Seven count faces watched him haughtily.
"I am the master of this estate; it is my approval you need seek—for everything."
"You?" One of them sneered. "You are but a fixture, from what I hear!" He tried to elbow past John, but the viscount held his ground.
"Hmm. Sorry, lads, but this fixture is wed to the mistress of the estate, which means…" He let the idea sink in.
All fourteen of the golden eyes widened at once. Message delivered.
It was rather comical, the speed with which they began to ingratiate themselves to him.
Two of them slapped his back; one winked at him; another nodded approvingly; while still another declared him the finest choice for the countess.
"Who said anything about the countess?" he asked softly. "I am husband to Chloe."
"Not Chloe!" A great wail issued forth. Apparently this news did not sit as well with the brothers. "But we intended to marry her!"
John shook his head. "All seven of you?" he asked dryly.
"Do not be foolish! We decided on the way here that Adrien would marry her! Now what will we do?" They all threw their hands up in the air.
John couldn't help but smile. "I hadn't realized any of you fellows were on the marriage mart. All of the stories I've heard have indicated just the opposite."
"Well, yes, but this is different!" one answered.
"How so?"
"We need an estate!"
"Ours has been confiscated!"
"What is a count without an estate?" They all speared him a pointed look.
Up until very recently John had been a viscount without an estate.
"Believe me, lads, you'll survive," he intoned sardonically. "Come on inside—you look about ready to drop." He held the door open for them.
They gratefully entered.
The Cyndreacs were brash but likable; John bore them no ill-will, and they were close friends of his wife's family.
"Merci, Lord Sexton," the one who first spoke said. "We are grateful for your hospitality; it has been a difficult journey."
"How did you get here?" he asked quietly.
"It was the Black Rose. He saved us from the blade in the nick of time." The youth grinned cheekily at his pun, although John noted he was a tad white around the mouth. The experience had been no lighthearted romp for them. John admired the lad's bravery.
"And he brought you here?" John inquired curiously. This was a peculiar turn of events.
"To your very doorstep, Lord Sexton."
John rubbed his chin. "Hmm." First Zu-Zu, now the Cyndreacs. Very curious.
The butler led them up the stairs. "One thing else, Counts." They all turned on the stairs to look at him. They really did appear exhausted. John felt a trifle sorry for them.
"Oui?" They all said at once.
Whatever he had to say could wait. He smiled kindly at them. "Rest well; you're safe here."
They all smiled gratefully at him, hurrying after Calloway.
Good Lord, they were younger than he thought. Younger and bound to be trouble. They appeared to be from about sixteen to around twenty-one or thereabouts; although he couldn't tell who was what, they all looked so much alike.
Wonderful. Seven brothers who, by all accounts, had had no parental guidance in years and, as members of the—until recently—privileged class, were probably spoiled rotten. They certainly had a wild reputation. It almost rivaled his. Not quite, but then, not many did.
He grinned. The Seven Deadly Cyns. Here in his house.
The smile slowly died on his face. In the same house as his beautiful Chloe? The viscount's normally golden skin tone paled.
He would guillotine them himself if they didn't behave!
See if he didn't.
Percy ambushed John as he made his way down for dinner that evening. Already he was late.
Chloe had spent the afternoon helping the countess bottle some aromatic oils, a task she told him she especially enjoyed after the winter.
Since they had barely left their room the past few days, he had sent her on her way with a quick kiss, deciding to explore some of the Heart family legacy stored in the attic.
He had unearthed two very interesting personal diaries and they captured his attention the entire afternoon.
Briefly, he wondered what had become of the Sexton personal belongings. Perhaps he could begin tracking some of his own family's legacy and purchase it back? The idea intrigued him. He made a mental note to ask Chloe what she thought of the idea. Chloe was very good at ferreting out details; she would be of invaluable help in the project, if they decided to undertake it.
Admitting the fact that he had no head for figures, he acknowledged that she would probably be the one to do the research, cataloging, and purchasing as well.
