Isabelle Marion (closed)

[Maka]

Chapter 1: The Mysteries of Paris

In which we are introduced to our hero and our charming young heroine, and the stage is set for the drama that is to unfold.


Paris, Autumn, 1864

A chilling fog had risen from the Seine that evening and now it shrouded the Quartier Latin. Even the most restless of the quarter's students and bohemians took their rest now, sleeping fitfully in the high, narrow garrets crowning the tenements or in the dank cellars below. But one set of footsteps still sounded on the cobbles of the narrow, ancient streets -one tall and lean figure still cut through the billowing fog.

As the lone wanderer came under the halo of a streetlight, an observer could have made out such details of the face as were visible under the brim of his hat. He looked like Milton's Lucifer. Into his saturnine, aristocratic face was etched all the imperious pride and the brooding charisma of the Prince of the Powers of the Air. His hair was dark and close-cropped, his eyes shone like icy sapphires. Once gripped by the gaze of those cold blue fires, it was very hard for anyone to look away or resist ther owner's will. Under his overcoat and impeccable evening dress, toned and chiselled muscles moved and flexed smoothly. Something in the way he moved and the way he held his mahogany cane, lightly yet with an ineffable confidence, spoke of decades of fencing. Though he'd wandered far through the Parisian night, the thieves and bravos of the capital's underworld had left this mysterious stranger well alone, despite the richness of his dress.

Such was John Stroud, Lord Rhodes. Still in his mid-thirties, he had known both triumphs sweeter and defeats more bitter than many men who had gone to their graves grayhaired. Born to high estate and a glittering pedigree in his native England, he manifested brilliant talents at an early age. Many believed that Stroud would inevitably become one of the foremost men in the country -a general, a poet laureate, an ambassador, or a minister of state. Nothing seemed to exceed his grasp. He was engaged to Lucy Fitzwilliam, the most beautiful young socialite in London, he was the protege and closest friend of Sir Anthony Fox, the wily and fabulously wealthy Whig kingmaker.

Then, like a thundercloud across a blue and spotless sky, a terrible scandal had come into view and a terrible storm had destroyed the life Lord Rhodes had made for himself. An insult to a friend, an impulsive challenge, an exchange of cards, a meeting place.... a single shot fired and a man's life lost. With that single shot had perished all of Stroud's hopes. He was acquitted in the courts of law but convicted in the court of public opinion. Rhodes was known as a deadly shot; the man he had challenged was a drink-sodden oaf. Rhodes was a killer, Rhodes was a duellist, Rhodes was a gambler, Rhodes was a libertine. He ceased to recieve invitations, was cut in public.

It only became clear after Lucy Fitzwilliam's marriage who his real enemy had been, who had masterminded the plot against him, from the duel onwards, and why. Sir Anthony Fox, still impressive with his greying red hair and vivid green eyes, made a handsome bridegroom despite the difference in age between himself and Lucy. He had seen Stroud glaring at him from the public pews, had given Stroud his familiar, merry wink as he exchanged vows with his bride. The Old Fox. Cunning and shrewd and merciless. He must have perfectly concealed his envy of his disciple for years, covered up his jealousy of the younger man's looks and youth and talent with avuncular, hearty affection. And in the end, he'd given Stroud his final lesson -a master-class in hatred.

Stroud had taken ship for the Continent that evening. In the decade since then, he had lived under foreign suns, investigated antique mysteries, moved restlessly from place to place, and shared his brooding heart with no one. Now he moved with deliberation and economic, unflagging grace through the Paris night, stopping for no one and nothing.

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

She had started following him the minute she had seen him. She couldn't help it, really. Monsieur was clearly well-heeled. And what would he be doing out so late? Even the tireless artists were asleep. It was a mystery to her, but then, he was clearly of the upper crust, so she could not resist. An easy target for a quiet little pickpocket.

And poor Isabelle Marion had become a pickpocket and laundress since the death of her mother two years ago. Consumption, that grand taker of lives, had taken her mother's just as swiftly.

Jeannette Marion had been a dancer in the ballet, and had made her money from being a kept woman as well as a dancer. That was, until she contracted the consumption. Some man had taken her for a time as her own, and so Isabelle was born, much later, after the man had abandoned his pregnant mistress for another, prettier piece of flesh.

Isabelle never knew that man, never cared to meet him. She only knew that she hated him for what he had done to her mother, and blamed him for her illness. Not that she would ever see him again, or even know what he looked like. But the point was that he was the reason she was in this sticky situation, and she hated it.

