The Blood We Shared

Paris, France — November 1778

Geneva Laurent had learned three things about powerful men before her twenty-fifth birthday. They preferred beautiful women to intelligent ones. They preferred obedient women to beautiful ones. And when forced to choose between their reputations and their pleasures, they invariably expected someone else to pay the price.

She considered these observations while staring at the enormous arrangement of white roses that had arrived at her apartments shortly after breakfast. There were forty-eight of them. She knew because she had counted.

“Perhaps he means to marry you,” Madame Fournier suggested, adjusting the arrangement for the third time.

Geneva looked up from her correspondence.

“Who?”

“The gentleman who sent the flowers.”

“Then I sincerely hope he has better judgment than taste.”

Madame Fournier made a disapproving noise. She had served as Geneva’s companion for seven years and considered herself personally responsible for every improper remark that escaped her employer’s mouth.

Which was unfortunate, because Geneva made quite a few.

“They’re magnificent.”

“They’re white.”

“White roses symbolize purity.”

“Then someone has delivered them to the wrong address.”

Madame Fournier crossed herself. Geneva returned to her letter, smiling.

The flowers had arrived without a card, but she knew perfectly well who had sent them. Only one man in Paris possessed both the resources to import roses in November and the arrogance to assume an anonymous gift would be recognized.

Duke Armand de Valcéran. He had been watching her for three weeks.

At the opera, he occupied a box directly opposite hers. At Madame de Beaumont’s supper, he had arranged to sit beside her. At the Comtesse d’Aubigny’s musicale, he had asked her to dance twice, despite the raised eyebrows of several women who considered themselves considerably more suitable companions for a duke.

Geneva had accepted the first dance. She had declined the second. The roses, apparently, were his response.

“Send them to the chapel,” she instructed.

“All of them?”

“Unless you believe the Virgin has developed an objection to flowers.”

Madame Fournier sighed with the exhaustion of a woman who had long since abandoned hope of improving her charge. A knock sounded at the door. A footman entered carrying a silver tray.

“Another delivery, mademoiselle.”

Geneva glanced at the folded invitation resting upon it. The seal was black wax, impressed with a crowned stag. De Valcéran.

“How industrious of him.”

She broke the seal. The invitation was handwritten on thick ivory paper, the sort that cost enough to feed a working family for several days. His Grace, the Duke de Valcéran, requests the pleasure of Mademoiselle Laurent’s company at a private supper this Friday evening. Beneath the formal invitation, in a different hand, someone had added:

I dislike being refused. Geneva read the sentence twice. Then she laughed.

“Madame Fournier, I believe our duke has mistaken himself for a king.”

Her companion went pale.

“Please do not say such things aloud.”

“Why? Does he employ someone to listen at the keyholes?”

“In Paris? Almost certainly.”

That, Geneva conceded, was probably true. She placed the invitation beside her unfinished letter.

“Send my regrets.”

“Geneva.”

“Tell him I have a prior engagement.”

“You haven’t.”

“I intend to acquire one.”

Madame Fournier looked toward the ceiling, perhaps seeking divine intervention. Geneva reached for her tea. She had no intention of becoming another ornament in a nobleman’s collection. She already knew what that arrangement cost. Her mother had paid it. Geneva’s mother, Élisabeth Laurent, had been the daughter of a minor provincial nobleman whose estate consisted of more debts than land.

At seventeen, Élisabeth had possessed little besides an exquisite face, a modest education, and an inconvenient belief that love could overcome differences of rank. At eighteen, she became the mistress of a man whose bloodline reached into the highest circles of the French court. At nineteen, she gave birth to Geneva. By twenty, she had learned that affection and acknowledgment were entirely different commodities.

The gentleman never publicly claimed his daughter. He did, however, provide generously. Geneva grew up in beautiful houses, wore gowns imported from Lyon, studied music with accomplished tutors, and learned to converse in French, Italian, and English. Her education was expensive. Her existence was inconvenient. Society accepted the former while politely overlooking the latter.

Her mother had died when Geneva was sixteen, leaving her a comfortable income, several properties, and a collection of jewelry that Geneva suspected had been purchased more frequently out of guilt than affection.

