Little Red Writing Read online

He rose to his full height and moved toward her, pure masculine grace in motion, getting closer with each wild beat of her heart. By the time he stood before her, he wore the same half-smile on his handsome face as before.

  Tilting her chin, Anne gazed up at him. Good Lord. He was even more devastating to behold up close.

  “This is my sister, Anne de Vignon,” Camille said, having approached without Anne noticing. She was too busy being ridiculously entranced by the tall attractive man before her. “Anne, this is the Comte de Lambelle—Nicolas de Savignac. He is our dear Comtesse’s grandson.”

  Dear God, he was the grandson?

  His smile broadened. Taking her hand—one she hadn’t yet offered, her arms still dangling foolishly at her sides—he pressed his warm lips against it. Tiny tingles shot up her arm and rippled down her spine.

  “Enchanté,” he said, his voice rich and seductive.

  Stop staring. Where are your manners? Say something.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur le Comte,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. This man was dangerous, his appeal far too compelling. Her every instinct warned her to stay far away.

  “Please, no titles or formality are necessary. Call me Nicolas. May I call you Anne?”

  She glanced at her younger sister Camille and caught the sobering sight of her smitten expression. Camille’s regard was directed at the other gentleman in the room. Clearly her sister was behaving as uncharacteristically as she was.

  She prayed she didn’t look like that.

  Returning her attention to the Comtesse’s grandson, she responded, “Anne would be fine.” Only because she was trying to be gracious toward her patroness’s kin did she cede to his request, though permitting such familiarity made her uneasy.

  Pleased by her answer, Nicolas’s smile grew. He gestured to the gentleman beside him—a man of similar age yet slighter build. “Allow me to introduce my cousin Thomas, Comte de Gamory.”

  Anne’s greeting of the Comte de Gamory—or rather “Thomas” as he preferred—was much better.

  “Forgive our intrusion into your get-together. I had no idea there would be so many guests present,” Nicolas said, his smile slowly diminishing on his face. Then, lowering his chin, briefly he shook his head. When his gray eyes met hers once more, they looked saddened. “This is yet another example of how little I know my own grandmother, I fear. I had no idea she had weekly salons—a fact Camille was kind enough to relay.”

  Their patroness was a strong-willed woman, the center of attention at any gathering. Never afraid of voicing her opinion. But when it came to personal matters, such as family, she’d been silent. The Comtesse had never mentioned grandchildren and only once indicated she’d had any children at all. A son and a daughter. There were obvious familial strains in the Comtesse’s family.

  “I understand from your sister that the Comtesse isn’t here.” Nicolas’s expression was rueful.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Anne regretted having to say. “She’s been called away. A letter arrived from her sister last week. She’s gone to see her.”

  “We did inquire if there was anything amiss,” Camille added. “But she wouldn’t say one way or the other.”

  Nicolas looked at his cousin and, with a sigh, placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “How very disappointing. We’ve missed her. I had so hoped to surprise her.”

  Thomas nodded, looking not quite as aggrieved. “Indeed, cousin. I know how much you have wanted to make amends with your grandmother.”

  “His grandmother?” Anne asked. “Is she not yours as well?”

  Thomas’s eyes widened and all that escaped his lips was, “Ah … well—”

  “No,” Nicolas interjected. “Thomas is my cousin from my father’s side. My late mother was the Comtesse’s daughter. Thomas is as dear to me as a brother. In fact, I lost my brother not long ago. It was then that I decided I needed to make changes in my life. One of which is trying to forge a relationship with a grandmother who has been all but a stranger to me.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s true,” Thomas concurred with a nod.

  Nicolas de Savignac had had his share of unfortunate losses. The notion tugged at Anne’s heart. “I see. My condolences, Monsieur de—”

  “Nicolas, please,” he amended.

  “Nicolas … my condolences for the loss of your mother and brother. And to you, too, Thomas—for the loss of your cousin and aunt.”

  “My condolences, as well—to both of you.” Camille said, her brown eyes mirroring the sympathy in her tone.

