Free The Secrets of Casanova by Greg Michaels Page B

hairdresser,” Jacques said while admiring himself in his mirror.
    “Let us not forget, sir, I was also an actor of some renown.”
    “Of some renown.”
    Jacques caught Petrine’s reflection in the mirror—screwing his mouth into some overworked expression.
    “What’s your favor today, sir?”
    “Until the main meal, I’ll answer these letters here. Please find me more paper and sharpen the quill.” Jacques laid his mirror on the bed and fiddled through his personal items on the secretary. “I’ve enough ink and—let me see, yes—enough sand for blotting to last the morning. This looks to be a fine summer day, although I’m not in a particularly fine mood.” Jacques scratched his head. “Is the mistress of the apartment awake?”
    “Not to my knowledge. But, if it’s your wish, I’ll make it my business to spy on her,” grinned Petrine.
    “I’ll make it my business to have you whipped, rascal.” Jacques took a step toward the valet, which was enough to hurry Petrine toward the door, laughing. Before reaching the knob, he swiveled on his heels, facing Jacques.
    “There are no signs of the men from the debtors’ prison, sir. But,” he continued, knitting his brow and shaking his head, “as you yourself said, nothing is certain.”
    Jacques sucked in a hard breath.
    Tiptoeing toward his master, Petrine persisted. “Sir, while we’re talking—if I, sir, may wonder aloud—”
    “Speak plainly, Petrine.”
    “Well, yes, master. Yesterday’s conversation—you mentioned that the old Vicomte offered you an opportunity. You implied it was balm for our—for your—financial problem. Can that be true? I mean, is it even likely that the Vicomte—”
    “There is a rumor of immense wealth surrounding the Vicomte, I have it in confidence.”
    “In confidence? From whom?”
    Jacques crossed his arms. “What concern is it of yours?”
    “None, master,” Petrine said, and bent over awkwardly to scrape mud from the top of his boot. “But since you have often scolded me that I look out for myself foremost …”
    Jacques thumped his fingers against his arm as if to a fast fandango. “Complete your theme.”
    “Well, sir, if Vicomte de Fragonard is, as you say, balm for your problems, I can assist you in your friendship with him.”
    “Why would I need—or want—your assistance?” Jacques barked. “Oh, I see now. If there’s no bounty forthcoming from the Vicomte—and the authorities clap me in irons— you’ve no employer and will be out of ready money. Perpetually concerned with your own skin!”
    Petrine meekly jerked at his sleeve and nodded.
    “No more talk this morning.” Jacques snapped his hand hard against his leg, then busied himself with his manuscript. A moment later, he glanced at Petrine, who stood close by, eyes downcast.
    “Forgive me, Master Casanova. I desire only what’s best for you.”
    Jacques glared.
    “And me, ” Petrine admitted coyly. He threw back a shock of black hair that covered his eye. “I’m here to sustain you, sir.”
    ***
    The morning hours passed quickly as Jacques wrote one letter after another. Many of the letters he composed were to women who had shared their favors with him and who were now married and in far-flung places, though, as he knew, they would again share themselves when he arrived in their town. Other letters relayed recent tales of Jacques’ life of adventuring to old friends, companions, and even rivals.
    One never knows when a rival might become a confederate , Jacques thought as he signed his name with a flourish to the page before him. He was leaning forward in the secretary chair when a knock on the door stopped him; he looked up, wondering what time it was.
    “Are you in?”
    “Yes, Dominique.”
    “May I interrupt you?”
    “Only for wickedness.”
    Dominique entered the room, uttered a terse “Morning,” and quickly shut the door. It seemed to require some effort on her part to muster a brief smile. Nevertheless, the