Read Online The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale - Free Book Online

required a bit of cajoling
and numerous promises before parting with even a bottle of his Hermitage, much
less the cognac, given the sad status of S.T.'s bill. He took a thoughtful sip,
tilting his head to survey the travelers discreetly.
    He found his interest returned. The man at the table was looking at him with
insolent openness, one elbow resting casually on his armchair. He wore a gray
frock coat, with a thick fall of lace at his throat, and breeches and waistcoat
of matching marigold yellow. His weapon was a cane sword, lighter and more
convenient than S.T.'s unfashionable but lethal colichemarde.
    The stranger's dark eyes moved over S.T. as if he were a horse at auction;
the bored mouth curved upward a little when S.T. met his look squarely. Without
comment the man turned again to the balcony, stuck his hand into his fair
chestnut hair, and rested his cheek on his palm.
    "Come and drink, Latour," he said lazily to his companion, "and give me to
hope that we won't be incarcerated here for the night."
    "I make no promise." The other man straightened and bowed briefly. " 'Tis
apparent to me that this execrable hole of a town, she is habited by clowns and
monkeys."
    "But, no!" Irony dripped from the soft words. "They cannot be so obtuse as
this valet of mine, whose unfortunate idea it was to cross the bridge."
    The man on the balcony hesitated an instant, and then bowed again more
deeply. "
Mais oui,
monsieur le comte. It is as you say, of course."
    "Come in and drink, Latour," his master said in a low, silky voice. "Do show
some respect. I may be amused to see you drape yourself across the balcony rail
when it's between us, but now there is a gentleman present."
    Latour obeyed, placing the walking stick carefully in a corner. He stationed
himself behind the count's chair and took the glass of cognac offered, but did
not drink.
    S.T. thought this a queer pair of birds, and rather fancied he'd have done
better to stay in the public room below. He'd have learned more there. The
shouts and chatter drifted up from the street, echoing in the quiet salon. S.T.
sighed and studied his glass. With this turmoil, he'd not get a quite moment to
question Marc no matter where he stationed himself.
    He tasted his cognac. At least there was no obvious sign that Nemo had been
taken or any apparent concern about fever in town. This coach seemed to be the
biggest event in La Paire since the Crusades. He glanced toward the table and
found the young nobleman watching him again.
    "I am bored, Latour," the man said slowly. "Bored. I must do something."
    The servant Latour shifted uneasily. "Shall I bespeak a bedchamber, my lord?"
    "No . . . in a moment, perhaps. I wonder—dare I be so forward?" He smiled a
little. "Could I hope that this gentleman might engage in a small hand of piquet
to pass the time?"
    S.T. sipped his drink and considered the fellow before him with a
professional eye. The man didn't look like a seasoned gambler; he looked like a
well-padded aristocrat overcome with ennui. S.T. knew better than to trust that,
but on the other hand he hated to pass up an opportunity to fleece a lamb if he
had one.
    "Nay," he said. "I don't wish to exercise my head so hard, monsieur. And I've
no purse about me."
    The
comte
sat up straighten "This cursed place—" He stood suddenly
and began to prowl the room. "I cannot bear it! Listen to them down there, the
silly dogs; what are they about, to be of such idleness? Inform them I wish to
leave, Latour. Go and tell them I cannot tolerate confinement."
    The servant bowed. As he left the room, his master pulled out a wallet and
emptied it on the table.
    "Look, sir," he exclaimed, gesturing toward S.T. "There you are—twenty gold
louis. You may count them. Yes—count them! I wager them against nothing, for the
sport, if you please. A game, for God's mercy; don't deny me a little
diversion!"
    S.T. rubbed his ear. He began to wonder about this fellow's wit.
    The