Henri et Marcel

By Philippa Lodge

Henri de Cantière has been surly since he returned from visiting his family at Versailles, but he doesn’t want to burden Marcel Fourbier, his longtime lover, with his problems. He can’t sleep and hurts all over at exactly the time when everything else seems to be falling apart. Marcel can barely keep up with his usual duties of running their household and creating beautiful furniture in the de Cantière factory when more burdens fall on his shoulders. His estranged Huguenot family condemns him to hell but wants his help, a stranger attacks him in a dark street, an arsonist tries to destroy the factory, and Henri’s beloved sister-in-law, who has been like a sister to Marcel, is weakening after being in labor for several days. Most of all, Marcel wants to find a cure for Henri, the man who holds his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jan 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509211456

Philippa Lodge

Philippa Lodge has been an avid reader since she asked her mother to point out where it said “Ma” in Little House in the Big Woods. She read everything she could get her hands on, with an emphasis on mysteries, until grad school in French Studies, with an emphasis on seventeenth century. After that, she lost her reading mojo. Only through the twin discoveries of Harry Potter and romance has she gotten her groove back. So it seems natural that she has turned to writing paranormal romances, sometimes with suspense. And toss in some French historicals, set in the time of Louis XIV and we pretty much cover everything. If they were set in the Big Woods, she'd have come full circle. She lives in the suburbs of Sacramento, CA with her husband, three children, and a head full of ghosts, werewolves, and courtesans. She edits the bi-monthly newsletter for her local chapter of the Romance Writers of America.

Book preview

Inc.

Henri leaned on his right hand, his left curled in his lap. You are very handsome.

Marcel made a sour face. I do what I can with what little God has given me.

Your face is alive. You are very handsome.

Marcel looked away. You will make me blush, Monsieur.

The cut of your coat draws the eye to your thighs and the strength in your shoulders, yes, but it is the charm inside you which makes you handsome.

Hmph. He was blushing.

I did tell you I wanted to see you naked last night, didn’t I? Henri stood and crossed to where Marcel hesitated by the door. I don’t remember everything, but I’m sure I said that.

Marcel’s naughty grin lit up the dark places in Henri’s soul. You did.

I guess opium makes me tell the truth.

Marcel blushed redder as his gaze swept down Henri’s body. Too bad there’s a factory to run and a surgeon to see. And no bleeding.

Perhaps a miracle will occur and I will be healed today. He glanced down at his useless left hand clutching the front of his shirt so it wouldn’t swing painfully.

Praise for Philippa Lodge and…

The Indispensable Wife:

Unique and different…. This is a character driven book that left me bereft when I finished. I wanted more…[a] compelling and intriguing book. …Overall, I loved how Ms. Lodge plots the story and her characters come to life for me. I really felt like I was in King Louis’ court and the French countryside. The twists and turns that these two have to overcome make for an awesome read…. I can’t wait to read more from Ms. Lodge in the future.

~Harlie’s Books (4.5 Stars)

Books by Philippa Lodge

available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

The Indispensable Wife

The Honorable Officer

The Chevalier

Henri et Marcel

Henri et Marcel

by

Philippa Lodge

Châteaux and Shadows, Book Four

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Henri et Marcel

COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Phyllis Laatsch

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by RJ Morris

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Tea Rose Edition, 2017

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1144-9

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1145-6

Châteaux and Shadows, Book Four

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my chiropractor, who performed a slow-motion miracle when I couldn't move my arm, either.

~*~

And, as always, to my family.

Chapter One

Paris, France, 1678

Monsieur Fourbier, known in his youth as Marcel LaTrappe, rapped smartly at the accountant’s office door.

"Entrez!" called the man inside.

Marcel swung the door open and jolted to a halt.

Henri de Cantière, the accountant at the furniture manufactory where Marcel worked his artistic magic, Marcel’s friend, lover, and confidant, sat up perfectly straight in his chair, his jaw clenched, his skin pale. He shivered once before getting himself under control.

Marcel narrowed his eyes. Are you all right?

Henri raised his eyebrows and tipped his head back to look down his nose at him. Of course. Why do you ask?

Marcel pressed his lips together. Surely Henri knew that Marcel knew something was wrong. It felt like a slap when he lied. For the moment, Marcel ignored the tiny betrayal, though he pursed his lips. Jean-Louis wants you to sit in on my conversation with the baron’s majordomo.

Henri scowled fiercely. "Mon dieu. Why? He is selecting purples for his aunt’s tea room. This is your part of the business."

Henri’s fashion was sober, utilitarian black and brown. Marcel was always sewing brightly colored waistcoats for him to create a bit of contrast but had never tried to put him in purple. Even if Henri liked purple, which he didn’t, it would make his skin appear sallow. And yet he didn’t need to sneer at purple, did he? Another slap.

The colonel is conscious of the baron’s budget, even if the majordomo isn’t. Marcel still called Henri’s brother by his military title, having been his aide-de-camp many years before. He had never got out of the habit because he didn’t feel as though he were close enough to call him Jean-Louis. He was debauching the colonel’s brother, after all.

Henri often found it amusing. Today, though, he remained unnaturally still. You could show him less expensive fabrics.

Marcel recoiled in mock horror. It is my job to create the perfect room. It is your job to stop me.

Henri smiled thinly. He gripped the pocket flap of his coat with his left hand and stood. He used his right hand to pick up the account book he kept for the baron, one of their best customers.

As he tucked it under his left arm, Marcel came around the desk and placed a hand on Henri’s chest. What is wrong with your arm?

Henri frowned. An odd twinge. It is nothing.