The lithe young woman stalked the man, her bare feet silent on the cobbled street. Her dress was little more than rags, and she kept a kerchief over her coppery locks. Her skin was pale, almost sickly so, though her cheeks were marred by freckles. Her green eyes were almost luminescent in the moonlight, large and striking.

It was now or never. She dashed forward and, as quietly as she could, slipped her small hand into his pocket. She quickly, fretfully, looked for change or anything of value. She had done this countless numbers of times. Surely this would be no different.

 

[Maka]

Stroud had been aware of the light, almost noiseless set of padding footsteps dogging his like an echo for a long time. He had paused at one point to lean against an old, mossy stone wall and the 'echo' had pattered out just half a moment later. He was entirely unconcerned.

He was ready when he heard the light steps break into a run behind him and a small hand dived into his coatpocket. Fingers like iron clamped down on the pickpocket's slender wrist and he effortlessly whipped her around into the patch of gaslight shed by a street lamp.

"What have we here?"

Isabelle found herself staring into a pair of formidable, glacially cold blue eyes. Her captor spoke in flawless, unaccented French. In turn, Stroud studied her -taking in the heartbreaking, delicate beauty of her ivory face, somehow blossoming despite the evident hardships it had seen. Her shining green eyes, made large in her face by hunger. Her lithe and supple form, struggling in vain against Stroud's overpowering grip. There was something hauntingly familiar about her face. He had seen those eyes, that rich fire-red hair, before.

"What's your name, girl?"

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Isabelle gasped, eyes narrowing with annoyance, then widening with sudden fear. How, she thought, am I to get out of this one? She found that though she wished to lower her eyes, she could not keep them from that icy blue stare.

"I am Isabelle," she said softly, finally able to lower her eyes. She glanced to the hand at her wrist, sighing. "Please, sir. I'm sorry I tried to take from you. You don't know how hard it is, living here. One has to do what one has to do to survive." Her hands were rough from laundry work, though they still had a small and delicate shape to them. It hadn't eaten her up so much as that.

"Monsieur," she said quietly, though her voice raised in pitch a little, "please, do not call for the guard. I will be very good indeed. Indeed, I assure you that you shan't hear from me again. Besides, I didn't really take anything, now did I? I mean, you are fine!" She took her free hand to gently brush at his coat in a subservient manner.

 

[Maka]

Stroud ignored the girl's pleas, his gaze still dwelling thoughtfully on her winsome face. He brought his free hand up and cupped the small chin, bringing her face to the light and studying its detail, his gaze suddenly avid and intent. He flipped her trapped wrist over and looked at the calloused yet delicate palm with the same intent, puzzling scrutiny.

"Isabelle," he repeated softly, his voice low and resonant. "What is your parentage, Isabelle?"

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Isabelle shivered at the man's touch, or perhaps it was merely a chill in the air. Yes, that had to be it. Her eyes widened again as he spoke to her, ignoring her pleas, yet not calling out to take her to jail. She wasn't sure if this was a good sign or a bad one.

"Pardon?" she asked at first, regarding the chill-blue gaze. "Oh, my parents. I have no parents. My mother died two years ago of the consumption, and my father could be anyone. I think he was a foreigner. My mother was the great Jeannette Marion, though I'm sure you've never heard of her. She was a dancer in the ballet. Please, monsieur, now that you have questioned me, may I go?" She pushed back a lock of hair straying from beneath her kerchief.

 

[Maka]

Stroud was fascinated by the expression on his trembling captive's face. Isabelle's wondrous green eyes (so hauntingly familiar) were cast meekly down but there was an unmistakable fire in their emerald depths. There was a quirk to her ripe lips that seemed to promise stubbornness, intelligence, humour, charm and above all, wild passion. Qualities that would make her irresistible the world over, but that might blossom, flare and die away all unnoticed in the slums of Paris. Those features of character, more than the physical traits of red hair and green eyes, was what made him certain. Fox's child. What a great joke. He had stumbled upon an unknown byblow of Fox. But what of it? A man like Fox had assuredly left a trail of bastard children from here to Constantinople.

