another woman.”
“Smitten? Hardly.”
Unfortunately for Sabien, Gaspard was a spy too. He heard the subtext in those innocuous words. Sabien may not be smitten with another woman, but there was another woman. Regardless of whomever Sabien’s mistress-of-the-moment might be, Gaspard didn’t care to press. “So why not marry her?”
Sabien frowned at him. “Why are you pushing this?”
Pushing, indeed. It was a peculiar sort of madness roiling within him, aggression itching shallowly beneath his skin. He wanted to fight for her, a prize earned by the strongest, most skillful competitor on the field of battle. In his wasted existence, he’d never had to fight for anyone or anything but himself. The men he targeted were easy, the women he paid for…but not Claudia. She needed to be won.
No, not Claudia. Claudia’s dowry .
It was a reminder that refused to stick. “I’m simply curious. But then, there’s much about your lifestyle I don’t understand.” He let Sabien draw whatever conclusion he wanted to from those words.
Sabien, thankfully, was utterly predictable. “Well, it’s not like I understand yours, either, so we’re square.” A well-meaning pat to Gaspard’s shoulder, and Sabien leaned in to whisper, “Get Évoque that list, and I’d bet you my favorite Hessians it’s the last he’ll ask of you.” Then the lieutenant slipped away to join Maxence where he stood, surrounded by a group of giggling women and jovial men.
As far as motivators went, Sabien’s words hit their mark. He would do this final task and collect the list Évoque needed. Perhaps he’d try to convince the duke to pay him a final, larger sum, for services rendered and for his lifelong silence—by his calculations, he hadn’t received a wage from the man in nearly two months. And then…
Even knowing it was a rotten idea, Gaspard turned slowly on his heel to face her, ignoring every curious gaze that grazed his sensitized skin. Claudia Pascale, desperate, demon-eyed girl that she was, stared bravely back at him, sharp little chin lifted in the same defiance that had drawn his attention from the very first moment he saw her.
She had claws, his kitten. Claws, a wet cunt and more than enough money to save Gaspard’s ass from debtor’s prison—or even the hangman’s noose.
His fingers flexed at his side, the fingers that had stroked her to orgasm short minutes before, and his eyes danced over her. Yes, she looked the slightest bit ruffled, her cheeks flushed but quickly paling, but no one would know. No one would guess.
And that was because of him. Gaspard Toussaint, the molly comte . But she didn’t know that yet, and what she didn’t know…might have her waking up one morning as a countess in the not-too-distant future.
Chapter Four
11 February 1820
Gaspard’s spent cock fell from between the glistening lips of Hubert Loureilles with a moist plop , and he stepped back, tucking himself into his trousers without fuss. His stomach was a hard knot of controlled nausea, the tingle of muted pleasure at the base of his spine immediately gone cold after finding release in his informant’s mouth.
This was what he did, what he excelled at, and after five years of whoring for his country, it shouldn’t poke at the little kernel of wrongness in his gut that he ignored in these situations. It was what it was—work. Clinical, methodical, soul-numbing work , and Gaspard was just soulless enough inside to do it without retching in a side alley afterward.
Though that hadn’t always been the case.
“My lord, you taste—” The short, rotund man stayed on his knees as his eyes fluttered closed, sweat dampening the thinning gray hair at his temples. “Thank you.”
“You know what I want, Hubert.” Gaspard glanced around the small office, noting its worn corners and soft colors. It was his third visit with the opera house’s manager, and his last. One conversation had revealed Loureilles’s desires, while a second
“Smitten? Hardly.”
Unfortunately for Sabien, Gaspard was a spy too. He heard the subtext in those innocuous words. Sabien may not be smitten with another woman, but there was another woman. Regardless of whomever Sabien’s mistress-of-the-moment might be, Gaspard didn’t care to press. “So why not marry her?”
Sabien frowned at him. “Why are you pushing this?”
Pushing, indeed. It was a peculiar sort of madness roiling within him, aggression itching shallowly beneath his skin. He wanted to fight for her, a prize earned by the strongest, most skillful competitor on the field of battle. In his wasted existence, he’d never had to fight for anyone or anything but himself. The men he targeted were easy, the women he paid for…but not Claudia. She needed to be won.
No, not Claudia. Claudia’s dowry .
It was a reminder that refused to stick. “I’m simply curious. But then, there’s much about your lifestyle I don’t understand.” He let Sabien draw whatever conclusion he wanted to from those words.
Sabien, thankfully, was utterly predictable. “Well, it’s not like I understand yours, either, so we’re square.” A well-meaning pat to Gaspard’s shoulder, and Sabien leaned in to whisper, “Get Évoque that list, and I’d bet you my favorite Hessians it’s the last he’ll ask of you.” Then the lieutenant slipped away to join Maxence where he stood, surrounded by a group of giggling women and jovial men.
As far as motivators went, Sabien’s words hit their mark. He would do this final task and collect the list Évoque needed. Perhaps he’d try to convince the duke to pay him a final, larger sum, for services rendered and for his lifelong silence—by his calculations, he hadn’t received a wage from the man in nearly two months. And then…
Even knowing it was a rotten idea, Gaspard turned slowly on his heel to face her, ignoring every curious gaze that grazed his sensitized skin. Claudia Pascale, desperate, demon-eyed girl that she was, stared bravely back at him, sharp little chin lifted in the same defiance that had drawn his attention from the very first moment he saw her.
She had claws, his kitten. Claws, a wet cunt and more than enough money to save Gaspard’s ass from debtor’s prison—or even the hangman’s noose.
His fingers flexed at his side, the fingers that had stroked her to orgasm short minutes before, and his eyes danced over her. Yes, she looked the slightest bit ruffled, her cheeks flushed but quickly paling, but no one would know. No one would guess.
And that was because of him. Gaspard Toussaint, the molly comte . But she didn’t know that yet, and what she didn’t know…might have her waking up one morning as a countess in the not-too-distant future.
Chapter Four
11 February 1820
Gaspard’s spent cock fell from between the glistening lips of Hubert Loureilles with a moist plop , and he stepped back, tucking himself into his trousers without fuss. His stomach was a hard knot of controlled nausea, the tingle of muted pleasure at the base of his spine immediately gone cold after finding release in his informant’s mouth.
This was what he did, what he excelled at, and after five years of whoring for his country, it shouldn’t poke at the little kernel of wrongness in his gut that he ignored in these situations. It was what it was—work. Clinical, methodical, soul-numbing work , and Gaspard was just soulless enough inside to do it without retching in a side alley afterward.
Though that hadn’t always been the case.
“My lord, you taste—” The short, rotund man stayed on his knees as his eyes fluttered closed, sweat dampening the thinning gray hair at his temples. “Thank you.”
“You know what I want, Hubert.” Gaspard glanced around the small office, noting its worn corners and soft colors. It was his third visit with the opera house’s manager, and his last. One conversation had revealed Loureilles’s desires, while a second
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