Chapter One

Paris, France….

The young woman was striking, turning the heads of those who passed by, strolling or in carriages. A short brimmed, pearl encrusted, top hat sat atop piles of deep red-blond curls, spiraling their way to her neat waist, a scarf of ivory around its brim trailing down to waft against those locks. Tall and poised, face of the most proud, aristocratic bones. Slim nose, stubborn chin, arched brows all bespoke of the highest breeding.

Gowned in fashionable sea green and ivory silk, a velvet and pearl edged, nip-waisted coat, with half standing collar—one that enhanced her slim neck. Chin elevated proudly, her lashes darkened; lime eyes seemed to take in the congestion and passers by. With each step of her white patent leather boots ruffling the hem of her gown, it looked to others as if she were gliding on air.

What a stunning creature, they thought.

20-year-old Adriana, Brule, Moorland, walked with no sense of the colorful shop windows, fashionable crowds or indeed catcalls, and murmured comments by those who stared. Every fiber of her being, every inch of her five feet and nine inch height, every once of blood pounding in her veins—was telling her to keep walking—walking away from the humiliating agony she had experienced in London. She was here to transform herself, to assure herself, that no man would make her die like that again.

Her pearl white throat was locked and her eyes blind as she remembered the utter devastation of feeling used, betrayed, played for a fool.

Adriana vowed with each step to bury him here where her last tear was shed, to leave a foolish, romantic girl, forever behind when she was done recreating herself.

If falling so utterly for an older man had done her any good, it was to remind her that men used love to gain sex. That is all it had been for him. He had fed her childish dreams of being swept off her feet—unfortunately, whilst she was caught up in fairy tales, he was merely using her whilst he awaited his wedding day.

Thanks to the ton gossips and a few spiteful bitches who had looked at her knowingly and laughed behind their fans, everything she had worked so hard toward, lived a rigid and self-denying young womanhood to achieve—was forever gone. She had fallen apart in front of the worst of the cats and she supposed they had put two and two together…

Sooner or later the duke and her mother would discover just how clearly she had dashed their hopes. All those hopes they put on her turning out a proper, flawless, young woman, so that between the duke’s influence and their eventual marriage everyone would forget she was born out of wedlock. Yes born when Juliana was the duke’s mistress, not the duchess she was now. Well, she had certainly proved her base birth at last. Oh god, had she to do it over, she would…

But that could never be. She had thrown it away on a cold-blooded seducer.

She hailed a hack, exited then walked for an hour through the stretch of countryside, until the gothic spires of the structure she was seeking formed a likeness in shadow on the lake—looking over the somehow beautiful and yet forbidding stone façade, she mentally rid every emotion as if divesting herself of a cloak. Here she was part of an exclusive group invited to study under Madame Chardanu—the world famous artist. Some of the students would eventually be art agents, dealers, and art had always been Adriana’s forte. Her passion.

Although her father looked appalled at the bohemian culture of art communities, Juliana could say nothing more when Adriana applied to Madame on her own—having known the reclusive artist relied upon others to present her work to the world. She also had enough of a sense of self-importance that having students as protégés, if any one of them were that lucky, made acceptance all the better.

Adriana realized some of the younger group who came to live every year at the château ended up doing no more than walking the artist’s pooches. Not her. She intended to become something in her own right. She was determined to be more than the baseborn daughter or the scandal from her seasons—because she was not Moorland’s daughter in their eyes, she was his bastard daughter.

Moreover, she knew with a sickening kind of dread, that the man who betrayed her saw her that way or else he would never have dared what he did. Perhaps she had sought the older man because of living in the shadows of Moorland’s life for so long. Who knew? What mattered was that it hurt. It was devastating to be used. To take that chance and give herself utterly to a man who was merely playing a game. The two months she had thought herself with child had been terrorizing and she had realized he wasn’t even around by then. He was in Hampshire marrying a pureblooded heiress to a fortune-whom he had been betrothed to for 5 bloody years.

Bugger him and the ton too. She clinched her fists. She would absorb everything here and observe, and she would never again let a sophisticated and worldly man play her for a fool. No man would ever read her weakness and vulnerabilities and play to them—for she would present none.

Wasn’t she Moorland’s blood? He perfected that façade. Truth be known, she had never fit all the roles forced upon her, the ones she forced upon herself. She would bloody well write her own from this point on.