He laughed bitterly and released the teenage girl's face, not without a tiny hint of regret. Her skin, pale like rich and creamy ivory, so soft and smooth under his fingertips. She was just now ripening into the full, extraordinary beauty of her womanhood but the frosts of poverty, hunger and illness would soon destroy that tender bud. The life dancing in those spectacular green eyes would be snuffed out, they'd become glassy and hardened and red with gin or opium. The trim, flat stomach would bulge with child after child, some likely forced on to her by brutish men. It was a cruel world for pretty girls born to hard times. And he could picture, so vividly, what she could have been under kinder circumstances. Dressed in elegant silks and velvets, her red hair vivid against her fine pale skin, a cloud of subtle perfume hanging about her, diamonds in her hair... Isabelle Marion.

Stroud was a hard, bitter man whose heart was rarely troubled by sentiment. Perhaps it was this novelty that caused the idea to suddenly form in his mind. He'd long ago given up the hope of revenge. Sir Anthony Fox was well-entrenched in English society, warded off by lines of defence in every direction. But Fate might have delivered the perfect instrument for Stroud's revenge into his hands.

"No," he said at last, in answer to Isabelle's question. "You may not leave. You will come with me."

He anticipated the girl's hesitation. Her virtue was quite possibly the one thing she had remaining to her.

"I have no intentions on your person, I assure you. In any event, it is accompanying me or facing the gendarmes' wrath. I do not think you will find them sympathetic."

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Isabelle looked about, as though for an escape. He still held her hand as he spoke to her, and it was with a firm grip that he did so. She began to feel rather helpless, a feeling as foreign to her as sentiment was to her captor.

She blushed hotly at his words. She would never have let him have her, not if he had wanted to. Of that she was certain. Well, to be honest, she would try her best. But he had been oddly reassuring on that part. What, she wondered, were his true intentions?

Isabelle knew not where he would take her or what he would do to her, but she thought, Perhaps it will be better than what is being done to me now. After all, she had been hardened and withered under the pressures of a life in poverty. She looked down at her hands, suddenly ashamed at their callouses and general roughness.

But there was nothing she feared more than the gendarmes. Nothing could make her face that, or the cruelty she had heard of in prison. No, she could not do that. So finally, with these thoughts in mind, she spoke.

"I do not want to go with you, monsieur, but I will do it, since you have threatened me with the gendarmes. Please, do not murder me or some such horrible thing. I do not think I deserve it, even for what I did--or rather, attempted to do. If you would take me, monsieur, lead on."

 

[Maka]

Isabelle's hot flush at Stroud's suggestion caused her pale face to glow. She looked mouthwateringly sweet -a ripe, delicate fruit just waiting to fall into the hands of the right man. She would do very well, Stroud thought. He would ensure that her innocence, her demure way of speaking with her soft green eyes cast on the ground in front of her, was preserved throughout the education he had in mind. He knew he could make Isabelle irresistible to English society, an alluring wonder with a natural beauty and vivacity that would put the polished young misses of Bath and Chelsea to shame.

"My name is John Stroud, Earl of Rhodes," he said. "Neither you nor your virtue will come to any harm in my service. You'll stand to gain a great deal."

Both of them were to vividly remember this brief conversation, surrounded by the swirling fog of Paris, for long years to come.

Stroud then took her firmly by the slim wrist and led her away through the narrow streets. His townhouse, a sombre and forbidding structure fenced off by wrought iron railings loomed suddenly out of the fog at the bottom of a cul-de-sac.

Stroud let himself in the front door and the two stood in a black and white tiled hallway, furnished, in quiet taste, with antiques of immeasurable value both financial and artistic. A silent, darkhaired manservant seemed to materialise out of nowhere.

"Mencken," said Stroud. "This young lady will require a hot bath, followed by a hot meal. She will be staying here for the next few days. Have the first floor sitting room and bedroom aired out while she takes her bath."

"Very good, sir," Mencken said, bowing. If he felt any surprise at the arrival of the master's unexpected guest or her ragged, waif-like appearance, it did not show on his imperturbable face.

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Isabelle was soon carted off to a large, exquisite bathroom, the likes of which she had never seen before. The tub was filled with deliciously hot water, and she could see through the curtained window the dark streets of Paris.

She stripped herself quickly of her garments, letting them slip to the floor. Removing her kerchief, her long coppery locks cascaded down her back. She regarded herself in a full-length mirror there. I am not so disappointing, she thought, running her hands over her small breasts and their pink nipples, then down her belly, to that small patch of fiery curls beneath her legs. As she stepped into the water, she turned her head back to see her pert behind, rounded and firm. It was, she thought, something else entirely.