Odd twinge was more than he had confessed to over the last few days of surliness. Marcel glared at him, but the sound of footsteps in the hall made him step back and smooth his expression. To work, then.

Henri gestured for him to precede him. Marcel narrowed his eyes in warning. They would talk about this later.

****

Three hours later, the baron’s majordomo and housekeeper finally left the showroom, having dithered and dickered and exclaimed in delight over velvet, brocade, embroidery, every possible shade of wood, and an endless parade of purple purple purple for the baron’s mother.

Pain gripped Henri’s shoulder and neck and shot arrows into his skull. He had calculated and recalculated the cost as the details changed and Marcel waxed enthusiastic, adding musket balls to the arrows.

I might vomit.

Jean-Louis had slipped into the meeting long enough to gratify the majordomo and housekeeper’s pride at speaking to the famous colonel, son of a baron, rich factory owner. He bowed himself out to attend to other business. Henri envied him his ability to delegate. Though Jean-Louis claimed to be overseeing his children’s patrimony, it was his face, his leadership, and his connections which had dragged the furniture manufactory out of looming bankruptcy ten years before. Everything had nearly been lost, including Jean-Louis’ wife Hélène and his daughter Ondine, when a former partner tried to blackmail, coerce, and murder his way into sole ownership.

Henri’s accounting skills had found pilfered money, some of which had been regained after a long lawsuit. His strictness with prices and expenditures had made them profitable. Without Marcel, though, they would be trying to sell furniture fit for army camps and hovels, not graceful, intricate, colorful furniture to rival the royal furnishers’ best efforts.

Marcel directed two workers in gathering up the bolts of fabric and carrying out a huge, nearly completed desk to be inlayed with bronze. Henri bent over his scribbled notes as if he were verifying the figures and instead squeezed the twitching muscles of his left bicep.

Jean-Louis spoke behind him. How was it? He set his hand on Henri’s left shoulder.

Henri’s vision went fuzzy, and he jerked away with a grunt. His panting was the only noise in the room except for a buzz of his ears. His stomach clenched hard, and he did almost vomit.

Jean-Louis’s blue coat appeared in the corner of his eye, followed by his brother’s narrowed blue eyes. What happened?

Henri sat up, clutching his left arm to his belly. What happened when?

Jean-Louis glowered down his nose. What happened at Versailles? Our brother, Manu, was injured. You rode out with him to retrieve Mademoiselle de Fouet. Three days later, you came home, saying Manu was over his fever. I don’t remember hearing of any accidents, and yet you are injured.

Henri shook his head. Nothing happened. My shoulder hurts, but it is nothing. He was a good liar, but his hands trembled, and cold sweat prickled his face. He was sure he was pale.

Jean-Louis stared at him for a while longer, his face stiff, waiting for Henri to confess to something. Henri stared back until Jean-Louis shook his head and turned away. He paused in the doorway. Take the rest of the afternoon off. Go home and rest.

Henri shook his head and winced as it sent a shock through his arm.

I’ll send Fourbier home soon, too. You’ve both earned your salaries today. Besides, with Hélène’s confinement imminent, I’ll be leaving everything to the two of you soon. Jean-Louis nodded politely and strode toward the workshop.

On his return to his office, Henri leaned gingerly back in his soft chair, sharp pains radiating from his neck as he tipped his head back. For a moment, his neck froze and he considered calling out for help, but with his one working hand, he managed to ease his head forward.

He was only thirty-four and shouldn’t feel like he was a hundred.

****

Marcel was not given to violence, though he carried a dagger in his boot. In fact, he had been vastly relieved when, in the army, he had talked a capitaine into hiring him as his aide-de-camp, taking him away from patrols and battles. Even in a war zone, Marcel had been mostly peaceful as he managed the colonel’s quarters, wardrobe, and servants. He was quite good at managing a household, which wasn’t to say he didn’t know how to use his dagger.

He was also given to waving his arms as he rhapsodized about color and form. He selected cloth not only for the furniture manufactory but for his adopted family’s clothing.

To his chagrin, most of Henri’s family wasn’t very interested in la mode and la couleur. The exception was Ondine, who was just thirteen and always had something to say about her mother’s gowns and her father’s justaucorps. If she had been a boy and not destined to marry a noble, he would have hired her as his assistant in the factory. He smiled at the bolt of pale pink satin in his hands and thought of the girl’s pink cheeks. Perhaps he would pay for a length of this fabric and stitch Ondine a pillow. He would try out a new flower pattern he was thinking of putting on seat cushions.

Marcel was a peaceful man, but honestly, his lover was going to drive him to violence. Since Henri had returned from Versailles three days before, he’d been more grumpy than usual. Marcel had awoken each night to Henri tossing and turning or getting up to wander through the house. When Marcel caressed him, Henri flinched. When Marcel asked what was wrong, Henri snapped. My shoulder hurts, but it is nothing. Odd twinge.

The meeting with the baron’s majordomo had distracted them for a time, Henri no crankier than usual about figuring costs for new furniture and recovering the baron’s mother’s existing chairs. They would pack the samples into a carriage the next day to present them to the dowager and get final approval. Someday, the baron might order from them for his own home. Or better: for his Versailles apartments. But for now, he was outfitting all the ladies of his family one by one. What Marcel really wanted was to make dresses for the ladies, not cover chairs for their fesses.

Something was wrong with Henri. Marcel felt crazy. Something hurt inside Henri, but was the pain only physical, something wrong with his arm? Or was he angry?

Perhaps—and this frightened Marcel more than the other options—Henri had found another lover. He had been gone a few days, but what if he had met someone else? What if seeing his youngest brother falling in love had changed Henri somehow? Marcel would have to leave, not Henri. Henri was the colonel’s brother.