A Rose at Midnight by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online

That the guillotine had started its dreadful work.
    His father had left a great deal less than Nicholas had expected. The estates were encumbered, falling into ruin, and there was no money to put them right. He did what any right-thinking gentleman would do, and turned to the gaming tables. Sometimes he lost, but more often he won. It was after a particularly lucrative night that his Uncle Teasdale had found him at his club, nursing a late-night brandy before returning to the slightly decrepit confines of his father’s London house. He usually listened to the news of France with only half an ear, preferring to ignore the plight of that unhappy country and its inhabitants. Tonight, however, was fated to be a different matter.
    “Thought you might want to know,” Teasdale had said, settling his impressive bulk in the chair opposite him and signaling for his own brandy.
    “I probably don’t,” Nicholas said lazily. “When people think I should know things it’s usually something unpleasant. What do you think I should know?”
    “Your godparents—de Lorgny, wasn’t that the name? Didn’t you stay with them when your father died?”
    Nicholas was swirling the brandy in his snifter. He didn’t pause, just kept swirling it, his eyes intent on the rich amber liquid. “I did. What about them?” he asked, though he already knew.
    “They went to the guillotine. Entire family, from what I can make out; children too. Uncivilized bastards,” he added. “Filthy rabble, making war on children.”
    Nicholas kept swirling the brandy. “There’s no doubt?” he asked in a carefully idle tone of voice. “The children too?”
    “There’s always doubt—you know what a mess things are over there. But my sources, damn them, are quite reliable. Too bad. You’d a fondness for them, hadn’t you?”
    Nicholas raised his head and looked at his uncle’s florid face and expanding waistcoat. He had grown quite used to that empty hollow feeling. Grown used to hiding what he didn’t want seen. “I scarcely remember them,” he said. “So tell me, are you planning on attending the Chestertons’ rout?”
    Teasdale looked at him for a long moment, an odd expression on his face. As if he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “Somehow I don’t have the heart for it,” he said heavily, draining his brandy and setting the snifter down with a tiny, decisive snap. “Didn’t de Lorgny have a daughter?”
    Nicholas shrugged. “He may have. Come to think of it, I believe there was one. Just barely past adolescence. Named Giselle, or something.” His eyes met his uncle’s and he realized the old man wasn’t fooled. Teasdale knew him far better than Nicholas knew himself. “Ghislaine,” he said, having known it all along. “Her name is Ghislaine.”
    “Was,” Teasdale corrected. And then he heaved his bulk from the chair. “I’m going to rusticate. This takes the heart out of a man. You’re welcome to join me at Amberfields.”
    Nicholas shook his head. “No, thank you, Uncle. I’m quite looking forward to the Chestertons.”
    Teasdale stared at him for a moment longer, then shook his head. “As you wish, m’boy.” And he walked away.
    Nicholas waited until he was gone. The night was dark outside the club window, dark and silent, and he found himself thinking that it would be a fortunate thing if the other members steered clear of him that night. They might regret tangling with him.
    The time passed. No one approached him—his temper was legendary, and Teasdale had warned them when he left. Finally, as dawn was streaking over the city street, Nicholas decided to return home. He looked down at his hand in remote wonder.
    The brandy snifter had been crushed, the shards of glass digging into his skin. Some of the blood had already dried on his long fingers, some had pooled on the floor beneath him.
    He stood up, brushing the slivers of glass from his skin, pausing long enough to pick out the larger pieces. And then,