As she sank into the tub, she released a short, loud laugh. It had been so long since she had had anything resembling a bath. She had always tried to keep clean, but washing surreptitiously by bucket of scalding water was not exactly the same thing. And it was lovely, to be able to scrub her hair and skin, to smell the sweetness of the oils presented to her. Ah! But Heaven must be like this! she mused.

It was a long time before she was done. She could not help herself, really. It was too much of a treat to be so easily and quickly passed by. Wrapping herself in a towel, she stepped into the adjacent bedroom, where an elegant dressing gown in masculine style was laid out on the bed. She took it up, delighting in the softness of the fabric, and the scent of it. It smelled richly of him, and that was an oddly comforting thing.

She moved to the adjoining sitting room, where all sorts of spectacular food awaited her. Sweet pasties with cheese, a bit of quiche, fresh oranges from the hothouse, and strawberries in a lovely cream. She ate all of it with a zeal somewhat unbecoming to her. It had been the first time she had eaten in several days, and certainly the first time she had eaten so richly in years.

As she ate, she wondered about the man who had taken her in. Was he her captor or protector? She could not decide which, to be sure. He was clearly handsome in his saturnine appearance, and she touched her wrist, which he had held for so long. But she wasn't sure if she should hate or adore such a man. It seemed apparent that he was being kind to her in her plight, but was this really the case?

She sighed as she began to feel the weight of sleep on her. It had been so long since she had slept in a proper bed, and she was determined to do so now, if only for tonight. If she had to, she imagined she could leave at any moment, just slip away. Certainly he wouldn't take heed. But for now, it was time to let her body hit the fresh, soft bed which lay before her in the adjacent room. And she did, soon fast asleep.

 

[Maka]

John Stroud had never needed much sleep and the bitter years of exile seemed to have rasped away much of even that slight need. It was not uncommon for him to spend most of the night awake, brooding over a volume of poetry by the embers of a dying fire.

His booklined study, furnished in sombre, darkly elegant tones and with an assortment of rich, beautiful and strange curiosities from Stroud's extensive travels, contained a vast and esoteric library. It contained works on history, economics, linguistics, politics, the occult, philosophy, and the natural sciences, as well as journals from all the capitals of Europe -everything that Lord Rhodes' cold, pure and brilliant intellect could search out. But dearest to his heart were the volumes of Byron, Shelley and Keats that stood in leatherbound rows over the mantelpiece.

This night, however, even the Romantics could not distract Stroud from his thoughts. He got up at last and wandered soundlessly through the darkened house, his keen, lordly face set and pensive.

He let himself into the suite of rooms he had given to Isabelle. A slight, uncharacteristic smile touched his face for an instant as he view the damage Isabelle had done to the repast laid out for her. The waif must have been hungry indeed, and little wonder, considering the thinness of her slight, petite body. Though it was a body not without certain wonderful charms of its own.

He moved, entirely careless of convention, into the bedroom where Isabelle slept. He looked at her for a long time, drinking her in. One slender arm had knocked back the sheet, exposing her slender, nude body. Moonlight drenched the room, causing Isabelle's skin to take on a rich, creamy glow. Her red hair, still gleaming with moisture, was spread artlessly across the pillow. Her beautiful, heart-shaped face, so calm and lovely in slumber, looked like a sentimental artist's depiction of an angel -the little spray of freckles across her cheeks adding a sweetly piquant note. The artist might have elided the small but firm and perky breasts rising and falling in deep sleep.

Stroud shook his head. Surely a weapon had never before been so beautiful.



When Isabelle woke up, she found that her ragged clothes, left lying on the floor the night before, had disappeared. A note lay on the mahogany writing desk by the window.

Mencken has been sent out to arrange a more suitable wardrobe for you. A dressmaker will visit later to obtain your measurements. I will be occupied in town until the evening. You may make yourself free of the house.

S.

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Isabelle woke to a fine autumn day. She slipped on the dressing gown, and eventually found the note. She would have been more than pleased to wear her rags rather than a bit of a man's clothing, but she apparently had no choice in the matter. It made her angry that she had no choice, but she thought better to occupy herself with other things than to dwell upon it.

She wandered to the library, looking at all the grand books which lined the shelves, most of them in languages she couldn't understand. She noted one, however, at the very top, which was called Justine, by that notorious Marquis de Sade. She looked about surreptitiously and then pulled a chair over to the place where the book sat. Climbing the chair, she reached up precariously on her tiptoes to finally claim the volume. Satisfied with herself, she plopped down on the same chair and began to read.