  “Thank you, my ladies. We appreciate your kindness.” Nicolas looked at his cousin. “Don’t we, Thomas?”

  “Hmm? Oh. Yes. Indeed, we do.”

  “I’m equally sorry to hear of your estrangement with your grandmother,” Anne said. “We have been living with her for a year and find her to be a most delightful spirited lady who has a great passion for the arts.”

  “That, too, is something I was unaware of, Anne,” Nicolas said.

  She liked the way he said her name. She liked it too much. Why, when he uttered it, did it have such a heated effect on her senses?

  “Camille tells us that you are both writers. I had no idea my grandmother had such lovely, fascinating ladies living in her home.” Nicolas’s sensual half-smile returned.

  Thomas offered a smile as well. “Yes. Having you ladies here, of all places, was definitely a … surprise.”

  “A good surprise, I hope,” Camille remarked shamelessly, ignoring the look of disapproval Anne discreetly flashed her. These men were of rank, and—albeit estranged—nonetheless relations of their patroness. Two very strong reasons not to flirt—no matter how innocently done. Camille knew better. She knew to be cautious around men in the noble class. Knew what some of them were capable of.

  “A most delightful surprise, Camille,” Nicolas assured.

  Anne had to admit, the man’s manners were polished and he was charming in the extreme. Not to mention that his proximity had every nerve ending in her body humming with awareness.

  More reasons to keep a distance.

  “Our other sister, Henriette, is a writer as well,” Camille said, her approval of Nicolas’s response evident by her jubilant expression. “She has penned some wonderful stories.”

  Anne glanced at the door. “Henriette must be caught up in conversation. We really must return to the Comtesse’s guests. Her Salon means a great deal to her, so much so that she didn’t want to cancel it in her absence. My apologies for Henriette—”

  Nicolas raised a hand. “No need to apologize. Thomas and I arrived quite unexpectedly.”

  “Please, join us,” Camille said. “We’ll introduce you to your grandmother’s friends.”

  “That is very gracious of you, Camille,” Nicolas said. “In fact, I wish to learn as much as I can about my grandmother, but our trip from Varise was a lengthy one. We’re terribly exhausted. I hope you understand if we decline?”

  Anne was more than a tad relieved, needing space between her and the far-too-attractive Nicolas de Savignac. “Of course. I’ll ask Vincent to show you to your rooms, where you can rest and refresh yourselves.” The faster she left the room, the sooner her pulse would return to normal.

  “Will you be staying awhile?” Anne disliked the hopeful tone in Camille’s voice and immediately worried about the answer.

  “Having come all this way,” Nicolas responded, “I don’t wish to leave without seeing my grandmother. I’ve heard her sister is a robust woman in both health and form. I have a feeling the Comtesse will return soon enough. Until then, Thomas and I will be staying, and I shall anxiously await her arrival.” He smiled.

  Anne’s stomach dropped.

  He could be here weeks. Oh, this was bad. Very bad. Especially since she found the notion as appealing as it was disquieting.

  His light-colored eyes moved to Anne as he said, “There will be plenty of time to get to know each other.”

  *****

  Nicolas liste
ned to the retreating footsteps of the two Vignon sisters from behind the drawing room’s closed doors. Only when he could no longer hear the sound of heels clicking against marble did he grin, saunter over to a chair and drop into it.

  “Nicolas,” Thomas said, dragging a chair over to him and sitting down. “You are in the wrong profession, my friend. You should take to the stage. That was quite a performance you gave.”

  Still smiling, Nicolas propped his boots on a nearby settee and linked his fingers behind his head. “It worked, didn’t it? We have their sympathy. Moreover, we have unfettered access to the hôtel and the lovely authors who live in it.”

  “Well, I am not the actor you are. If you are going to surprise me—such as making me your ‘cousin’—please give me forewarning.”

  In a good mood, Nicolas simply chuckled. “Do not fret, Thomas. You did fine. And we will do more than fine with this mission. A handful of days, perhaps even less, and I’ll know which sister is Gilbert Leduc, make my arrest, and impress the King.”

