Storm Winds (8 page)

“As you command,” Jean Marc replied sardonically.

Juliette turned back to Catherine, ignoring his tone. “You still look pale, take deep breaths.”

In another moment Juliette had whisked Catherine from the chamber.

“How is she?” A frown of genuine concern clouded Philippe’s classical features as he came back into Jean Marc’s room a few minutes later. “Poor little cabbage.
We should have guessed what was troubling her.” His blue eyes were suddenly twinkling. “God knows, we’ve both undone our share of corsets.”

“I’d say you’ve undone more than your share,” Jean Marc said dryly. “You have no discrimination. Any pair of thighs are fine as long as they welcome you.”

“Untrue.” Philippe’s grin widened. “The thighs must be shapely and the lady clean and sweet-smelling. Other than that I have no prejudices.” He added simply, “I like them all.”

And women liked Philippe, Jean Marc thought. Females young and old seemed to sense Philippe’s fascination with their sex and responded generously with both their bodies and their company. “Do you have the legal agreements I asked you to bring from my office in Paris?”

“They’re still in my cases in the carriage.” Philippe made a face. “Only you would be concerned with business while you lie there with a dagger wound. Are you trying to become the richest man in France?”

“No.” Jean Marc smiled. “The richest man in all Europe.”

Philippe chuckled. “You’ll probably do it. As for myself, I’m content to be the poor connection. It gives me more time to enjoy the pleasures of life.” His gaze wandered to the painting on the easel in the corner. “Exceptional, isn’t it? Though I can’t say I like it. I prefer my art pretty and comfortable. Pictures like that have a tendency to make one think. Very fatiguing.”

Jean Marc shot his nephew an amused glance. “Thinking. An occupation much to be avoided.”

Philippe nodded placidly. “One must conserve one’s energy for the important things in life.”

Jean Marc looked at Juliette’s painting. No, the painting wasn’t at all comfortable to view. The picture portrayed several richly dressed ladies, and gentlemen lolling in a forest glade but, other than the pastoral setting, it held none of the lush sentimentality popular with artists favored by the nobility. Strong beams of sunlight poured through the branches of the oak trees. Some leaves were unscathed, others were stark, the
illumination revealing skeletal stems beneath the green foliage. When the sunlight reached the painted, powdered faces of the courtiers below the branches, the effect was even harsher. The expressions of those in the shadow were smiling and bland but the faces in the sunlight were stripped of their conventional masks, nakedly revealing pettishness, boredom, even cruelty. Yet, in spite of its brutal revelations, the painting had a certain austere beauty about it. Juliette’s brush had made the sunlight into a living entity that shone pure, undefiled as truth itself.

“It’s not often you see a woman painting at all, much less doing a painting of this nature,” Philippe said. “She’s … interesting, isn’t she?”

“But far too young for you,” Jean Marc said quickly, his gaze leaving the painting to return to Philippe’s face.

“I’m not so corrupt,” Philippe said indignantly. “She has practically no breasts. I, at least, wait until a woman blossoms.”

Jean Marc chuckled. “Well, this child will no doubt have some sharp thorns when she blossoms.”

“All the more interesting to pluck. But it’s you who enjoys difficult women. I would never have attempted to tame that little virago you’re keeping in such splendor in Marseilles. Too much effort.”

Jean Marc smiled reminiscently. “A challenge is never too much effort. Léonie is exceptional.” Jean Marc’s smile faded as he recalled that Philippe had a very good idea why he chose the type of women he did to bed.

“So is a beauteous wolf but I wouldn’t want to bed her. Don’t you ever choose a woman with less—” He stopped. “I’m looking forward to sampling the favors of the ladies of the court at Versailles.”

“They have no liking for bourgeoisie like ourselves. You’re better off at Vasaro with your Maisonette des Fleurs than you would be in those noblewomen’s bedchambers. They’d devour you.”

“Would they? What a blissful prospect,” Philippe murmured. His smile faded and his big white teeth pressed worriedly into his lower lip. “I didn’t know you
were aware of my little cottage, Jean Marc. I assure you it’s only a small indulgence and it doesn’t interfere with my running Vasaro.”

“I know it doesn’t. You’re doing fine work caring for Catherine’s inheritance. If you weren’t, you would have heard from me before.”

“And why am I hearing from you now?”

“I want no outraged fathers applying to me for aid for their ravished daughters.”