Her father continued providing for her through intermediaries. They had met precisely four times. On each occasion, he had complimented her appearance. Never her intelligence. Never her accomplishments. Once, when she was nineteen, he had remarked that her unusual violet eyes would undoubtedly secure her an advantageous marriage. Geneva had asked whether they might also secure her a seat in Parliament.

He had not laughed. She had not been invited to visit again. The arrangement suited her. Mostly.

She enjoyed her independence, her money, and the freedoms available to a woman wealthy enough to ignore certain conventions but not sufficiently important to threaten them.

She attended the opera, hosted dinners, collected paintings, and occasionally entertained gentlemen whose families would have been horrified to discover how eagerly their sons sought her company.

But there were doors that remained closed. Invitations that never arrived. Women who smiled warmly in private and failed to recognize her in public. And men who believed that because her mother had been purchased, Geneva must surely have a price as well. Duke Armand de Valcéran appeared determined to discover it. On Thursday afternoon, Geneva attended a gathering at the Hôtel de Beaumont.

She wore dark plum silk with a fitted bodice and sleeves trimmed in delicate black lace. Her hair, nearly black, had been swept high and secured with pearl pins.

Madame Fournier had argued for powder. Geneva had refused. She disliked the fashion of making perfectly healthy people resemble marble statues. Besides, her natural coloring suited her. She knew it. There was no virtue in pretending otherwise. The drawing room glittered with chandeliers, polished mirrors, and women whose jewels represented the annual incomes of entire villages. Conversation drifted around her in familiar currents.

A scandal involving a marquis. An unfortunate marriage. A rumored pregnancy. A new mistress. A bankrupt estate. French society, Geneva had concluded, survived almost entirely upon the misfortunes of people who weren’t present to defend themselves.

“Mademoiselle Laurent.”

She turned. Duke Armand stood behind her.

He was tall, perhaps forty in appearance, with dark blond hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. His coat was midnight blue velvet, embroidered with silver thread, and an enormous sapphire gleamed upon his right hand.

He was handsome in the carefully preserved fashion of men who had never endured hardship. His eyes were gray. Cold gray. They rested upon her with the leisurely confidence of a man examining something he intended to acquire.

“Your Grace.”

He bowed over her hand. His lips hovered above her knuckles a moment longer than propriety required.

“You received my flowers.”

“I did.”

“And my invitation.”

“That as well.”

“Yet I received your regrets.”

“An unfortunate consequence of sending them.”

His mouth curved.

“Are you always so difficult?”

“Only when I am being particularly agreeable.”

He laughed. It was a pleasant sound, although Geneva noticed that his eyes did not change.

“I begin to understand why Paris finds you so entertaining.”

“Paris is easily entertained.”

“Indeed. I have lived here long enough to appreciate that.”

Something in his tone caught her attention. Not the words. The weariness beneath them. As though Paris had exhausted him over a period considerably longer than one man’s lifetime. An absurd impression. She dismissed it.

“May I offer you some advice, mademoiselle?”

“Would refusing prevent you?”

“Hardly.”

“Then I suppose we must endure it.”

He stepped closer.

“Women in your position should be cautious about declining the friendship of powerful men.”

There it was. Not even disguised. Geneva held his gaze.

“And men in your position should be cautious about assuming their friendship is universally desired.”

For a heartbeat, his expression emptied. The amusement vanished. Something sharp and unpleasant appeared beneath it. Then he smiled again.

“Beautiful and fearless.”

“Neither quality is particularly rare.”

“Together? Rarer than you imagine.”

He lifted her hand once more. This time, his fingers tightened around hers. Not painfully. Not quite.

“I believe we shall become very well acquainted, Geneva.”

She withdrew her hand.

“I wouldn’t arrange the furniture just yet, Your Grace.”

He laughed again. But as she walked away, she felt his attention follow her across the room. And for the first time since his pursuit began, Geneva experienced something other than irritation. She felt watched. Not admired. Watched. The duke’s residence stood behind imposing iron gates on a fashionable street not far from the Seine.

Geneva passed it the following morning while riding with Madame Fournier. The house was enormous, its pale stone façade adorned with carved balconies and tall windows. Two liveried servants stood at the entrance. A carriage waited in the courtyard. As Geneva’s own carriage slowed to allow a delivery wagon to pass, she noticed a young woman standing near the side gate. A maid.

