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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 21, 2008 1:10:21 GMT -5
Midnight at the Moulin Rouge.
Necessity.
That's why she was here. She reminded herself of it at least once every minute to be safe. It was easy to lose heart, seeing as she was now in a dangerous position being here, and may not even be able to accomplish what she had come here to do. Besides... this was a very unpleasant act to perpetuate.
Nicolette Gabrielle Marcellinus-Jondrette, darling of the nobility, was in the Moulin Rouge dressed as a prostitute. It was the second time that she had had to assume the pretence, seeing as the first time her rendez-vous had not occurred. She was in the business of discussing a commission to kill with an assassin; she wished to eliminate the dangerous and cunning M. Deloncre in order to free the sister of her heart, Nicole. She had formerly attended a seedy tavern in efforts to meet with him. Their agreement was for her to dress to blend in, as a prostitute. She had arranged with a pimp that she would advertise for him and perform at the piano, but was not to go for less than a hugely outrageous price that no sane man would pay for one night. She had assured the pimp that every penny would go to him if he would protect and solicit her as one of his girls. The pimp had, of course, agreed. That same pimp was now proudly by her side at the piano while she played a little diddy, hawking at the passing gentlemen. Unfortunately, that night the assassin had not showed. A fellow prostitute had slipped her a note to announce that the following week at midnight the plan would commence as agreed at the Moulin Rouge.
She had not had time to argue. It was especially risky because she knew many of the nobles that attended this place, and there was chance of recognition. She kept her head bowed, her loose dark hair in a curtain around her face as she played. It certainly drove away prospective customers. A few dancers went out, their cries echoing over her upbeat singing and banging on the piano. She flinched every time, on edge.
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 21, 2008 14:39:32 GMT -5
Distantly the bell of the tower geid into the darkness to signal the lesser of the world into wakefulness. Creatures of the night, ladies of the night, and here he was Byron Maxemillion, Duke of Northumberland. Far from his home of England, far from the family that had so betrayed him; tearing apart his heart of Adeline. Whom he reminded himself as the carriage rocked, and swayed against every bump of the cobble street that she was dead. Long gone into the world of oblivion where he could not reach her, could not touch her, and could so join her if he was as much a coward.
The murmur of male voices of his 'friends' he'd acquired while in France, the men whom had accompanied him from Versailles. Had most ardently encouraged him to attend Paris, the grandeur would do him good. That was if the stench did not do him in of course. Holding a cologne perfumed kerchief to his face he inhaled deeply, emerald eyes gazing out the window. Clip-clop of the horses hooves, another bump.
Pray that the Moulin Rouge be upon them soon, and he had not long to wait as the red windmill came into view. A silent turning of mesmerizing movement that remained constant as the carriage came along the lines of others that were depositing their male occupants. French blathered on beside him and he had no interest in what was being said, the inner most French being much quicker than outer townships.
Le Moulin Rouge. Not even close to being an up and up of nightclubs yet it attracted the rich and the richer. As soon as the door to his carriage opened the three other occupants stepped down amidst laughter and even more vulgar jests as to what would happen tonight. Byron heaved a sigh that drug deep in his soul and out, as he to disembarked from the landship that had brought him and would return him to his villa once the revelry was over.
He wore gentleman's attire, a scarf half tossed around his shoulders along with leather gloves that encased his large, capable hands. Being passed along his cane not that he was inhibited by any such symptom, or injury; but for the fact of propriety and showing of class. Setting as well atop his dark head a tall hat, to join the throng of other 'gentlemen' as they made their way in. Polished black shoes moving along the red-carpet and golden tasseled ways into the Moulin.
Such a Red Windmill, and the music that emanated from within was lively. The colours were just as bright the women beyond vulgarity as they can-canned the night away. Pimps called, women gyrated their hips to him, to anyone in his party that would give them any heed for the evening. Byron was above all appalled yes, and settled for breathing in the perfume of the kerchief in his hand.
Skirts were pulled up to him, enticing him if at all possible, to be a client. Showing legs, thighs, undergarments and at some point there were those who wore none at all. His party had many a woman tossed over their laps, disgusting him beyond his normal graces of propriety.
"Come on Max," one said in slurred French. "Have at one."
"I'd much prefer not. Excuse me....gentlemen. I will return." Rising, Byron made for the toilet only to have women following him. These prostitutes to whom he gave the most angered glances at all possible which sent them with their hips sashaying back to other possible Client's. It would be upon his return trip of consideration to the table that a pimp that was overly ruthless to get business.
"Monsieur! Monsieur!" The man was upon him, offering him girls who Byron had already declined, denied and held true.
"I must say Sir, your lot is below...My standards." To which Maxemillion did not lie. Pursing his lips together anything but pleased, he heaved a sigh when the man began to run out of women. Out of options entirely. It was to the woman at the piano that exemplified some form of female delicacy and femininity that Byron to be left alone consented.
"And the Mamselle?" He inquired pointing to the girl with her wild hair, bowed over the ivory keys of the piano.
