And now, for your reading pleasure, chapter three of Bastien. If you’ve missed the previous ones, check out Chapter One and Chapter Two. There will be one more chapter posted next week before the release on May 5. Enjoy!

Chapter Three

Our usual haunt is The Howling Monkey. It is an establishment of questionable repute, to be sure, but the tavern is always well stocked and the inn’s rooms are decently appointed and usually clean. The owner, a pot-bellied, balding man with half his teeth missing, greets us as soon as we enter. He knows us—we pay well for his silence.

“I see you’ve invited more company,” I tell Louis, seeing a number of familiar faces among the patrons here.

“The more the merrier,” Louis assures me. He has, in fact, invited several more of his circle. I find no fault with his choices.

Young Firmin has an ill advised penchant for gambling, not that any of us ever bother to advise. He always knows where the players are rife for fleecing. It is his execution that usually falls short. Even now he has his marked deck of cards laid out on the table, practicing sleight of hand which will get one of his appendages cut off at some point.

Gaspard and Edgard are twin cloth merchants who spend their days ogling half naked women through a peep hole. They are young enough to be shy around females, and for that I am inclined to overlook their deviance. Though I have offered to introduce them to women well versed in handling inexperienced men, they obstinately insist they can find their own whores.

Adrien is the reasonable one of the lot. Besides me, he can most easily talk us out of trouble with the more respectable denizens with whom we share this world. Unbeknownst to said denizens, he is also the most wicked, with proclivities even I sometimes question.

And then there are the ladies of our company. Liliane, Honorine, Brigitte, and Adeline. One lovelier than the next. Wicked, wicked creatures the lot of them. I could paint their bodies with my eyes closed—and have, on occasion, done just that. Liliane and Brigitte are femme fatales in the making. The moment their fathers are gone and buried, I fully expect them to go gallivanting into the world without a care for consequence. Adeline makes true the saying that quiet waters run deep. She keeps her own counsel because she stutters when she finds herself the center of attention. What she lacks as a conversationalist, she makes up for with ardor. A brilliant strategist, in bed and out of it. True to her name, Honorine is a virgin. We allow her among us because … well, I’m not quite sure why. She is a tease of the vilest kind. I suppose that endears her to me quite a bit.

“The Fellowship of Depravity convenes once again,” I note.

“Bastien,” Liliane greets with a saucy grin and wink.

I bow to them all, and when Adeline offers her hand, I take it, pull her close and kiss her cheek. “Good evening, my Lord,” she says.

“Good evening, my dear,” I reply.

The serving wenches load our table with ale, obliging us to stay a while. It would be rude to refuse, and so we amuse ourselves until nightfall with drink and a friendly game of cards. We do not play for money but for favors. Rarely does anyone collect on them. If we did, Firmin would be my slave for the rest of his life, and I would have to clean out Louis’ stables for a year.

The men may know their tricks, but it would take a stronger man than any of us to keep his focus against the wiles of our womenfolk.

My hand is good, and with a little playacting I can convince the others that it is even better. I am preparing to do so when Honorine says, “I want to raise the wager.” Just the way she says this has all of us rapt on her. She smiles and traces the neckline of her low cut gown. “I wish to wager my virginity.”

The rest of the ladies fold, whispering their jokes behind raised hands, casting wicked looks at us men. Six of us against Honorine now. It is obvious she doesn’t intend to win. Adrien winces and pointedly places his cards on the table face down. “Gentlemen, good luck.”

Honorine narrows her eyes at him but doesn’t comment.

Firmin loses the next hand and is disqualified. Louis and Edgard beat out Gaspard and my hand takes out Louis. Honorine is still in the game. The next hand I am dealt is shite. Which is not to say I cannot win, only that it will take considerable effort. Edgard is sweating and Honorine is looking at me the way I’ve seen her covet a pastry she cannot have.

If I bluff, I can eliminate Edgard and play Honorine alone. The question is whether the prize would be worth the effort. And, should the unlikely happen and I lose, what will she demand as her due? The thought of putting the little trouble maker in her place is tempting enough that, for a moment, I contemplate making a real play for her. It only lasts for that moment. As enjoyable as it would be to knock Mademoiselle Saintly off her pedestal, I can already see resentment on the faces of the others. She will never acquiesce to anything less than an honest tryst and no sooner than on her wedding day. This is all a ploy to get us riled and sic us against each other.

A woman was never worth the price of friendship.

I play perhaps the first honest game of my life. No tricks, no cheats. I play the hand I was given, knowing I will lose. Edgard’s hand takes the game and I am out. I feign disappointment and remove myself to the bar for a stronger drink while they finish the final round.