It was about fifteen minutes before she put down the book in disgust. She had expected something romantic yet titillating, but instead had found something truly revolting. The way that man had whipped the young girl--it frightened her. She left the book on a table, not daring to perch precariously on the chair again.

It was not long before the dressmaker, Madame Lefarge, came to the house. By this time, Isabelle had retired to her room and bed. She was napping, wrapped up in that dressing gown of his, on top of the covers. With a tap on the door, Madame Lefarge entered, clucking her tongue but giving no other indication of her ideas of the propriety of the situation. She was being paid far too well for that.

"I assume you are Mademoiselle Marion?" she asked as Isabelle opened the door to her.

"I am, Madame," replied Isabelle, her eyes squarely on the floor beneath her.

"Well, then, I am going to take your measurements, and I have brought along several gowns you might fit, from Monsieur's description of you. I am rarely wrong in these things," she added.

And so she was correct. After measuring the girl's frail body, she had a pair of servants come in with some boxes. She herself helped Isabelle fit into a green velvet gown, which was only slightly too large for her.

"You'll do," Madame Lefarge said shortly. "I have underthings and a corset in this box, but I doubt you will need the corset--it is too large. In this box, there are two other gowns that you can use, one for walking, the other for evening. I should be able to make something more suitable for you by the end of this week."

Isabelle nodded. She had never worn anything so ornate as this. She couldn't help but trail a small hand over the velvet of the dress.

The dressmaker soon left, and Isabelle was free to look about again. Again, she returned to the library, looking for something more sensible. She saw an opened volume of Byron, but she couldn't read it, as it was in English. She wondered what sort of things that man had to say. Surely something grand, if her erstwhile captor had been reading him.

She paced in the library, examining some of his curiosities as she did so. Soon she became tired of this, and reached for another volume, something more recent. Hugo's Les Miserables. She tarried about this book for a good few hours before finally falling asleep in her chair, her head over her arm. This is how Stroud would find her if he chose to look for her.

 

[Maka]

Another heavy yellow fog had wrapped itself around the house as Stroud reentered the house and made his way up to his study. He noticed the displaced volume of de Sade with a glitter of amusement in his cold blue eyes, then saw Isabelle herself, curled up in an armchair by the fire, the first volume of Les Miserables open by her side.

She looked daintier and more adorable than ever, wrapped in the oversized man's dressing gown, her lithe body rising and falling with the sweet, natural rhythms of sleep, her innocent lips pouting to a slight, drowsy purr.

Stroud had never been a domestic animal, by any means. He was unmistakably a solitary, fierce wolf of the forests. Nevertheless, he found it in himself to wonder if this was the appeal of home and hearth that so many of his countrymen rhapsodised about -the slight, angelic creature awaiting the return of her husband and master, a dreamy smile on her lips.

Stroud smiled bitterly. A pleasant illusion but an illusion nonetheless. He was no prosperous young banker or City trader but a disgraced exile. The girl sleeping before him was not a proper, blushing young bride but a ragged bastard child from the worst slums of Paris. And the prim chastity that Queen Victoria had inculcated had never been anything more than a veneer, beneath which the old animal passions still thrived and struggled and were indulged. Isabelle herself was evidence, the lovely product of one such 'indulgence'. He would show all of England how hollow and shabby all their sanctimonious hypocrisies were.

Despite the fires raging in his heart, his hand was surprisingly gentle as it went to Isabelle's delicate shoulder to stir her awake.

"Good evening," he said. "I understand Madame Lefarge arrived while I was gone? If you would care to dress yourself for dinner, I thought we could dine downstairs tonight. We must discuss your future."

The amused glint returned to his eye.

"Do you prefer Hugo or de Sade?"

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Isabelle awoke with a start, her eyes widening slightly as she felt the touch on her shoulder. Lips parted, she blinked several times, looking to see the unmistakably handsome form of her captor. Hair falling over her shoulders, she lifted her head and sat up straight, making sure the dressing gown was closed.

She looked to the volumes on the table beside her and blushed heartily. His question became a vague echo in her mind. She mused on it, pensively.

"I do not like de Sade," she said decisively. "He is cruel and horrible, in spite of his pretty euphemisms. What that schoolmaster did to the girl--whipping her like that--it was awful! And yet..." She trailed off, adamantly shaking her head.