“Ravished?” Philippe’s tone was indignant. “I seduce, not rape. No unwilling woman has ever come to Les Fleurs.”

“Make sure the circumstances remain unchanged, and you’ll have no argument from me.”

“I wouldn’t cause you distress, Jean Marc.” Philippe gravely met his gaze. “I know how fortunate I am to have this post. I enjoy my life at Vasaro.”

“And Vasaro evidently enjoys you.” Jean Marc suddenly smiled. “At least the female population of Vasaro does. I simply thought it best we clarify the situation.”

Philippe’s gaze narrowed on Jean Marc’s face. “Is that why you asked me to leave Vasaro and accompany Catherine here?”

“I asked you because I knew you would guard Catherine and I find your company stimulating.”

“And because you wished to issue a warning to keep my pleasures separate from my duties.” Philippe smiled slowly. “So why not accomplish a threefold purpose, eh?”

“Why not, indeed?”

“Don’t you ever tire of these convoluted maneuvers to shape the world to suit yourself?”

“On occasion, but the prize is usually worth the game.”

“Not to me.” Philippe made a face. “Which is why you’re busy gobbling up all the wealth of Europe while I labor humbly at your command.”

“At Catherine’s command. Vasaro belongs to her, not to the Andreas family.”

“Does it? I wasn’t sure you knew the difference.”

“It’s tradition for our family to guard the heiress of Vasaro.”

“But you care nothing for tradition,” Philippe said softly. “I wonder what you do care about, Jean Marc.”

“Shall I tell you?” Jean Marc’s tone was mocking. “I care about the French livre, the British pound, and the Italian florin. I’m also rapidly acquiring a passion for the Russian ruble.”

“And nothing else?”

Jean Marc was silent a moment, thinking. “The family. I suppose I care for the well-being of the Andreas family more than I care for anything else.”

“And your father?”

Jean Marc kept his expression guarded. “He’s a member of my family, is he not?” He glanced coolly at Philippe. “Don’t expect cloying sentimentality from me, Philippe. I’m not a sentimental man.”

“Yet, you’re capable of friendship. You call me your friend.”

Jean Marc shrugged, then winced. He had forgotten momentarily that his wound would be long in healing.

“But, of course, I’m an exceptionally charming fellow.” Philippe continued. “How could you restrain yourself from feeling affection, not to say admiration, respect, amusement, and—”

“Enough.” Jean Marc raised his hand to stop the flow of words. “I’ll grant you the amusement, at least. Pour all your charm into the task of cajoling Her Majesty and I’ll be content.”

“I have no intention of exerting myself in such a profitless endeavor. Gentlemen who make cuckolds of royalty often end with their heads on pikes. Tell me, do you think the queen really prefers women to men?”

“Why ask me?”

“Because I know you well. Undoubtedly you’ve made it your business to discover everything about everyone down to the lowest groom in the stable at that splendid palace. You never go into any venture without a full knowledge of your opponent.”

“Opponent?” Jean Marc murmured. “Her Majesty is my sovereign and I her loyal servant.”

Philippe snorted.

“You don’t believe me? I paid no bribe to learn the secrets of the Queen’s bedchamber. It would have reaped me little benefit. However, I did find she’s written several extremely passionate letters and given very lavish gifts to the Princess de Lambelle, Yolande Polignac, and Celeste de Clement.”

“De Clement?” Philippe’s eyes widened as his gaze flew back to the painting. “Then that child is—”

“She’s Celeste de Clement’s daughter. I understand the marquise was the daughter of a wealthy Spanish merchant who became the second wife of an impoverished nobleman. His son and heir was less than well disposed toward the lovely Celeste and her offspring. When his father died, he gave his stepmother a carriage, a wardrobe of fine gowns, and bid her and her child a final adieu.”

“Do you think the little firebrand is being brought up to her mother’s persuasion?” Philippe asked idly. “I hear Sappho’s daughters delight in—”

“No!” The violence of Jean Marc’s rejection surprised him as much as it did Philippe. He felt as if Philippe had besmirched something peculiarly his own. He quickly brought his tone under control. “I didn’t say Celeste de Clement has unnatural tastes. She’s been the mistress of several wealthy and generous gentlemen of the court since she arrived there several years ago. I’d judge her passion is for acquisition and not the pleasures of the flesh.”

“Like Jean Marc Andreas?”