She wore a plain dark dress beneath a heavy cloak, her hair tucked under a linen cap. Nothing remarkable about her appearance. Except her face. The woman was staring directly at Geneva. Not with curiosity. With unmistakable alarm. Their eyes met. The maid took one hurried step toward the carriage. Then the front doors opened. A footman emerged. The woman stopped.

Her expression changed instantly, settling into the practiced blankness of a servant who knew better than to draw attention. She lowered her head and disappeared through the gate. Geneva twisted in her seat to watch her go.

“Something interesting?” Madame Fournier asked.

“Perhaps.”

“What?”

“I believe one of the duke’s servants recognized me.”

“Everyone recognizes you, darling.”

“Not like that.”

Madame Fournier followed her gaze. But the gate had closed. Geneva sat back. The incident troubled her for reasons she could not explain. She had seen fear in the woman’s eyes. And something else. A warning. That evening, another gift arrived. Not flowers. A necklace. It rested in a velvet-lined box, an extraordinary arrangement of diamonds surrounding a single deep-purple gemstone.

An amethyst. Nearly the exact shade of Geneva’s eyes. Madame Fournier stared at it in open admiration.

“Good heavens.”

Geneva said nothing. The necklace was magnificent. She could appreciate fine craftsmanship without being foolish enough to mistake it for affection. A folded note lay beneath the velvet. For a woman who deserves to be adorned properly. No signature. None was necessary. Geneva closed the box.

“Return it.”

Madame Fournier looked genuinely distressed.

“Surely you might reconsider.”

“Would you prefer I accept it?”

“It must be worth a fortune.”

“So am I, apparently.”

“Geneva—”

“No.”

Her voice sharpened. Madame Fournier fell silent. Geneva softened.

“I’m sorry. I know you mean well.”

She touched the older woman’s hand.

“But a man who sends diamonds after being refused isn’t offering a gift. He’s establishing a debt.”

Madame Fournier regarded the box uneasily.

“And if he takes offense?”

“Then he will have to endure the novel experience of disappointment.”

Yet after her companion departed, Geneva remained seated before the fire. The necklace lay on the table. The amethyst caught the flames and reflected them in dark violet flashes. Beautiful. Cold. Expensive. She thought of the maid at the gate. The alarm in her eyes. The way she had vanished when another servant appeared. Then she thought of Armand’s fingers tightening around her hand.

Women in your position should be cautious. Geneva rose and crossed to the window. Paris glittered beyond the glass, alive with carriage lamps and distant voices. She had spent her entire life navigating the appetites of powerful men. She understood their vanity. Their entitlement. Their conviction that the world existed to satisfy them.

But Armand de Valcéran unsettled her in a way she could not quite name. It was not merely that he wanted her. She had been wanted before. It was the absolute certainty with which he seemed to believe the matter already settled. A knock interrupted her thoughts. The footman entered.

“Mademoiselle, a message has arrived.”

“From the duke?”

“No, mademoiselle.”

He hesitated.

“A woman delivered it to the servants’ entrance. She would not give her name.”

Geneva extended her hand. The paper was cheap, folded unevenly, and bore no seal. Inside, written in a hurried, unsteady script, were seven words. Do not let him bring you home. Geneva read them twice. Then a third time. She looked toward the darkened window.

For the first time in her life, the city beyond it seemed less like a playground and more like a place where something might be waiting.

She folded the note carefully.

“Did the woman leave?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Did you see her face?”

“Only briefly.”

“Describe her.”

The footman considered.

“Dark hair. Brown eyes, I believe. She wore a servant’s cloak.”

Geneva closed her fingers around the paper. The maid. Of course.

“Thank you. You may go.”

When the door shut, she returned to the fire. The diamonds glittered on the table. The roses were already gone. The duke had been refused twice. And somewhere in Paris, a frightened servant had risked her position to warn a woman she did not know. Geneva looked at the necklace one last time. Then she picked up the box and rang for her footman.

“Have this returned to His Grace immediately.”

“Tonight, mademoiselle?”

“Tonight.”

He bowed.

“And should he send another gift?”

Geneva smiled without humor.

“Tell him I am not for sale.”

The footman departed. Geneva remained beside the fire, unaware that across the city, Duke Armand de Valcéran was receiving a very different message. One that concerned a servant who had left her duties without permission. And a young woman who still believed refusal was enough to keep a monster from her door.