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 21, 2008 16:03:55 GMT -5
Colette looked up as a sharp-toed boot collided with her calf. Her back straightened involuntarily from its forced slump as indignation flared through her. Her chin lifted slowly so that her threatening gaze could meet that of the offender. Doubtless, she saw, it had been one of the other girls that stood by the piano, leaning with bared breasts against the frame in nonchalant offensiveness. They did not look at her, though, but at someone behind her--she shifted her long hair out of her eyes with the sweep of one pale hand and held it there to assess the man to which the pimp now spoke.
He was an extraordinarily beautiful specimen. Spanish, she guessed, though his accent was distinctly English. Turning her mind from the appreciation of his appearance, she began to analyse. He had turned down all of the other girls, apparently, for the pimp was quite jittery now; he was very well-dressed, therefore either a Lord or a very well-paid assassin. It was hard to place, but this could very well be the man. The song ended in favour of another, more brassy piece and she withdrew her remaining hand from the keys and turned her blue eyes swiftly to the pimp, a threat in her eyes. The mousy, greasy man drew his brows together, obviously considering retracting their deal in favour of a more immediate, likely one. Finally, the pimp nodded imperceptibly, and turned back to the emerald-eyed man.
"One thousand francs for that one, Monsieur. A real classy one, she is," said the pimp, almost reluctantly, and Colette's clenched hands relaxed a bit in her lap. That was five times the price of the most expensive prostitute here. The other girls giggled and gasped, beginning to exclaim hatefully among themselves.
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 21, 2008 20:03:35 GMT -5
There had been little time between the half hearted if even that inquiry as to the price of a certain prostitute. After the general question had escaped his lips, Byron had wondered if he felt disgusted with himself for even asking or if he had felt as though he'd betrayed his departed beloved. With even lesser time to regress into himself and lick his more emotional wounds the Duke stood before the pimp. Watching as the man mulled over the offer for such a certain woman.
Clammy hands and shifty eyes went between himself and the woman. Perhaps the prostitute was not up for 'rent' as Byron could not forwardly consider her a sale. After all he'd be renting a body for an evening and not much else as it were. The more time that passed between the consideration of the woman the less inclined Max was becoming. Arriving alone and leaving alone appealed to him far above appeasing some greasy, low-life of a man.
Just when the cause seemed to be lost and thankfully so. The Can-Can was deserted for another tune that held too many horns than other instrumentation. Attacking his ears with the sharply played notes. The Duke with his piercing emerald gaze made a slightest mistake of the glance to the woman he'd offered. He caught the briefest sapphire looking at him in a way that was most disconcerting. Analytical in a way that did not stretch to his pocket book but somewhere surrounding just in his stance and structure. Odd woman it would seem.
Unable to see much more beyond pale skin, passing alabaster the mighty blanket of her hair obscured much else. The pimp presented himself before Byron once more a determined look upon his features. A greedy look, a hungry look for the one thing Byron could satisfy if a woman could satisfy him for the night. That not being the case, it was fortunate the Duke did not see, the threatening glances being passed between the two. What did come to his attention was the ultimate price for a prostitute. French rattling off and Byron in a serene ease looked down into the man's face.
"One thousand francs for that one, Monsieur. A real classy one, she is," said he in an almost triumphant manner. Was it because he knew something Byron did not? Was it possibly because it seemed too far fetched a reach just for some woman? Whichever it might've been, it was to the Duke who shrugged his shoulders in an almost nonchalant way. That a thousand Francs could hardly touch his large lots of money that had accumulated over the years he'd spent in France. None could say other than his accountants what he had anymore.
One thing was true, that the Franc did nothing against the British Pound. They'd be removing possibly five-hundred pounds if at all to equal the amount of a Franc.
"Very well Sir," complied the Duke. Reaching into his inner most jacket pocket, which set off a burst of gasps and much outraged cries from the women. All of them except the one who sat at the piano as demure as the way a well kept lady would be bred to do. The rest were vultures, harpies, quickly coming to the forefront to beg the pimp to offer them up instead. Something the pimp seemed hard pressed not to do. Shifty eyes shifted, a wicked; wolfish grin worked up his devilish features.
Byron produced not the Francs as it would be insanity to walk around with such money, but the paper to fit the man's greedy, grabbing hands. Giving the alloted amount onto the paper with a charcoal piece set securely in a small tin. Adding his signature that could not be replicated as he would in the morning send a message to his accountant of the amount to be withdrawn to this man. As it was an honest word, an honest handshake sealed a deal. The pimp nearly tore the paper from Byron's hand upon extension.
Pursing his lips in a most displeased manner he side-stepped the harping prostitutes to the woman who sat at the Piano. Seeming overly silent, dumbfounded, possible shocked? Who could tell but she? Extending his hand down to her where she sat he had no real need to speak. It was obvious that she take his hand and come with him.
After all she'd just been paid for and rented.
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 21, 2008 22:11:52 GMT -5
Nicolette's lips twitched up into a small smile. Finally, yes, this must be her man. The pimp was in ecstatics, the whores in a jealous uproar. The man himself was collected. He paid quickly and had the humorous honour of giving the greasy pimp a handshake before extending his hand to her. He seemed lethargic, haunted; hardly the excited customer preparing to get his money's worth. She assumed, then, that the charade was no longer entirely necessary. With her own customary grace and no fake stumbles or slouches she extended her pale hand to rest it lightly on his preferred glove. The feeling was foreign to her, as she herself usually had gloves. It was improper for a man and woman's skin to be separated by anything less than several thick layers of clothing. The soft leather tickled her fingertips as she barely pressed it to stand.