"Hugo, now there is someone to read! I admit I was enthralled and fascinated by his portrayals of the slums of Paris. He is a man who knows the people, and their heartbreak. I feel almost as though he knew me; but I have not had to go to the depths to which Fantine has gone." She blushed, shutting her mouth as though she had spoken out of turn.

"I am sorry, monsieur. Or had I better say 'my lord'? I was once educated some by my mother and her friends. But I am afraid I have lost a little of it." She paused. "I will go and get dressed, if you wish it, my lord. I...I am sorry!" With that, she made her way toward the door, but paused on the threshold, as though awaiting some form of punishment.

 

[Maka]

Sleepily alarmed, Isabelle drew shut the ties of her dressing gown, depriving Stroud of a view of her modest but healthy and shapely breasts, tipped by rosy pink nipples. Untutored and innocent as she was, there was a degree of natural sensuousness to the way she held herself and a spark of heat, as yet untapped, in her large green eyes.

She blushed gorgeously as he asked about de Sade and the colour remained in her cheeks, along with a slight tremor in her voice, as she heatedly decried the author. She looked the image of a soft-eyed, bewildered fawn, peeking out from sylvan hiding at a frightening, confusing scene.

Isabelle had clearly enjoyed Hugo more and she spoke of him with a vivid, intelligent appreciation that belied her curtailed schooling. Stroud nodded, simply looking at her as she trailed off, carried away and now abashed by her own enthusiasm.

Awkwardly trailing apologies, the slender young French waif got to her feet and made for the door. She stood there, her eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty, modestly downcast.

"Hold."

This was all Stroud said and he spoke softly, but with the tones of one who generally recieved instant and unquestioning obedience.

"You may call me monsieur, my lord, or sir, as you please. Titles are of no consequence to me."

His gaze held her, keeping her delicate body frozen in the doorway.

"I want you to treat this study as your personal library. After your... other lessons, you must come here every evening and select and read whatever books interest you. In time, you will be taught English and German and your reading should expand to the authors of those languages. I will quiz you on your reading at the end of every week."

Stroud's gaze seemed to penetrate flesh and bone.

"There is one absolute rule."

He indicated the polished rosewood desk that stood beyond the study's great baywindow, its immaculate surface bearing an inkwell, fresh sheets of paper, a hornhandled Nepalese kukri, and a polished skull used as a paperweight.

"My desk and its contents are completely off-limits. I will be aware if you tamper with it and you will be punished."

He broke his gaze, an unspoken dismissal.

"I will see you at dinner."

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

"Yes, monsieur," Isabelle replied in soft tones. "You are most generous." She then hurried out of the library, the hem of the dressing gown trailing behind her.

She mounted the stairs for her bedroom, and leaned her back against the door once she had closed it, breathless. Not from the exertion, certainly, but from the way he looked at her and the tone of his voice when he spoke. Both intrigued and somewhat frightened her.

It was easily done to slip into a green gown of silk. It slightly hung off of her frame, being a bit too big, but she looked at herself in the full-length mirror and felt satisfied with everything but the low decolletage. She had every fear that her breasts would spill out of it, if she should bend over. She did so in the mirror and found that her pink nipples would indeed be exposed. She straightened the dress as best she could, her hair falling about her face in long waves. She had nothing with which to pull it up, but as she brushed it, she was reminded of one of those Pre-Raphaelite paintings that she had seen long ago; women with thick, flowing hair. She was satisfied.

Isabelle searched the house for a few minutes before finding the grand dining room. She felt small in it.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, monsieur," she said, standing rather awkwardly in the doorway. "I had some trouble with the dress, but it is over now."

 

[Maka]

Isabelle dressed in her new green gown was a sight to behold. The silk fell in gently rustling folds to the ground, wrapping itself lovingly around her slender body. Even the gown's low neckline did not spoil the girl's tantalising air of natural modesty and innocence. She did not bear herself brazenly with her shoulders squared and her bosom thrust forward but instead clasped her hands below her modest breasts, shyness visible on her elfin, fascinating face, perfectly framed by the rich red hair falling in waves to her shoulders.

"It's no consequence," Stroud said, waving aside her apology. "Sit."

Although it was just the two of them, the table, in the centre of the echoing and gloomy dining hall, had been laid out formally on a spotless white cloth. The sooner Isabelle got used to such settings, the better.