Actually, she would have to take charge of the whole thing.
He blew out a gust of air. Maybe it was too much to ask of her. Well, if he let her know he would work right alongside her, perhaps she would consider it.
The Lord of Sex goes on an antique-hunting mission. He snickered. Who would believe this?
He was thinking about how enjoyable it might turn out to be—chasing down the pieces, traveling together to acquire them—when Percy waylaid him in the hallway.
It was the Spanish fly dilemma revisited.
Why did I take this hallway? John recoiled from the injustices of fate.
"Percy, will you cease! I am not interested in the noddy color of your breeches!"
The fop squeaked in horror, the sound reverberating through John's skull. "Breeches? I am not referring to breeches! I speak of a much more important accessory—the waistcoat!"
"Give me strength." Lord Sexton gnashed his teeth.
By the time they made it down to the dining room, everyone was already seated around the table, several voluble conversations going on at once.
Percy paused with him in the doorway to remark, "You see, John? You are like Don Giovanni—the ghosts of the French aristocracy dine at your table." Lips twitching, he gestured with his hand, indicating the impatient assemblage. They kept to town hours at Chacun à Son Goût.
"Very amusing, Percy. Let us hope they do not portend my demise." Winking, John took his seat at the head of the table.
Percy raised his lorgnette to examine the viscount. "There are all kinds of demise, my good fellow. Just see if there isn't." Grinning at his own private amusement, Percy took his own seat next to the Zambeau, who had managed to capture a place for herself at John's right.
John wryly glanced down the table, noting that the Cyndreacs were cleaned up, reclothed, and bushy tailed. Two of them sported black eyes that hadn't been there a few hours ago.
He recognized several articles of his own clothing, hanging in a poor fit on the younger men. Across the table from them, Deiter was wearing his gold waistcoat. He squinted at the far end, where his uncle was sporting a new shirt under a dark coat.
That's my ivory shirt!
No wonder his clothes kept disappearing. Something one of the Cyndreacs was saying caught his attention.
"… we are Cyndreacs; we live for romance!"
Wonderful. That was what he needed to hear.
One could only endure. He sighed, lifting his soup spoon to his lips.
"Aren't they marvelous?" The Zambeau placed her hand on his thigh, smiling coquettishly as she confided, "They're a bit too young for my taste—I prefer the more accomplished."
John halted in the act of tasting his mulligatawny soup and blinked once. The woman's hand was traveling up his leg with the speed of a fast trotter. Slowly, he raised his eyes to glance across the table at—
The phrase throwing daggers with one's eyes took on new meaning. His wife lifted her wineglass and swallowed a measure of drink. Then she turned to the nearest Cyndreac and gave him a devastating smile.
John's nostrils flared. It wasn't as if he had invited this!
He turned to Zu-Zu. "Countess, I believe you have misplaced your hand."
"Have I?" she toyed with him.
She was a woman used to getting what she wanted. Viscount Sexton had no intentions of encouraging her. Nor would he allow Chloe to continue to flirt with that young pup.
"Do not trifle with me." He spoke harshly, under his breath. "Remove it."
The Zambeau pouted; then instantly brightened. "You are hungry, no? How inconsiderate of me—we will pick up again later."
"No, we will—" But she had already turned her attention to something Percy was saying. Desultorily, he went back to his soup.
At the other end of the table, Maurice curiously watched the exchange, his shrewd gaze going back and forth between Chloe and John. Ho-ho. He fixed his sights on the Cyndreacs, a slow smile spreading across his features. It was past time he took them under his wing.
"So… the Black Rose has once again appeared in the nick of time." Maurice took a sip of wine. "Was it close for you, Jean-Jacques?"
"Jean-Jacques?" John asked, confused.
"Oui, I am Jean-Jacques." Jean-Jacques, John soon learned, was the name of one of the Cyndreacs. Chloe gleefully informed him of the others.