She watched a figure exit the old château and come toward her, traversing the arched bridge that spanned the lake. As he stepped upon earth again, the sky roofed with clouds. Wind whipped his clothing and tugged at her coat. Chilling her face, as if summer had suddenly died and winter descended. Adriana muttered to herself that was her old self-dying. Her new one being birthed.

He stopped a foot from her, bowed, and asked in French, “Are you the one from England, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” she barely heard her own voice.

He held out his hand, eyes dark and fathomless. “Come then, the Madame is expecting you.”

Adriana took a step and then paused, looking at her hand before pulling off the long velvet glove and studying the ring her father had given her—the Moorland crest in the center of a large emerald. Each of his children had one in some fashion. Her father the duke had presented hers the night of her debut.

She had failed as his daughter, at least the one he hoped she would be. She had run from her family because she did not want them to know what a fool she had been. How weak and stupid she had proved to be. Despite how she felt about his not claming her before, she had just enough love for him, to have wanted to please him, above all others.

She took it off her hand and slid it into the pocket of her coat. Meeting the bland expression of the servant who watched the action, in a like vein, Adriana felt a little sick to her stomach but sucked it up. She had made her decision and at least this was a choice she had made on her own, for herself.

She did not take his hand but walked behind him to the bridge and across the darkened waters.

The servant seemed to vanish at the door as it was pulled wide. Adriana met the eyes of the man who held each latch before he dropped his gaze over her, up her, and smiled enigmatic. He had on a white ruffled shirt, his hair long and rippling black. He sported a mustache and goatee. Very artist looking.

When he stepped back, Adriana knew it was her last chance, her very last opportunity to change her mind, go back to England, her family as the proper young woman she was trained to be. There was a possibility her father’s powerful rep could wipe it all away. She was intelligent enough to know that all the trappings of wealth, her father’s power, her half brothers, their wives…people would be there if she chose to return. Nevertheless, she had gone too far past girlhood to be the same young woman they thought they knew. She had erased any chances of a respectable marriage, even if the duke’s influence induced some lord to offer. Which she would refuse. She certainly did not have an ally in that cream of society he moved in. They had relished knowing of her secret downfall.

She knew, like a daughter does, that her mother put her hopes in her to obliterate any scandal remaining of Juliana and Moorland’s affair. She had the best schools, the strictest training, been sheltered, although had her ways of finding out, all the other secrets in the family.

Because she had seen her mother’s pain and longing—living in Moorland’s shadow, she had vowed to rise to the peak her mother expected. She had tried—been exquisitely careful. But for a cad and a bounder, she had almost grasped it. But for her foolish heart. In spite of cattiness and gossip, the whispers, she had come within reach. She had felt, almost tasted, the sense of heady power and envy, because of who her father was.

She could have all that again, in some faux fashion. Under some pretense…

Too late, much too late, she discovered her weakness, her vulnerabilities, in the arms of a liar.

She drew in a deep breath and for the last time let his names pass her lips on a whisper, “Ivan, Lord Heartly, you bloody bastard. Make you have a long and miserable life.”

The male, back from the doors, chuckled deeply. It echoed through the high chambers when she stepped determinedly inside.

“I would hate to be that man, Mademoiselle, Adriana.”

“Call me E’lina.” She gave him her middle name. “I prefer it.”

He arched his brow but nodded and took her coat and hat, waving her toward a rich and elaborate carved table, and then joining her. It was covered with lustrous silver plates piled high with scrumptious foods, goblets by each plate and flowing platters down the center. Candelabras illuminated the plaster walls, covered in stunning art, and bouquets of blood red roses lined the table and spilled dramatically from gold vases.

He seated her and then himself, poured wine and lifted his goblet in salute. His dark eyes went over her hair, down over her face and throat, watching her drink, then swallow. “You fit Madame’s requirements better than I imagined. In fact you surpass my own expectations.”

She laved the wine from her lips, setting the cup down and settling back to regard him in kind. “I’m sure I will, given time. Are you a personal friend?”

He sat back too, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. “I am her lover. A fellow artist. I take it you did not realize all the requirements of those housed here? The students sometimes are also picked to pose for Madame or myself. I sculpt and do silhouettes. A specialty of mine is sensual art. I can already imagine your likeness in pure ivory.”

“Should I know you?”

“I sign my work simply, Fontain.”

Adriana blushed and quickly willed it to subside. She knew him, although his work had been considered scandalous and the students forbidden to even mention him. She had heard whispers in London too that men went to private viewings to purchase his work for their collections.

