Duality
Chapter 2

Paris, France
October 1814

"Everyone's step seems to be much lighter with the Emperor exiled, don't you think, Dev?"

Deveril gave Percy a skeptical look before bringing the lemonade in his hands to his lips. The drink was over sweetened and warm, and Dev wished that they were serving something much stronger. Grimacing at the taste, he placed the delicate Venetian glass on a nearby table, and turned back to Percy and the ball to which he had been dragged.

"Pray tell, Percy, why are we here?" he asked in a flat tone.

Percy grinned, a twinkle of mischief glinting in his green eyes. "Because we can! By God, Dev, have you forgotten why we left England?"

Dev remained silent for a minute, his eyes taking in the candlelit crystal and gilt gold of the ballroom. Chandeliers dangled prettily above a mass of powdered and perfumed bodies, expensive silk, priceless jewels, and immaculate regimentals all awhirl in a room that could have easily housed an entire battalion. Perhaps Percy was right. Perhaps with Napoleon in Elba, the people did walk with more of a spring in their steps, but the inane chatter of the ladies and the puffed up chests of the decorated officers were beginning to grate on his nerves.

"We left England to avoid the boredom of the Season, Percy," Dev stated as he leaned against one of the Ionic columns that graced the Greek-inspired décor. "I thought we came here to cut a swath of sin and debauchery through the continent, not attend a ball. I could have easily done this back in London."

"But how many of them are being hosted by the Duke of Wellington in one of Napoleon's former residences?" Percy pointed out, a lock of rich brown hair falling across his forehead to add to his excited boyish air.

Dev didn't respond immediately, a rather solemn look gracing his aristocratic features.

"Oh, I had forgotten, Dev," his friend said in a sincere tone. "I was not thinking. I'm sorry."

Dev shook his head. "Don't be, Percy. I sold my commission and left Wellington's service three years ago. I have all but forgotten my time here."

"Still, I do apologize for bringing it up. I know you do not like to discuss anything to do with the war."

Lord Percival Fox, a renowned rake if there ever was one, had been touted as being shallow and self-absorbed, but after five minutes with the man, one could easily be persuaded to think otherwise. Or perhaps it was because Deveril had know the man since they were schoolboys back at Eton, and had witnessed the growing pains that plagued the forgotten fourth son of a duke. Many a summer, Dev had invited - or rescued, as Percy put it - his friend to Billingford Hall, saving him from another dreadful holiday spent within the walls of the school.

But when Dev had gone off to war, Percy had opted for another route - a more indulgent and self-satisfying route. Throughout the salons of the Ton, the young lord had earned the title of an undeniable rogue, and through the men's clubs of St. James, he'd garnered the admiration of all the aspiring idle nobles. And that reputation was the very reason Dev had sought his old friend out the moment he'd resigned from the army.

"Let it go, Percy," Dev affected his bored tone. "I suppose there may be a few amusements to be found here tonight."

Percy smiled his infectious smile. "That's it, old boy. I'm absolutely certain we can find something to entertain us tonight. After all, the most prominent figures in all of Europe are here tonight. And I assure you that the female company they attract will definitely satisfy your palette."

With that, he gave Dev a conspiring wink and walked his way into the crush of people, undoubtedly sniffing his way to the next female he could woo and eventually, conquer.

Dev watched his friend wander off with a wry smile, his own intentions beginning to take a similar path.

"Why, Billingford? I never expected to see you here!"

The former captain turned to look at the speaker, and drew a blank. Dark intelligent eyes stared back at him from a set of uniquely distinguished features. Stylishly cropped blond hair sat atop a discerning face, a face that was still fairly handsome despite the man's slightly advanced years.

"I'm sorry, sir. I seem to be at a disadvantage," Dev said apologetically as he made a quick bow.

The stranger chuckled lightly. "I do not blame you. I believe I was more acquainted with your father than you, although I did meet you during one of your sojourns away from school."

Dev struggled to recall the parade of visitors his father had had during his time at Billingford Hall during his school years. He met with little success.

The blond man smiled. "Robert Stewart," he supplied. "Your father was a great help to me during my time in Parliament."

Lord Castlereagh. The former captain cursed himself for not remembering England's very ambassador at the Congress. The man was a larger than life political figure, having spent time in the House of Commons and later, as a foreign secretary before becoming the nation's representative abroad.

"I do offer my condolences for what happened to your father," Castlereagh continued. "He was a fine man, and I was sad to hear of his passing."

Dev nodded politely and managed to maintain an impassive expression. "Thank you, sir. I was shocked to hear of it as well when I was on the peninsula, but I believe three years is sufficient enough time to allow me to look upon him with pride rather than sadness at everything he had accomplished in life."

