opulence and excess of the décor that was Rouge et Noir—Max had expected more of the same. What they discovered was warmth and luxury and understated elegance, with a surprisingly homely feel to it. Thick rugs muffled their footsteps and the walls were covered with artwork. Everywhere there were haphazard piles of books and magazines, some left open as though the reader had just stepped away for a moment and would return with a drink in hand.
Demarteau led them to a comfortable sitting room painted in shades of blue and green, where a fire blazed in the grand marble hearth and a man sprawled in a large wing-back chair. Long legs extended out before him, his booted feet set up on a footstool. In one hand he held a book, obscuring his face, and in the other he dangled a glass of wine negligently by its rim, his hold so precarious Max feared it would fall.
“Brother, we have guests,” Demarteau said.
The figure in the chair stiffened for a second and then relaxed, the book lowering to reveal thickly lashed eyes of such a startling blue that Max was a little taken aback. He was a very young man, little more than a boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, eighteen at most. It was hard to tell his age. Though his face was astonishingly beautiful, his eyes held the weight of an older soul, one who had survived. His hair was very dark, close to black like his brother’s but not quite, the candlelight burnishing it bronze. He stood in one fluid movement, almost catlike.
“I am honoured,” he said, his voice soft as he moved towards them and bowed. “I am Louis César, and it is a pleasure to meet you.”
***
Phoebe looked around the table, a little disconcerted to find herself playing cards with both brothers. She had lost two games so far and Demarteau was watching her, an amused glint in his eyes. It was the look a cat gave a mouse when it was cornered, she decided. He was wondering if she would cheat or not. She bristled a little, glaring back at him. It was one thing to cheat a wretch like Alvanly, but quite another in a game of this sort.
“Ignore my brother, Lady Ellisborough. He likes to try to… unnerve his opponents.”
Phoebe looked to Louis César, who had addressed her and who had won both hands, though he scarcely seemed to be attending the game, his attention riveted to his book which he’d set on the table.
“Is that what he’s doing?” Phoebe said, quirking one eyebrow. Demarteau grinned at her. “Is it a good book?” she asked, a little peeved that Louis César should win so effortlessly whilst his attention was elsewhere. She had been concentrating furiously and had still lost.
He looked up and turned wide blue eyes to his brother.
“Yes, Louis, you are being rude,” Demarteau said dryly.
To her surprise, the Comte closed the book and set it aside.
“My apologies,” he said, sounding sincere.
Phoebe looked at him with interest. In truth, it was hard to look anywhere else. She had never seen such a beautiful young man. Pretty, even. She wondered if he could pass for a girl and suspected it was possible, for now. There was the promise of broad shoulders and a strong build in his lean body. He would make an impressive figure in a few years when age had filled out his frame. His brother was ahead of him in that respect, a solid, masculine figure even now, despite his youth.
“What were you reading?” she asked, interested.
“The Eve of St Agnes,” he replied, playing his next card.
“Oh, Keats,” Phoebe said in surprise. “You like English poetry?”
Mischief danced in his blue eyes for a moment. “I like English ladies who like English poetry.”
Max chuckled beside her. “So you seek to improve your chances with our womenfolk?”
The comte’s lips pursed.
“Mais non,” he replied, wide-eyed with faux innocence, which made him appear boyish indeed. “I seek only to improve my skills with the language, but… if by chance that ’elps also….”
He shrugged, making them laugh, and Phoebe wondered at him being so flirtatious and confident already. Louis César would grow to be a dreadfully wicked man, she decided.
“Helps,” Phoebe corrected him. “You must sound the ‘h.’”
Louis César gave a heavy sigh and nodded. “Oui, oui, I know, but it is difficult, an ugly sound… helps.”
Phoebe grinned at him. “Very good. You know, your English is excellent.”
“Yes, it is,” he said nonchalantly. “Though I’m better at