Prologue

Posted on Sunday, 23 June 2002

Paris - March, 1853

Therese Chample's senses set for assault as she entered the dark portal leading to the Gypsy's apartments. Up the cobblestone stairway, lit only by the diffused glow of the street below at dusk, her hand sought guidance by fingering the cold, rough wall as she made ascent. The air felt damp, close and covering, a thick suffocating embrace.

Wafts of perfumed incense drifted down the passageway, growing stronger and stinging her nose as she approached the Gypsy's lair. The fact that she was scared witless, adrenaline pumping ... no, coursing .. through her body, multiplied every sensation tenfold, leaving her probable to startle mightily at any provocation. And still, not slowing an iota, she continued upward, rustling layers of petticoats and a full taffeta skirt muted by the wool of her cape, hood up to conceal any glimpse of her face.

Marie had told her three flights up and to knock just so on the green door there. One short rap followed by two long, then one short.

She raised her hand. One rap.

The door slowly creaked ajar. "Hello? Bonsoir?" Therese softly asked. A moment's pause and an inhaled breath later she pushed the door open enough to peer inside. The pungent incense attacked her nose full force, making her eyes water slightly, even as they adjusted to the brighter yet still dim lighting of the room.

She stepped inside and, leaning back on the door, closed it gently. Click. The room was awash in color and decadent texture. Layers of large sumptuously hued Turkish carpets laid crosshatch over the entire floor, ornately carved massive mahogany furnishings glowed, and beautifully woven damask and brocade coverings made the room overwhelmingly, sinfully opulent. Only small. Too small for all this...this.

Marie had not told her of this. Truth be told, Marie was not forthcoming with anything concerning the Gypsy, and that Therese knew of it at all was because she had happened upon Marie applying the potion and reciting the incantation one evening before a rendezvous.

Oh, the incantation Marie knew by heart, but she had to visit this, this, to replenish her potion supply. And thusly armed she could entice, enchant and bewitch men into doing her absolute bidding, her tiniest whim. Of course Therese wished for the same and did not stop cajoling and wheedling her sister until enough details were revealed to lead her here, now.

And now here she stood, her back to the door, holding that same breath, not knowing what to do next. She exhaled.

"Madame?" Therese whispered. "Madame?" she repeated a bit louder. No answer. A more careful perusal of the room yielded the reason. Slumped in a corner over a round table in a crumpled heap was an aged woman, her clothes most unconventional and a riot of pattern and color, jet black hair pulled back to a single plait reaching her waist, and blank deep brown eyes. Blank deep brown unblinking eyes.

Therese moved towards the figure and touched her arm. "Madame?" No movement. No breath. The flesh was cool. "Merde!" the young woman gasped. She looked at the table, luxuriously draped with a heavy silk fringed cloth, and took accounting of its contents: one deceased Gypsy collapsed over an open book, a flacon of clear liquid, a gazing ball, an amulet and a small shallow crystal bowl.

Gathering her wits quickly, Therese tried to sit the Gypsy upright, hoping to revive her, but the result was the lifeless body toppling to the floor and landing with a soft thud. "Mon Dieu! What now?" Therese rasped, knowing that she had to extract herself from this situation quickly.

Her body still on high alert, she distractedly scanned the room and glanced back down at the table. The flacon would contain the potion prepared for her, she surmised, and so grabbed it, stuffing it into her reticule. She mindlessly took out the three gold coins allocated for the purpose and quickly dropped them into the crystal bowl. Cl-cl-cling. Giving the table one last look, she noticed the open book. Sentence fragments caught her eye and moving square over the text she recognized the passage immediately.

True love's potion desire withou' age
Draw us into passion's rage
True love's heart, draw thou to me
'Ere thine true love I be to thee

Marie's incantation. Damn, zut! And she honed in on the rest of the writing on the page. Ingredients with preparation instructions. She slammed the book shut and looked at its worn leather front cover, the title imprinted in gold lettering surrounded by a halo of stars: Enchantement d' Amour. Spells of Love.

Therese grabbed the book, bolted for the door, jerking it open, and flew down the dark stairway, not touching the sidewall this time. Face pale, limbs trembling and body hyperventilating, she reached the dark portal to the street and looked right, then left. She ran straight into the night.

And so it was that Therese Chample found her source, her secret that allowed her to become mistress to the highest of the nobility and influential. So it was that she became the most powerful and wealthy courtesan Europe has ever known.