She was a tall woman, but found herself still dwarfed by the emerald-eyed man. While sitting he had seemed like a giant. Now, standing, he still looked abnormally tall. Despite his height, he was muscled and well-built, which gave him a proportionate handsomeness akin to how she had thought a seraphim to appear. Somehow, his handsomeness made her uncomfortable in her dress. The appreciating glances of other men simply disgusted her, quickening a tongue of angry flame to lick at her belly. His green, green gaze made her feel bared in an unpleasantly... pleasing way. It made no sense to her. She wore a borrowed dress, to short for her, in a shock of red that looked terrible against her pale skin.
She nodded her head silently toward a staircase and turned to lead him up it, the boards creaking beneath her tattered slippers. Turning down a hallway and opening a door with a large, rusty key (after some difficulty and jingling), she held the door open without looking behind her. At the sound of footsteps passing, she closed the door and locked it again, turning to see him without the obstruction of her curtain of hair. It was time to do business.
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 21, 2008 23:01:42 GMT -5
The Duke barely felt the paper slip from his gloved fingers as the pimp greedily suckled the endorsement into his clutches. This man no longer had a real reason to remain for the evening, Byron's 'patronage' alone for this one, whore would see the pimp secure for well over a month. As for the other women, harlots the lot; neither of them at all pleased with the man before them. He'd taken a fancy to one they seemed to shun with a great dislike but it did not set the Duke aside, nor have him looking askance at other options. He'd paid, well and true as a business man would, a gentleman would regardless of the brothel he now stood in.
A hand extended down to the dark haired girl he'd so purchased for a borrowed amount of time. In his silent expectant gaze he watched curiously as this woman's delicately made lips seemed to quirk up into a smallest gists of a smile. Not the sort of smile that triumphed over her less than happy sisters of the night but a smile that seemed to have been knowing, almost expectant of him. Another oddity Byron was finding in just the few minutes he'd been in her presence and she in his.
Like an oceanic Queen he compared her, carved beauty immortal into the brow of the sheep. Sailing over the ocean blue as that is what her eyes immensely reminded him of that open body of water. Her slouches disintegrated and she sailed, yes that was it. Sailed into his hand; her smaller, porcelain boned hand of alabaster skin in the contrast of his ebony, leathered hand held. He could almost hear the ocean breathe as she stood, barely placing any pressure just as a refined 'Lady' would've done.
Her head of dark curls came to just beneath his chin, leaving him a full head higher but she was a few inches taller than most of the smaller women that made up French society. Even English nobility were in an average range of women, but ah his Adaline had been petite and small. Byron immediately swallowed her memory to bottle it up as the dark haired woman escorted him along. Slave to his thoughts he put little resistance in following her, glancing at the red highlights that flashed in the strands of a red-brown mane of hair. Captivated by the color just to get his mind off it's wandering to a lost soul.
Byron allowed his gaze to shift over her as she walked, the sway of hips not that he wasn't of course enticed in the most primal manner of a man to a woman. It was the over all difference the woman carried herself in a regality not common to even the most trained of prostitutes. This was bred, she was bred; a look at her face without her hair obscuring her features for the briefest of moments confirmed that.
She was an angel on Earth to be painted by the most greedy of artists to have her for his own to paint until the colors could no longer do her justice. Although her dress would not do, such a red was like a splash of dulled out red that would've seemed more brilliant if she were lying dead in an ally. Even the skirt itself was short, presenting dainty ankles that Byron didn't examine further for other men were doing that happily for him.
Max's mind wandered then as they ascended the staircase to Adaline or the memory of her that was quickly fading. Alcohol had not helped him the first five months, these past months of moving had kept him busy enough yes. Now here he was in a brothel, having paid an outrageous sum according to the French for this singular whore. Only to wonder if he could even bring himself to it.
To lay upon her, to caress her body with his gloved hands if even that. It was that wasn't it? The impersonal way he'd touch this woman and never know her beyond the fact he'd toss up her skirts, drop his pants and see himself well sated physically for an evening. Emotionally drained for eternity for his crime.
It was when the keys jingled and rattled that he came back to the woman before him, awaiting he enter the room. Sighing he did as she silently awaited, entering only to have the door close behind him and lock. A dungeon. Glancing around the finery was surprising, even the cleanliness despite the fact it smelled of inscents being burned and a slight musk in the air from...He had an idea what.
Turning 'round to face the woman she was already looking expectantly up at him with her hair tossed aside to reveal her face entirely.
Yes. She was beautiful, dangerously so.
"Mamselle."
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 22, 2008 0:56:04 GMT -5
It was odd to stand here with him now that the noise was dull and distant, muffled by the door. They stood among the smell of dust, incense and sex, alone and unwatched. The electric lights and obnoxious music of the Moulin was seperate now, leaving them in a world surreal in its own unfamiliarity and stillness. She stared at him for several moments in open curiosity, her wide eyes searching.
