To Dance until Dawn - Emma V. Leech Page 0,84

relief. “But may we go to Rouge et Noir too?”

Max snorted and pulled her close. “Yes, love. Anything. Whatever you desire. Though I beg you, do not cheat the owner. I suspect he would not take it well.”

Phoebe tutted at him. “Of course not.”

And then she gave a little shiver, remembering the look in Demarteau’s eyes. No, she did not think he would take it well, either.

***

18th April 1827. Rouge et Noir, 7th Arrondissement, Paris.

Max smiled at the delight in Phoebe’s eyes as he guided her back into the maelstrom and the explosion of decadent pleasure that was Rouge et Noir. Glasses chinked and champagne corks popped, the chatter of voices punctuated at intervals by shouts of triumph or dismay as large sums were wagered on cards, dice, or roulette. Ladies who were less than respectable, and occasionally daring wives, hung off the arms of noblemen, self-made men, and politicians alike, and the air simmered with expectation.

In truth, Max was impatient for this part of the evening to be done, aching with desire for the beautiful woman at his side, but he knew the value of patience. There was spice in anticipation, though the past days had taxed his fortitude to its limits. Yet he did not wish to cut the evening short either, not when he could see the fascination in Phoebe’s expression as she looked about. He was glad to give her this, to share this evening with her and bring her to a place that ought to be forbidden to her, but was safe enough whilst he was at her side. He wanted nothing to be denied her and knew his greatest pleasure in life would always be granting the most outrageous of her wishes and enjoying them with her.

The rich, the titled, and the scandalous all gravitated to this, the most fashionable gambling den in all of Paris. How two incredibly young men had created a business of such obvious wealth and success so quickly was a mystery, but everything about Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau and his brother, Louis César de Montluc, the Comte de Villen, was a mystery. Nicolas was only nineteen, his brother younger still, yet they ruled this elegant and sophisticated venue with an iron fist, and no one dared speak against them. From what little gossip there was to be had, their parents had escaped Le Terroir, when the nobility of France were losing their heads to the guillotine, and they had lost everything of value. They had made the choice between their lives and their fortunes and chosen to live, escaping with little more than the clothes on their backs. What happened next, no one seemed to know, except that their older siblings had died, and that Louis César, the Comte de Villen, had been born into poverty with his illegitimate half-brother standing guard over him.

Two years ago no one knew their names, and in that short space of time they had proven themselves to be clever and resourceful, and dangerous enough that no one would speak a word about them, which only added to the air of mystery that lingered around them.

Max looked up as Demarteau moved to greet them.

“Lord and Lady Ellisborough,” he said bowing deeply. “It is a great pleasure to see you here again.”

“My wife has ambitions to play you at cards,” Max said, sliding his arm about Phoebe’s waist. “And she won’t leave Paris until that ambition has been fulfilled. Might I ask if you would indulge her, so we can return home at some point soon?”

Demarteau grinned, his even white teeth flashing in the light cast by the massive chandelier overhead.

“It would be a great honour to play you, Lady Ellisborough,” he said, holding out his arm to Phoebe.

Phoebe glanced back at him and Max smiled.

“Do you play also, my lord?” Demarteau asked politely.

“No, not tonight, but I should enjoy watching, if you please.”

With a nod, Demarteau guided them through the crush of people to a red door, flanked by two impressively intimidating guards. They moved aside as Demarteau approached, opening the door for them. The sounds of revelry muted at once as the door closed and they were led down a long, dimly lit corridor to another door, also guarded. Phoebe met Max’s eyes as they both wondered where they were being led.

“Our private quarters,” Demarteau said, his dark eyes amused, having read their curious expressions quite correctly.

“We’re honoured,” Phoebe said, as Demarteau opened a door for them.

Once again, they were surprised, for—having seen the