Forbidden by Susan Johnson (good books to read for teens .TXT) 📕

But for now, Blaze tells me you mustn't work so hard. I have orders for no more late nights after the days in court. Agreed?"

"I think I became faint because I forgot to eat today."

"Perhaps. But you have to begin taking better care of yourself. We're all going to insist on that. McKinney or Carl Bluefox can take over your place in court. If you discuss strategy with them and continue to help with the legal research, they can take on the tedium of the hours in court. You'll have time to rest during the day, Blaze will continue talking to me, and the Duc de Vec's son or daughter will come into one of his numerous titles as a healthy young child."

"Not likely… that."

"What?"

"The title."

"Sorry, I forgot. His wife's such an elusive figure to me, she doesn't seem to exist."

"Unfortunately… she very much does."

He shrugged. "The phrasing was rhetorical, darling. Titles aren't a requisite for distinction. One's identity and power come from within, one's medicine and abilities, one's kon-ning is nurtured from personal strength and courage. Did you know my uncle Ramsay left a wife and family behind in Yorkshire?"

She hadn't. Not that it would be the same or even relevant to her own problems, but she felt a sudden comfort in knowing the man her father had loved very much had overcome separation from his family. "Why?" she asked.

"He didn't speak of it often, but apparently Ramsay and his wife had never felt a deep affection for each other. He told me once he hadn't intended to stay when he first came to our country with the Duke of Sutherland's party, who was traveling through to the Pacific Coast. He prayed to his God many days and nights before staying behind when the party went on."

"Did he have children?"

"Two sons."

"How could he leave them?"

"I don't know. It's something I could never do, but people do, Ramsay did. He signed his estate over to them when he decided to stay, keeping only his mother's inheritance for himself."

Hazard stroked the backs of Daisy's hands as they lay in her lap. "People live their lives in a thousand different ways, darling. We only have control over our own."

Daisy smiled, her father's words of tolerance familiar. He advocated acceptance and adaption as principles in a world often hostile to the way of life he'd been born into. "You're saying adapt."

"An alternative to the less desirable options."

"And accept?"

Hazard grinned, this man of power and influence, and great personal courage. "Sometimes," he said.

Her need for freedom and independence had been nurtured in the security her father had fought to maintain for her. "You always make me feel better. Good. Hopeful."

"That's what I'm here for. Now sleep late tomorrow," he said, standing, settling her back into bed. Straightening the lace on the sheet under her chin, he pulled the blanket up and murmured good-night in the language of their people. At the door, he paused. "In the morning, you can send Etienne a telegram. I'll bet you a new pony he's here in two weeks."

It was a pleasant thought to contemplate while falling asleep, which was exactly what Hazard intended.

Walking through the in-conspicuous doorway identified only with gilt lettering—House of Worth—at 7 rue de la Paix, the Duc de Vec hoped he would be able to persuade the Monsieur Worths to be more forthcoming concerning Isabelle's escorts to their salons. Bourges's detectives had been able to document various occasions when Isabelle had come for fittings at the haute-couture establishment with various young priests in tow, but beyond agreeing the men had been present, no more information had been gleaned.

"We need documentation and witnesses willing to testify if necessary," Bourges had said.

So he was here today for that information.

Greeted at the door by a sophisticated young man dressed in black glossy broadcloth, like an attache, with an English accent, pearl tiepin, and curled hair, the Duc was escorted up the crimson-carpeted staircase banked on each side with flowers, to the salons on the second floor where the furnishings were set off by carpets in imitation tiger skin.

He walked through the familiar rooms, a favored customer over the years, an escort himself for a variety of his lovers. How many gowns had he purchased from the House of Worth as gifts for women who'd given him pleasure? In addition to his wife's wardrobe which he also paid for; enough, he hoped, to gain him the information he wanted. The first salon displayed only black and white silks—as if to clear the palate in this temple of temptation; next came the rainbow room, named for the lush, liquid silks in all colors from the looms of Lyon, complemented by the fanciful brocades from Italy that Worth favored. The third room, like a hothouse for orchids, contained the velvets and plushes in all their varieties, followed by the room displaying only robust woolens of England.

Nestled amidst the overstuffed and tuffeted chairs and couches were glass and gold-leaf curio cabinets revealing enchanting pieces of Monsieur Worth's private collection of snuffboxes, antique fans, porcelains, and bibelots—none for sale.

After the anteshowrooms, Etienne entered the mirrored salon where actual garments were displayed on wooden forms, and ignoring the parties of ladies sipping tea and gossiping, who glanced up at him en masse, he walked through the doors to Worth's reception room.

The master's twin black spaniels looked up from the green velvet chairs they occupied, and at the Duc's greeting them by name, wagged their tails in acceptance. He was offered tea or champagne by the solicitous young man preceding him, and when he said, "Coffee, four sugars," was shown to a chair by the windows overlooking the street. The scented, elegant young man left, returning moments later with the Duc's coffee and the three Monsieurs Worth, Charles-Frederick, father, and his two sons, Jean-Philippe and Gaston.

The elder Worth was sixty-six now and in failing health, but he still dressed in the dramatic artist's style he favored: a cap of black