Mamselle. Her slightly crooked, ironic smile lifted again to her lips, her eyes sparkling with momentary mirth. He had a very enticing voice. The man was all attraction and masculinity; she would have to be careful around him. Turning abruptly, she moved to an end table beside the large queen-sized bed and set the keys down with a soft clink, then immediately began to slowly plait her hair into a loose braid, the whole waving mass pulled over the right shoulder. She turned and looked at him again, noting that he had called her mademoiselle. She was madame, being married, and wondering that he had forgotten that fact. She was the wife of a very rich and influential man, and the current object of some terribly gossip involving her husband. It would be a difficult fact to forget. She decided not to correct him.
"Monsieur," she greeting in return, and then moved on quickly. "Where shall we begin?"
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 22, 2008 1:51:59 GMT -5
It had never been Byron's custom to venture into brothels; neither had it been a custom of his to even mingle with the classes far beneath his own. A prostitute was beneath his shoe, worth less than a grain of sand as a grain beheld more. It was a piece of land, they being a piece of flesh just for the moment; this prostitute however was by far going against that grain. It prickled him in a way he didn't quite understand as the dawning that she wasn't just some ordinary prostitute. In her eyes she looked at him in the utmost searching manner almost deeming him holder of some answer she wanted, or had been waiting for.
As secure the door she'd closed; however secure the room was now with it's tapestry's hanging on the walls of floral prints. A glass window leading to the outside world with the small lamp lights on the walls with their brass arms reaching out and up. Illuminating the ceiling down to where they stood casting them in a light that both made the imperfections of women more appealing. Leaving her beauty a beacon of brunette hair and spun fire in each strand.
Putting something between them he called her as best he could come to a Mademoiselle as his French was not immaculate. It took her stare off him but enticed another smile from her lips as though she were entirely amused with him; by him. Arching a dark brow, Byron took the opportunity as it presented itself that she turned her back to him. Drawing her hair over a shoulder and began to plait it, much to his dislike. As it smelled, she smelled much cleaner than one would've thought a prostitute to smell.
A few strides had him seated on the edge of the queen sized bed, his hands easing off his jacket. He looked more as though he were getting comfortable to speak business rather than preparing himself to get on with his purchase. The bed shifted with his weight and he looked to her across the room where she stood by the end table. Her feminine curves presented to him in her ill fitting dress something he'd not point out as it was a sight to see. Not entirely humorous but somewhat enticing as she had been before.
When she turned to face him it became a different matter all together. In her face she seemed a bit set back by something he'd said, done and that couldn't be. He was a Duke, he'd just paid a thousand francs, how dare she seem ill placed with him! Clenching his jaw momentarily; Max settled for his hands gripping the edge of the bed, and extending his legs out in front of him. Crossing them to be idle for a time to leave it to the woman to beat him to the punch of the evening.
"Monsieur. Where shall we begin?" It was a hello, goodbye, let us get this along with shall we? Maybe they should've been talking about weather, maybe they should've been talking about him writing another check to her instead of the pimp. Odd indeed!
"As the Lady is more knowledgeable in the details of this...transaction than I. It is befitting I leave it to you Milady to begin as you see fit. Although I have a preference to start from the beginning to better grasp just what I've gotten myself into."
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 22, 2008 22:11:23 GMT -5
She watched annoyance flicker through his eyes and one brow lifted in response to his. Did he wish to savour it, the granting of the commission? How very cold-blooded. Either way, she preferred to get it over and done with. He seemed passionate, angry beneath a cool shell, a dangerous trait that she recognised. Beyond the need to assure her own safety, she was unnerved by the stir of desire in her belly. She was sure, looking at him, that it was not an uncommon reaction. He was very handsome, and the sheer power that he exuded was enticing. Women were probably like moths to a flame when it came to him.
She had begun to remove her slippers, an apology on her lips for the impropriety, when he spoke. She froze, utterly shocked and slightly insulted. More knowledgeable! Exactly what rumours had he been listening to? He, of all people, should know that she had now commissioned the deaths of the Viscount and his bride. She had had no reason to do so, despite how the tongues wagged. Yes, she had had everything to do with the other two assassinations, but that was still half what she was sometimes accused of. He had done such a wonderful job with Lady Chavelie besides, and she would not have gone to anyone but him otherwise since then.
"From the beginning..." She repeated, disbelief colouring her tone. Impoli sanglier, she thought bitterly to herself, trying to ignore the effect of his hard stare. "Surely, Monsieur," she began, and sat gracefully into a threadbare chair in the corner that creaked irritably beneath her weight. "I will pay every franc back to you for the pimp's fee, as agreed. Needless to say, utmost secrecy is required. I requested to meet with you in person to discuss the arrangements for this commission because it will surely be more challenging and dangerous than the last. I would wish for you to eliminate le Marquis, Gerard Deloncre--as my paid assassin in this endeavour, you would earn twice the amount I paid you to make Lady Chevelie disappear. He is a cunning and dangerous man, quite adept at deflecting attempts on his life and wealth. Speed is required, as well, for the clock ticks on a very difficult matter."