He smiled charmingly and Adriana guessed his age at forty, although Madame was rumored to be fifty and five. He was handsome in that flamboyant way. He said teasingly, “The answer. Non, you likely should not know of me. Ladies of the aristocracy, unwed ones, would not recognize a Fontain.”

“I’d like to forget my background and connections whilst here.” She stared at him meaningfully. “I’m a grown woman with interests outside what the titled in England expect from their daughters.” Adriana made a decision then added, “Let us be frank, Monsieur. I was born a duke’s bastard and lived that way for fifteen years. Given the best or not—expectations notwithstanding.”

“You could never deny your blood by looks, Mademoiselle E’lina. You have the finest aristocratic bones—and red hair aside, which I adore. By the by your father is one of the most influential and handsomest men in that country.”

Adriana mentally groaned. She should have guessed she had been looked into. Deciding to play it all very blasé and cool, she shrugged, “Not everyone is of that world. I had counted on simply being myself here.”

“Your identity is safe between us. I am selfish enough now that I have laid eyes on you, to promise you that protection, simply so you will sit for me, also. In return I will introduce you to my world of art.”

He grinned and sipped then rested his elbows by his plate. “You are not the first to come here in secret, Mademoiselle. Nor will you be the only model who does not want themselves recognized. We have ways to assure that is honored. I did say I do sensual art and contrary to popular belief, it is not simply any nude body or suggestive pose that makes the sculpture or silhouette sensual. It is the whole package.”

He sat back and eyed her again, seeming to consider before saying, “I have a man who models for me—when I can lure him here. He is by far the most popular with men and women. Madame has used him in depictions of Roman warriors, Vikings, even biblical Samson. He has a blessed form, a body that no common yeoman could achieve. Thus far I have been unable to talk him into modeling with a female. But with your height…the two of you together…” He kissed his fingers.

She took a long drink of her wine, feeling a sense of inner panic, but aware that declining now would win her no favor with the artist. She wanted his favor. She wanted to learn what he did. Adriana also reminded herself that she had learned all those other life lessons and art, even sensual art, was beautiful and…well art. It was not like words, seductions, and lies. She felt a visceral connection to art, understood the nuances of creating it.

“Is he a Frenchman?”

Fontain shrugged. “He was born in Marseille. As far as I know, he was orphaned young.” He glanced away. “That is not common knowledge I assume. He is someone who does not like to talk much. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.” She did, perfectly. She hoped no one here learned whom she was.

“I do not know what he does or where he goes, save that he is at my disposal and Madame’s for a month in the spring. We pay him extremely well, because the work I feature him in, brings the highest prices.”

Adriana knew how much collectors were willing to pay for art. She could imagine that anything out of the public eye that sensual art, at exclusive showings, would fetch a fortune.

“I’ve a life sized bronze of him in the gardens I will show you after you’ve met Madame, who is working in the studio at the moment. Or perhaps after dinner?"

“I’d love to see it.”

An hour later, standing in the impressive gardens, Adriana was in awe of the bronze figure. The male was six feet and five, carved with powerful muscle and sinew. The semi nude showed everything from round buttocks under a flimsy knotted cloth across his groin, to long powerful legs. And that face…the expression…loose curls hugged a strong head and nape. He had a wide brow, Roman nose, sensual mouth and rugged jaw. It spoke virility and strength, of elemental man. It was such raw power that she understood exactly what the artist meant by blessed, the balance of height, bone, potency was amazing.

Her hands unconsciously touched the warmed statue, tracing the dip and swell of muscle on his calf. She had the odd thought stepping back, that she would love to see the color of his eyes, his expression in skin tones—for the depiction was of a man standing, partly reaching out, and partly gazing in some far, distant direction. It was so perfect, capturing the essence of being torn between the now and the unknown.

“It’s amazing. Breathtaking.”

Fontain was following her gaze and there was pride in his voice as he murmured, “Although the desire to capture that motion and expression were mine, I must admit that the model made it authentic. He has a gift, or some sense of capturing emotions, which makes him perfect as a model. It’s a pity he’s not at my leisure to use him all the time.” He laughed.

Yes, having viewed and studied art for many years Adriana had to agree. It was the man who breathed life into the bronze.

Fontain came and took her arm. “Madame should be done by now. The others have already arrived and been given their apartments. I will hand you over to Bell, who will help you find yours.”

“Merci.”

At the entrance he gazed at her again and said, “It is an artist’s gift to read people. To reach into even the doors they close and try to hide. Though you are young, E’lina—I am looking forward to digging beneath the layers.”

