
Gabriel
The last thing Gabriel wishes to do is make an appearance at the party tonight. At first, it had seemed like a fine enough idea, and he couldn’t shake the odd feeling that had swirled in his gut at the thought of seeing Lizabeth Morgan again. Though the longer he thought about it, the more wrong it felt to be celebrating with the news of L’Ange de la Mort creeping through the palace like a plague. He almost convinced himself not to make an appearance at all, but Jean deserves to be told the truth about his father, even if it means Gabriel has to show himself in public when he’d much rather curl up in his bed and pretend as if one day, this all might pass.
Shoving back his apprehension—as he’s done too many times to count—Gabriel heads inside the apartments.
Across the antechamber, candles brought by guests are haphazardly placed in corners and on top of silken chaises like dozens of drunken afterthoughts. Velvet curtains are pulled tight across the grand windows, and the lighting is low, turning the walls from their normal powder blue to a near colorless silver. The space is hot and damp, the tang of champagne, spice, and hair pomade lingering in the air.
And hidden in a darkened corner near the apartments’ entrance, are Jean and Charlotte de Fontin. Giggling, Mademoiselle de Fontin snakes her arm around Jean’s shoulders and caresses his cheek, oblivious to Gabriel standing feet away. He clears his throat, breaking the couple out of their trance.
Mademoiselle de Fontin snaps her head around, her delicate lips turning up into a lazy smile. “Monsieur de la Marche,” she purrs, words slurred by champagne, “how lovely of you to join us.”
She gives Jean’s cheek a single caress and turns on her heel to disappear behind his gilded bedchamber door frame.
“You’re late,” Jean says, eyes trained on Mademoiselle de Fontin’s retreating form. “Not that I’m surprised in the least.”
“There is something I must discuss with you.”
“Later. A rather wonderful pair of thighs is waiting for me in my bedchamber.”
“It’s important, Jean, I—”
“You won’t die if you relax for once in your life,” Jean says, elbowing Gabriel in his side. “Especially since you're the one who does the killing anyway.”
Gabriel frowns, taking in the disheveled state of Jean’s blond curls and the kiss marks lining his neck, like purple and brown wildflowers blooming under his skin. “You’re drunk.”
“And you should be as well.” Jean plucks a glass of champagne from a nearby gueridon table, lifts it to his lips, and downs the contents in a single swallow. “It makes everything much more enjoyable.”
“Fine. Do whatever you wish, but listen to me.”
Jean slings an arm over Gabriel’s shoulder, pulling him close. “Oh, is there a bit of gossip you have to tell me? Did you find a woman you fancy? Did you finally learn how to smile? Are your manly parts—”
“It’s about your father.”
Jean pushes Gabriel away. “No, thank you. Father can go choke on his wig for all I care.”
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L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)
Historical Fiction{Wattys 2018 Winner - The Contemporaries} Versailles, France 1789: Where the only things more prevalent than opulence and wealth, are secrets. At the dawn of the French Revolution, Paris is divided. In the glittering palace of Versailles, courtiers...
