The Courtesan's Bed (12 page)

Darius set down his sherry and took her cold hand in his. “Don't worry. I'll handle Monsieur Valendry. Give me your bank book, and the bank's address.” He stood. “I'll go there right now and straighten out this mess.”

Régine gave him a hopeful, tremulous smile that was its own special gift. “Do you think you'll be able to convince him to return my money?”

Oh, he would be very convincing. “Don't spare him another thought. I'll see to it that he does the honorable thing.”

She rose and left the room. When she returned, she handed him her precious bank book. “You don't know how much this means to me.”

“You are under my protection now, Régine,” he said softly. “I will not allow this Valendry, or anyone else, to cheat you.”

He was about to leave when she caught his hand. “I was so upset, I failed to thank you for the beautiful gifts and all the pretty compliments.”

“You deserve to be showered with beautiful gifts.” He stared into the beguiling blue depths of her eyes, so like a clear, tropical ocean. “And my compliments were sincere.” Unlike his father's, used to seduce the young, inexperienced governess.

“I know that.”

She escorted him to the front door, making him feel like Lancelot going off on a noble quest for his fair lady.

“I'll be back with your money before you know it.”

She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his for a quick kiss that warmed his heart and fueled him with determination. “Luc is a stubborn Frenchman. He won't be easy to persuade.”

“I am a stubborn Englishman, and we can be very persuasive.”

He was willing to bet his entire fortune that the stubborn Frenchman wasn't going to like his methods.

After Darius left, Régine listened to his carriage roll away. Would he be able to pry her money out of Luc's clenched, spiteful fist? Until he had arrived and reassured her that he would succeed, Régine had been mindlessly frantic with panic.

She tried to calm her mental and physical turmoil. Of course, if Darius was successful, she'd be deeply beholden to him. Was he the kind of man who would ruthlessly use that indebtedness to bind her to him? No. He'd told her they would stay together only until one tired of the other. Unlike Luc, he understood the demimonde's unwritten rules.

Régine returned to the drawing room where she found Molly stooped down, sweeping up the shattered remains of the floral Gallé vase.

She rose with the full dustpan. “What a shame to destroy such a beautiful vase, miss.”

“Monsieur Valendry gave it to me, and I have no desire to be reminded of that man.” Though she shrewdly intended to keep the more valuable gifts he'd given her, and sell the others.

Molly left the room without comment, and when she returned, lines of worry scored her brow. “What if Lord Clarridge can't persuade Monsieur Valendry to give back your money? Will I have to look for a new position? Who's going to want to hire an old lady like me?”

Régine hugged her fiercely. “If the worst happens, we may have to tighten our belts and rely on Clarridge to pay our bills, but we'll stay together, even if I have to sell every piece of my jewelry.” She released her and smiled reassuringly. “I won't let anything happen to you.”

“That's very reassuring, miss.”

“Both of us could use a little treat. Why don't you go down to the
pâtisserie
and get us some of our favorite raspberry and almond cakes? And when you come back, we'll have a nice hot cup of tea like proper Englishwomen.”

“That would certainly take my mind off our troubles.”

Régine gave her some money, and Molly went to get her hat and cape. She left Régine alone to watch the clock and wait for Clarridge.

Darius sat across from the officious Monsieur Poisson in Valendry's bank. He'd dealt with his type many times, petty bureaucrats with an inflated sense of their own importance.

Since Régine had told Valendry the name of her new protector, Darius had thought it prudent to hide his identity. He was now Daniel Greene, Earl of Sommers.

“So, your lordship,” Poisson said, his thick lips stretching in an unctuous smile, “how may we be of service to you today?”

“I am planning to move a very profitable branch of my business to Paris soon,” Darius replied, “and I need a local bank with which to do business. As you can imagine, I plan to make a substantial deposit and provide the bank with my exclusive patronage.”

“Naturally, we would be most eager to handle all of your financial needs.” He opened a desk drawer. “I shall start the paperwork immediately.”