She paused, trying to interpret his expression, before moving on. "Arrangements for leaving this place undetected have been made. The window to this room may be opened, and there is work-man's ladder placed near it. I will exchange clothes with the prostitute from which I borrowed this dress and leave for my house an hour after you go." Her face was stern, one brow still delicate arched. Despite the sensitive nature of the things she discussed, she remained perfectly composed and calm.
"Monsieur? Avez-vous comprendre?"
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 23, 2008 1:55:29 GMT -5
The responding brow that lifted against his own intrigued Byron to a point before it gave way to the regular annoyance of a lesser standing person in class deemed themselves above him for this sort of business. At least he felt as much from where he'd seated himself on the queen sized bed, his hands setting his jacket aside carefully. Cautious enough it'd not be smudged by even the slightest tufts of dust to be collected. In the interim of his being he continued to admire the harlot who no longer seemed harlot at all.
Womanly curves nearly begged for attentions he was almost ready to give: Almost. Her rustic hair now plaited into a thick braid over her shoulder to his request that was building into a demand. That she take it out again so he could possibly watch it free fall around her face; compare the contrasts of her red brown hair to her alabaster skin. While being drawn into her oceanic blue gaze which seemed to hold the unnerving ability to keep him captivated.
Settled upon the bed, his large hands splayed out over the comforter near the edge. A most undelightful creak emanated from the chair that supported her. It sounded its protest of her weight in a most shrill fashion for a piece of worn, furniture. Receiving his piercing emerald stare that was unwavering as she went stock still for his request. It was an honest request he'd never purchased a whore before it was after all most entirely innocent. His one true love he'd never had and now women he doubted even a harlot to a noble woman could hold a candle to his Adaline.
An angry look flashed from her to him, as she'd settled finally in her chair. Beginning in the most common, and calm voice he'd ever heard. Each little perfected rise and fall of tone that dripped from her pink little lips alarmed that she was indeed anything but a whore. If that did not give him purpose enough to confirm his suspicions, the things he was hearing were.
"...as agreed...Utmost secrecy.....I requested to meet with you in person to discuss the arrangements for this commission because it will surely be more challenging and dangerous than the last. I would wish for you to eliminate le Marquis, Gerard Deloncre--as my paid assassin in this endeavor, you would earn twice the amount I paid to you to make Lady Chevelie disappear. He is a cunning and dangerous man, quite adept at deflecting attempts on his life and wealth. Speed is required, as well, for the clock ticks on a very difficult matter."
Difficult? Is that how it was put now to assassinate someone? What a wicked, conniving witch. It was in every instinct of Byron to immediately call the authorities. That was of course once he overcame his overall shock if that were possible. Mutely he sat on the bed and stared at her, blankly for that was the best he could even muster up from inside him. A blank stare was as good as gold she'd never know how frantically his brain was working to keep up with this...Transaction. Imagine him paying for a whore only to find himself in the midst of an assassination process! Be it his luck.
"Arrangements for leaving this place undetected have been made. The window to this room may be opened, and there is a work-man's ladder placed near it. I will exchange clothes with the prostitute from which I borrowed this dress and leave for my house an hour after you go." He wasn't making her happy with his silence that much was apparent. To kill someone and speak of it as though she did this for a living. "Monsieur? Avez-vous comprendre?"
He understood well enough.
Loosening his cravat as he stood, Byron allowed his brain to finish the marathon run this was turning into. His long legs, taking him in two or three strides that completed the room only to turn about on a pivot and begin the two to three strided pace to the other side of the room once more. After a few moments of this he stilled for a time, lifting a hand to comb through his dark hair and down to the strong nape of his neck where it rested. Emerald eyes glanced to the woman; giving a nod as though he'd just decided after some long debate just what needed to be done.
Nonchalantly he took his strides to the end table, looked her in the eye and gave her a grin that curved only the corner of his lips at the right side of his face. It twitched amused at her; as though he knew something she did not. Allowing his hand to reach out and promptly remove the keys to the room she had just so blatantly lain out between them. That now in his possession he remained silent; taking himself to the window in which he opened.
Making it seem as though he would readily leave now rather than later. A glance down and there was the ladder.
"So...There it is. A ladder just as you said Mamselle." His voice was distant as he reached down and with a shove sent the workman's ladder up, teetering, then clattering down to the street below. "And so it is no more." Turning 'round to face her as she'd be most alarmed by this point. Byron crossed his arms before his chest, the sleeves hugging the muscles that began to rise up in his arms from the action. Leaving the Duke at a stance to be reckoned with.
"Mamselle...Or should I say..Mademoiselle? Be it I were to tell you...I am anything and anyone but an assassin. Possibly...I am just..a visiting Duke from Northumberland who just so happened to buy himself a whore. Who now reveals herself to be...a murderess." Max went silent his emerald gaze boring down into her own.
"Avez-vous comprendre?" Irony at it's finest.
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 23, 2008 11:01:18 GMT -5
His expression was unreadable, but not at all what she had expected. He looked thoughtful, but not in a pleased or complying way. It seemed there was a flame of defiance in his eyes; and then he stood, and the melting smile that was sent her way made her extraordinarily wary. He seemed to be checking the escape route that she had mentioned, which was all well enough. He picked up the keys, and then opened the window; for a moment she had the absurd idea that he was going to toss them out.
