Time for Eternity by Susan Squires Page B

superior skills. What is a little silken tone to those accomplishments?”
    Interesting perspective. She was about to ask more when the double doors to the library were flung open. A large man filled the doorway. He wore a starched white coat, an apron smudged with various sauces over his ample girth, and a hat that bloused over one ear. He was followed by a bevy of other servants, all male, carrying trays.
    “Never fear, my little pâte à choux. I, Pierre, have come with sustenance.” He waved the servants forward and pulled a low table in front of Françoise. The footmen put three trays down. Jean brought up the rear with a silver coffee service. Pierre pulled the cover off the first tray. “Voilà, quenelles. Salmon with a dill sauce, chicken with a curry sauce, and a light white fish with the lemon.
    A bite of each?” He did not pause for her consent but dished her up three of the delicate little pillows and covered them with sauces from silver gravy boats.
    “You … You should not have troubled yourself.”
    “Trouble? I made these for your luncheon. Should such brilliant food go to waste? I think not!” He poured some wine. “Here, a little white bordeaux to wash them down. And then I think you will not disdain this small soufflé with the cheese? ” He pulled up another cover and added it to her dish. “And you may finish with the candied quinces and the buttered nuts. Just a little soupçon of pleasure to tide you over until you can eat properly with his grace tonight.”
    Françoise had to laugh. “If this is a soupçon, I am afraid to see what an entire meal would be.” Wait, might that not be an insult?
    “Actually, I have had an entire meal. Last night was supremely satisfying. The ragout of sweetbreads was extraordinary.”
    The large man’s florid face lit up like a lighthouse. “Ah, the duc, he demands the best. But he provides the best ingredients. A fair trade, I think. And of course, I never disappoint.”
    She tasted the chicken quenelle. It melted in her mouth. “Monsieur, this is heaven.”
    “But of course.” He bustled out, followed by footmen like a mother quail by her chicks.
    Gaston bowed crisply. “I must leave you also, mademoiselle. His grace will soon be rising, and he will require a bath.”
    “Thank you,” she murmured. “You have all been so very kind.”
    She was alone. Her wits came back slowly. The wine helped and the food. But nothing could erase the feeling that Madame was doomed unless Françoise could free her.
    And no one could do that but Avignon. He must help Madame. He just must.
    She couldn’t let him put her off. He might throw her out of the house if she importuned him. Without anywhere else to go … It didn’t matter. She had no choice. She was going to ask him and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had to do it now while she had her courage in her hands. And she knew where he was at this moment. Somewhere he couldn’t avoid her. He was about to take a bath.
    Six
    If only his servants weren’t all hovering about him when he bathed. Françoise wanted him alone, no servants there to throw her out, and he unable to leave because he was naked. Oh, dear. That caused the most distressing cascade of images.
    How did she know these things?
    She mustn’t think of that. She should think only of Madame. She stole up the stairway, her blood starting to pool in her center.
    Avignon naked. Shoulders, chest, belly, and …
    She shook her head to banish thought—at least those thoughts. She knew which room was his. He had shown her only this morning. Now she was glad the house was so dim. The lamp at the top of the stairs cast wavering shadows from its candle, but the light did not reach down the hall. She sidled up to the far side of the door to listen.
    He wasn’t alone. She could hear him giving orders to someone. His valet, Drummond? Whoever it was responded, “Very good, your grace,” to every command. How Avignon must love that clear, competent