A Duke By Any Other Name

Chapter One

Paris, June 1803

A ll her life, Suzanne Faucher had relied on her small, fine-boned stature. Picking pockets, filching apples, or hiding in the nooks and crannies of the Palais Royal had all come more easily due to her size.

Now she used it again to dart through the front door of Monsieur de Marbois’s townhouse and slip past a pair of ladies in elegant ballgowns, avoiding the long receiving line. Though the two ionic columns that framed the entrance, along with the ladies’ towering plumes and the gentlemen’s high tops, made her feel tiny indeed.

She raised her chin and carried on. No matter. She might not be as wealthy as the other guests. She might work most nights as a lowly barmaid. Still, she had every right to be here.

Tonight’s festivities had been arranged to honor Nicolas Lefevre, one of her oldest friends. Born in the Palais Royal and raised on its streets, same as her, he’d attained a degree of respectability as the owner of a brand-new gymnasium for gentlemen. She wouldn’t for the world miss the chance to raise a glass of champagne to his success.

And she had another reason to be here, as well. A reason that drove her to squeeze between an evening jacket and a taffeta gown to reach the ballroom more quickly.

Down the marble corridor, and past open mahogany doors, the ballroom glittered under the scintillating lights of chandeliers. On the balcony, members of a quartet tuned their instruments. But the sea of people around her held no familiar faces. Sacredieu ! Standing on tiptoe and craning her neck were no help. What she wouldn’t give now for a few extra centimeters—or higher heels.

“Suzanne!”

She whipped around. A young woman with dark hair flitted toward her.

“Oh, Violette!” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness!”

She held out her hands to her friend, and Violette bent to kiss her cheek. “I was wondering when you’d arrive. We weren’t expecting so many people.”

“All here to celebrate your husband’s success, Madame Lefevre,” Suzanne teased. “Where on earth is Nicolas in all this crowd?”

Violette fanned herself and glanced around. “He drifted off while I was chatting with the wives of some of his associates. He probably wanted to discuss business with new investors.”

Suzanne snorted. “I thought this was supposed to be a party.”

“Monsieur de Marbois doesn’t do anything for free, not even host a ball. He has stakes in the gymnasium and if he can make money out of it… I suppose it’s in Nicolas’s interest as well.”

“At least I know Nicolas is spending his new fortune wisely.” Her gaze flicked at the necklace around Violette’s neck. The amethyst matched her silk gown. “You look simply splendid in that color.”

Violette linked her arm with Suzanne’s, and they ambled through the crowd. “And you are lovely as well, my dear. Your gown is very fetching indeed.”

Suzanne’s velour dress was the color of crushed berries with accents of black velvet and gold trim. “You won’t believe where I got it. One of my acquaintances at the Théatre Saint Martin told me they were getting rid of some old moth-eaten costumes. I could tell this one still had some life in it. Nothing a good wash and a bit of needlework can’t fix.”

“How resourceful. You’ll certainly catch the eye of many gentlemen here.”

Suzanne opened her fan and fluttered her hand impatiently. “Just one will do, if only I can find him. Has he even…”

“Yes, don’t worry.” Violette squeezed her forearm. “Raoul arrived about an hour ago. Oh look, there he is with Nicolas.”

Suzanne’s heart quivered along with the fluttering of her hand, and her gaze finally found him. Tall, dark and handsome. Every time she laid eyes on Raoul, her pulse quickened, and her belly melted into a warm, delicious puddle.

Nicolas, golden-haired and spirited, was chattering with a group of gentlemen, while Raoul stood beside him, unsmiling and unflinching. Like Hades to Apollo, but Lord, how divine he was with those broad shoulders, strong jaw, and silky black hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. And it wasn’t just his appearance. He was the most loyal of friends, brave and dependable, one of the only people whom Nicolas trusted and with good reason, given the number of times they’d gotten into near fatal scrapes.

Yes, Raoul Prevost was almost perfect. If only he wasn’t so stubbornly scrupulous in his treatment of her. All her attempts at seduction had so far resulted in him retreating into stilted politeness, and yet when she tended the bar at the Cabaret Doré, he would growl at any patron who tried to flirt with her.

Infuriating man. She snapped her fan shut and closed her fingers around its ribs. Tonight would be different. All those hours spent in her garret room straining her neck and pricking her fingers plying her needle through layers of velour and velvet would be well worth the discomfort if only it would melt his rigidity.

“Are you all right?” Violette asked. “You look as if you’re going to wave that fan like a sword.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” she replied. “Mark my words, I’m going to win this battle tonight.”

*

“If you don’t believe me, Bretenaux, I will show you the books myself. We’ve had to open three new savate classes this month alone, such was the demand. Isn’t that right, Raoul?”

Raoul looked up from his glass of cognac and glanced at the gentlemen in their evening jackets and white gloves. For a moment he had the disconcerting impression that he was in a strange dream, about to wake up. He had taught savate to Nicolas years ago, when they were little more than delinquents trying to survive in Marseilles—though Nicolas’s agility with his fists and feet had quickly surpassed his own. Now they were at a ball in a fancy Parisian townhouse, surrounded by men who had so many coins burning a hole in their pockets that they were eager to invest in the latest fashionable venture. Men with soft hands and pomade in their hair and cheeks red from drink.