“I don’t know if I like that.” She joked. She liked him, though, and despite his age there was a youth and vitality in him, also a curiosity which showed.

He half smiled. “That is what makes it all so fascinating. To want to draw the viewer to the painting or sculpture and make them wonder what it is that goes on behind the expression. Only we will know. You and I. we will make use of it. The body can speak its own language, and artist; those who love art also, respond to it.”

Later as she was shown to her apartments, a rather elaborate and grand set of rooms in the west wing, decorated in jewel tones and antique French furnishing—on the top most floors, Adriana looked out over the lake, while the woman, Bell, was chatting about having come here twelve years ago to pose for Madame and how many of the paintings she was in. Many famous ones, Adriana admitted, recognizing the names. Bell had that dark hair with white skin, a kind of virgin/heroine look to her. She was petite and slim. A beauty still at twenty and eight.

However, whilst listening, answering, she watched the sun break over the lake and mused that her allowance was sent to the flat she had taken upon arrival whilst studying at the art academy the first semester—awaiting Madam’s acceptance. Thus she had to arrange for them to be sent here, as well as her belongings. Which meant, in a round about way, she would have to send the Duke of Moorland her address, to communicate with her family.

When the time came, she hoped to earn her own living. To somehow break free from the life she likely never was meant to be born into—to live. They would never accept her, the ton dragons. She was not pure enough in any sense for those lofty lords to court her. Hypocritical but fact. Most of all, she did not want it for herself either. She loathed the idea of society at the moment.

The woman left and Adriana folded her arms, gazing at nothing outward. If the affair was uncovered and wasn’t enough to shock her father—modeling for Fontain certainly would. Though she was serious about studying art, she understood Madame chose her because she wished for her to pose also. Fontain assured no one would recognize her. She believed him.

No one should find out.

Adriana felt some insane laughter tease at the back of her mind. Ivan knew her as the poised and naive girl in white, full of enough romantic dreams to believe his every word. Truth be known, even giving him her body had been more about fanciful romance than mature desire on her part. Because in her eyes—he had been the dashing, suave and perfect older hero.

“What rot.” She whispered on sigh of self-disgust. “He’s a bloody cad who wanted only to bed Moorland’s bastard daughter. Perhaps even to prove a point, of just how baseborn I was. I fell right into it.”

Suddenly Adriana dropped her hands and shook her head in denial. She had cried and torn her heart out for six months over him, over the betrayal. “I’m not that girl anymore. I’m bloody well going be my own woman now.”

There was a scratch on the door and she turned and called, “Come in.”

A handsome young man, blond and blue eyed swung open the door. “Mademoiselle E’lina?”

“Yes.”

”I am George Roués.” He nodded slightly and grinned, looking more like an Adonis with stark white teeth. “We are assembling to meet with Madame now. She requests you join us.”

She walked over and he offered his arm.

E’lina, she said in her mind… E’lina was going to emerge from this experience a stronger, more independent woman. Her father was likely going to disown her anyway over the affair—she may as well break all ties now.

She entered a large sitting room just off Madame’s large studio. However, Adriana hardly noticed anything but the woman seated in a comfortable chair. Madame Chardanu was a full figured woman with lush golden blond hair. At the moment she was dressed in a straight lined, low bodice, deep blue gown with gold Egyptian embroider. As introductions were made, it occurred to Adriana that though she did look in her early fifties, there was an almost other worldly look to the woman’s sapphire eyes. She was handsome in that understated way. It was the character that was compelling. The talent that made the aura around her so strong.

Nevertheless, as Madame began to speak of art, of painting and as they arose and toured the studio; it clicked in her head what it was. Here was a woman who loved and lived what she painted. She brought history, love, war, faith, fear, and her own imagination to vivid life and each painting showed the hours upon hours of carefully getting every detail right.

She looked at Adriana when they exited for coffee and said in her husky tones, “You must have a passion for it. You must see it, smell it, and hear it, awake and asleep. It is like love and lust mingled. You crave it and you desire it, but at times you take all your emotions, dark and light, into it. The canvas is your lover and you cannot be satisfied until you are drained of all you brought to it. Then a respite, but always, always the yearning.”

For a moment Adriana envied anyone that kind of love or passion. It was certainly deeper than fairy tales and dashing heroes. Her gaze went to Fontain who had entered and she noticed his expression when he looked at Madame, his enthrallment and that certain light burning in his dark eyes.

It did not help her to realize that she had thrown away much for a youthful folly that did not even come close to that.

* * * *

London, England….

