitting room before having to hear the Duke’s cousin talk about how philosophy is destroying the nation. I had to listen to the man for nearly an hour!”
Nicolas laughed, “I see why you brought me here. To provide entertainment. Your aunt is delightful and sharp as a whip, but some of her husband’s relatives…”
“Are insufferable,” Pierre agreed.
“And why aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“A country gentleman with an overdeveloped sense of propriety? You should by all rights be insufferable as well. What’s your secret?” Nicolas teased. He was leaning back against a tree, his hands sloping into his pockets, entirely too nonchalant for Pierre’s tastes.
“And who said I enjoy propriety? Besides, look at you. A Parisian trying to walk a country lane in the latest fashions, imported silks from Florence and Rome? Not only insufferable but also ridiculous,” Pierre said with a laugh. “You look like one of those satirical etchings.”
Nicolas spread his coat open to reveal the ruffled shirt and blue silk waistcoat beneath, the waistcoat cutting a pleasing angle at the man’s waist. “I believe I look splendid. Perhaps you would allow me to assist you with your own wardrobe?” he said with a smile, fully expecting a refusal.
“Stay away from my clothing, Nicolas.”
Nicolas impishly scurried to adjust the casual ruffles at the top of Pierre’s shirt, loose angled cloth that formed a vee down Pierre’s chest. When Pierre tried to stop him, Nicolas slapped his hand away, at which point Pierre guffawed and wrestled Nicolas to the ground.
“The battle is won,” Pierre announced, laughing as he held Nicolas gently down on the path, “My attire is still the territory of France!”
Nicolas laughed and managed to free an arm to fix the collar of Pierre’s coat. “This is not a war, Pierre. Fashion is progress, and you can’t fight progress.”
Pierre chuckled again and wrestled with Nicolas a bit more, each man acquiring a few small victories before Pierre pinned him to the ground, his body weight pressing down on him as their faces were merely inches from each other.
For a moment they were perfectly still. The sound of their breathing seemed loud and heavy in their ears. Their game had been an exertion, and Nicolas watched as a bead of sweat, glistening in the softened afternoon light, trailed down Pierre’s brow until it fell, cool and startling, on Nicolas’ face, just above his upper lip.
“You see what I mean about the country?” Pierre finally spoke, still gasping. “One never has such fun in the city. It would cause a scandal.”
He grinned appreciatively as he stood up, seeming to let his gaze linger on Nicolas’ body as it lay supine before him. He held out a hand to assist Nicolas and the two men continued on their way, their conversation a bit subdued after that. They both blamed their quietness on the rising afternoon heat. But Pierre noticed that Nicolas seemed suddenly quite preoccupied.
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Part 2 here: http://daria234.livejournal.com/41895.html
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