As Isabelle took her seat next to him, Mencken entered with the first course -a tureen of turtle soup, finer and more luxurious fare than Isabelle might ever have known in her previous existence. Mencken served her first, then his master. Harshly ascetic by nature, Stroud took only a few sips before setting his spoon aside.

"As I said, I wish to talk of your future. I have an... education in mind for you. You will learn from the best tutors of Europe -languages, literature, music, arts, dancing -all of the accomplishments of the perfect young English debutante, in fact, other than hypocrisy, bigotry and snobbery."

There was a slight and bitter smile on Stroud's lips.

"When our association is done, you will recieve ample reward -enough to live in comfort for the rest of your life."

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Coming to sit down at the table, Isabelle was ravenous. When the valet served the soup, she pushed spoonful after spoonful into her mouth, as though she had been starving. As she listened to Stroud, she emptied half the bowl. But she tried her best to slow herself, and sat upright, instead of hunching over the bowl as she had done. She remembered the way her mother had eaten, and she took the spoon gracefully to her lips, slowing down painfully. Finally, she put down the spoon to respond.

"An education, monsieur?" she queried, her eyes wide and curious. "I am afraid I do not understand. Why would you do this for me? Especially after what I did--or rather, what I tried to do?" She paused for a moment, taking another delicate sip of the turtle soup, which was almost gone now. Soon, the valet would serve another course--she fervently hoped he would, at least.

"You do not seem to hold English ladies in very high esteem, monsieur," she added, setting down her spoon again.

 

[Maka]

Stroud watched imperturbably as the little waif wolfed down her soup. Her initial hunger assuaged, a certain natural, undeveloped delicacy took over and she began eating more slowly, though with the same starved avidity.

The imperturbable Mencken brought around a bottle of wine -the aged vintage in the dusty bottle the deep red glow of rubies, and poured glasses for them both. He then brought forth the second course -puff pastry shells containing tender quail stuffed with foie gras, swimming in rich black Perigord truffles.

Stroud shrugged at Isabelle's question.

"My motives are surely beside the point. Perhaps I'm doing this on a personal whim. Perhaps I have eccentric religious motivations."

With his dark, brooding good looks and impeccable but sombre evening wear, Lord Rhodes looked anything but a whimsical dandy or pious eccentric. He looked what he was -a menacing enigma.

"You may come to understand more of my plans in time. As for English ladies... "

A crooked, cool half-smile flitted across Stroud's face.

"No, I am very far from being an admirer of English womanhood."

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

He was indeed an enigma to her. The ice in his eyes spoke volumes to her of this mystery, a mystery she couldn't quite place. She could not help but let out an audible sigh at his words.

"Monsieur, you puzzle me, but I will leave it be. I will hope that you are a benevolent benefactor rather than some rogue ready to turn me into an ingenue of evil plans. You have been very kind to me thus far. I did not expect this finery." She gestured to her dress. She hid her bare feet beneath the folds of it.

"I hardly know what to say, indeed. That you have given me the use of your library is an amazing thing indeed. But, Monsieur, what is so wrong with the mesdemoiselles anglaises? Surely they are charming in their way. Are you anglais, sir? If you are, I am surprised that you have not found a pretty girl from there to marry." She looked down at her plate, gingerly popping a bit of the pastry into her mouth. She swallowed. "But that is not for me to say, monsieur, and I am sorry if I have offended you. I tend to say things at the wrong moments.

"You seem to know many things, monsieur. Are you at all versed in art? I remember going to an exhibit of the Pre-Raphaelites as a child. I have always been in awe of them. Particularly Monsieur Rossetti."

She realized that she was babbling and blushed, shutting her mouth and now picking at her food.

 

[Maka]

Stroud's mouth tightened and the ice closed over in his eyes once again.

"The topic of marriage does not interest me," he said quietly. "You will not bring it up again."

He sat in silence, regarding Isabelle. No doubt even a girl in her circumstances was brought up with pretty ideas regarding matrimony. He thought back to his earlier moment of sentimentality while watching her sleep and felt a wave of anger with himself. Isabelle's education, Isabelle's preparation as the instrument of his revenge, would not progress very well if he allowed himself to view her as some kind of little blushing bride.

Stoud relented slightly as Isabelle nervously discussed art, displaying an all but untaught but genuine discernment.

"I admire some of the Pre-Raphaelites," he said. "If art interests you, you may be pleased to know that you will soon have the opportunity to study it firsthand. After your preliminary education here, I have made arrangements for you to travel to Rome for an intensive course of study."