Desalle, who was wed to the Duke of Moorland’s daughter, Bronté, still looked singular amid the duke’s sons, John Raven Myric, the Marquis, and Xavier Myric, a viscount. Both out of the ordinary English peers. As was their friend, and one of the investors in his now legit merchant business, Romel Boehler, Earl of Courtland. Who also happened to be wed to Toni/Antoinette, sister to Raven and Xavier’s wives, Jaiden and Layla. A best friend to his own wife, Lady Bronté.

However it was the one time secret daughter of the duke with his former mistress and now second wife, Juliana Brule, who brought them all together after a week of balls and theater and respectable trots in the park with their wives. Not exactly an ex pirate’s favorite pastime but Desalle suffered it, as they did, because not only had they promised their wives to help find out what drove Adriana from London to Paris, away from her family, but the duke had asked them to do so discreetly, Juliana had secretly asked them. The young woman was half sister to the Marquis and Viscount, even if getting wed, having children, had preventing them from getting to know the girl as they should have—everyone was concerned.

Desalle was aware that Bronté tried during Adriana’s debut, but much like her mother, Adriana was private and contained. At least they assumed so. Bloody hell even he felt guilty since they were his family in a sense, and although his looks and birth and everything else was far from what a duke and the rest could desire for their daughter—he loved Bronté, and thus should have made more of an effort to join her during that season and perhaps see what the gel was about.

He did not carry the amount of guilt, though, that Bronté, Raven and Xavier did, since she was their sister by blood. Nor that of the duke…for all those obvious reasons.

The females were at Raven’s townhouse comparing notes, thus the men had gathered at Raven’s favorite coffee shop, finding a private corner to assemble, light their cheroots, sipping coffee—whilst each man decided just how much to reveal to their wives.

“I think they know,” Romel intoned and snuffed the match. “The ladies aren’t stupid. You have an older man, at least much too old for a girl out of the schoolroom. A known rake before his marriage—a cad in every sense. It is not a few kisses that drove the girl from England. Nor are the whispers, when any of us enter a club or ballroom, due to their normal disdain of anyone not perfumed and simpering. I think they are laughing smugly.”

A nerve ticked in Raven’s tanned jaw. His dark eyes studied his coffee in his cup before he said, “I guessed as much. I have heard of Hartley by rep. He considered it a game to seduce virgins. The only thing that has stopped him is marrying into the Cunningham family. He needed the fortune, the woman drug her feet—obviously smart enough to know what she was getting in him, a title only. I would say that under his father in law’s eye, he will keep his mouth shut. And keep his trousers on for awhile.”

“But,” Xavier sat back, “Just to assure he does…”

“Right.” Raven nodded glancing up at him. “I have some business in Hampshire. I will pay him a discreet call.”

Romel set his own cup down after drinking, looking around, then murmured, “I realize, we all do, that Adriana is now past the age where she needs looked after—and as much as we all hate to voice it, putting the things in that journal together with the gossip, I would venture to say she’s learned the worst sort of lesson…”

“Father’s hiding her so long did not help,” Xavier grit. “He kept her in the shadows, even from us.”

Raven added, “And he, without needing to say a word, had those same unattainable expectations of her as he did Bronté.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I’d love to call Hartley out. That bastard knew Adriana’s background. He knew who we, who father was—”

“It’s too late for that.” Xavier offered. “Too late to be the brothers we should have been to her.”

Romel looked between them. “She’s only twenty years old. I wed a young woman that age, remember? She is fled because of those whispers, because that bloody ton considers her ruined and because of her fear of the duke finding out and her mother, probably. She is likely devastated. But at least she took some action—she found out, admittedly the hard way, exactly what her mistakes were and what Hartley was.”

“I’ve nothing against her choosing her own life.” Raven voiced. “I applaud it, in fact. I have seen her art, she is better than good, and her school marks and the books she read shows how serious she takes it. Juliana said her own mother was an artist who did landscapes. It is the circumstances that drove her to Paris, that worry me, and her state of mind. Her thinking, rightly so, that she could come to none of us. Jaiden said as much. She wants to go to Paris and I expect all of our wives will, but I want to assure myself that Hartley isn’t stupid enough to ever mention my sister among his conquests.”

Desalle listened to the discussion go on for several moments. He and Bronté talked of it constantly of late. There were obvious reasons he avoided going to Paris—though he went covertly on occasion. He had killed a man there as a boy. In addition, his worst memories were there. He did know certain artist, and Joris, his first mate, had a mother who studied at the best academy there. Of course she amused herself and Desalle by painting rather erotic portraits of his likeness. Still, he had more contacts—or Joris did, because he went back often, than the Myrics.