It was a speech he had practiced numerous times in the years since his father's death, and although the words sounded empty in his own ears, others believed in its sincerity.

"How true, how true," Castlereagh agreed. "Say, Billingford, have you inherited your father's penchant for politics? I would have to say that the former earl was one of the very few who took his role in the House of Lords seriously. Quite an upstanding and honorable man he was."

Dev flinched inwardly at the descriptives, but he refused to allow any of his thoughts to show. If only honor were hereditary ...

"If by inherit, you mean his Tory leanings, sir, then I would have to apologize," he said smoothly, no longer surprised at how easily he avoided the truth. "I tend to support the Whigs myself."

Being a Tory, Castlereagh did not take offence to the comment. Instead, the older man gave him a good natured slap on the back before shaking his head and laughing. "You know, I was a Whig myself in my earlier years. How the fires of youth blind us at times," he said indulgently. "But come, let me introduce you to some of England's most foremost enemies at the bargaining table."

The statesman ushered Dev toward the other side of the ballroom and finding it difficult - and rude - to ignore the invitation, the younger man followed. The orchestra had started to play the strains of the most recent trend - the Viennese waltz - and thus, they stuck to the outer edges of the room to avoid the swirl of silks. But even from a distance, Dev could see the men to whom Castlereagh was leading him.

Prince Clemens von Metternich was a tall and slender man just entering his forty first year who stood with an imposing bearing that had undoubtedly helped make him the foremost statesman in all of Europe. His shrewd brown eyes scanned the crowd as if he were assessing everyone present for their strengths and weaknesses, all in hopes of using it to his advantage. This very trait was perhaps why he had been the one made to chair the Congress. His companion, on the other hand, was less striking in appearance, but no less recognizable. Charles Maurice de Tallyrand was France's representative at the negotiations, although Dev wondered why. True, the man knew how to handle himself in the political arena, but his heavyset statue and his old fashioned wig painted him as one prone to using underhanded tactics rather than engaging in a fair fight. And the former captain had heard the rumors that only reinforced the impression.

But of all people, Dev knew he was in no position to judge what was wrong or right, and refrained from forming any opinion on the men.

"Gentlemen," Castlereagh said in the way of greeting as he approached the two diplomats. "May I introduce a good friend of mine. Lord Sifton, his Highness Prince Metternich of Austria, and Monsieur Tallyrand."

The men exchanged their pleasantries, and Dev absently wondered how he had ended up in the company of some of the most notable men in Europe.

"How go the negotiations?" he asked to pre-empt any uncomfortable silences.

Metternich remained stone-faced, although he was the first to respond. "The Congress has only been in session for but one week," he said in a low accented voice. "And like all congregations of selfish leaders, little progress has been made." The man tilted his slightly hooked nose up and away from Tallyrand and managed an effectively haughty air.

"But you must agree that once a Bourbon king sits upon France's throne again, everything will move much more smoothly," Tallyrand stated.

"I doubt it will be that simple," Castlereagh added.

"But you do agree that restoring Louis to the throne will be in the best interest of Europe, do you not?" Dev knew that all the men involved, especially Metternich, had heavy right wing philosophies, and stating his support for the status quo would avoid any unnecessary squabbles that night.

The representatives all began to talk at once, and the young earl was more than happy to take on the role of observer in the conversation. There had once been a time when the political situation of the continent had intrigued him. Back then, he had followed his father's dealings avidly, his eagerness to learn and involve himself doing his parent proud. But now, with the chaos that had ensued, he couldn't make himself take more than a passing interest in it. In fact, he had found that he could not take more than a passing interest in anything.

"Gentlemen, it is rare to see you all conversing with each other outside of the negotiations. And conversing amicably at that."

All the bickering men turned to greet the newcomer, and Dev felt something in his stomach tighten as the Duke of Wellington joined in. The national hero was as commanding as he remembered him. With dark brown hair and his awkwardly large nose, the duke was not considered a handsome man by Society's current standards, but thousands of soldiers had and would willingly die for him.

Dev could not understand why he felt uncomfortable standing so close to his former commander. After all, he had left the man's service on legitimate terms and had nothing to be ashamed of. Yet, something within him screamed at him to walk away, to leave the legendary general's presence before the man looked at him and discovered what he truly was.

Before the conversation could continue any further, Dev murmured a weak excuse about searching for Percy and managed to sneak away from the group. It was a meeting of metaphorical giants, and he honestly had no right being there, insignificant as he was.

