Page 19 of The Assassin and the Libertine
Distracted, she offered me the bottle again. She obviously didn’t want to drink alone. I took it from her and poured some into my empty water glass.
“Santé,” I toasted. It really was a fine Bordeaux.
Heaving a great sigh, she sat once more.
“I have broken so many oaths these last few weeks, I fear the punishments awaiting me—in this life and the next.” She scrubbed one hand across her face, trying to wipe away some of her fatigue.
“Did you ever know my brother, Michel? Before he died, he was… He would have enjoyed your company, I think.”
I shook my head. “No, I did not have the privilege. I returned to Paris some time after he died.”
“After he was murdered,” she corrected. She sipped her wine. “He was the Duc de Lorraine for such a short time. Less than a year. He inherited the title after both of our parents died from consumption. He had such plans, Étienne. He was on his way to becoming a remarkable man and a dutiful steward of my family’s title. His only worry was about siring an heir. He was never inclined to enjoy the company of women, even during his teenage years when all men are predisposed to—what is the phrase?—sow their oats. Not Michel. He was content with his books and his music and was dedicated to his duties. It never bothered me that he desired other men. I loved him so much—I didn’t care. I only wanted his happiness. Things were simpler then, when we thought we had a lifetime ahead of us. But fate—she always has other plans for us, no?”
“Truer words were never spoken, Duchesse.” Unease threaded through me. I worried where her recollection was going, and why she seemed compelled to share it with me now.
“Michel knew his duty. He did plan to marry and produce heirs. His predilections are not uncommon—he knew he could marry for duty and find a lover outside the marriage bed. He planned to provide for me, as well, because he did not want me to marry for anything less than love.If I cannot marry for my happiness, chérie, at least you shall, he said. My poor Michel! How I have dishonored his memory with my choices.”
A tear spilled down her cheek and she swirled the wine in the bottle.
“When they found his body at the front gate of his château, he was naked—drained of every drop of blood. His lover—some vampire merchant, the gossips said—had killed him and tossed his body in the street like some piece of trash.”
Christ. No wonder she harbored a grudge.
“I swore vengeance, of course. Against his lover—a man I still do not know the identity of—and against anyone who would prey on another’s weakness. Against vampires.Allvampires,” she said with conviction. “It’s one of the reasons I joined The Order. And yet, here you are. The most well-known vampire in all of Paris. Languishing in my wine cellar, drinking blood that I myself have served.”
She said this last with only a slight hint of animosity, tilting her head at me curiously. She seemed struck by the absurdity of the situation. She chuckled to herself, but there was pain beneath it. Fresh pain, it seemed.
“Daphne.” I reached for her, but she jerked her hand away. I cleared my throat again and ran my hand through my hair—unbound and tangled with the remnants of fevered sleep. “You could have staked me at any time, or allowed me to die, just like The Order commanded. Why didn’t you?”
She was quiet for a long moment.
“I suppose…even though you are a vampire, it seems that perhaps you are the one being preyed on.”
“Tell me what happened. How did I end up in your wine cellar, of all places?”
“You don’t remember anything?”
I shook my head. Flashes returned to me—a young woman, a strange taste, then blackness. Anxiety knotted my stomach. I’d been unaware of any biological weaknesses brought on by the plague, save for the sensitivity to sunlight, garlic, and of course, wooden stakes. It seemed there was something else in this world that could wipe out my supernatural advantages—something unknown to me. The thought did not sit well. For someone who’d only just gotten used to the idea of immortality, I found myself remarkably concerned with it ending so soon.
“I sent you a message two weeks ago. You were to come here so that we could continue our investigation into Jeanne’s death. Her missing ring. You arrived in the evening, but you were different—very unlike yourself. Your eyes were red, and your behavior was…” she trailed off, sounding wounded.
I’d hurt her. My dead heart clenched at the thought.
“I was what?” I pressed.
“Ungentlemanly.”
Hell. That could mean anything. I opened my mouth to find out more, but she hurried on.
“You were eventually overcome, and you fainted in my parlor. My staff helped me set up a bed here in the wine cellar—the only underground room in the château and the only place safe from the sunlight—and I sent for a doctor. I don’t mind telling you that I had some time trying to find one who was familiar enough with vampire biology, but this doctor has proven to be very knowledgeable. She is staying upstairs in one of the guest rooms. I’m afraid I insisted that she remain on the grounds until you either expired or recovered.”
I tried not to smile at her tyrannical tone. I was beginning to enjoy the high-handed way she managed her world.
At that moment, there was a knock on the heavy wooden door, and a curvy, dark-haired woman with spectacles entered. My brows rose in interest.
“Doctor Van Helsing,” Daphne greeted. “Your patient appears to be recovering his faculties. I must congratulate you on your skill.”
The doctor smiled and bustled over to me. She fussed about, examining my eyes and mouth, and pulled a red vial from her bag.