In essence Adriana was like a sister to him too, being his wife’s sister and though he was not the sort to gather with ladies of breeding, his wife and the wives of his friends aside, he realized he was in this highbrow family. He did feel that same protective instinct. Knowing personally how Bronté was raised in those strict schools and being taught nothing of the realities of the world.

He hated, too, that the bastard seduced young Adriana. Desalle had no tolerance for lechers, particularly old rakes who made it a game with many of the females of the ton, seducing the naive chits. He knew that is what enraged Bronté, too.

After an hour when the men were going to collect their wives for dinner at a nice hotel, he said on the street, “I’ll talk to Joris. I have a feeling Adriana is too mature now to demand she return to the bosom of her family, and though I am the least here to understand these tender, well-bred chits, I am assuming she needs time to forgive herself. God knows you English chaps put your females on a pedestal and heaven help them if they slip an inch.” He lit a cheroot among their protestations that they were not the least bit like that.

Desalle knew that and said so. “I mean the ton. Moreover, your father, in spite of his own secrets and recent mellowing. Let us just assume she is bloody human, all right? She could very well be making the best decision for herself. You don’t want her wed to one of those priggish fops or low life debauched…”

”No, we don’t.” Raven cut him off as they climbed into the coach.

“Well,” Desalle blew a stream of smoke, his olive eyes on the thick crowded streets. “I know a few people and Joris might. Someone who can look out for her, perhaps…”

Raven’s lips quirked. “Why you old pirate. You really do care.”

Desalle snorted. “I’ve a bloody wife I care about, true. But yes, I’ll admit getting used to calling the Myrics family is growing on me—”

“It should, by god.”

He glanced at Xavier. “I said it was. I can hear Bronté now though, fretting over the freethinking bohemian artist lifestyle—if not how dangerous Paris is. And it is. There are cold blooded bastards everywhere, my friends.”

Romel’s brow rose. “Are you suggesting we can keep our wives from going to drag her back home?”

“I’m suggesting we should.” Desalle looked like he did not relish the prospect either. “Your father is supporting her. He knows she is studying at Madam’s chateau. As much we realize both he and Juliana wish to demand she return—we and soon our wives know what the duke does not. We know why she fled. Give her the time she needs, let her study, I say. Because who needs this bloody society? They invite the Myrics, just to titillate themselves on whom Bronté wed or what scandal they have raised—”

“Society is not the only reason we want her home.”

“I realize that.” Desalle looked at Xavier. “I think the ladies should write her. At least give her a sense that they are there for her. But she’s some talent and Madame is widely known and it can do her only good to peruse her own interest.”

“I’m still going to pay Hartley a call.”

“Yes. Do.” Desalle eyed Raven’s set jaw. “But allow me to speak to Joris and to discuss it with Bronté. I think we can find a way of looking out for her, without forcing her to do something she’s not ready for.”

He looked at all the men in turn. “I no more understand why a man like Hartley takes things so far—destroy these young girls’ dreams, take everything they cherish. I have never understood it. But being wed to a woman brought up to hold all that in the highest regard, I know that misguided or not, they can blame themselves or think all men are that way. Or think the rest of the world, their family values that virtue above them as a person.”

“Yes,” said Raven. “Jaiden had so much pride. She suffered horribly with a husband and a life I can still scarcely think of without losing sleep. It affected her deeply and forced choices on her no young woman should have to make alone.”

“Just so.” Desalle eyed him. “We don’t know Adriana. We know that her first years as the daughter of Moorland’s mistress likely affected her. We know that she was someone else behind the façade we and our wives saw. We know now, that she was drawn to the worst sort of man—who took complete advantage. Women are better at subtly conveying what a young woman needs to hear and our wives can do that. I, we, on the other hand, know the worst that is out there. And we can, in some sense, look out for her.”

After they collected their wives, split up into three coaches—where the men were afforded time to convey what they knew and suspected to the ladies and discuss it—they met up at the hotel, were seated and ordered. The women quietly discussing and debating over wine, whether or not they agreed with their husband’s suggestions.

