THE SEDUCTION OF GABRIEL STEWART Read online

  “I haven’t any other clothes,” Gilbert pointed out. “I left in something of a hurry.”

  “Yes, I suppose you did,” Erik replied. “Stand in front of me.”

  He and Gilbert looked one another in the eye.

  “Zareh,” Erik said, turning to his friend, “Could you bring the rest of my clothes from your home? I have plenty of things that will fit our friend. And bring your valet; we’ll need his barbering skills.”

  Zareh promised to return within the hour, and Antoinette made her good-byes as well. I showed Gilbert around the house and asked him to pick a room for his own. He asked for a room on the first floor, off the kitchen; the less he had to go up and down the stairs, the better for his leg. Erik and I would use the white and gold master bedroom.

  Erik had pulled a jacket, waistcoat, shirt, cravat and trousers from his valise.

  “These are for you, Gilbert. After you bathe.”

  Gilbert’s eyes goggled at the costly attire.

  “For me? I can’t pay for those.”

  “Nor shall you. Consider them part of your salary.”

  “Yes, sir ... Monsieur Erik.”

  I was surprised that Gilbert’s pride did not seem to be hurt at Erik’s brusque behavior. On the other hand, my cousin had been far from kind to his valet; perhaps he did not notice anymore.

  The townhouse had a beautiful bathroom with a deep claw-foot tub. Erik kept some of his sandalwood soap there, and I gave a bar to Gilbert along with some Turkish towels.

  “Are you sure, Madame Claire? It’s your bath. I should use a tub in the kitchen.”

  “Go on, Gilbert. It’s fine.” I turned on the taps and closed the door behind me.

  I went down to the kitchen to tidy up the cups and chocolate pot. Erik was asleep on one of the chairs, as he had succumbed to exhaustion. I could not resist; his sinfully beautiful lips were too much of a temptation. I kissed him, more passionately than I intended.

  “Mmmm,” Erik groaned as his arms stole around my waist. “Hoyden.”

  “You bring it out in me,” I whispered as I brushed my lips across his forehead.

  “Madame Claire ... Monsieur Erik.” Gilbert stood in the kitchen door, dressed in his new clothes. His hair was still wet from the bath, but the improvement in his appearance was remarkable.

  “Gilbert, you look wonderful.” My praise was sincere; I’d never noticed before how handsome he was. His hair, which had always seemed a dull brown, was a deep gold that offset his warm brown eyes. Dressed in Erik’s clothes, he looked every inch the gentleman.

  “Yes, my friend, much improved,” Erik added. He rubbed a hand across his own stubbled cheek then. “We could both do with a barbering; luckily, we need not wait much longer.

  Erik went to bathe then and Gilbert and I were alone in the kitchen. I felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, but could not say exactly why.

  “Madame Claire,” Gilbert said at last, “Why are you not looking at me?”

  The truth was that I felt guilty. Gilbert had always been somewhat invisible to me. I’d been kind to him, but I’d never given much thought about what his life was like. Now I was keenly aware of him. He’d always been a handsome, kind man; it was just now that he wore a good suit of clothes that I could see it. I was possessed of no small amount of self-loathing at my own shallowness. I looked Gilbert in the eye, and said as much.

  “Me? Handsome? With this leg?” He gestured again, not yet realizing that the cut and proper length of the trousers hid his disability from view. “You are too kind to me.”

  I was saved from replying by Zareh letting himself in the front door, valet in tow.

  CHAPTER 31

  I excused myself as Zareh’s valet, Etienne, unpacked his barbering implements on the kitchen table. Erik had finished his bath and I hoped there was hot water left for me. Gratefully, I discovered that there was, and I sank into a tub of rose-scented water.

  After scrubbing myself thoroughly and donning a fresh shirtwaist and skirt, I went back down to the kitchen. Etienne was finishing Erik’s shave; snippets of black hair on the floor were evidence of a haircut. A touch of bay rum on his cheeks and macassar pomade to his hair completed the process. Erik donned his leather mask after brushing the last bits of hair from his sleeves.

  “You next, Gilbert.”

