A Midnight Dance (43 page)

“You’re all set to go the ball.” Agnes kissed Sabine’s cheek. In her ear she whispered, “You will take his breath away. Do not neglect to enjoy yourself, for a night like this does not come around often.” She pulled back and gazed into Sabine’s eyes. “I have a feeling this night will change everything between you.”

Sabine hadn’t been able to shake that same feeling. Something was going to happen tonight. Something monumental.

Excited and nervous, she was breathless by the time they reached the top of the stairwell. A dozen steps down to the landing, then a turn to the left, and she’d see Jules.

She couldn’t wait for him to see her in something that was not old and worn. She gathered her skirts and began her descent, her pulse beating in double time.

Reaching the landing, she took a deep breath and turned the corner.

She captured Jules’s attention in an instant. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, he smiled. Her gaze was riveted to him. His tall muscled form, his broad shoulders were accentuated by his silver doublet and breeches.

He looked utterly regal and just like in her dreams.

Her insides quavering, she made her way down the last six steps with all the elegance and poise befitting her attire.

His smile deepened, bringing out his heart-fluttering dimples. “You are a ravishing beauty.”

She looked up at his handsome face, letting her gaze caress his beloved visage. “So are you,” she said.

He chuckled. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to it. “I can safely say no one has ever said that to me before,” he gently teased, then held out his hand and said, “Will you dance with me?”

Her cheeks hurt from the sheer size of her grin. She placed her hand in his. “I will.”

He was a dead man.

His nervous breathing audible, Cyr peered into the corridor. The commotion from the masquerade was a distant din.

He had to get out of here. Fast.

Behind him were the unconscious bodies of the old actor and the witch. After two intolerable days, he seized the first opportunity to escape.

He had no idea how long they’d remain senseless. Physical violence was not his forte.

Slipping into the empty hallway, heart pounding, he rushed along the shadows, steering away from the wall sconces. Up ahead was the door that led to the servants’ passageways and stairwell. Cursing the slowness of his rounded form, he pushed himself, forcing his leaden legs to eat up the distance.

He’d been in binds before. But this was by far the worst. If he was caught . . . Sweat rolled down his face. He raced on. Ten more feet. His lungs laboring, he sucked in air hard and fast. Eight feet. He’d make it. He’d make it. Five.

Rocque was sure to be here tonight. Moutier, either brother or both, would question him. Cyr had to be long gone before they came looking for him.

Perspiration stung his eyes.

He practically fell against the door when he reached it. His fingers fumbled. The latch opened.

He shoved the door open, quickly shut it behind him, and slumped against the wooden barrier to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his eyes. The servants’ passageway was darker. And quiet. Most of the servants would be downstairs during the masquerade.

With a huff, he pushed himself off the door and waddled to the stairs, his legs aching. Cautiously, he made his way down the steps, reaching the main floor unchallenged. Unobserved. Panting.

He found himself in another corridor. Scanning the doors to the left and right, he tried to orient himself. Left. Yes, that would lead him to the vestibule and out the door.

He took a step and stopped dead. There would be crowds of people at the main entrance. What if someone recognized him? He had no mask to hide behind. No. The servants’ entrance was better. But which way was that?

To the right. That was the direction. He hoped. Cyr turned and moved along the hallway, passing a number of doors, hoping he’d intuitively know which one was the correct one.

Female laughter reverberated up the corridor. He stopped. Hearing footsteps approaching, he knew it was only moments before someone turned the corner. Panicked, he grabbed the closest latch, opened the door, and rushed out.

Right into the vestibule. Filled with a crush of people. Brilliant colors and plumes everywhere.

The throng was so large, he was instantly pressed against the wall. It wasn’t where he intended to exit, but it
was
an exit. Mere feet away was the main entrance. All he had to do was keep his head down and move against the direction of the entering mass. Feigning a forehead itch, he used his hand to shield his face as he moved through the horde, the bedlam drowning out his hard, heavy breaths.

He was close. Making good his escape was all but clinched.

Peeking up, Cyr saw a large man before him shift to the side. He caught sight of the door once more. And the figure entering it.

He froze. So did his blood. Though the man wore a mask, Cyr recognized that chin. That seemingly innocuous manner. That rather average form. For those who didn’t really know him, they would think he was a regular man.

But there was nothing regular or harmless about him.

Depraved. Malicious. Deceptively disarming, insidiously placid—blocking the entrance was the Baron de Lor, Leon de Vittry.

Cyr had known cutthroats and thieves. He understood greed and ambition. But he had no understanding of the evil that dwelled in Vittry. Worse still, the demon was looking for him.