Bronté covered Desalle’s hand, her lime green eyes regarding him with some pride that still nearly brought him to his knees. Tonight all the ladies were in fine silks and satins, jewels, with their hair up and looking every inch the blue bloods they were. Though he had pulled his braids back into one tail, it was still two foot long and weaved with rubies—and Desalle knew his dusky skin and Jewish blood mingled with the tattoos and leather clothing was in contrast to the men’s nip waisted coats, cravats and polished Hessians. However his wife, his woman, the mother of his twins, loved him the way he was. Secretly he knew she loved his rakish side.

However, the pride in her was hearing his opinion on what to do about her half sister, and he was relived when she murmured, “You really did understand me then, didn’t you. I think you are absolutely right. We cannot drag her back here, and we must write her, conveying without giving the details that we understand and that nothing would make us not love her.”

He kissed her hand then released it, nodding and eyeing the others who were listening. “She obviously has dreamed of studying there. His Grace doesn’t like it, but even he will not forbid it.”

Toni set down her wine glass and eyed him thoughtfully. “I’m half satisfied because I know Raven will set that bastard straight and make sure he is wise enough to keep what he knows quiet.”

“Me too.” Jaiden touched her husband’s shoulder then regarded the women. “We’ll face down the whispers on her behalf. We hadn’t intended to stay the whole of the season, but by god, we will.”

“Desalle has a run to make. But I will be here.” Bronté nodded. “We will show ourselves in force and with the duke. I will speak with Juliana privately.”

Layla waited for the food to be served then idly tore a croissant as she murmured, “She thought she was pregnant. I cannot imagine the fear she went through…”

“And the bastard was already flown back to his bride to be…”

Toni looked at Bronté who said that. “We will talk of her grand time in Paris, of her studying with the famous Madam Chardanu—and we will be excited for her, dammit. We will be excited in public, as sisters should be. Moreover, if they dare whisper something disparaging, we will let it be known right quickly that they are mistaken. And the duke will do so also—he will put it about how proud he is of her…”

“And that she is not pining for that bounder either,” Layla nodded.

Desalle smiled as all the men did, knowing how strong their wives could be in the face of adversity—and in championing those they loved.

After dinner Xavier and Raven, their brides, along with Bronté, went to see the duke and Juliana privately. His grace had political meetings most of the day and they knew he and Juliana were invited to a private dinner with the Prime Minister.

After kissing his wife, Desalle headed for the Siren, it was docked beside his own ship, the Ruby. He and his former first mate now captained what would grow into a line of ships if things continued to prosper.

He found the captain in his cabin, as different from Desalle’s somewhat decadent one, as night and day. Although now that Bronté and his children oft sailed with him, Desalle had stored his erotic art and somewhat toned down the space. Bronté still called it their oasis, something out of Arabian nights. Joris’s quarters reflected his world travels, his love of unique knives and swords and reminded Desalle more of a Viking hut, more Norse influenced, than a modern man’s taste.

Brawny, shaved bald, and strong, the first mate arose from a desk suited to his hulk and grinned at Desalle. “What brings you to the docks when we both know you keep your lady abed every second before we make a run?”

“I can suffer an hour,” Desalle chuckled and accepted a brandy offered. He found a hide chair to sit in, something Joris brought from Iceland and made himself comfortable. “How was your mother when last you were in Paris?”

“Fine. As amusing as ever.” The man sat down, putting his boots up on the desk and sipping his own drink. “Did I tell you she bought another house? No. she bought a larger one, no doubt to fill with all those friends who never seem to have gainful employment.”

“She likes her vagabonds. They are her muse; she once told me when you brought her aboard the Ruby.”

“Yes well. It’s a good thing her art brings in coin, because she feeds half of Paris.”

Nodding Desalle and Joris discussed the sixty-year-old woman longer, Desalle recalling her as a dusky skinned and dark eyed woman of petite size. She had a penchant for colorful turbans and shawls, a bawdy humor and would likely give away everything she owned if not for her son and what Desalle had traded her for the paintings before.

Sobering a moment, Desalle brought Joris up on the situation of Adriana. The man knew of her, knew somewhat of that aristocratic life, through their long friendship with Raven. Mostly through his exposure to Bronté, who still amazed the brawny sea dog with her breeding and manners. She treated every sailor and cabin boy as equal and in some sense, Joris was like an uncle to their children, having them aboard his own ship when Bronté was present.

The man frowned several times, cursed a few, and then muttered, “What is it with these so-called English gentlemen? Who would ruin a sweet girl like that? Saw a likeness of her—stunning. I could understand men wanting her. Nevertheless, that is an out and out bastard, if you asked me. He should be whipped.”

