Wicked After Midnight(52)

I shivered at the confident, low timbre of his voice. This was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, what he’d paid for. Like the duke—and maybe he really was the duke—he thought I was for sale. Time to inform him differently.

“Alas, monsieur. I cannot partake.”

A soft laugh. “I beg you to reconsider. It’s a special vintage from the Tsarina’s personal cellar. Tell me, Demitasse. Have you ever tasted unicorn blud?”

I struggled not to giggle. I bet I knew what was on the label and whose pockets had been lined through its procurement. At least I’d get to taste it this time without suspicion.

But wait. Just because Vale hadn’t drugged me didn’t mean this so-called gentleman shared the brigand’s scruples. I had a lot of questions for the girls of Paradis regarding taking drinks from patrons and what could be slipped into those drinks that a girl might find reason to regret later. For now, I was stuck. But considering that he hadn’t watched American television, perhaps he didn’t know all the same tricks that I did.

Checking myself in the mirror, I used a finger to wipe off stray lip paint and compose my smile. The dress hung daintily from my shoulders and billowed around me, short and voluminous, and I slipped my feet into a pair of kitten-heeled slippers lined up below the coat hanger. The look wasn’t unflattering, but I hadn’t seen such a fashion in Sang, much less Paris. I felt a little like a child in a nightgown, which was creepy in an entirely different way. Taking a deep breath, I curled fingers around the painted screen and cooed, “Perhaps I will reconsider, then.”

His head snapped around, and I was disappointed. He was older, distinguished, not unattractive, but nowhere near my age and tastes in men. Not that it mattered. I had enough problems with handsome men who kept turning up and setting my heart thumping. Seeing me, he grinned with tobacco-stained teeth and ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, which was graying at the temples. His eyes would have been kindly if they hadn’t been filled with dark, avid lust.

“Saint Ermenegilda, preserve me. You’ve forgotten your stays, ma chérie.”

I blushed, suddenly understanding why the short gown was so voluminous. Of course. It was meant to go under a corset and balloon out prettily, highlighting my small waist. Except for bludded carnival contortionists, no woman in Sang went out without a corset. It was the equivalent of walking out of the house topless. But the hunger in his eyes ratcheted up a notch as his gaze crawled over me. I took a half-step behind the screen to cover my embarrassment.

“Leave it off. Please. I have never seen anything so ravishing.”

I’d broken another rule. And it was already paying off. As I’d learned long ago in a different world, when men started thinking below the belt, they stopped thinking above the neck.

I smiled and struggled not to cross my arms over my cleavage. Letting my hips sway, I walked to the table, where a familiar bottle of wine sat, open. One wineglass sat beside it, the deep red liquid seeming to slosh gently on its own, glitter swirling like silt. I didn’t know enough about that drink or this world, and I wasn’t about to sip from the glass he must have brought himself, as it hadn’t been here before I’d disappeared behind the screen.

I wanted to drink it. I just didn’t want to end up unconscious and assaulted for my curiosity.

“Mmm, unicorn,” I murmured. As I reached for the goblet, I tripped on the kitten-heeled slippers and knocked the slender glass to the ground, where it shattered against the painted wood. A deep red stain spread across the floor, seeping into a white fur rug, and I gasped melodramatically. I felt like a Barbie doll, or at least, as if I had to act like one.

The gentleman cleared his throat in annoyance, probably tallying the cost of the lost wine. “And to think you looked so graceful onstage, mademoiselle. I haven’t brought a second glass.”

He had gone stiff and was looking at his hat. I didn’t intend to woo him, but I needed him to stay close, to lure him into conversation and discover if he knew anything about Cherie. And I needed him to leave the copper elephant with tales that would bring all the other men knocking on its knee.

“Have you a piece of paper, monsieur?”

Surprised and leery, he pulled a billfold from his coat and handed me a single thick sheet that matched the first note I’d received, with only a small letter-press F crest in the corner.

So this was indeed the duke.

I swallowed hard and made a mental note to screech at Charline. It wouldn’t have hurt anything to tell me what was expected, how powerful this man was, what he would do to a woman who rebuffed him, for clearly he was unaccustomed to rebellion. With a smile and a bob of the head, I folded the paper into an origami cup and tucked in the edges.