Clank. The ladder hit the street and she flinched imperceptibly. Non, non, non! She nearly understood now. Tensed and wary, she watched him as he spoke, his emerald eyes sly. "Avez-vous comprendre?" Her blue eyes flared with fiery indignation, though her face remained composed. Her hands clenched in her lap, making little half-moon indents on her palms from where her nails dug in. She let a silence draw between them, her enraged gaze fixed on his.
Suddenly she stood, unfurling from her seat and placing a hand on the wall to steady herself as her head grew light, her lungs aching for air that seemed difficult to take in. She was accustomed to these attacks now, and quite skilled at avoiding the onslaught of gasping and coughs that ensued. When the pain passed she took in a deep breath and turned her eyes back again to look at him.
"Oui, Monseiur. Je comprends," She said, her voice husky and low with outrage and pain. She was entirely in his power, something that had never before been achieved. She had always had some modicum of control, despite the disadvantages of her sex and social expectations. He had captured her in this moment with him both in threat and circumstance. The only advantage that she had was that he did not know her true identity. It would not be hard to find, surely, with the names that she had provided him. She was under suspicion for the assassination of a noblewoman who she had named as a former victim.
Connections could be found between she and Deloncre, too. A bolt of fear flew through her. Nicole was that connection. It might be the intention of this... Duke?... to turn her into the authorities now, with Deloncre's name in addition. She had only ever associated with Deloncre through necessity in her friendship with his now-missing daughter. They had been like sisters to each other, Mme. Deloncre like the mother that had been displaced and Colette always longed for. When Mme. Deloncre had died and the sixteen-year-old Nicole disappeared into oblivion, it had been no secret that Nicolette Marcellinus had grieved for a long time without once paying visits of comfort to the widower. Her arrest and that very information could reveal to Gerard that his daughter was alive and well--after all, why would Nicolette take such precautions for her freedom and safety if she were dead and gone?
Colette seemed more pale than usual. Her eyes focused as she returned from her thoughts and met those of the Duke with fierce resentment and determination. She would not let Nicole fall into her father's clutches. "Alea iacta est," she murmured to herself, moving in long, quick strides to where he stood oppressively beside the window. It unnerved her that he was so very large, a head over her and quite a bit bulkier. She had no illusions that she could overcome him physically without a pistol. Even then, a pistol shot might not kill this bull of a man. Made bold by her fear, her hand lifted and gripped lightly at his chin, her unfurled pinky and ring finger brushing lightly at his neck. She stared him in the eyes, her own swirling with her mad need to secure the safety of those she loved.
"You will tell no one of anything you have heard or seen tonight," She said vehemently, her voice level and strong. Her expression left no room for doubt.
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 23, 2008 15:22:47 GMT -5
It was unmistakable of the expression that now crossed the woman's face her plaited braid forgotten. Delicately, bred features contorted in a rage that could've held most any man dead in his tracks. The reels where still turning in Byron's mind to conclude that one and for all this woman was not a harlot. Giving credibility to her perfect French of an upper class woman, such was it in England. Cockney accentations for the lesser; proper to the upper. Bred was her form, bred was her stance, but be it in her favor that she could disappear at a whim if he were to release her.
He could readily hunt the nobility were he even mad enough to let her go, this murdering witch. Casting his features into a dark shadowed gloom that crossed his eyes and set his lips firmly into a line instead of a frown. Byron had done away with the ladder and now the keys were secured in his hand; held with an iron grip she'd have a hard time removing upon death. Another thought he'd have reason to be wary about.
The flare of the oceanic blue to the storm of the seas whipped, rolled, and crashed; remaining beautifully composed while she ran him through a hundred times with one look. Gripping her hands into themselves with her paint nails indented into her skin the crescent mooned impressions. Shooting to her feet; sending her plaited braid sailing 'round against her back. A brief moment of hesitation caused by what seemed her rage, her shock or something of another nature grasped her. Held this murderess to sway unevenly on her feet; then it was gone and she gave him her accusatory look.
"Oui, Monsieur. Je comprends," her voice husky with a danger to a wounded spirit. Be it a murderess to look strikingly beautiful in her rage, in her anger. Max never wavered in his stance aside from the window. The Duke would not put it past her to attempt on his life now and shove him out the window. In those skirts she might very well hold a blade, but no woman in her right mind would act against a man much less a Duke as himself.
In her right mind she was not, insane would be a close second. Cold, cool, calculating and calm insanity drove her to place the distance that had placed some safety between them to an end. Her pallor did not ignite a sudden bout of chivalry or pity; Damnation he should've taken the opportunity to advance while she'd been lost in thought.
A full head beneath him she reached up, her painted nails the razors of death some how found a light but firm grip against his chin, jaw; pressing fingers to the soft flesh between his neck and jaw. It ached dully with her skin burning his face a determined refusal in his unwavering emerald gaze to tip his head back and give her the upper hand.