Adeline follows me. “He is a fool,” she says. “I am glad you let him win.”

“You presume me immune to Honorine’s charms?”

“I know you to be.” Her fingers travel over my arm. “Innocence was never a lure for you, not even m-mine.”

Adeline was an innocent the first time she rode alone through the night, slipped into my castle and beneath my bed sheets. Innocent in body, perhaps, but in no other way. I was the one seduced. The reminder makes me chuckle. I take her fingers in my hand. “I’ve always wondered just how innocent you really were,” I say. “And what precisely did you tell Honorine about that night to make her stoop to this?”

Surprise, guilt, and finally hurt flash in her lovely eyes. She masks them quickly with an easy smile. “A right p-p-proper bastard you are. It is your good fortune that you are this handsome; otherwise, no one would be able to t-tolerate you at all.”

I salute her with my glass. “But you did not contradict me.”

A cheer goes up when Edgard wins. We both turn to watch everyone congratulate him while Honorine sits quietly possessed with her hands in her lap. Not surprisingly, the moment the rowdy group quiets, Honorine demurs and begs release from her wager.

Bastards we may be, but beasts we are not. Faced with a lady’s—and I use the term lightly—distress, Edgard relents.

Honorine smiles with relief and gratitude. She has no notion of what enemies she just made of all of us.

Adrien clears his throat. “It is time,” he says. “Shall we say our prayers now or later?”

Louis waves him on, and the rest of us bow our heads.

“Dear God, we humbly ask that you grant us wisdom to find trouble where it hides, strength to venture forth into it, turn of phrase to ease those disturbed sensitivities which can be eased, and coin to pay off those which cannot. Forgive us for the sins which we are about to commit and for not including you in them.”

My mouth twitches with suppressed laughter. I solemnly intone, “Your prayers are heard. Go forth and sin, my children.”

“Amen!”

“Where shall we do our sinning?” Brigitte asks eagerly.

“That, my dear, is a surprise,” Louis answers. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. No, this is something you all must see for yourselves.”

Adeline shivers and loops her arm through mine. “I do love a good mystery,” she says.

“Fellows, let us take the night by the horns!”

As promised, to celebrate the release of Bastien on May 5, 2012, here is this week’s chapter. If you haven’t read chapter one, you can find it here. Be warned, there is adult content in it. Happy reading!

Chapter Two

A week has gone by and no one has appeared on my doorstep to challenge me. I take it as a sign Christine’s family has decided to bear their humiliation in private to preserve the marriage contract. A shame, really. A proper duel would go a long way to relieving this wretched ennui.

It’s at times like these I miss the court. There, at least, the air was fragrant with intrigue and politics. I could walk into a room and have every set of eyes turn my way. I had only to smile and a wave of hissing whispers passed through the crowd. It’s a mark of a true spy when he can be recognized as one and manage to glean scandalous secrets out of everyone regardless.

Perhaps I should send a missive to Arnaud. Of course, he won’t allow me anywhere near his court again without a very public apology, and that I will never do. It’s not my fault the courtiers made a confessionary of me for the pleasure of my bed. If they did not want their secrets revealed, they shouldn’t have whispered them in my ear.

I sigh with only the slightest of regrets as I stand before a bookcase in my library, a glass of wine in one hand and Madame Bordeaux’s book in the other, wondering where to catalog her chronicles. The volume deserves a place of honor, if for no other reason than it being dedicated to me. And the fact that I feature rather prominently between its pages. The lady, of course, had impeccable manners and didn’t name any of her lovers. Nevertheless, she did personally deliver an autographed copy of her book to each of us as a memento of our time together.

My dedication reads, To my Lord Bastien, with fond memories of the nights we spent together and covetous wishes for more. A fond smile brings something akin to warmth to the barren cockles of my unused heart at the teasing reminder of her graceful coup de grâce.

I remember the night I met the lovely Madame. I was drunk on a new shipment of the smoothest Bordeaux I’ve ever tasted and on the prowl for an able bodied companion to share it with. I stepped rather precariously into the establishment, proclaiming myself to be High King Cocksworth the Ravisher and demanding a virgin to be sacrificed on my majestic blow horn. The scene was later described to me in great detail by several of the helpful lads who attempted to remove me from the building.

“Stop!” a commanding and distinctly female voice cried. I looked up, blinked past the blur of inebriation to behold an angel in a silk gown of such deep red it was nearly black. She glided down the staircase and dismissed my manhandlers with nothing more than a regal nod. “Come with me,” she said, and like a lost pup I followed her obediently back to her chamber.