Darius shook his head. “I'm sure you're most competent, monsieur,
but since I shall be depositing a great deal of money, I must deal with Monsieur Valendry personally.”

Poisson's face pinched in dismay. “Monsieur Valendry is a very busy man, your lordship. I'm afraid—”

“If he wants my business,” Darius said, giving the man an imperious sneer that would've done his father proud, “he'll make time for me. Now. Need I remind you that there are other banks in Paris that would treat me with the deference I deserve?”

Poisson turned an alarmed red. “Of course you're right, your lordship. I'm sure Monsieur Valendry will make time for such an august potential client.” He rose. “If you'll follow me…”

Poisson said little as he escorted Darius upstairs and had him wait outside of Valendry's office while he went inside to inform Régine's former lover of a possible wealthy English depositor.

A minute later a beaming Poisson said, “Monsieur Valendry will see you now, Lord Sommers.”

The minute Darius strode into Valendry's office and saw him sitting like a little king on a throne behind that mile-long expanse of polished mahogany, he wanted to reach over and grab him by the collar for treating Régine so shabbily. Instead, he raised his head imperiously as he crossed the room.

The Frenchman rose, smiled broadly and rounded the desk. “Lord Sommers, what a pleasure it is to meet such an august and accomplished gentleman. Can I have Poisson get you anything? Coffee? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Darius extended his hand, and they shook.

Valendry dismissed Poisson and offered Darius a seat before taking his own. “Now. How can I be of service to you?”

Darius leaned forward and gave the man a look that would freeze fire. “By returning Régine Laflamme's savings to her.”

Valendry started, then quickly schooled his features to look innocent. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, but you do. She ended your liaison because she's taken up with me, and she came to you this morning to collect her life's savings, which she'd entrusted to your bank. You, venal bounder that you are, claimed you had no record of her ever patronizing this bank.” He wagged a reproving finger. “You were most rude to the lady, monsieur, and accused her of forgery. We both know that is a lie.”

The old gent turned red. “You are not the Earl of Sommers at all, are you?”

“Astute of you.”

Valendry's eyes narrowed in dislike. “I don't know what fiction Mademoiselle Laflamme spun for you, Clarridge, but I am telling the truth. She has never been a depositor with this bank.”

Darius reached into his breast pocket, pulled out Régine's account book and held it up. “This is all the proof I need that you're lying.”

“A skillful forgery. For all I know, you are her accomplice. And if you're not, she has duped you, sir.”

Darius rose, braced both hands on the desk and leaned across it, regarding Valendry with sneering contempt. “There is nothing more pathetic than a spurned lover who cannot accept the fact that his mistress no longer finds him desirable and must plot petty vengeance against her.”

Valendry jumped to his feet. “How dare you!”

Darius straightened and stared down from his superior height at the bristling little man. “You are going to write Mademoiselle Laflamme a draft for the exact amount of her savings, including this month's interest, as a way of apologizing for your rude behavior. And all of your empty threats to report her to the police for forgery will cease.”

Valendry regarded him with an infuriating smirk. “I'm of half a mind to have you arrested for threatening me.”

“You can try, but I wouldn't advise it.” Darius smiled slowly. “You have insulted the lady, and you have insulted my intelligence by your blatant lies. Such a grievous offense to my honor demands satisfaction. Would you prefer pistols or swords at dawn in the Bois de Boulogne, monsieur, or another place of your choosing?”

The Frenchman had such a look of incredulity that Darius almost burst out laughing.

“You—you're challenging me to a duel?” Valendry sputtered.

“I fought several while I was in Oxford, even though dueling is against the law in England. I left behind two young men who were grateful to escape with their lives and very sorry they insulted me.” He raised one brow. “Would you like to join their ranks?”

“Dueling is illegal, and I would never break the law.”

“Laws can be ignored when a matter of a lady's honor is at stake.”

Valendry swallowed hard. “You are bluffing, monsieur.”