"This is Jean-Paul, Jean-Louis, Jean-Claude, Jean-Jules, Jean-Pierre, and… Adrien."
John's lips twitched. "Adrien?" Where did that fit in?
"Oui," the one at the end answered.
John noted it was the same brother who had spoken to him in the hall. The one the others seemed to listen to. Good lord, he was starting to tell them apart. "You are the oldest, then?"
"Non, I am the youngest."
John's jaw dropped. "But they listen to you."
"I have the best title." He beamed proudly. "Papa saved it for me."
"Besides that," Jean-Jules piped in, "he is the smartest of us. Papa said he finally got it right with Adrien."
Adrien grinned.
"What about the twins?" Chloe asked.
"Twins?" John echoed.
"Yes, Jean-Paul and Jean Claude are obviously twins, John."
How could she tell? They all looked alike to him. Same black curly hair, white teeth, and gold eyes. He shrugged.
"The twins were before me," Adrien answered philosophically.
John rolled his eyes, for once grateful he had never had to deal with siblings. Although this group seemed happy enough with each other—if you overlooked the two black eyes and the constant squabbling. The corners of his mouth curved upward.
Maurice returned to his earlier topic of the Black Rose. "Whoever he is, we owe him a great debt for saving our friends." He gestured to the table at large.
"Hear, Hear!" Many at the table concurred by clinking their wineglasses with their forks.
"To the Black Rose!" Percy suddenly stood as if overcome with benevolence for the unknown savior. He raised his glass in toast. "Anna virumque cano—I sing of arms and the man!"
Please don't. John winced, knowing what was coming. Sure enough, Percy started in on that dreadful poem.
"They search high and they search low…"
Chloe, Maurice, and the two countesses joined him. "… the proletariat wonder where he could go…"
The malady is spreading. John pinched the bridge of his nose.
Finally it ended with the appalling finale: "… that blasted, evasive Rose!"
John breathed again.
The Cyndreacs seemed to like it, all of the counts immediately begging Chloe to teach it to them. If they started reciting it, John decided he was tossing them out, guillotine or not.
"It was close for us." Jean-Jules spoke quietly. "Others were not so lucky."
"Anyone we knew?" Maurice asked.
"The Due de Montaine and his daughter, Barone Dufond."
"You remember them, Chloe, do you not?" Jean-Claude asked. "He was always with his nose in the air and she with her buck teeth and cockeyes." He demonstrated by crossing his eyes and sticking out his top teeth.
"She cannot help the way she looks," Jean-Jules defended the lady, showing a sensitive streak in his nature.
"True." Adrien shrugged. "But she is forever whining, Jules. You must admit that."
"Well, she will not be whining soon." He threw down his napkin and left the room.
Everyone was surprised by his abrupt departure. Finally Adrien spoke. "It was hardest on Jules; he is of a reflective nature and the injustices have sickened him. He was ill in the prison…" His voice trailed off as if he too did not want to remember the horrors they had witnessed.
"Will he be all right?" Chloe was worried for the kind young man.
"Yes, Jean-Jules has enormous strength of character."
John viewed Adrien with a new respect. It was becoming clear to him why the Cyndreacs looked to him for direction. Despite his age he was a born leader.
"These stories are so distressing." Percy dabbed his eyes with his lace handkerchief. "To think—the seven of you fine young men thrown into prison simply because you—"
"Wait a minute." John sat straight up in his chair. "Seven of you! Countess Zambeau, didn't you say six were imprisoned, that one had escaped?"
Zu-Zu looked quite surprised. "Why, yes, I thought there were six."
John speared Adrien with a challenging look. "What have you to say, Comte Cyndreac; how is it one of you was not in prison yet is here now? Perhaps it is because one of you is the Black Rose, hmm?"
The Cyndreacs looked at each other.
Adrien clearly did not like this turn of events. "That is ridiculous, Lord Sexton! With all due respect, Zu-Zu, you are mistaken; we were all taken."
