Page 22 of The Assassin and the Libertine
The last letter I had was from Charlotte, keeping me updated on the latest gossip at court. My cousin had an almost supernatural ability to gather information—far better than my own, even when I was collecting intelligence for The Order. Her cheerful nature and sparkling wit made her a natural ally and confidante, and I relied on her observations heavily when I wasn’t at court myself. Reading between the lines, I started to pick up on a worrisome trend. Despite the king’s more relaxed attitude toward having the nobility in residence at the palace, more and more courtiers were leaving their private châteaux to move into vacant apartments within Versailles. I thought back to Étienne’s words. Were the infected no longer the minority? Were these moves motivated by the fear of what was happening around Paris? If so, who else knew that we humans were in a more precarious position than the king—and The Order, for that matter—would have us believe?
Étienne believed a reckoning was coming. For the second time since I’d met him, I was starting to believe he was right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ÉTIENNE
October 17, 1765
Château de Champs-sur-Marne
I flippedthe pages of my book idly, unable to focus. My thoughts returned to Daphne and the expectant look on her face—the unmistakable desire I’d seen there. It had thrown me. She may not believe what I was telling her about the plague and the people of France, she may not believe I was innocent of involvement in Jeanne’s murder, she may not trust me or my motives in the slightest—but I could sense that she was attracted to me.
It shouldn’t excite me as much as it did.
Feeling like a caged animal, I threw the book onto the bed and paced my makeshift room. I was sorely tempted to work my way through the dozens of wines lining the walls, but I figured that would be a temporary solution at best. At worst, I’d get drunk enough to become senseless again, and I didn’t want a repeat of whatever transgressions I’d managed while poisoned.
I sighed. Perhaps a different book. Knowing it was after midnight, I listened carefully for the sounds of the household, not wanting to startle some unsuspecting housemaid. After I was certain the rest of the château was abed, I crept out from the wine cellar and padded silently through the halls. I hadn’t bothered with a candle—my unfortunate supernatural condition afforded me the ability to see well enough in the dark.
When I located the library, I was surprised to see a thin ray of light beneath the door. I knocked softly, and Daphne’s voice sounded from within.
“Yes?”
I went in. She sat at a large desk, bent over a pile of papers. Her hair fell over her shoulder in a thick, golden braid and I glimpsed her white nightdress beneath her loose dressing gown. After a moment, she looked up, her eyebrows arching in bewilderment.
“Étienne! What are you doing out of bed? Are you well?” She stood to approach, but paused, suddenly embarrassed by her appearance. She tied the belt of her dressing gown around her and fidgeted with the knot. I’d never seen her look so unguarded—vulnerable, even. It was disturbingly appealing.
I grinned. “Forgive me for startling you. I thought everyone would be asleep by now. I merely came to find something new to read.”
She nodded but did not sit back down. She gestured at the walls lined with books.
“You won’t find a better selection of books anywhere—save, perhaps, Versailles. My father was a great collector and lover of the written word. Michel was, too. Help yourself,” she said, turning back to her letters.
I strode over to the wall opposite her, nearest to the fireplace, and perused distractedly. “What about you?” I asked.
The light scratching of her pen stopped.
“What about me?”
“Do you share the same interests as your father and brother?”
The scratching resumed, then paused again. She sighed.
“I like books,” she said evasively.
“The only books my father collected were about history, weaponry, and military strategy,” I said. “I never appreciated them, but I had little else to read. My mother snuck some romances into our collection—which I enjoyed more than the lessons on combat—but not by much.”
“What do you like to read?” Daphne asked.
“Adventures. Travel, art, music, culture. Essentially everything that my father despised,” I replied, with more than a touch of bitterness.
She was next to me now, leaning against one of the high-backed chairs that faced the fireplace.
“He was a soldier,” she said quietly, more observation than question.
“A highly-decorated general. A war hero, even,” I replied, thinking back to the distant memories—and pain. “His last campaign was the battle at Dettingen in the war of Austrian succession. He was betrayed by two of his comrades, which led to his defeat. In the king’s fury, my father was stripped of his title and most of our holdings. I’m sure you heard the rumors of our family’s disgrace.Vicomteno longer. He died years later, broken and impoverished.”
“I’m sorry,” Daphne said, laying a hand on my arm. “I’d heard some of the gossip, but I didn’t know the story. It was unjust for the king to punish your father so harshly—especially if it was the result of a betrayal.”