Slowly, as he skirted around overheated bodies and overwhelmed servants, he began to regain his composure and his ability to breathe. He hadn't even realized that he'd been holding his breath until he walked out of the ballroom. The coolness of the outer chamber did wonders for his flushed skin as he paused briefly to decide where to go.

The long hall of the regal residence stretched out ahead of him with an invitation of silence and calm. The darkness of the corridor was broken periodically by the weak light of mounted lamps, but even with the poor visibility, Dev could make out the rich damask and gold trimming that lined the opulent walls. Unimpressed by the display, he slowly made his way down the hallway, his polished shoes clicking eerily on the pristine marble floor. An emperor had once walked these halls, his stride assuredly carrying him across the tiles countless times. But in the end, even the greatest of men fall, and what had once served an emperor now entertained a mass of frivolity and superficiality.

The music and chatter of the ballroom began to recede as he walked, and he discovered that he was enjoying the silence for once. He continued moving until he could no longer hear the noise, and only then did he stop. Looking to his right, he found a set of double doors, and on impulse, twisted one of the elaborately molded door handles. There was no resistance to his efforts, and he was rewarded with a soft click. Without thinking, he pushed the door open and entered into the room.

Rays of pale moonlight danced through pristinely cleaned windows and onto a thick Aubusson carpet. With the drapes fully open, the silk brocade chaises and large fireplace was clearly illuminated for Dev to see. It was a drawing room, a rather simple affair from what he could make out, the obscured paintings with their finely detailed frames adding a touch of elegance to the muted setting.

But the room was perfect for his needs. It was secluded and quiet, just what he wanted to rein in his runaway thoughts. Carefully closing the door behind him, he made his way to the side cart nestled discreetly in the corner and perused thoughtfully over the selection. Finally, he picked one, unsure of what it was until he took the stopper off the crystal decanter and took a sniff.

Burgundy.

Shrugging indifferently at the choice, he poured himself a glass. As long as it wasn't lemonade, he would make do. After allowing himself a generous serving, he picked up his drink and moved to the nearest chaise. With a subdued sigh, he sat down and took a small sip.

The liquid burned a telltale trail down his throat and into his stomach, causing a small smile to form on Dev's lips. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and forced his muscles to relax. The tension from his encounter with Wellington began to ease and he was grateful for the moment.

Five years. Five whole years had passed since that fateful day he had pursued a dream and lost it. But time seemed to have slowed to a snail's pace since then, each tick of the minute hand taunting him with the nightmare of the men he had led to their deaths and the self he had betrayed. By all the records, he had done nothing wrong that day, his actions having been sanctioned by a commanding officer, but still, his mind kept replaying history and reminding him of the actions he should have taken.

Dev opened his eyes and took another swallow of the burgundy. He swished the drink around in its glass for a second, absently watching the splotches of reflected moonlight play over the dark liquid.

Should have ...

There were so many things that should have happened. His brother should have inherited the title, not die in some meaningless duel over a married woman. His father should have lived to a ripe old age, not succumb to a heart sickness. And he ... he should have been left to rot away in the army and pay for his crimes with his immortal soul, not gain an unwanted earldom and all its entailed wealth.

But here he was, a useless man who had taken the lazy road and resigned his commission the moment his father had died. So much for his dream of making a difference in the war, of creating an imprint in history ... and of becoming a hero.

What was he now but a coward who ran away from everything he had once been? What was he now but a reprobate who lived for the sins of the moment? What did he do now but drink, whore, and gamble? But then again, what else was there for him? His family was gone, his promising military career was non-existent, and his integrity ... well, that had gone up in smoke with that bridge in Pacariça.

Dev brought his drink up to his lips, and after a brief pause, swallowed the rest in a single gulp. There had been a time when such an action would have caused him to sputter and cough, but after three long years of learning and practicing Percy's vices, he was now made of sturdier stuff. Once done, he pushed himself to his feet and brought the empty glass back to the side cart.

He had evaded the crowds long enough. It was time to seek out Percy and perhaps find another form of entertainment, preferably one that could render him senseless until the morning so he wouldn't have to dwell on his maudlin thoughts. He turned toward the door, more than ready to face reality, but paused when a distinctly feminine giggle filtered into the silent room. Looking around for a source, his eyes found a dim yellow glow peeking through a slit at the bottom of the wall left of the drawing room entrance.

Another door?

And an adjoining room too.

The giggle came again, and giving into curiosity, he silently made his way over to the suspicious wall and ran his hands along the anchored paintings and delicate moldings. When his fingers finally had a good hold on the gold-filigreed frame right above the slit of light, he pulled. Without so much as a whisper, the concealed door opened but a fraction of an inch, and he took an involuntary step back.

"Sir, oh, you are wicked!" A female, definitely. And a British one at that.