  It was Thomas’s turn to smile. “You have hardly been in the Guard for long. You’re not hunting for a promotion already, are you, le Loup?”

  “Of course.” It had taken some finagling, but he’d convinced his Captain, Tristan de Tiersonnier, to select him for the mission. How was he to catch the eye of the King if he didn’t do things that made him stand out? The mission was one others had failed at. Leduc had been ever so elusive. “I intend one day to be Captain of His Majesty’s private Guard—the King’s most trusted protector. Keeping your eye toward promotion is the only way to excel.”

  “Captain of the Guard?” Thomas laughed. “You do aim high. Not even your brother achieved that.”

  That decimated his jovial spirits. Any references that remotely suggested he wasn’t as good as his brother had that effect. “I am not like David.” He was better than David. He was a better fencer. A better loser when bested by his brother. A more gracious winner when Nicolas did the besting—and never, not ever, did he gloat. Pitting his sons against each other all their lives, their father encouraged constant competition between them, fueling their lifelong rivalry. And even though David and their father were both dead, Nicolas still wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop until he’d proved to himself and his superiors that he was in no way a lesser version of his older sibling.

  “How do you plan on discovering which sister is Gilbert Leduc?”

  Pulling his feet off the settee and placing them back onto the floor, Nicolas leaned toward his friend, his smile returning. “Anne is going to tell me.”

  “You think you can get her to talk?”

  “I’m certain of it.” The air between them practically sizzled and crackled with hot carnal awareness. He’d never admit to Thomas just how strongly she was playing havoc with his libido. She had him stiff as a spike the entire time they’d spoken, hungry for the taste of her mouth and her tantalizing nipples that were so obviously hard and pressing against the bodice of her gown.

  “What makes you so certain?” Thomas asked. “Because she is—if the look in her eyes was any indication—attracted to you?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And how are you going to attain the information from her? By fucking the answer out of her?”

  Nicolas sat back in his chair. “Now you see the added appeal to this mission.”

  Thomas laughed and shook his head. “It doesn’t bother you that you’d be bedding the lady one moment, then possibly—if she turns out to be Leduc—arresting her the next?”

  “If she is the author—Gilbert Leduc—then she has broken the law by using an illegal press and writing unsanctioned, not to mention defamatory, literature. If Leduc turns out to be one of her sisters, I’ve no doubt she’s assisting in some capacity in her sibling’s criminal endeavors. Either way, she is guilty. I have no qualms about doing my duty, and neither should you. We are expected to succeed in our mission. If the lady offers up some decadent delights before all is said and done,” Nicolas shrugged, “I’ll not refuse her.” No man would. Not a woman as beautiful as Anne de Vignon.

  He’d seen lustful interest in the eyes of many of the men at the Salon. Did she have a lover among them? The possibility that he’d have competition didn’t worry him. He’d have Anne, his instincts telling him that beneath her cool proper layers, he’d find passion. Fire. A woman sure to offer a man untold carnal bliss.

  “And what about your grandmother? She is mixed up in all this,” Thomas said. “As their patroness, her funding has made it possible for these women to write and publish sanctioned—and one of them, unsanctioned—literature. This ‘Gilbert Leduc’ matter will backlash on her.”

  “My grandmother is an uncompromising woman who is devoid of compassion.” Nicolas couldn’t keep the caustic tone from dripping off his words. “I have no doubt she’s played a very important role in this smear campaign. Should the King decide to punish her, she has no one to blame but herself.” He had no sympathy where the old woman was concerned. Though he’d not expected to discover his own grandmother involved in this sordid mess, he wasn’t going to let that deter him in any way. Absurd as it was, the only thing that was truly bothering him was that he’d been correct in his assumption: his grandmother hadn’t spoken of him, or likely his mother, either. That fact was evident by the looks on Anne’s and Camille’s faces. It was obvious they never knew he existed. Though the Comtesse’s silence helped with his plan, he disliked that the notion had any sting at all. After all these years, he shouldn’t care a whit that the heartless hag had disowned his mother—turning her back on her own daughter—and never had any interest in her grandsons, treating them all as if they were dead.