"You will tell no one of anything you have heard or seen tonight," how dare she try to control him. A low chuckle started in the depths of his chest taking his deep voice up into his vocal cords to vibrate against her pressing fingers. Swallowing with his Adam's Apple bouncing against the tips pressing into his neck. Byron reached out to the small creature now threatening him. A large capable hand, splayed at the nape of her narrow neck; tickling her silk, alabaster skin. With thick fingers rough from fencing he sank them into the hair at the back of her warm skull. Seeming to cradle a good grip first before he brought his thumb up securing the thick base of her braid between that finger and the index.
Then he gripped hard, tight, drawing back her head with a yank his forearm coming down to shove his elbow into her mid-back. Forcing her against the hard wall of his muscled form still clothed thank God. Gritting his teeth if she so began to struggle he spoke then his French thick with an English accent.
"Do not presume to command me Madame. You should be groveling readily at my feet for your innocence. As that is not the case it is the truth you've already killed a woman of standing and now commission for another of standing to join her. It would be under my good graces I should even release you and listen to your excuses. A moment and I can have the authorities in here at once. My word against your own. Really Madame whom would be more believable? As it were I am not a man to suddenly make up accusations as outrageous as what you've told me." With a growl almost feral he shoved her away from him just to place distance once more.
--- {If you feel I God-moded too much please tell me and I can edit}
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 23, 2008 20:54:27 GMT -5
Nicolette gasped at the sudden blur of motion that gripped her. The world flew as his seering touch weaved into her hair, and then pain burst in front of her eyes as she was pulled into him. Her lips parted on a harsh intake of air that burned into her lungs and did nothing to relieve the ache for oxygen. Her lips trembled and her body shook in little tremours against his, her vision set blurry upon two fiery green eyes and a too-handsome face. Lightning seemed to strike in those eyes. Everything was too fast, too confusing, too painful. She picked out words, and comprehended them. This man would undo her if he had the chance--and he did. Perhaps it was merely her pride that put Nicole in danger now, endangered the honour of Marie. She had never begged, had never groveled at the feet of any man or woman, and the very thought sickened her. Yet... she had been willing to kill for them. Would she degrade herself, as well? The answer was plain: yes.
She was thrown away from his body suddenly and stumbled against the bed, unable to regain her footing. Her lungs strained painfully, but she ignored them. Death would come, but she was not dead yet. She would not let herself be dead yet. There were things to be done. Blazing blue eyes turned upon him again as she lifted herself shakily again, despite her body's protests. Her braid was now nonexestent, her hair wildly spilling around her shoulders, a few locks in disarray over her face. "Monsieur," she said disdainfully, her voice quiet and intense. "I am a murderess. I am not an innocent woman by any means. Yet what I do, I do--" she avoided a fit of coughing, but continued, "--I do for love. Would you not kill, Monsieur, if you could save a son? A brother? A wife?"
She trembled again, but her stance remained firm. Her little body ached. Too often she seemed hard, cold, indestructible. She was passionate and she was brave, cunning, unwilling to give in. Yet she was small, truly, a delicate and fine-boned woman, weak in every way but character... and she was dying. Five more months to live. Five more months to find a home for her daughter, ensure that she would have the singing career that Nicolette had never been able to have, and five more months to free Nicole from the constant plague of fear. If she were free, she could marry as she pleased; she was the sole heir, would have the rightful funds at her disposal. Kind, gentle Nicole would spend it on charity and do great good. Colette dreamed she would go on to become the darling of society, a prima donna in her rightful place. Maybe she would fall in love, have children of her own. Keep Marie with her, safe and loved. It was up to the villain, now, to protect the innocent. Colette was a terrible woman. She had murdered, schemed, placed so many hurts; now, at the end of her life, she had been given the chance to use her own lack of moral concern to preserve her loved ones. She would go to hell, surely, but happily if she could acheive what she had set out to do.
Her husband waited impatiently for her to die, so that he could marry another. However much she tried, she could not wish him happiness. She had loved and been scorned, in her greatest hour of need, in favour of another. She was his wife, and he had not had it within him to honour her as such. She had borne his child. He could not wait for her to die. That pain was the most acute, most sensitive wound. Her lungs could never equal that pain. Still, she had a purpose. What else did she have?
Closing her eyes against the humiliation, she lifted her chin, and said softly, "I will do anything. Pay anything. Please..."
(Not at all! It's not like she could have done anything, anyway)
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 24, 2008 1:37:36 GMT -5
Regardless of the strength in his hands and the way he'd shoved her aside. Byron was amazingly gentle it had never been encouraged into his blood to be cruel upon the female gender. Lesser he might be cold, distant, demanding of their obedience. With his Adaline he had fallen to his knees to grovel at her feet; he did so even now with her passing that she forgive him in the realm of Angels. That would wait, his nightly ritual of a lost love would wait right now he had a murderess upon his hands.
Emerald eyes followed her as she stumbled upon the queen sized bed the mattress giving to her weight much more violently than it had done his own. Her veil of brown red hair following as it had unraveled between her forward on slot on him or his return action to her. Reminding him of a wild lioness it framed around her face as she righted herself to face him. Blue eyes burning upon him through the massive mane of hair. Her breathing frantic almost with her body shakily rising up to the challenge of his own person.