She introduced herself as the Madame and refused to give her real name. I’ll freely admit I was not at my sharpest that night, but I found myself intrigued by the lady. Every attempt at learning her true identity was met with craft and wit and for an hour at least we engaged in a bout of verbal fencing I’ve never experienced before or since. Coy is not a word to describe her. She was masterful, yes. Charming beyond measure, enticing and earthy, but never coy. Men loved her because she loved them, it was as simple as that.

On that night, with a half empty bottle of spirits in my hand and much more of it in my belly, I named her Madame Bordeaux. Her laugh was a delightfully gutsy, artless sound that invited me to join her, unlike the tittering of overbred young maidens.

I like to think it was a stroke of destiny that hers was the brothel I stumbled into that night. Her tutelage proved to be most… enlightening. Madame Bordeaux took great pride in her work. The art of pleasure was her passion and in that quest, nothing was too sacred, nothing was forbidden. We found in each other a counterpart most willing to dive into anything head first or arse backward and jointly devoted two blissful years to the study of the limits of human pleasure. Then she kindly and with infinite grace broke off our relationship, and we went our separate ways.

If pressed, I would say I miss her.

I set my glass on the floor and pull several tomes from the shelf closest to eye level, tossing them carelessly to the ground. When half of it is clear, I separate the remainder of the books and push them to either edge. Madame Bordeaux’s volume takes its rightful place in the center, with the cover facing outward.

I trace the gilded lettering. Selfish bitch. She was the picture of pleasance the day she delivered her gift. She offered smiles and platitudes, politely declining my invitation to tea, supper, or sex. The woman presented me with the book, kissed my cheek and got back into her carriage, waving good-bye as it rolled away.

Two weeks later a nameless child messenger informed me the Madame had succumbed to consumption. She never said a word, not one indication she might be in need of assistance. If nothing else, I could have made her final days the most beautiful of her life. But in all our time together, she never asked for anything. And I never did offer. Ours was a simple relationship, based on our mutual respect for each other’s remove. Our shared interest in sex and easy conversation was, in fact, all we ever shared of ourselves.

After five years I still wonder whether the reason she never told me about her illness was because she expected me to turn her away. The thought has me reaching for my glass once more.

“Bastien, you amoral bastard, where the hell are you?”

I need not even raise an eyebrow at that insolent below. As the footsteps rush past the library door, I whistle loudly to announce myself. The intruder returns and the door pushes open. “Ah, there you are. At your books again? Good God, you must be bored out of your mind.”

I look over my shoulder at him. “And it’s a pleasure to see you, too, old friend.”

Louis laughs. “I am here to rescue you out of this dreary prison. You and I are going into town tonight.” Louis Lafarge, son and heir of his Baron father is the closest thing to my equal within miles. His family has been granted the lands on the other side of Fauve, which supply the village with grain.

Louis and I understand each other on a level not many others can grasp. Where I have a thought, I find Louis is already putting it into action. Where he has a hankering for a raucous adventure, I know just where to find it. He was the one who explained to me the merits of spying at court—and also the one who got me in trouble for it. But what’s a little scandal between friends? The one thing I can always count on with Louis is that he will rather start a peasant rebellion than let either of us wallow in boredom.

A man could not ask for a better comrade.

“Another night of sin and debauchery?” I ask.

He grins and says, “Better. Mon ami, this night will change your life!”

“I can hardly wait,” I say dryly, but find myself rousing to the prospect of something new. In these isolated parts, any novelty is a thing to be savored. One never knows when another might happen by. I call for my carriage to be prepared while I dress and fill a pouch with coin and a bauble or two. Like novelties, women are to be grasped whenever possible, and nothing snares one’s eye better than the glitter of gem and gold. I have a chest full of them for precisely that purpose.

“Another night out, my Lord?” Jacques inquires as I pass him in the great hall. His nose is uncharacteristically in the air. My butler and head of my household is impeccably trained to keep his goddamned mouth shut. Whatever has him in a snit should not matter to me in the least, and yet I discover that my mood is souring, which only serves to anger me.

“Is there something requiring my attention?” I snap.

“A messenger from Lady Christine’s father brought this note.” He offers it on a silver platter, already opened. “It would seem the engagement is broken. As you may know, the Count puts on great appearances, but is deeply in debt and in dire need of the coin the marriage contract would have brought to his coffers. Now that it is not to be, he inquires as to your intentions toward his daughter. Her reputation is of a great concern to him.”

His coffers are most likely the greater concern. I scowl at the butler pointedly avoiding my gaze. Snatching up the letter, I crumple it into a ball and toss it on the hearth fire. “The short answer, Jacques, was ‘no, my Lord Bastien.’”

He bows away without a word.

“Bastien!” Louis calls impatiently.

I snarl at nothing and follow him out to the carriage.