“Oh, I can assure you that an Englishman never bluffs—except at cards. And, in addition to facing you with pistols or swords, afterwards I shall make you the laughingstock of Paris. The journalist Anatole Beaucaire will see to it that all of society knows you stole Régine Laflamme's life savings because she sent you packing. They will know what a petty, vengeful little man you are. Everyone from a lowly fishmonger to a highborn duchess will laugh at you behind their hands, monsieur, and perhaps they'll withdraw their savings from your bank. You'll regret the day you ever insulted Mademoiselle Laflamme and the Earl of Clarridge.” He lifted one shoulder in an insolent shrug. “I can't imagine your wife and children would enjoy being humiliated, either. How would you explain this tawdry business to them?”

At the mention of his family, Valendry's bravado trickled away. His shoulders slumped, and he sank back down into his chair, sitting there in reflective silence for a moment. Then, with a shaking hand, he reached into a desk drawer. Darius tensed, fearing he was going to pull out a pistol and shoot him. But he took out what looked like a withdrawal slip.

Valendry held out his hand. “I'll need the savings book.”

Darius handed it over reluctantly, ready to snatch it back if the man tried to destroy it.

The subdued banker consulted it, appeared to make some kind of mental calculations and wrote in an amount. “This should cover both her savings and this month's interest. You may take this slip to any teller, and they will make out a bank draft.”

Darius took the slip and stuck it in the savings book. “My honor is satisfied, monsieur.” He put on his top hat and tipped it. “A pleasure doing business with you, Valendry. Good day.”

He turned and left.

Régine was still waiting for Darius when Molly returned with the pastries.

“No sign of his lordship yet?” she asked.

“He's only been gone for an hour,” Régine replied. “Perhaps Monsieur Valendry kept him waiting. It would be just like the mean old bastard.”

“I'll go make the tea.”

Molly bustled off to the kitchen.

While Régine waited, she paced the drawing room, stopping by the windows at every turn to check for Clarridge's carriage.

Molly appeared carrying a heavy silver tray set with a fine Spode tea service Régine's last English lover had given her, silver spoons and a plate of dainty pastries.

Just as she set down the tray, the doorbell rang.

“At last.” Régine rushed to answer it.

She flung open the door, smiling in anticipation. Her smile flickered with disappointment for a second, and then returned in full force. “Anatole. What an unexpected pleasure.”

The journalist stroked his pointed beard. “Have I come at a bad time?”

“Of course not.” She gave him a welcoming kiss on each cheek. “Come in. It's always a joy to see you, my friend.”

The minute Anatole Beaucaire stepped into the foyer, his sharp reporter's eyes noticed the bronze figurine immediately. He set his hat next to it. “Ah, something new and quite exquisite. Monsieur Valendry always did have excellent taste.” He arched one brow. “Or is it from the persistent Count Dragomilov?”

Régine gave him a reproachful look. “Shame on you. If I ever accepted anything from the Russian, he would think he owned me, body and soul.”

“Everyone in Paris has heard about the diamond necklace.” He chuckled. “I wish I could've seen the expression on de Groument's face when you told him to take it back.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Now how on earth did you ever find out about that?”

“I am a journalist, remember? There is precious little in this great city that escapes me.” He smiled and bowed. “And I never reveal my sources, even to one as lovely and charming as the Queen of Fire.”

She shook a warning finger. “You must promise me that you shall not include that in your column, Anatole, or I shall be very displeased and have you banned from Maxim's.”

He shuddered in mock horror. “Anything but that!” He took her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I value our friendship too much to jeopardize it for the sake of a story.”

“Molly and I were just sitting down to tea. You must join us.” She slipped her arm through his and drew him toward the drawing room. Perhaps the journalist's visit was fortuitous after all. His popular
Le Figaro
column, which reported on the grand horizontals, their beautiful clothes, lavish jewels, lovers and scandals, was eagerly devoured and discussed by every level of Parisian society, and would be the perfect place to announce that Régine Laflamme, the Queen of Fire, had found a new protector.