  “I’ve always shaved myself and cut my own hair ...”

  Etienne gestured toward the kitchen chair after cleaning and stropping the razor.

  “Has no one ever done this for you?” I asked.

  “No, madame.”

  “Then it is time, Gilbert. Let someone look after you for a change.” I gestured again toward the chair, and Gilbert seated himself. Etienne fastened the cloth around his neck.

  Gilbert’s air of trepidation was palpable, and grew more apparent as scissors flashed and hair fell to the floor. A shave and pomade, and then a mirror; Gilbert was dumbfounded at his reflection.

  Unlike Erik’s hair, which was severely swept back from his brow, Gilbert’s coif was a fashionable, close-cropped Caesar cut with a fringe that emphasized his eyes. He looked every inch the gentleman dandy. I wondered how I would keep the neighborhood soubrettes and ballet dancers from beating down the door to get at my majordomo.

  Gilbert finally put down the mirror and stood up. He extended his hand to Erik.

  “I ... thank you, Monsieur Erik. I don’t know what to say.”

  Erik shook his hand. “My wife’s majordomo should look like the gentleman he is.”

  Erik paid Etienne. Zareh had been reading the newspaper in the parlor and we all joined him there while his manservant tidied up and repacked his tools.

  “Who is this gentleman?” Zareh smiled at Gilbert. “Surely this is not the man who disturbed my peace? He was a shabby creature, and before me stands a prince.”

  Gilbert swelled with pride. “I must look like a gentleman now, for Madame Claire.”

  Erik and I exchanged amused looks. Gilbert’s very demeanor had changed before our eyes, and I sensed that I would have a very protective majordomo indeed.

  CHAPTER 32

  July 1889

  It was a good thing that we lived on a square full of artistes and authors. Otherwise, scandal might have reigned as Madame LeMaitre went about with Rochambeau, the far too dashing majordomo. Gilbert accompanied me anywhere from Les Halles to the Louvre or the recently opened Eiffel Tower, and none of our neighbors turned a hair.

  Zareh and Erik were often closeted away, making arrangements to move our tiny household to London. As part of that process, Erik gave me two items that rather surprised me: a bank account and traveling papers, both in my name (“Should anything happen to me, you’ll not be destitute,” he explained).

  We worked daily on improving my English by reading Shakespeare’s works, and even began to teach Gilbert. My accent came through no matter how hard I tried to emulate Erik’s perfect diction, and there were times when I threw up my hands in disgust and went to play with the cat.

  For entertainment, Erik, Gilbert and I frequented the nightclubs of Monmartre. I had never been to a follies and seen the singers and dancers there. Again, no one seemed at all shocked at a woman with two men, let alone that one of those men was masked. It was a rather more dissolute world that we inhabited by virtue of avoiding the Opera Quarter. Erik began an occasional indulgence in opium. I developed a fondness for absinthe, amused and intrigued by the so-called ritual that turned the strong-smelling yellow drink into a pale green treat called louche. I even had my own special sugar spoon after a while, shaped like the Eiffel Tower in honor of its opening. Gilbert was the only one in our trio who abstained; that way, he knew we would all get home safely.

  Our lives as bored, wealthy folk came to a head after one such night at the Folies-Bergere. Erik was very high on an opium cloud; Gilbert and I were both sober. I was once again struck by the thought that this was not the life I had envisioned for myself. Things would surely be better in London. We would have a n
ormal life, with friends and visitors.

  Erik sunk into a chair and stared contemplatively into the fire Gilbert made; he would stay that way for hours. I did not think he’d written a single piece of music since the wedding mass; I would far rather his muse were upon him than this. I went up to our bedroom, silent tears flowing. All I could think of was escaping with Erik to someplace where the pain would be gone.

  I had changed into a night rail when Gilbert knocked at the door. I opened it and gestured for him to enter.

  “I’m concerned about Erik,” he said without preamble.

  “I am, too.” I sat down at my vanity and began to brush out my hair. “We cannot keep living this way. I’m chafing with desire to be gone so that we can all start again.”