A husky voice responded with words that were too muffled for Dev to make out.

Slowly, he leaned forward to get a glimpse of the source and smirked.

The door connected to a library, the shelves lining the walls with an impressive number of bound books that swayed in and out of shadow in the flickering candlelight. Even through the tiny gap, Dev caught the earthy scent of the aged parchment and musky leather. However, it was not these obvious features that held his interest but something else altogether. In the middle of the room sat a sturdy wooden desk. And on that desk were sprawled two figures in a pool of rich satins and smooth silks. The man, cravat undone and coat discarded, lay atop a woman, his face buried in her ample bosom. And she ... she had her blond head tilted back against the polished mahogany surface, her closed eyes and blissful expression presented in clear view to Dev.

He took a step closer, oddly intrigued by the scene before him, and he felt himself harden as the woman released a low, sensual moan. He watched as her skirts were hiked up, the silky ivory material flowing like sinful cream over her hips as her pale slender thighs rose to allow the man better access to herself. Leisurely, her partner reached a free hand down into the juncture between those said thighs, and shifted slightly to suckle a nipple that had spilled over the low neckline.

Dev moistened his own lips.

She gasped.

Dev gasped.

He couldn't quite make out anything of the male, save for what appeared to be a head of rich auburn hair eclipsed in the shadowed candlelight, But by the looks and sounds of everything, he obviously knew how to please a woman, stroking and sucking and teasing until his companion writhed beneath him.

"Oh, monsieur, yes," the woman groaned. "Take me quickly. I ... I can not stand this."

Dev saw the man lift his head up from her breasts and his lips twitch into a semblance of a wicked smile.

"Why, Madame," he drawled softly. "What would your husband say to such a wanton display?"

Although the man's face was still too lowered for Dev to make out, the voice was low and rich, seductive enough that even he, an observer, felt goose flesh rise along his arm. He didn't need to see the other man's expression to know his intentions.

"To hell with my husband," she responded. "I want you."

And with that, she pulled her male partner down, capturing his lips in a hungry kiss as her arms encircled his neck and prevented him from escaping. She devoured him, just as he devoured her, their mutual moans of enjoyment mixing in with the slide of fabric against skin and wood.

The flickering candlelight caressed them, embracing them in a warm orange glow that set them aflame in a primal dance that preceded time itself. It was a tableau of surreal beauty. And it was a tableau of sinful indulgence. Exposed limbs strained, muted grunts echoed, and before Dev knew it, the man entered her in one quick thrust. Her mouth broke away from their kiss and gaped as if she couldn't take in enough air.

But her partner continued on his course, his hips slowly grinding up and down, up and down as his breathing escalated. And soon, she caught onto his rhythm, matching him stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust. She came first, her fingernails digging into his back as her strangled cries of satiation filled the room. She laid exhausted on the polished wood as his pace became more frantic, more desperate, and in a matter of seconds, he arched his back, his climax written in the taut cords of his exposed neck and the relief on his face.

Dev could partially see him now. The dull swaying light gave him the appearance of a fallen angel, symmetrical features set against smooth shadowed skin. His lips were full - albeit kiss-swollen - yet firm, highlighted by delicate cheekbones and long lashes that any female would envy. And then, he looked up ... revealing a pair of startling blue eyes that caused Dev's heart to pause for but a fraction of a second.

He took a step away from the crack he had been peeping through and felt his breath catch in his throat. He could easily rhapsodize about how the other man's eyes were soul shattering, how that piercing gaze seemed to have delved into the depths of his soul and tilted the axis of his world. But if he did, he would be bordering on cliché, and those eyes were definitely not cliché. Still, he felt something in him stir, a familiarity of unknown origins, a restlessness so to speak that had just been awakened, an urge to seek out an answer to a long buried mystery.

"Why, Dev, my man, I did not know you had a liking for such things."

The whispered words that came from behind him nearly made him jump out of his skin. But before he could embarrass himself, his mind recognized the voice, and his body turned itself around with fluid grace.

"Percy," he said quietly, and a little angrily. "What in the devil's name are you doing here?"

A strange lopsided grin graced the other man's lips. "I had thought to come and look for you so I could tell you to head back to your rented apartments." Percy continued to speak in a hushed tone, ensuring that the occupants of the adjoining room would not hear them. "I had found some entertainment for myself that I did not think you would be interested in. However, having watched over your shoulder for over two minutes without you even noticing me ... well, I do believe my opinion of you was slightly misdirected."

Dev straightened and kept his composure at the insinuation. He was a man of the world after all, and there was nothing he should be ashamed of. "Entertainment?" he asked as he casually pushed the hidden doorway closed. "Just what exactly are you talking about?"