"Monsieur, I am a murderess....Yet what I do, I do for love. Would you not kill, Monsieur, if you could save a son? A brother? A wife?" Came her proclamation that should right every wrong she had committed. Byron did not sympathize entirely as he was a man, a stubborn, hard headed man; who could never think of committing murder to have saved his beloved Adaline. His Adaline would've never forgiven him if she would've ever found out. Byron could not live with that.
Remaining unmoved, unimpressed he crossed his arms further over his chest; his eyes never wavering from what she might do. Unable to trust this mad woman to her own vices against him. Max was not entirely stoic to the situation but a woman portraying herself as a harlot, hiring assassins to kill the upper standing persons of French society. Why was he waiting in calling upon the authorities? Ah. He was still captivated by her desperation, her will to go through such lengths along with her eyes; her hair.
Unable to exercise his full rights on the woman which he had every right and she had done. He could do what he pleased here and now to her, the good, the bad. Call the authorities and inform them of the tale where he was certain once the few names he had logged into his memory. They would undoubtedly find someone missing, truth in this Deloncre fellow all to the end that she had said: For love.
The blaze disappeared as her eyes closed, chin defiant to the end.
"I will do anything. Pay anything. Please..." The murderess now to beg? Such a drastic change in roles.
"Do sit Madame," Max said in a manner that was as calloused as her own when she'd verbally attacked him. He would give her no quarter, leaning himself back against the floral wall-paper covered surface. Allowing it to support his weight he awaited her to be seated and once done he spoke the corner of his mouth twitching up into a cruel smirk.
"You wish to pay me and I doubt there is any amount that could serve to keep my mouth from slipping. But..If you will do anything, anything at all. As I recall I did purchase a harlot; but before I even venture that far." It was obvious Max was less than interested in his tryst with a thousand franc murdering whore. "You asked me if I would murder for love but I could never. Leaving me to not see the logic in as to why you'd murder a Vicomte. Do enlighten me Madame as to what grounds I should even consider keeping my mouth shut and not having you taken away to be hung in the square here and now."
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 24, 2008 2:07:13 GMT -5
Her great determination wavered as she sunk back onto the mattress. Her chest heaved up and down with her need for air, but she refused to show her agony beyond that little slip. She schooled her features into a blank mask, though tears gathered in her eyes. She acted as though they were not there, staring away as he spoke to further hide the fact. Desperation waned, rage waned, fear waned, and despair began to set in. She winced just barely at his mention of the purchase. In the great terror over discovery and the risks it entailed, she had entirely forgotten that she was locked in a room dressed as a whore--and sold as one. He owned her for the night. He could take her as he wished, or kill her, or both; he could destroy everything she held dear with so little effort. She cursed herself for her folly. Although she did not regret her course of action, she did so resent her own slip. How could she have become to lax? So many provisions should have been taken. She had avoided those provisions in case of a slip such as this, in case her own capture might lead back to Liana. She had not wanted anyone to have the details. She could still prevent the learning of those details, but it was a difficult situation. She could either risk revealing Liana or she could alienate her daughter and sacrifice her future. She loved Liana, but both of them loved Marie--it was to Marie that a mother's true alliance always led.
She lifted her eyes to his once again, and the despair deepened. She hated him, oh so passionately. She hated him for purchasing her, hated him for playing with her in such a cruel way, hated his lack of compassion, hated the danger that he created, and hated the desire that he stirred within her. She took a shaky breath, her hands clenching once more.
"I will die... for my crimes, Your Grace, whether you hand me over or not. Have no doubt of that," she felt faint, and her eyes clouded over momentarily. "Though it is others that are at risk. The man that I sought tonight to put to an end has murdered far more than I. His abuses have been many and it was to stop his fatal blow that I must make mine. There is a girl that is alone, a very sweet and talented girl, who should have been beneath his protection but was cast into poverty and fear for his greed. I fear for her life, for her spirit--he will never cease as long as she is alive. If he knew that she were out there, running from him as it were, her life would be forfeit. She is one of those women," a small smile flickered onto her lips, distant, fond of her sister, "who does great things, who would never do harm... my opposite, I admit. She is the very scent of forgiveness, Monsieur. It is for her that I damn my soul." She lifted her chin, regaining some of her lost composer. Now, however, she had no hope of compassion.
"If you must commit me to be hung, I would go willingly but for a plea. I have a daughter, and she is such a sweet thing; she does not deserve to be shunned as would most definitely occur if I were to go early in such a way. Her father awaits my death and would remarry, though the very nature of that marriage would bring shame upon my daughter as well. She would have no hope of an honourable or beneficial marriage--unless an influential person were to take her under his wing." Her gaze deepened, a great well of sadness. "With my arrest, undoubtedly my good sister would be found and stolen back by the Marquis. She is the god-mother of my child and invinitely precious to me. If you could protect her..."
Well, now she was just being ridiculous. She was begging the man who would be her downfall to care for those she left behind. How could she be so foolish? She seemed to visibly come to her senses on the matter, and decided to move on, seal her fate. "I commissioned the death of a Viscountess because she was going to marry the man that I loved. I married him; and in so doing, spared her a fate I would not wish on any other woman. Still, selfishly, as times I regret my choice."
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