  Gilbert crossed over and took the brush from my hand. He plied it to my hair with gentle strokes, and I relaxed just as I did under Erik’s ministrations. My eyes closed and my head tipped back slightly; it felt so very good.

  I do not know which of us was more surprised when Gilbert kissed me. It was a lover’s kiss, albeit a tentative one.

  My eyes flew open at that point, and I took back the hairbrush.

  “This never happened, Gilbert. We’ll not talk of it again.”

  “Talk of what?” My husband lounged indolently against the door frame, his cravat loose around his neck.

  From the pages of Erik’s journal:

  I might have known it would come to this. Gilbert has moved from making calf’s eyes at Claire to a kiss. Is it envy? No, it is bald-faced jealousy that I feel. He spends more time with her than I do, he fawns on her and basks in her kindness. And he is damnably handsome.

  I believe Claire when she says she did not instigate the tender kiss I witnessed. All I could think of at the time was how much easier her life would be with a man who looks like Gilbert instead of a monster like me.

  And yet, in his own way, Gilbert is just as broken as I, or even Claire’s little Pierre. Should I be surprised that Rochambeau thrives in her kind company? I certainly have. Should I think less of another for blossoming under her hand?

  Claire is right; she will not speak of it again, and neither shall I. All three of us will leave for London as soon as final arrangements are made.

  For my part, I do not believe I shall touch the opium pipe again. I know now how dear a price I might pay for such a fleeting pleasure.

  CHAPTER 33

  August 1889

  Erik kissed me, deep and passionate, while Gilbert’s tongue traced a languid trail from my breast to my navel. My left hand idly toyed with Gilbert’s cropped golden hair while my right caressed Erik’s tumescence. Soon, one of them would fill me while I pleasured the other with my hands and mouth. Which of them would enter me first?

  Two lovers, so different from one another. One fair, one dark. One with a beautiful face and twisted body, the other with a beautiful body and twisted face.

  I woke with a start; the dampness at my mons told me I had climaxed in my sleep. Since that kiss from Gilbert, my dreams often ran along the same line. I was both disturbed and aroused by them.

  I was, in fact, adequately disturbed by these dreams that my appetite had decreased. I could tight-lace my corsets such that Erik’s long, slender fingers spanned my waist. And it was those same elegant hands that I wanted to soothe the ardorous ache in my loins provoked by those maddening, erotic dreams.

  My sleeping husband was lying on his back; I slipped my night rail over my head and straddled him. With my weight on my elbows, I mouthed his throat gently and slid my aching mons along his manhood. He became more aroused as he awoke; I slid over his hardness as he became fully conscious. His hips moved in a smooth rhythm, ever deeper inside me until his climax.

  “Hoyden,” he whispered as I slipped off of him. He wrapped an arm around me and was soon slumbering again. I remained wakeful.

  I eventually got up and dressed in a simple day gown. Antoinette had promised to pay a visit. Zareh and Erik would once again be secreted away working on emigration plans and I was wary of spending too much time alone with Gilbert. I trusted him completely, but my own dreams made me feel like an oathbreaker.

  When Antoinette arrived that morning, she watched me pick at a brioche and barely sip my tea. Gilbert danced attendance on us until I sent him away. Only then did I tell my friend what had happened.

  “Hmm,” she said. “I see a problem, but not the one you think. Our dreams, we cannot help. The mind does what it will. You have done no wrong and broken no vow. No, my dear Claire, that is not your problem at all.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Your problem, Claire, is that two men live in this house, and both are in love with you.”

  I goggled at the very idea and began to protest.

  “No, you must hear me out,” Antoinette continued. “I have seen enough rival suitors in my time to know. Erik goes about his business as usual; he does not court you so much, which is common in married men.” She made a face before continuing.

  “But Monsieur Rochambeau has nothing but time for you. It is his job to have time for you; your husband pays him handsomely to do it. So, it is he who goes with you to the cafes, museums, gardens and market. It is he with whom you discuss books and entertainments. He is courting you in every other way, Claire. That he should steal a kiss does not surprise me.

  “That Erik saw that kiss and let Gilbert live to see another day, let alone kept him on as your majordomo, is the surprise to me.”

