The Birth of Blue Satan Read Online Free PDF Page A

passed into his wardrobe. He lowered himself gingerly onto the dressing-table chair. “But you shall have to bind me up and bring me a fresh suit to wear.”
    “ Mais, non, non, non! Monsieur cannot possibly think he is going out.” The Frenchman scurried about the room, lighting the candles again.
    “Philippe—” Gideon closed his eyes and spoke through gritted teeth— “I have had enough words on this subject from Thomas Barnes. You will do as I have asked.”
    Philippe swallowed his next remark. With a muffled “tsk” he went to work, removing Gideon’s ruined coat and vest, and his lace-trimmed shirt. This last was most difficult, for its upper left sleeve was drenched in blood, which had begun to clot.
    The clothing’s absence revealed a long, deep slash, running across the top of Gideon’s left arm.
    “ Mon Dieu ! Who is it who has dared to harm monsieur in this manner?”
    “I wish I knew,” Gideon said, trying not to wince as Philippe wiped the blood from about his wound. “But Tom—damn him!—refused to ride the blackguard down. He might have caught him, too, if he hadn’t insisted on playing nursemaid to me.”
    “For once, monsieur le vicomte , I find myself completely in agreement with this Thomas.”
    Fortunately for Gideon’s temper, Philippe quickly became engrossed in dressing his wound, so Gideon was spared further comment. The attack had left him more shaken than he cared to admit. Not so much from the wound, though the loss of blood was making him feel light-headed, but from the purposeful way in which it had been dealt.
    Who could have wished to do him harm? Someone he knew for certain, for the man had called out his name to put him off guard. Even stranger had been the fact that his assailant had not lingered to finish the job, although perhaps Tom’s presence could account for his good fortune. If the man had truly wished to finish him, he might have expected to easily with no one but an unarmed servant to stand between them. Only an intimate could have known how fiercely Tom would have fought in his behalf.
    Had his attacker known?
    Gideon had no time to ponder this or any other question, or he would never make it to the ball. And he must go. Isabella would certainly take pique if he failed to appear, and if she was seriously considering the Duke, Gideon’s absence might be just enough to tip the scales in his Grace’s favour.
    He had also begun to think that tonight would be his best chance to press Isabella for an answer. He could speak to her when they were dancing, more intimately than he could at her house. Private balls were rare, and a Court ball would not be as easy a place to get her alone.
    The bandaging complete, Philippe helped him to ease into another shirt with a ribbon tie, a long-sleeved vest heavily embroidered in the light cream he most often wore, another lace neckcloth, and a fine coat of palest brown embroidered with hummingbirds aflight. His neckcloth was loosely tied, which Philippe would not have permitted if Gideon had not been injured. The sleeves of his vest and coat, which were fashionably wide, permitted movement without additional pain.
    His plan to ride was now put aside. Gideon called for his father’s carriage and cautiously stood. Finding that his head only spun a bit, he straightened himself and proceeded to the ball.

     
    The piano nobile of Lord Eppington’s house in Golden Square was glittering with light from a dozen cut-glass chandeliers, its furniture draped in crimson satin and shod in gilt. The large reception rooms were filled to overflowing, the gentlemen resplendent in brocade and Mechlin lace, their faces painted and patched, their shoes sparkling with diamond buckles and high, ruby-coloured heels.
    In comparison, the ladies seemed almost subdued, their silks in paler hues and their curls trained simply down their backs, at once more natural and more artful than the gentlemen’s elaborately brushed and curled wigs. Still, with