The wicked smile persisted on Percy's face, and Dev kept the man in the periphery of his vision as he walked back toward the side cart. Now that he wasn't watching the erotic scene in the next room, his nerves were singing with sexual tension, and he craved something more intoxicating than simple liquor. But until he could find it, the allotted beverages on the cart would have to do.

"I'm talking about a night of complete sin and debauchery as you were talking of earlier tonight," Percy answered with particular relish. When Dev gave him a skeptical look, he explained. "I just met a fine old chap by the name of Raoul d'Ormand, a recently re-titled comte, or so he claims, and he had opened an invitation to join him at an exclusive club on the outskirts of Paris."

"Exclusive club?" A dark eyebrow arched as its owner took a healthy gulp of the drink he had just poured.

"Something of a deviation from the norm and not fit for polite conversation. Come, Dev, you said earlier that you wished to cut a swath through Europe, did you not? Now here's your chance."

Dev stared at his drink for a moment, the muffled cries of release and blazing blue eyes still taunting him from the recesses of his memory. Sinewy muscles stretching beneath the smooth skin of the stranger's neck ... full, swollen lips, flushed red from exploring the woman beneath him ... why couldn't he forget? He brought his glass to his mouth and jerked his head back to consume the remaining liquid in one quick swallow. He didn't taste anything - he only felt the rapid tingling of the port in the back of his throat - but that was of no consequence. What was of consequence though was ridding himself of the scene emblazoned in his mind and easing the sudden sexual hunger that had seized him.

"Lead the way, Percy," he said as he put his glass down. "Lead the way."

(***)

"I can not believe you! To run halfway across Paris to attend some diplomatic ball - which, by the way, you had no business to be at - and then come running back here with barely a minute to spare! I ought to have you pay, Noel Saint-Honoré!"

Bored blue eyes gave her a cursory glance before returning to look at the cheval glass placed before them. "Relax, Madame. If you must know, I did have business there with an acquaintance's husband," the culprit replied in his cultured French tone. "I made it back on time, did I not?"

Madame Beatrice Chartrand harrumphed as she stomped around the floor, bending occasionally to pick up the clothes that Noel had haphazardly thrown to the ground. She mumbled to herself about irresponsible and selfish imbeciles as she neatly folded the finery on the bed before giving the only other occupant in the room another glance. And then, her anger dissipated, as it was wont to do around the man.

She had met Noel Saint-Honoré over seven years ago when he was but a boy of eighteen. Back then, she had thought him to be nothing more than a rambunctious lad with too much bravado and not enough wits. He had proven her wrong in short order after successfully completing his missions without so much a blinking an eye. In time, he had become one of Napoleon's most elite spies, garnering the respect of his spymaster, and his colleagues - including Madame Chartrand.

"Come, Madame. Scowling does not become you," Noel said calmly, catching her reflection's gaze in the mirror. "A woman with your beautiful face was only meant to know happiness."

Beatrice pursed her lips and shook her head. Of course, it didn't hurt that the man could charm the quills right off a porcupine if he so wished. If only she were twenty years younger ...

"Noel, I do not think it wise to expose yourself like this," she said logically. "With all these foreigners milling around the city, we can not risk you being recognized or, heaven forbid, caught."

The man smiled and continued to generously dab more powder onto his face. It was a rather benign smile, meant neither to comfort nor taunt, but it had become somewhat of a trademark for the spy. Even after all these years of working side by side with and knowing the man, Beatrice had a difficult time reading him. One could never really be certain what went on in his mind, and that, she thought, was what made him so dangerous.

"In all the years you have known me, have I ever been recognized or seen for who I'm not supposed to be?" He raised a questioning eyebrow as he put down the powder he had just liberally applied.

"No," came her simple answer.

"Then there is nothing to worry about." He picked up the rouge and slowly began to paint his cheeks.

Beatrice breathed out an exasperated sigh. He was correct on that account. She had watched him transform himself into the lowest of beggars, the most pompous of British soldiers, and the prettiest of women without effort or flaw. But more surprising was his uncanny ability to take on their mannerisms, their speech, and even their personalities. It was downright unnatural.

"Still, I can not help but fret. With the Emperor exiled, the whole network is a mess. There are too many of us unaccounted for, and with Radet missing, everything is completely disorganized."

Yes, she was anxious, not to mention nervous too. Without their spymaster, they were no better than a headless beast, running around aimlessly and without purpose.

"Then we will simply take matters into out own hand, Madame," he replied without hesitation. He was done applying his cosmetics now and straightened to assess his reflection. He fluffed the delicate lace knotted at his throat before nodding his approval. "Now, pass me my wig and coat, and we can head down."