  I sighed. “We are in Gilbert’s debt ... and he is our friend. Like a family member.”

  It was the simple truth; I liked having Gilbert in the house. I was not so lonely or isolated when Erik was away.

  “Then, my dear, there is only one solution. We must find someone else for Monsieur Rochambeau to love.”

  “You’re right, of course. But where?”

  “Come to the opera house this afternoon. I’m rehearsing a new corps de ballet. One of those silly girls is bound to be taken with your handsome friend.”

  So it was that, after many weeks of avoiding the Opera Garnier, Gilbert and I found ourselves in the plush seats. I had lost enough weight that I looked little like the slightly plump horsewoman who had once performed here; my elegant mauve day dress added another level of distance from that person. Surely, no one would ever associate the elegant Adonis sitting next to me with Francois’ disheveled valet.

  After the rehearsal, Antoinette invited us backstage. We were introduced vaguely as potential patrons, and I watched the young dancers flirt madly with Gilbert. He was obviously flustered at the attention; it was all rather charming to watch. To these girls, an opera patron might also mean a personal patron and a much easier life. They were somewhat relentless toward my friend; a handsome patron was particularly desirable.

  Eventually, Gilbert extricated himself and we said our farewells. I remarked on the way home that the corps de ballet had been very interested in him.

  “Oui, madame,” Gilbert sighed. “But they are so silly and young. Not one of them is mature enough for me.” When he looked at me, his dark eyes were warm with emotion.

  Heaven help us all, I thought, Antoinette had been exactly right about the situation.

  When we arrived back at the Place des Vosges, I found Erik waiting in the parlor. He was absolutely irate upon learning that we had gone to the Opera Garnier.

  “Claire, I’ve ordered that we all avoid that place,” he snarled.

  “We were watching the ballet rehearsal at Antoinette’s invitation,” I replied evenly.

  “I don’t care. You ought to have declined.”

  “Is it your intention, Erik, to order every minute of Claire’s life? Is such tyranny necessary?” Gilbert’s temerity astonished both Erik and me.

  “It is my right, whether I invoke it or no, to control my wife,” Erik responded. “I am her husband, a matter I think you sometimes forget.”

  “Oh, for the love of all that is holy, Erik! Just stop,” I sho
uted, and ran up the stairs to our bedroom. Heedless of my frock, I threw myself across the bed and sobbed in miserable frustration.

  The comforting hand on my shoulder belonged neither to Erik nor Gilbert, but to Zareh.

  “My child,” he began, “How can I help?”

  “You cannot,” I sniffled. “Both of them are madmen.”

  We could hear raised voices through the floor but could not make out the words. Zareh shook his head and clicked his tongue against his teeth.

  “I warned Erik that you could not live in isolation just because he could.” He then smiled. “Madame, let us go visit your Josephine.”

  I threw my arms around Zareh’s neck. “Nothing would make me happier. Please, just give me five minutes.”

  Zareh closed the door behind himself.

  When I emerged downstairs, attired in my twill riding skirt and jacket, hat in hand, Erik and Gilbert were glowering at one another They stood in opposite corners of the room, angry glares flashing.

  “Good day to you, Erik,” Zareh said from the doorway. “I am taking Claire to see Josephine. Perhaps you will both have found your manners again by the time she returns. Come, Claire.”

  I followed him out the door.

  CHAPTER 34

  I was so happy to see Josephine. Her ears perked up at the sound of my voice and she rubbed her velvety muzzle against my cheek. Her knees were scarred, but the flesh was whole.

  “How is her wind, Zareh?”

  “I must tell you, Claire. My hostler says a trot now and then is the best she will ever manage. She will have a good home with me for the rest of her days. Someday, perhaps she can stay with you again, but I do not think she would travel well to England. It is cold and damp there, Claire; she would not thrive.”

  I nodded sadly. “I will do whatever is best for her. Please, Zareh, I want to ride her again. May I borrow a saddle?”

  “But, of course.” He gestured toward a groom. “Saddle Josephine for Madame LeMaitre. She is going to ride out for a while.”