“Yes. However, you know how these things go for the titled. It would paint her black instead of him. Raven can handle it discreetly while putting the fear of God in the man, hopefully. If he has any sense, at least.”

Joris snorted in disgust, refilled their glasses and offered, “At least she is out of it. Might not be ideal for ladies of breeding, to be on their own, but everyone knows Madam Chardanu’s protégés are envied. My mother reveres the woman. There are few females who can gain any notice in the art world.”

“Yes. Everyone and everything shows that Adriana had a passion and talent for it. However, unlike most females, she is left under this cloud. Unlike most families, the duke and the rest have not been one: a family. None can say they know her, obviously, since this came to light.” He told him what they planned, the females, writing to her, how they would squash any rumors amid the ton.

Desalle said finally, “I’ve come to realize I’m a part of that family even if I am the black sheep. I feel responsible and protective.”

“Of course. She’s Bronté’s sister.”

“I have talked to them and suggested we could find a way to watch out for her. I know it is a strange situation, but you and I also know that she’s likely vulnerable and none of us will sleep easy with no one there…”

“I wouldn’t either. She’s living the life of an adult, but despite what she thinks or what has happened, she’s still Moorland’s daughter and an heiress, nothing can change that.”

“Just so.”

Joris paced and went to look out the porthole. “I know a man who models for Madam.”

“Who?” Desalle was all ears.

Joris turned and met his gaze. “Rev’el de Argues.”

Desalle strangled on his drink. “You jest.”

”No.” Joris smiled. “He did so in his twenties, to make money. It paid well obviously.”

Desalle stared at him, still in shock. “I have not recognized him in paintings…”

“You don’t particularly study art that closely.” Joris laughed. “Let’s face it, my mother’s work you enjoyed on a personal level. But I doubt you’d know a Van Gogh from something your son painted with his hands.”

Desalle eyed him dryly. “I’m in a distracted mood, I’ll fok’in let that insult pass for now.” He muttered, “Make the man a captain and he thinks himself a wit.”

Grinning, momentarily Joris sat on the edge of the desk. “Shall I write to him?”

“I don’t know.” Desalle actually winced. “I’d trust the man with my life. But it would give the duke no comfort knowing who watched over his daughter.”

“So don’t inform him.”

Desalle rubbed a hand down his face, stared at the floor, argued in his mind, but knew there was no way to get someone inside the Château that Madam did not invite.

Joris cut into his thought, “He’s an extremely intelligent man otherwise he could not have played so many duel roles during the war and still have his skin—his secrets.”

“I know that.”

Joris added, “And, we both know how he feels about women. A block of ice, or seems so.”

Desalle muttered, “His wife, Isabelle…Isabella, I believe her name was. He muttered it once under a fever in Spain. She was burned up. He had concocted some explosive…”

“Yes. I heard as much too when he allowed himself to drink too much. I take it that was when he left Marseilles, lost everything he owned. Likely he met Madame or one of her agents—have to admit he is a well-built bastard. Did it to feed himself, I assume.”

“Hum. Hard to know him, other than the fact I’d be dead a couple dozen times had he not come up with some story explaining why I was—where—I shouldn’t have been.”

“Smuggling.” Joris thought fondly on those days, obviously. “Yes. He seemed to pop up on some strange shores. Half of the time even I couldn’t see through his disguises.”

“What does he, these days? Aside from pose.” Desalle shook his head as if he could not put that with the man he knew.

“I don’t know that he does that still, just that he did, so there’s a chance Madame would welcome him. As for what he does, your guess is as good as mine. He likely has a dozen names and a dozen professions, in as many countries.”

“Still spying you think?”

“Likely trying to stay alive and out of sight of those who may want him dead—residue from that previous life.”

“Bloody dangerous profession.”

Joris snorted, they both having done a bit to meet their own ends.

“Shall I write to him?”

“Yes.” Desalle stood and sighed. Eyeing him, he added, “Although he likely has more contacts than both you and I, tell him if there is a need, we now have friends in influential places.”

Joris laughed. “You mean father in laws, and brothers in law, don’t you.”

Desalle shrugged. “Legitimacy has its advantage.”

Joris walked him up on deck and to the gangplank, saying in parting, “You’re going home to bed one of them, you lucky bastard. Some of us are too damn ugly to snag a fine lady.”

Turning Desalle winked at him. “Your time is coming, my friend. And when it does, I’m going to tell her all your appalling traits.”

“I should be so lucky.” Joris leaned against the rail watching Desalle climb into the crested coach. He envied the man—by god if he did not.