Beatrice complied, handing over the requested items sitting on the bed, and watched silently as the tall confident man before her changed into an elegant, young pageboy from an era gone by. Years ago, she would have been awed by the transformation, but after countless times of witnessing such a feat, she had merely come to accept it as part of Noel's character. Still, that did not stop her from admiring the final result.

"How do I look?" he asked teasingly as he smoothed out the satin of his blue frock coat.

"Stunning, as usual," was her honest reply. "All you need is a small mole and you'll have him groveling at your feet."

Noel chuckled and turned wordlessly back to the looking glass. With a steady hand, he picked up one of his cosmetic containers and dabbed a small black mark above the left side of his upper lip. Once done, he turned and made his way to the door, his enigmatic smile in place and a dangerous twinkle in his eyes.

Madame Chartrand followed, preparing herself to play her part and feeling slightly sorry for the British admiral already.

(***)

For all appearances, the Comte d'Orland was a respectable man. He stood tall and slender. With his distinguished face, graying hair, and immaculate attire, one could easily believe that he had been a French noble who had survived the revolution and fled the country as one of hundreds of émigrés. One would never associate him with a den of indecency. Yet, that was exactly where the secretive noble had brought them.

Madame Chartrand's was a simple looking building from the exterior. The sturdy masonry offset the small indulgent luxuries like the gold detailed window trimmings and miniature marble columns. It was the epitome of a gentry's abode, one of many in a row of discreet houses on the outskirts of the city. But when Dev had followed the Comte and Percy in, the whole veneer of normalcy had faded away into a crimson world of decadence and self-indulgence.

Cravat and waistcoat long discarded, Dev leaned back against the arm of the divan he had appropriated, his vision blurred from the spirits he had imbibed without inhibition, and his head light from the perfumed scents in the room. They had been greeted with familiarity at the door - the Comte, Percy, and himself - despite the fact that he and Percy had never even known of the establishment, and almost instantly, they had been whisked off in their own different directions, the hostess - or rather, hostesses - catering to their every need.

He had lost sight of the Comte first, the voluptuous blonde woman leading him away in all her corseted glory as she idly tapped her switch against her gartered thigh. Percy had been the next to disappear, his hungry smile the last thing Dev saw as a red-haired temptress whispered invitingly into his ear. It wasn't long before he himself had been guided into a salon, two astonishingly beautiful women in his arms as they sat him down on a meticulously detailed divan. They had supplied him with food and wine ... a seemingly endless bottle of wine served to him with a full view of heaving bosoms from his two female companions.

He wasn't certain how much time had passed since he had arrived; only that he had enjoyed every minute in a strangely euphoric haze. The rich red damask of the walls soaked in the warm light of the wall sconces, and lulled him into a sense of blissful detachment - so much so that the voices of the other patrons in the room sounded as if they were far removed from his own world. He knew that he was not the only one luxuriating in the famed Madame Chartrand's hospitality, but it was this knowledge that oddly made the experience all the more enjoyable. The other men in the spacious salon sat upon their own seats - all tasteful pieces of antique design - and were each being entertained individually. From curvaceous goddesses to slender nymphs, the selection of companions was beyond any that Dev had ever seen in England. Without a doubt, the French knew how to entertain.

"Come, Monsieur, one more sip," the alluring, sultry voice came from the dark haired one sitting on his left. Her rouged lips pouted prettily as she held the crystal glass in her hand. Where she had gotten it from - as well as the others preceding it - was a mystery to him, yet he smiled indulgently as he bent over to accept the offer. She smelled of lavender and feminine musk, and he couldn't help but breathe in deeply as he drank from the glass in her hand. The wine was sweet, and full-bodied enough to satisfy his palette, although not enough to satisfy another part of his anatomy.

"Thank you, cherie," he drawled, his eyes lingering on the magnificent view of her décolletage. From his understanding, he could take her above stairs to a more private room at his leisure, provided that he pay for the service. However, he felt too legarthic to issue such an invitation just yet.

"Will Monsieur be staying down 'ere for ze auction?" This came from the petite golden haired pixie tucked against his right side, her high-pitched voice coming out in deceivingly innocent tone.

He turned toward her, curiosity slightly piqued. "Auction?"

"Oui, Monsieur," she said as she waved her fan and glanced at the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel. "Madame often 'olds an auction once a month for our patrons. Only ze most special ones are auctioned. Our patrons love it as it is most exclusive."

Now Dev was definitely intrigued. Sitting up a little straighter, he looked inquiringly at the blonde girl. "The most special ones? Are you not special?" he asked teasingly.

