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bre-asts just be-gin-ning to bud be-hind the tight silk bo-di-ces of her
dres-ses. The qu-ick, de-li-ca-te ges-tu-res, the sil-very ma-gic of her
la-ug-h-ter. The pu-re, in-no-cent gra-ce of her to-re at his he-art. And at
his lo-ins.
He'd bed-ded a num-ber of wil-ling fe-ma-les du-ring his so-j-o-urn on the
con-ti-nent. Bar-ma-ids and aris-toc-rats, cham-ber-ma-ids and duc-hes-ses,
he'd had his pick of any num-ber of ac-com-mo-da-ting wo-men. He had no
de-lu-si-ons abo-ut his ap-pe-al. He knew he had a way abo-ut him, a cer-ta-in
com-bi-na-ti-on of form and fe-atu-res, that wo-men fo-und at-trac-ti-ve. And
he dis-co-ve-red wit-hin him-self a dan-ge-ro-us kind of charm that ma-de that
at-trac-ti-on even mo-re vo-la-ti-le.
But the wo-men we-re all ex-pe-ri-en-ced. All ol-der than he was, all
bu-xom, sen-su-al fe-ma-les with eager ap-pe-ti-tes and sop-his-ti-ca-ted
prac-ti-ces. He'd le-ar-ned a gre-at de-al from them, and enj-oyed him-self
im-men-sely.
But he'd ne-ver be-en mo-ved by so-me-one lit-tle mo-re than a child.
Wan-ted so-me-one trem-b-ling on the very ed-ge of wo-man-ho-od. His very
lon-ging for her dis-gus-ted him, but as each day pas-sed, and the three-day
vi-sit stret-c-hed in-to we-eks, that lon-ging in-c-re-ased un-til it was an
ob-ses-si-on.
He as-su-med she didn't know. She was too yo-ung, too in-no-cent to
re-ali-ze what was go-ing on in his satyr's mind every ti-me she to-ok his
hand, smi-led up at him, kis-sed his che-ek, and left a tra-il of de-li-ca-te
per-fu-me be-hind.
It co-uld ha-ve go-ne on fo-re-ver. Or at le-ast un-til she was old eno-ugh,
if fa-te hadn't con-s-pi-red to chan-ge his li-fe. To halt the right turn he'd
ma-de, sen-ding him tum-b-ling back in-to blac-k-ness and des-pa-ir. In-to
evil.
He'd known what the let-ter wo-uld con-ta-in the mo-ment he'd re-cog-ni-zed
his Un-c-le Te-as-da-le's han-d-w-ri-ting. Te-as-da-le wo-uld ne-ver wri-te
an-y-t-hing mo-re te-di-o-us than a ga-ming IOU un-less it was a mat-ter of
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li-fe and de-ath. In-de-ed, it was the lat-ter.
Sir Jep-t-hah Blac-k-t-hor-ne had suc-cum-bed to anot-her fit of apop-lexy.
Te-as-da-le hadn't gi-ven any of the par-ti-cu-lars, but Nic-ho-las co-uld
well ima-gi-ne them. He'd pro-bably di-ed la-men-ting the fact that his na-me
and his es-ta-tes co-uld only des-cend to a wor-t-h-less, ram-s-hac-k-le
cre-atu-re li-ke his yo-un-ger sur-vi-ving son. He pro-bably cur-sed him with
his dying bre-ath, ne-ver kno-wing that Nic-ho-las had ma-de his first
ten-ta-ti-ve steps on the ro-ad to-ward re-dem-p-ti-on.
He sat alo-ne in the gar-dens of Sans Do-ute, the ele-gant co-untry es-ta-te
of his god-pa-rents, and crum-p-led the let-ter in his lar-ge hand. The-re was
a cu-ri-o-us bur-ning in his eyes, one that must ha-ve be-en oc-ca-si-oned by
the brig-h-t-ness of the over-cast sun. A si-mi-lar ac-he ho-ve-red
so-mew-he-re mid-chest, and he as-c-ri-bed that to a sur-fe-it of port with
his god-fat-her the night be-fo-re. He sat alo-ne, dry-eyed, and felt the
first fi-ery ten-d-rils of ra-ge be-gin to re-kin-d-le in-si-de him.
It was the-re his god-fat-her fo-und him. Com-te de Lorgny was a kindly man,
but one not gi-ven to sen-si-ti-vity or in-t-ros-pec-ti-on. To gi-ve him his
due, he had a gre-at de-al on his mind at the mo-ment, chi-ef of which was to
ask a hu-ge fa-vor of his char-ming god-son.
"News from ho-me?" he in-qu-ired, ta-king a se-at on the mar-b-le bench next
to Nic-ho-las's tightly strung body.
Nic-ho-las sho-ved the let-ter in-to his poc-ket. "Not-hing to sig-nify," he
rep-li-ed with ut-most ca-su-al-ness. "It se-ems I've got to re-turn to
En-g-land. To-mor-row."
The co-met's ro-und fa-ce pa-led slightly. "Then per-haps now is as go-od a
ti-me as any for our lit-tle talk."
It to-ok a mo-ment for Nic-ho-las to ro-use him-self from his fu-ri-o-us
ab-s-t-rac-ti-on. "Lit-tle talk?"
"Abo-ut the fu-tu-re."
"With due res-pect, sir, I wasn't awa-re that our fu-tu-res we-re in any way
con-nec-ted."
Com-te de Lorgny cle-ared his thro-at and lo-oked mi-se-rab-le. "Not as
yet," he al-lo-wed. "Per-haps you'll al-low me to ex-p-la-in a few things to
you?"
At that mo-ment Nic-ho-las wasn't in-te-res-ted in any ex-p-la-na-ti-ons.
His mind was pre-oc-cu-pi-ed with how he was go-ing to re-turn to En-g-land as
qu-ickly as pos-sib-le. And what he'd find when he got the-je. He simply
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