He attempted to visit as Monsieur David again for Narcise’s painting lesson, at least in order to see her, and ensure himself that she was well. When he was turned away from the door with the explanation that mademoiselle was no longer interested in lessons, Giordan had that awful sinking feeling again.
What did that mean?
Another attempt to deliver fabric as an elderly merchant as he’d done once before was also foiled when he was advised that no one was in residence to see him.
Thus Giordan spent the next two weeks in varying stages of fear, fury and loathing. The helplessness was the worst. Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she here in Paris? Had she been fencing? Winning or losing?
He made personal calls three times after that, and each time he was turned away with vague explanations that the master was gone.
He began to plot with Eddersley how he might gain entrance to Moldavi’s lair through the catacombs, sneaking in through the rear.
He paid Mingo handsomely to debase himself and attempt to seduce any or all of Moldavi’s servants regardless of how homely they were when they visited the market, providing his own steward with enough funds to pay for an entire ship in order to incent tongues to wagging. The only information he was able to glean was that the mademoiselle was cloistered in her private apartments and had hardly been seen for more than a week.
“But sheiswell,” he demanded, his fangs flashing, his hand pressing his valet and steward’s chest against the wall.
Mingo’s eyes widened and he nodded. “So far as I can ascertain, she is well, sir.”
Giordan remembered himself and released his servant, turning away with trembling hands and a stomach that gnawed with emptiness.I should have forced her to stay with me. I shouldn’t have let her leave.
At last, he received a response to the five messages he’d sent, and the three he’d left in person. It was absurdly mundane:I would be honored by your presence this evening. Moldavi.
He had four stakes secreted on him when he entered Moldavi’s stronghold, and was determined to use at least one of them before he left. As he’d anticipated, three of them were discovered by the butler when he was offered entrance at the street level. But the fourth one remained tucked in the underside of his loose shirt sleeve.
Whatever he’d expected, Giordan had not anticipated the beaming, cordial host who greeted him as he entered the spacious, well-appointed parlor they’d used previously.
“I’m so terribly sorry for the confusion,” Moldavi said, gesturing to a pair of chairs pulled up cozily next to a piecrust table.
As always, he was dressed formally in well-tailored clothing: a snowy-white shirt, brocade waistcoat, knee breeches and stockings. Instead of the wigs currently in fashion, Moldavi wore his hair combed neatly over his face and ears, and his wide-jawed face was clean-shaven. Several rings winked on his fingers as he gestured with his speech. “I understand you’ve been attempting to reach me. It was terribly rude of me not to provide an explanation for my sudden departure, and that of my sister, from your engagement a few weeks ago. I was called away on an emergency, and quite frankly, I was too distracted to even think to send you an explanation or apology.”
Giordan accepted the speech in silence, eyeing the man thoughtfully, but he did not take one of the offered seats.He’s lying as easily as the Seine in its bed.And there was a different air about him tonight, one of anticipation, perhaps, or nervous energy.
“And Narcise—I’m afraid the servants didn’t quite understand. I would certainly have allowed you to call on her in my absence…but apparently, that was not made clear to them.” Moldavi, also still standing, opened a small cupboard, peered at the cluster of bottles within, and selected one. He examined the label, then returned it with atsk, clinking around until he chose a second one. “Ah. Perfect,” he said in satisfaction. “I do hope you like it,” he added, glancing at Giordan.
“I wasn’t offended that you left my gathering as much as I was concerned,” Giordan offered as his host poured two glasses at the sideboard. The titillating scent of fresh blood mingled with liquor filled the room. He wondered uncomfortably from where the blood had come. “After all, that night I had been the recipient of an unexpected gift,” he said. “I hadn’t had the opportunity to thank you.”
“Indeed. I do hope you enjoyed it,” Moldavi said, handing his guest one of the glasses, brushing his fingers as he did so. “In all honesty, I wasn’t certain if it would be to your liking. In fact, I’d rather hoped it wouldn’t.” The other man’s eyes fastened meaningfully on his and for the first time, Giordan saw something there besides cunning and intelligence.
Admiration.
Fascination.
Desire.
He recognized it and nearly stepped back, his stomach twisting unpleasantly, shock and comprehension rendering him silent. All at once, the dark memories rushed to the forefront of his mind—the grasping hands in the alleys, the smell of men, the humiliation and pain.
Giordan shook the images away and speared Moldavi with his own flat gaze. “As a matter of fact, that evening wasverymuch to my liking,” he replied so that his position couldn’t be misunderstood. “Where is she?”
All pretense had dropped; they were man to man, staring at each other, no longer hiding anything.
“She’s gone,” Moldavi said.
“I want to see her.”
Moldavi shrugged. “She has no desire to see you.”
“You’re lying,” Giordan replied with confidence. “She’s in love with me.” He knew it for a fact; he never doubted it, for though she hadn’t said the words, she had proven it when she kissed him.
She’d kissed him more than once, more than in the heat of passion, more than when he’d asked it of her. She’d kissed him with love and tenderness, and freely. He had no doubt of her feelings for him, and every bit of confidence in her brother’s attempt to manipulate.