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Isabelle looked aghast at his comment. Her cheeks, usually so pale, reddened. She murmured her apologies as he gave her his hard stare. Marriage? she thought, Why would he want to avoid such a subject? For her, marriage had been one of those things that the upper crust do, just to be done. She did not romanticize it but rather saw it as a matter of course. If the bride was beautiful, so much the better, she supposed. It was strange to her that this handsome man of a certain age had not consigned himself to marriage, but then, there were a great many things that, to her, were odd about him.

As he spoke to her about art, though, she dropped her fork and clapped her hands with excitement.

"Vraiment?!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening with awe. "I...well, I could not tell you how obliged I would be to you for that. I always wanted to learn about the Masters, but I never had a chance to do so, being poor and all." She lifted her hand as though about to touch him, then settled it back on her lap. "Ah, monsieur! You are too kind to me by far!"

Isabelle smiled, blushing again at her exclamation. She went back to eating her food, now with a little less hunger and a little more enthusiasm, as though eating it quickly would hasten her trip to Rome.

 

[Maka]

Isabelle tentatively reached out a delicate hand, as though hoping to touch her benefactor's hand. Very few men could have resisted the possibility of this lovely, ethereal and wide-eyed young creature touching them, but Stroud simply gave her a bleak, level stare. Fox had once been just so charming, so innocent of any desires but the good of his protege. It would be as well to remember that Isabelle might have inherited more than her father's striking looks, such as his gift for treachery. He would not allow himself to be decieved again.

"Well, quite," was all he said. Isabelle, slightly crestfallen but still visibly excited, had folded her hands in her lap.

"I've been accused of many things," Stroud said. "But never kindness. Your trip to Rome is dependent upon your accomplishments in your classes in the following weeks."

His instinctions told him that Isabelle could be trained. She already had the beauty and the instincts -all that was needed was the polish of art and education to make her the most demurely seductive debutante that had ever arrived in London. But perhaps he was wrong, in which case his plan would need major adaptations.

"In the first few weeks, a certain Comte de Racineaux will instruct you in formal etiquette, bearing and posture. Your sessions with him will be daily. Twice a week, you will also recieve instruction in English from the Reverend Whitecliff, and once a week in German from Herr Jan Schroeder, a distinguished German scholar."

 

[Desiree_Radcliffe]

Isabelle set down her fork, no longer hungry. She regarded her new patron curiously and perhaps somewhat nervously. He was setting up so many things for her. She didn't understand why he, a stranger she had nearly pick pocketed, would do such things for her. And yet, perhaps he was a kind old eccentric. But, well, he wasn't that old, was he?

"Oh, but, monsieur, you do too much for me!" she exclaimed softly. "I will try my best to be a pleasing student, to make you proud, if you wish it. I know I can excel in all of these, if but given the chance."

But there was so much to do. Soon she became antsy and wished to be sent back to her room so that she might think on these things in privacy. But she would not ask that of her benefactor. She considered how she must look to him--ridiculous, she thought. A young chit of a girl excited about being taught manners. How strange.

 

[Maka]

Isabelle was wide-eyed with wonder, contemplating the strange and unexpected new life with which Fate had suddenly presented her. The news had overwhelmed the lovely young French waif. Even her formidable appetite, honed to a knife-edge by years of starvation, had all but vanished. Although making an effort to contain herself, she was restive and anxious.

Stroud made no concession to his ward's state of excitement. She would have to develop total aplomb under all circumstances. By the end of her training, Stroud would expect her to be able to sit calmly at table and maintain polite and insightful conversation even if the hallway was on fire, riots raged in the street outside and a maid knelt beneath the table pleasuring Isabelle with her tongue all the while.

He almost smiled at the last thought. He had an eye for women, as some men were said to have an eye for horses, and he thought that Isabelle was the kind of girl who would respond to pleasure with loud, joyous and athletic pleasure, for all her shy, demure blushes. The thought was sweetly tantalizing.

To discipline himself as much as Isabelle, Stroud paced himself with great deliberation through the salad course. At last, Mencken brought in dessert -delicately sweet puff pastries, along with a bottle of the finest champagne in Lord Rhodes' extensive cellars. At Stroud's gesture, Mencken uncorked the bottle and poured them two foaming glasses.

Stroud raised an eyebrow as he lifted his glass to Isabelle.

"To your future, madamoiselle."