The Zambeau furrowed her brow. "Perhaps I was mistaken. I would recognize the man who saved me; it was not a Cyndreac."
John wasn't convinced.
"Don't blame you for trying, Sexton; everyone is dying to know his identity." Percy swallowed a piece of fowl. "They say he used to be a pirate. Fancy that, what? Robbing the aristocracy one day only to save their heads the next."
Everyone began commenting on that juicy tidbit. Until Deiter's moribund tone broke through the chatter.
"In my village, a man died four times."
Everyone stopped speaking to stare agog at the man who had uttered this bizarre snippet.
"The first time he died, we buried him in the churchyard." He pierced his captive audience with a morose glower. Schnapps helped by showing his tooth. "He came back."
Everyone gasped.
Except Chloe, who, John noted, had a gleam of anticipation in those violet eyes. The bloodthirsty little wench, he thought with a chuckle.
She loved nothing better than a lurid tale.
"The second time…" The dinner guests leaned forward. "The wolves…" He trailed off.
"The wolves," Jean-Louis prodded him. "What about the wolves?"
Deiter's chin dropped onto his chest; a loud snore followed.
"Ohhhh!" Everyone sat back in their seats, disappointed.
John stifled a chuckle. They get bamboozled every time.
"Well, I heard an amusing story the other day." Percy patted his mouth with his napkin. "You know the Earl of Louder, John?"
John opened his mouth to answer; however, in that briefest of pauses wherein one takes a breath, Percy continued on. Sir Cecil-Basil apparently lived by the maxim He who hesitates is interrupted.
"The fellow is rather an impossible hypochondriac. Can't tolerate anything that even hints at rumpling his perfectly ordered existence."
"Sounds somewhat familiar," John mumbled into his glass.
"They say he hasn't spoken a word for five years!"
"Why?" The countess hadn't heard this.
"Don't know; one can only assume he felt the spoken word disrupted his orderly life, somehow bringing the threat of disease with it."
"How eccentric." Zu-Zu never considered any member of the aristocracy as out-and-out peculiar.
"Oh, there's more! Seems he was told that a certain authoress was coming to see him—believe it was Mariane Turnery—the one who wrote that romantic novel…"
&
nbsp; "Oh, she's marvelous!" The countess smiled.
Percy made a moue with his mouth. "Couldn't go by the earl; he suddenly started screeching, 'Take me away, take me away!' "
Everyone at the table started laughing, including John.
Percy added drolly, "Seems that the horror of an infestation of literary pestilence was enough to snap the man out of his monomania."
The dining room roared with laughter.
The following afternoon, John sat in the study staring morosely at the ledgers before him.
He detested ledgers.
Why was he even bothering with them? Especially on a day like this? His sights went to the French doors behind his desk that led out into a garden. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm.
What he really wanted to do was take Chloe out into that garden and…
There was little chance of that happening.
His nostrils flared. For some reason, Chloe was furious with him. She had even refused to make love with him, turning her back on him in bed last evening.
That had angered John.
He had wanted her so much that he had almost been tempted to inform her that as her husband it was his right, if he so desired it.
However, he came to his senses when he realized what he would sound like. John had never been close to pompous and he wasn't about to start now.
It was the Zambeau's fault, no doubt about it.
After the men had partaken of their port last evening and rejoined the ladies in the salon, Zu-Zu had shamelessly pursued him. The entire evening. No matter what he said to discourage the woman, it made no difference. She simply ignored his wishes and proceeded with her lavish fascination.
Chloe was sure John had somehow invited the attention, hinting that she would respond in like manner while subtly remarking that Adrien was the handsomest of the Cyndreacs, in her opinion, even if they were all stunning.
At that point John supposed he got a bit pompous. He informed her in no uncertain terms that she had better not be spending her time wondering who was the handsomest Cyndreac, for it surely would have no meaningful effect on her.
She had turned away from him in a huff, although at the time he could have sworn he caught the hint of a pleased smile on her face. He convinced himself it was a trick of the low lighting.