“The Marquise de Clement and I have a similar passion, but I don’t prostitute myself to pursue it. I prefer not to manipulate emotions, but circumstances.”

“Yet, you manipulate both if it suits you.”

“The legal agreements, Philippe.”

Philippe made a face and turned toward the door. “I’ll go get them. By the way, I caught sight of a deliciously robust servant girl as we came into the inn. I don’t suppose you’d object if I invited her to occupy my bed while I’m waiting here for you to recover?”

“Not as long as you use discretion and don’t offend Catherine. The woman’s name is Germaine.”

Philippe opened the door. “Have you tried her?”

“When I first came to the inn. Pleasant, eager, but boringly docile.” Jean Marc’s lips twisted ruefully. “Needless to say, I’ve not been tempted to repeat the experience in my present state of health.”

“I’ve no objection to docility.” Philippe grinned as he started to close the door. “And I enthusiastically embrace eagerness.”

Juliette closed the door of Catherine’s chamber and turned to face the upset girl. “Sit down over there.” She gestured to the chair across the room. She gazed at Catherine’s flushed face. “Your color is better.”

Catherine sat down in the chair. “I feel as if my face is on fire. I’m so ashamed.”

“Why?” Juliette plumped down on the bed. “Because you were idiot enough to let yourself be too tightly laced into your corset?”

“And because Jean Marc and Philippe must surely think ill of me.”

“It’s done now.” Juliette crossed her legs tailor-fashion and tilted her head critically. “You don’t bear any resemblance to either Jean Marc or Philippe Andreas.”

“We’re only distantly related.”

“You’re a handsome family. He’s quite beautiful. I’d like to paint him.”

“Philippe?” Catherine nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, I’ve never seen such a handsome man. His hair is as golden as sunlight when it’s not powdered. And he’s very kind too, he’s never impatient and sharp with me as Jean Marc sometimes is. Philippe once brought me a lovely pair of scented gloves from Vasaro when he came to the Ile du Lion.”

Juliette shook her head. “Not Philippe. I was speaking of Jean Marc.”

“Jean Marc?” Catherine looked at her in disbelief. “But Philippe is much finer-looking. Why would you want to paint Jean Marc?”

Why would she not want to paint him? Jean Marc
was mystery cloaked in his black velvet, cynical wisdom, wicked wit, and, infrequently, a gentleness all the more precious for its rarity. Juliette realized she had scarcely noticed Philippe Andreas while he was in the same room with Jean Marc, and now she had to struggle to recall what he looked like. “Your Philippe is comely enough, I suppose.”

“He’s much handsomer than Jean Marc.”

“Where is this Ile du Lion?” Juliette asked in order to change the subject.

“It’s in the Golfe du Lion, off the coast of Marseilles.”

“It’s your home?”

“No, my home is in Vasaro, near Grasse.” A note of pride sounded in Catherine’s voice. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Vasaro? We grow flowers for the making of perfume. Philippe says Vasaro is quite famous for its essences.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” Juliette glanced back at Catherine and grimaced. “But that’s not unusual. The ladies and gentlemen of the court seldom converse about the outside world. They gossip only about themselves.”

“I hear Versailles is the most beautiful place on the earth,” Catherine said softly. “How lucky you are to live with such magnificence.”

“If your home is in Grasse, why do you live at Ile du Lion?”

“My parents died of smallpox when I was four and Jean Marc’s father brought me to live with him and Jean Marc on the Ile du Lion. I’ll live there until I’m old enough to manage Vasaro myself. They have a splendid château that’s much grander than the manor house at Vasaro.” She hurried on as if afraid she had hurt Juliette’s feelings. “But, of course, I’m sure your home at Versailles is much nicer than the château or Vasaro.”

“Home?” Juliette experienced a sense of loss that startled her. What would it be like to have one settled place in which to live, not to have to travel from Paris to
Versailles to Fontainebleau and all the other royal residences at the whim of Her Majesty? “I have no home there. We occupy a small apartment in the palace.” She shrugged. “Not that it matters. I have my paints.”

“I noticed your painting when I first came into Jean Marc’s chamber. It’s quite wonderful. You are very clever.”

“Yes, I am.”

Catherine suddenly laughed. “You shouldn’t agree with me. My governess says a young lady should be modest about her accomplishments.”

“But we’ve already discovered what a fool your governess is.” A twinkle appeared in Juliette’s eyes. “You should have learned your lesson not to pay her any heed.”