His heart thundering in his ears, Cyr twisted around in the crush and scrambled for the door he’d just used.

He’d take his chances in the servants’ hallway.

The last notes faded, ending their second dance. Jules bowed to her. Sabine smiled at her Dark Prince and curtsied. She’d remembered all the steps to not only the
menuet
, but also the
allemande
.

She caught sight of Raymond standing in the crowd, looking anxious for a word. Clearly, Jules had seen him, too. He led her off the dance floor, and headed straight in his direction.

“My lord, your brother is with . . . his
friend
,” Raymond said the moment they reached him. There were too many ears about. Sabine knew the “friend” Raymond was referring to was the Marquis de la Rocque.

“Good.” Sotto voce, Jules asked, “Where are they?”

“In the library. They have been enjoying some excellent brandy. Your brother thought you might like to join them?”

Jules turned to her.

“Go,” Sabine insisted, heartened by the look of regret in his eyes. “You don’t want to miss an opportunity to spend time with your brother and his
friend
.”

“Raymond, escort Sabine back to her rooms.”

“Raymond should be with you in case you or Luc needs him,” Sabine said. “I’ll go to my chambers straightaway. I promise. I’ll be fine.” Sabine couldn’t stop smiling and stepped closer to him. “I’ll remember this night forever.”

His eyes softened. “So will I.” He caressed her cheek tenderly with his knuckles.

This night had been perfect. A fantasy come to life. A dream come true.

“Good luck,” she added. He gave her a quick hard kiss and disappeared with Raymond in the crowd.

The merrymakers were loud and rambunctious, jostling Sabine about as she tried to make her way through the crowd. Like a strong current, the multitude swept her up. By the time she finally managed to disengage from the throng, she found herself in the courtyard.

The night was warm, strains of music from the harpsichord and violins floating on the gentle breeze. She looked about. The stone benches were occupied by elegantly clad guests, their masks as rich as their attire. Groups were scattered about, engaged in conversation and laughter.

She was nowhere near the servants’ door. There had to be another entrance into the passageways used by the hired help.

Briskly, she strode back into the Grand Salon and reentered the conflux. Moving along the perimeter of the room, she searched for an exit, receiving an unavoidable bump time and again.

Upon reaching the corner, she paused. The overcrowded salon was warm. Too warm. It didn’t help that she stood near a large wall sconce and its many burning candles, but at least there was a bit of breathing room here. God, how she wanted to reach her chamber and remove the mask. It was starting to get hot and uncomfortable.

Rising onto the balls of her feet, she tried to peer over the heads of the people in front of her, but couldn’t see over the wall of elaborate coiffures and decorative plumes.

She lowered herself back onto her heels and was about to continue on when the man next to her caught her eye. Only a short distance away, she saw him lift his hand. Candlelight from the wall sconce flashed onto his large gold ring. He removed it from his finger and slipped it into his pocket. Then he slipped into the crowd.

She’d seen that ring before. It was a nobleman’s family emblem—an olive branch and lion. And it belonged to Valentin, the kindly Marquis d’Argon.

Odd that he was here. He didn’t strike her as the sort of man who enjoyed such distractions. Odder still was his removal of his ring. He didn’t want anyone to recognize it. He didn’t want anyone to know he was present.

Why?

Someone grabbed her arm. Startled, she snapped her head around. A man in a gold-colored mask dressed in pale blue held her firmly.

“Sabine?” said a familiar voice.

Furrowing her brow, she gazed into the brown eyes behind the mask. “Leon?” Could it be?

“Yes, my darling. It is I. This is a huge surprise.”

Relief flooded through her, bringing a smile back onto her face. “Leon, I’m so very glad to see you. I’ve gotten myself hopelessly lost. Perhaps you would escort me to my room?”

“My darling, I’d do anything you ask, you know that, but . . . what are you doing here? Dressed this way?”

She tossed a quick glance about to make certain that no one was listening. “I’m searching for Isabelle.”

“Isabelle?” he repeated, astonished.

“I know it sounds mad, but I
know
she’s alive. I feel it. I won’t stop until I find her.” Her smile returned. “And I will find her, Leon. I’m in search of servants who worked with Isabelle. As it turns out, Marie de Perron employs one. She allowed me to question her.”

“And? Did you find anything out?”

“No, regrettably. I intend to find all the Marquis de Blainville’s former servants, and question them one by one until I know the truth about what happened to my sister.”

He shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I could have helped. Had you confided this in me, I would have told you that I employ two of the late Marquis’ servants.”

“Two?”
Dear God, this evening was too perfect. “Oh, Leon, that’s wonderful! I want to question them.”

“Absolutely . . . but there is a problem.”