She giggled musically at his words and tapped him on the shoulder in mock reprimand with her fan. "Monsieur, please! Only t'ose Madame deems worthy are reserved for ze auction."

"Truly? Then it would be a shame for me to miss it."

"Alors, Monsieur, Madeleine and I must leave you t'en." It was the woman on his left who spoke now, having been listening to the whole conversation. She pushed herself up and made a show of smoothing out the ruffles on her near-transparent dress.

Madeleine nodded, following suit.

Dev looked back and forth between the two, briefly taken aback by the sudden abandonment. "And why must you leave?"

"Because only ze patrons may stay in ze room during ze auction," Madeleine supplied. "And it starts in five minutes."

With that, both women walked away, their backsides swaying seductively against the fluid material of their gowns as if inviting him to follow.

But Dev didn't. Instead, he pushed himself up with his elbows and looked around the salon, wanting to know how the upcoming auction would be handled. He sat nearest to the windowed wall of the room, his own reflection staring back at him from the darkened pane on his right hand side. To his left sat a set of double doors, the exit through which Madeleine and her partner in crime had left. But a short distance away from that sat another set of doors, these ones closed, but would have opened directly into the front of the fireplace. It was here, Dev assumed, that the auction would take place given the open space.

Dev looked down onto the ground beside his divan and picked up the discarded drink that one of his companions had been serving him. He took another sip of the wine, and shifted around in his seat. The cushion beneath him conformed to his shape, the fine brocade lax against the skin of his hands. If there was going to be some entertainment to watch, then he had better make himself more comfortable.

He didn't have to wait long. Within minutes, an older woman entered the salon, her air of control and authority undeniable to all who occupied the room. Her rich brown hair was pulled back in a loose knot at the back of her head, revealing a face of wide set eyes, a pert nose, and full lips. Her modest emerald evening gown flowed gently over the curves of her body, emphasizing a figure that was still strong and slim. Although she was no longer in the full bloom of youth, she still retained an ageless brand of beauty that was difficult to define. And when she stopped in front of the fireplace to assess the people in the room, Dev knew she was a woman of intelligence by the subtle gleam in her deep green eyes.

She then clapped her hands together and the moment that all eyes were on her, she spoke. "Ladies, if you would please leave ze room," she said in accented English. A short period of rustling and scraping followed as the women moved to comply. Once all the female company had left, the woman in green looked about the room once more.

"Messieurs, ze 'ighlight of ze evening is about to begin." Her voice was clear, and yet, soft, a voice that a man would have loved to hear in the bed chamber. "I will give t'ose wishing to participate one more minute to arrive, and t'ose not to leave."

Dev waited.

No one moved. However, a few souls did silently enter the room during the allotted time. When the clock on the mantel struck the top of the hour, the woman signaled for a discreet butler to close the double doors.

For the first minute after the room was sealed, the salon was silent, the air filled with a drop of curiosity and an ocean of anticipation. Dev looked around at the other patrons. He counted approximately twenty men in total, all in various states of undress, but all comfortable with their situation.

"Bon soir, Messieurs," the woman said once all the participants were settled. "My name Madame Chartrand, and I welcome you to my most humble establishment. Before we proceed tonight, I would like to make one t'ing clear. What you see and do here t'is evening will not leave t'is 'ouse. Understand zat what will 'appen next may offend ze laws of God, and I will not be responsible for ze morally inclined. If you 'ave a problem wit' zis, please leave now."

Again, not one body moved. And when Madame Chartrand met with no further objections, she continued. "Then let us begin, Messieurs," she said as she made her way over to the door that had, until that moment, remained closed. "Ze rules are simple. If you see somet'ing you like, bid and it will be yours until tomorrow morning. As most of you are English, bidding will be in British pounds, but you may speak to me if you wish to use another form. 'Ighest bid wins."

Without anymore preamble, Madame Chartrand opened the second door.

Dev wasn't certain what he had expected to see. Perhaps with all the mystery and suspense, he had thought that he would witness a life changing event. Or perhaps, at the very least, something that would rival the scene he had observed in the library earlier that evening. But the first bid item to step into the room was nothing more than a child, albeit a beautiful child, but a child nonetheless. She had a head of shiny honey curls, pinned up artfully in a classical Greek fashion that revealed the slim column of her neck and the smooth curve of her pink-tinged cheek. The girl couldn't have been more than five and ten, her wide expressive eyes and creamy complexion adding to her aura of youth and innocence.

"Petite Josette, a young virgin, Messieurs," Madame Chartrand introduced as she guided the girl toward the front of the fireplace. "She is but ten and four years of age and 'as never known ze touch of a man. May I 'ave an opening bid?"