Nicolas dug an elbow into his ribs. Raoul grunted. “It’s true. At this rate we’ll have trouble finding trainers.”

“Lefevre told me you’re quite the fighter yourself,” their host, Guillaume de Marbois, said with a sharp look. “Won’t you take up training?”

Raoul’s jaw clenched. “I don’t fight if I can help it.”

And when he did, his knife was his best ally, not his fists.

“Rest assured several of my students have enough experience to become trainers,” Nicolas interjected. “This is only the beginning, gentlemen. Savate will one day be considered as noble as any other sport.”

Raoul smiled and sipped at his cognac. Rather rich, coming from someone who could kill a man with a single upward strike of his palm to the nose.

But that was the past. All dead and gone now, vanished. Enemies and loved ones alike.

A flash of berry red interrupted his dark thoughts.

Suzanne .

She slipped through the crowd with Violette, and that dress…

A flush of heat crept over his skin, the sensation dazed him, like liquor going to his head. He forced himself to focus on her face. Suzanne’s hair was the exact color of cognac, a rich amber. It framed her heart-shaped face in short, feathery strands.

Her gaze met his, and her rosy lips stretched into a brilliant smile. Hell, with only a few meters separating them, it was damn impossible not to inspect that dress again. His gaze flitted downward. Its deep red velvet, with bits of black and gold, contrasted with her creamy skin. And the low cut revealed a vast expanse of lush curves.

Outrageous. Chances were she had come here unaccompanied, as always. Didn’t she know the picture she presented would turn these gentlemen into wolves? On nights she worked at the Cabaret Doré, Raoul practically had to stand guard at the bar to discourage any slobbering fools.

“Suzanne, how lovely to see you,” Nicolas said. “I trust you’ve met our host before?”

Suzanne nodded and smiled at De Marbois. “Of course. The only gentleman in Paris who seems perfectly at ease in the back alleys of the Palais Royal.”

De Marbois laughed along with the other guests. “You’re not wrong, madame , though one has to wonder what that says about me.”

“ Mademoiselle ,” Suzanne corrected.

Raoul caught one of the gentlemen—Bretenaux?—standing a little straighter, as if he was trying to puff out his chest. A tall, spindly fellow whose most prominent muscle was his Adam’s apple. Raoul’s fingers itched to wrap themselves around his skinny neck.

Notes from the violin drifted over the hum of the crowd.

“They’ve started the music again.” De Marbois turned to Violette. “Will you do me the honor, madame ?”

“With pleasure, monsieur .”

He presented his arm and they headed to the floor.

“Oh, what a lovely air.” Suzanne glanced at Raoul. “There is nothing I quite like so much as a waltz.”

Bretenaux nearly jumped to her side. “Then I would be most pleased to accompany you, mademoiselle.”

“I… Yes, of course, monsieur .”

Raoul’s free hand curled into a fist. Step in. Tell that whoreson to find someone else.

Frozen in place, he watched as Bretenaux led Suzanne away. The other gentlemen found partners, leaving only him and Nicolas to observe the couples swaying and twirling to the rhythm.

“You know you’re a bloody idiot, don’t you?” Nicolas said after a few moments, his tone halfway between amusement and despair.

“What did you want me to do?” Raoul growled. “Bretenaux is ready to fling his fortune at your gymnasium. I could hardly pummel his face for asking Suzanne to dance.”

“Yes, that is true, but it could have been avoided if you’d made it clear earlier that she was spoken for.”

“She’s not .”

Nicolas sighed wearily. “Only because of your stubbornness. If I thought you had no interest, I would be the first to tell Suzanne to leave you be, but the way you glare at every man who comes near her tells me everything I need to know. So why don’t you simply claim her, you big lout?”

Raoul shook his head. Other men wouldn’t hesitate to bed Suzanne, then turn her away when they tired of her. He could never toss her aside so callously. If he did, he would be just like his wastrel father. As for a more serious attachment…

“I lead a dangerous life. You of all people should know this.”

Certainly, Nicolas couldn’t argue with that. Raoul’s barbershop, such as it was, doubled as a hiding place for smuggled goods or illegal printed material. And he’d made his fair share of enemies over the years. Suzanne had already been in the line of fire simply for being Nicolas’s friend. Who knew what harm she could come to if she developed closer ties to Raoul?

Nicolas clapped his shoulder. “My friend, it might be the time to close up shop. I’ve had enough dangerous encounters for a lifetime, and I’m perfectly happy being the boring, respectable, hard-working husband of Madame Violette Lefevre. As first investor in the gymnasium, you’ve made a tidy sum. Why not hang up your blade?”

Raoul took a long draw of cognac. Nicolas was making far too much sense. Hang up his blade, close his shop, invest his money wisely… But what would he become? After his mother’s death, facing danger to survive had become a nearly daily occurrence. He didn’t know how to live any other way.

“I’ll have you know I’m unarmed tonight.” He grunted. “Though I might regret that choice later, if Bretenaux doesn’t leave Suzanne alone.”

The waltz ended, and now the bastard was walking her toward the refreshment table, his hand on the small of her back.

“For the love of God, go rescue her then,” Nicolas pleaded. “Before she takes care of matters herself and that twit ends up with his head in the punch bowl.”