Regency Society Collection Part 1. Sarah Mallory

should know anything of his past, what then? For years he had held the secrets safe. He shook his head, hard. With her maidenhead lost he felt he owed her at least something.

      One moment ran into two and then five more. But still she did not speak and the heat of fury leaked out of his vengeance.

      Sitting back, he weighed up the options.

      She would not talk and he no longer felt the desire to make her. She was shivering, too, for the fire had long since died out, as the cold of an early Parisian November crept into the space of his chamber, raising the fine hairs on her arms.

      He caught at an eiderdown of goose feathers folded on a chest at the foot of the bed and placed it across her and when one foot was still exposed he was careful to tuck it into warmness.

      The first stirring of dawn was lighting the room and the bells of Sacré Coeur rang in those souls who still believed in the goodness of Our Lady. Striking a light, he breathed in the mellow taste of a cheroot, the smoke winding its way up through the lonely morning dark, another small reminder of all that he had become.

       ‘Mon Dieu, et quel bordel tout ceci.’

      My God, and what a hell of a mess all this is.

      He saw small toes wiggle free from the thick down covering as she tried to sit up.

      ‘Could I please have a drink?’

      Six words that nearly undid him, for the quiet dignity in her request was undeniable. When he filled a glass and handed it to her she made a point of saying thank you, though the realisation that he still could not place her French accent kept him edgy.

      ‘How came you here?’

      She remained quiet, but as the flints of blame in pale eyes continued to prick at his conscience he made an attempt at explanation.

      ‘I didn’t know that you had not lain with a man before. This is a place that never shelters innocents and by the time I found out that you were one, it was too late.’

      An apology of sorts. It was all he could manage.

      ‘Then you will let me go now, monsieur?’

      Turning his face towards the window, Cristo wished that he could have taken her from this room right then and there before the need his body shook with was too much to deny. But he could not, for the party below was far from over and men made careless from too much drink were always dangerous.

      A temptress. A siren. The full line of her lips and the rise of her ample breasts against the softness of the cover. The sheer need of her made his voice sharper than he intended.

      ‘Where are your clothes?’

      ‘Downstairs. I took a drink … more than one.’

      ‘You came in with the other women, les prostituées?’

      She nodded.

      ‘And the chain?’

      ‘My aunt was once given it by an English client she serviced. A bauble that was not to her taste! I liked the shape and she said that if I came with her tonight I might have it, should the evening prove a success …’

      ‘Your aunt is one of those below?’

      When she nodded his hand closed around the engraved coat of arms and he felt the edge of the rondel dig into his palm. Was such a coincidence even possible? With a lifetime of deception behind him he knew that it was seldom the case. Could he make her talk now that she was more sober? His world reformed into only suspicion and his heart began to thump as he wondered how much Beraud might have gleaned about the meaning behind the crest.

      Keep talking, Eleanor thought to herself, the fog of the drink she had been forced into taking receding into the sharper play for survival. Already the velvet darkness in his eyes looked harder, more removed. Just a whore plying her trade in a market driven by a commodity that could be given many times, the first of as little importance as the hundredth. She had to make him trust exactly that if she had any chance at all of escaping with her name intact.

      ‘I do not believe anything you have told me. Do you work for Beraud?’

      ‘Beraud?’

      ‘From the Parisian Police. The man who sent you to my room.’

      ‘I do not know the man. I came with my aunt and—’

      He stopped her simply by raising a hand. ‘You lie, mademoiselle, and I intend to find out why.’

      Her laugh was harsh as she bit back a reply, but he no longer seemed interested, the drag of his chair shrill against the parquet flooring as he stood and walked towards the windows.

      ‘Perhaps you would prefer to join the others downstairs and further your trade? You could no doubt turn a trick or two with the one who brought you in here. He certainly looked willing enough.’

      True fear squeezed the very beat out of her heart. ‘Oh, I think I would rather stay with you, monsieur.’

      His smile held no humour whatsoever. ‘Take care, ma chérie, of expressing any such yearning, for there are many in this game who would not give you the luxury of choice.’

      Her hands fisted beneath the soft warmth of down. As you gave me no choice. She almost said it. Almost let the scalding shame escape, but didn’t, as sense embedded itself into silence.

      Ruined.

      The very word was written in her blood on the sheets, and the laughter from below seemed only to emphasise the silence between them, making everything more awkward again. She saw him pick up a tumbler and then place it down, undrunk, and the swell of the vessel was engraved with a crest.

      Isobel had warned her of the intemperance of men such as this one when she had first arrived in Paris, but her friend’s timely cautions had been buried by need. Her grandfather had instructed her to make certain that she delivered a letter into exactly the right hands.

      ‘Le Comte de Caviglione at the Château Giraudon. Give this letter only to him, Lainie,’ he had said time and time again as life had left him. ‘Only to him. On your oath, promise me that you will do this, for he is a good man, a man to be trusted and he needs to know the truth.’

      How naïve she had been to imagine she could just walk up to the door of the Château Giraudon and demand the ear of its master or expect the dignity and decorum that honourable men in the courts of England might have afforded her. Her dress had been a little gaudy, but the wig was an expensive one she had procured before leaving London. Perhaps it had been the presence of the women installed there already, their brightly coloured gowns and heaving bosoms giving an illusion of something that was normal here in Paris.

      It had taken less than an hour for those downstairs to ply her with too much brandy as she had waited, trying not to appear as nervous as she felt.

      Lord, if the Comte had come earlier she would have placed the missive in his hands and left as she intended: a dutiful granddaughter undertaking a final wish for a beloved grandfather. But now? She dared do nothing else to raise this man’s suspicions with all that lay between them, for if he ever guessed her name …

      Against the breaking light Eleanor could see his profile. He was almost as young as she was and for that at least she was thankful.

      ‘Where are you from?’

      His words held distrust and the caution of one used to betrayal. She noticed the small finger on his right hand was missing altogether as he laid his palm against his thigh.

      ‘Do you speak English?’ He had switched languages now and his accent was pure aristocracy. The change made her tense as layers of mystery clouded truth. Who was he? Why had he asked her that? She swallowed before she answered.

      ‘Pardon, monsieur, I do not understand what you are saying.’ She tried with all her might to make her words sound the same as one of the maids at Bornehaven, the soft Provençal