At the hostess's description, a wry smile made its way onto Dev's lips. The woman was a smart auctioneer, playing easily to a man's desires. He idly wondered how often Petite Josette had 'never known the touch of a man'.

"Fifty pounds," came a voice directly in front of him. From what he could see, the bidder was a portly man with a balding head of hair, an interesting contrast to the girl who stood at the front of the room.

"One hundred pounds." This bid came from Dev's left, and he turned to take a quick look. A slender gentleman of close to three score years watched the prize closely.

"One hundred ten."

"One hundred fifty."

And the bidding continued, various men shouting out outrageous figures until the first bidder had the final bid of over five hundred pounds. The amount for which the girl had been bought would have astounded Dev in his youth, especially given the fact that it would have been close to half of the yearly allowance his father had allotted him. But now, having all of the Billingford resources at hand, he knew it was a paltry sum in relation to his wealth.

The next item to be presented was a masked woman in a black corset and gartered stockings. With an overabundance of deep chestnut hair piled atop her head and the ample curves of a fully developed female body, the prize was nowhere near a child. Madame Chartrand announced her to be a reader of the Marquis de Sade's works, and although Dev could only remember ever hearing of the Frenchman's name once or twice, the other men in the salon were apparently more enlightened. The woman sold for seven hundred pounds.

And so, the night wore on, item after item, each presented with a unique enticement. Some were sold for five hundred pounds, and some for up to one thousand, but Dev saw nothing that would make such expenditure worthwhile.

"Now Messieurs, our tenth and final item."

Dev watched, a familiar ennui beginning to set in his posture as Madame Chartrand opened the door one more time. He drank the last of his wine as he waited, hoping that perhaps the final item would make the night one well-spent.

"May I present to you, Messieurs, somet'ing from a bygone era, one zat we all miss dearly, and will remember well. Amauré Savorie, a pageboy of the royal court."

Somehow, from Dev's perspective, Madame Chartrand introduced this Amauré with a little more flourish, and the moment the pageboy stepped into the salon, he understood why.

The young man was of average height, slender and well turned in his satin frock coat, white knee breeches, immaculate stockings, and shiny blue heeled shoes. His powdered wig sat neatly on his head, every pale strand tied back with a simple black ribbon. His face was expertly powdered, with two subtly rouged spots on his checks and a beauty mark above his lips that almost begged for closer attention. Madame Chartrand had been correct. The man was a relic of a time gone by, looking very much like a fine porcelain statuette come to life from the court of Louis XVI.

In the corner of his eye, Dev noticed several men stand up and quietly leave the room. They undoubtedly had no intention of buying another man, and he didn't blame them. Dev was of the mind to follow as well, and was ready to do so when the first bid was made.

"Two hundred pounds."

Surely two hundred pounds was a tad high for an opening bid on a male!

Dev glanced at the bidder, and noticed a gray haired man sitting by the salon's main entrance.

"Four hundred." Another bid from the other side of the room.

"Five hundred." The gray haired man bid again.

"Seven hundred."

"One thousand."

Within seconds, Amauré Savorie had garnered as high an amount as some of the most beautiful women Dev had seen that night. And it didn't stop. The bids continued until the first man held the highest one at five thousand pounds. Dev glanced over at the probable winner, wondering why he would be willing to spend so much on such an item.

He could not divine an answer. Inwardly, still slightly astounded, he looked back up to the front of the fireplace ... and froze.

Crystalline eyes met his from across the room, unreadable and yet, speaking a hundred different truths. In Dev's ears, he heard the echoes of the low sensual moans as pleasure was taken and given. The pounding of his own heart began to accelerate in tandem with the primal cacophony until finally, blessedly, a crescendo was reached and cries of release brought an end to the symphony of sound.

"Ten thousand pounds."

Until that moment, no unnecessary noise had been made during the bidding process. But that bid, that one simple bid, caused a wave of muffled surprise to travel through the group. And Dev was only vaguely aware that all the eyes in the room had trained on him when they had realized it had been him who had placed the bid. His attention never left the prize, just as those piercing blue eyes never left him, and somewhere within the depths of his subconscious mind, he knew that the next moment could very well decide the course of his life.

"T-ten thousand," Madame Chartrand repeated, more as a question than a statement.

Dev nodded, sanity long retreated.

"Ten thousand pounds zen," the hostess re-stated.

She glanced at the former high bidder and received no response. She waited for a better offer.

Amauré waited for a better offer.

Dev waited for a better offer.

The entire room waited for a better offer.

Then, in a strong, steady voice, Madame Chartrand ended the auction. "Sold for ten thousand pounds to ze gentleman in ze back."

End Chapter 2