  “I’ve read Gilbert Leduc’s writings,” Nicolas said, shoving the past aside. “I believe the author we seek is a woman scorned. Someone whose anger has spilled over onto the male gender at large. A man or men—past or present—have inspired her to write telltale stories that humiliate men and besmirch their reputations.”

  “So you think the author is using these pen portraits as a method of revenge?” Thomas asked.

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps she simply does it for funds? With the wild popularity of the anthologies, surely it’s been a lucrative venture for her?”

  “Indeed, Thomas. The money is likely a motivating factor. But I think the underlying reason why she does this is much more personal. The eldest sister, Henriette de Pierpont, was once married. Let’s learn as much as we can about her marriage, and in particular, her deceased husband’s treatment of her.” Nicolas rose, suddenly feeling fatigued, intent on seeking out the old servant and retiring to his room. “Camille de Vignon seems to have an interest in you, Thomas. Speak to her. See what you can learn. I’ll focus on Anne,” he said as his friend rose from his chair. “I’ll be with her every minute of the day.”

  And each night—if all went according to plan.

  This mission was going to be easy.

  *****

  “I don’t like this. Not one bit,” Henriette whispered.

  Anne walked between Henriette and Camille as they made their way to the Salle de Buffet. This was their first evening meal with Nicolas and Thomas, and Anne was as enthralled over the prospect as Henriette. Being in the same room with her patroness’s grandson for an entire meal—knowing the stirring effect he had on her—had her on edge. She hadn’t been able to forget the raw desire she’d seen in Nicolas’s eyes before parting in the drawing room. Its seductive lure had incited a craving she couldn’t vanquish.

  “Really, Henriette, you are making much out of nothing.” Camille’s statement arrested Henriette’s steps.

  “Much out of nothing?” Henriette’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Dear sister, do the words”—she lowered her voice a notch—“‘Gilbert Leduc’ mean anything to you?”

  Camille frowned. “Of course they do. They mean as much to me as they do to you, Anne, our dear Comtesse—not to mention all the women who have entrusted their stories
to him.”

  “Then perhaps you can explain to me how we are to interview the very skittish Madame de Montbel and Madame de Boutette for Gilbert Leduc’s next stories with these gentlemen here? You know the next volume must be brought to press in three weeks or Bruno won’t print it. The more popular the books become, the more risk there is for those involved.”

  Camille frowned. “I’m quite aware of the deadline and the risks. What I don’t understand is why you are fretting over the presence of Savignac and Gamory.”

  Henriette’s mouth fell agape. She turned to Anne. “Will you please explain it to her?”

  “Camille …” Anne strove for a more reasonable tone than Henriette’s, though her sisters’ bickering was grating on her patience. Like Henriette, she didn’t relish having anyone whom she didn’t know staying at the hôtel when one of Gilbert Leduc’s volumes was in the works.

  Especially a man as inflaming as Nicolas de Savignac.

  “Leduc’s identity must be protected at all cost,” Anne said. “Especially since behind his pen are a number of women who have provided scathing secrets for Leduc’s stories. There would be disastrous consequences for them if they were exposed.”

  “And the consequences for Leduc would be even worse,” Henriette added for good measure.

  “But these gentlemen are part of the Comtesse’s family. Nicolas de Savignac is her very own grandson,” Camille countered. “Surely that makes him trustworthy enough to—”

  “To what? To tell him of Leduc?” Henriette sputtered. “Are you mad?”

  Camille jabbed her fists into her waist. “I assure you I have complete command of my faculties. Henriette, you are—”

  “Enough, please. Both of you,” Anne demanded. Usually the one to settle her siblings’ arguments, she was not in the mood for this tonight. “Camille,”—she turned to her younger sister—“Madame de Cottineau is estranged from her grandson, and we don’t know her reasons for it. Until she returns and we speak to her, we’ll not reveal a thing to Savignac or Gamory. We’ll not put anyone in jeopardy.”

  Henriette crossed her arms. “I don’t trust Savignac.”