Chapter 1

Posted on Sunday, 23 June 2002

Atlanta, Georgia - August 2000

In a perfect world, thought Lizzy Bennet, I would be surrounded by complete strangers and cooling my heels on a beach in the Bahamas right now, sipping on one of those umbrella-thingy drinks.

Instead she found herself in the sweltering Southern heat, trudging across one of the massive parking garages of the Pemberley Towers Complex, toward the bottom level of the impressive grouping of buildings that housed offices, a hotel, eateries, boutiques and shops. An architectural tribute to the slick lines of modern minimalism, the imposing structures of metal and glass gleamed against the Atlanta skyline. And, as excessive as they appeared, she took no notice, having seen them and been in a particular one virtually every day of her life.

She wended her way to the garage elevator and, after entering and exiting, was on Level One facing the large double glass doors of the Shopping Concourse. Approaching the doors, they slid noiselessly open, greeting oncomers with a wall of cold air, providing a welcome contrast to the sultry midmorning temperature. Slightly damp with perspiration and shirt lightly clinging to her moist back, she walked in and shivered for a moment.

This was her favorite part of the day. Everything was still all possibility.

Shops and restaurants were beginning to open with merchants and minions alike out front raising the metal-link gates shielding each entrance, lifting them with a clatter and most greeting the young woman as she strode by purposefully. "Mornin', Lizzy", "Hey, Lizzy", "Hi, Lizzy". She responded in kind to each as she passed, flashing a smile and sometimes waving a hand in acknowledgment. "Hey, y'all" and "Morning, guys".

It was as any other day, save the telephone call from her father before leaving home, because of which she left early to stop by the club before heading over to the spa. After their brief phone exchange, her feelings ran the gamut from dread to sadness to rapt anticipation and left her in her current state: complete turmoil. She knew she would face an unpleasant confrontation, be reminded of a painful memory and receive a precious gift of the past all at once. All at once in about five minutes from now, she calculated. Maybe everything was not quite all possibility today.

Down the Concourse, her heels clicked against the marble floor tiles, past the designer boutiques that catered to the elite Pemberley Hotel guests' exclusive tastes and the specialty bistros that could transport a palate around the world, where she finally turned into and entered the awned stained glass doors of Level One Dining and Diversions.

She always had thought this nightclub was truly wonderful. For 30 years, her father had done the requisite renovations to keep it current and, due to that, the club had been through several incarnations. But without fail the format was kept fresh and in good taste...if a bit on the wild side. Although Thomas Bennet was the owner, the club was indeed a family affair and its popularity through the years owed as much to the personalities involved as to his aggressive business methods.

"Hey, Kitty. Getting ready for the lunch rush?" Lizzy greeted her sister, grinning.

"Trying to, anyway. But I don't have a bartender yet..." Kitty replied, fumbling with a stack of menus at the hostess station in the club foyer.

"Lydia late again?" she asked and turned to check her reflection in the mirrored walls of the foyer. Examining the mascara on her inky lashes, insuring her lipstick was not amiss and fluffing her waist-length mass of sable curls, she deemed herself recovered from any heat damage.

"Yeah, as per usual, and that darned new chef Daddy hired is driving me crazy with all his menu changes, " her sister said, exasperated, "and Mama- Mama, you know how she can be and today it's worse. She's expecting you, by the way." Kitty added the last comment with an arched eyebrow and almost smug grin. "Better you than me."

"Thanks for the warning, sister dear, maybe I could hide out..." Lizzy said, half in jest, half most definitely not.

"Ha! She'll find you. You know you can run, but you can't hide..." Kitty said trying to sound dramatically ominous, her brown eyes twinkling.

"Very funny. Just tell me where Daddy is because I really need to get going."

Their exchange was interrupted abruptly by the sound of raised voices from behind the swinging door to the office. The sisters looked at each other wide-eyed, recognizing the escalating feminine voice rapidly responding in French to the heated male Southern baritone.

"Uh-oh. She's pissed," said Kitty.

"Really pissed," added Lizzy, knowing that her mother reverted to her native French tongue when highly agitated. "Guess I don't have to look far for Daddy, huh?" A wan smile was all she could muster.

Kitty laughed, flipping her long straight chestnut hair behind her shoulders and straightening her short skirt, "Go for it. I'm going to stand right here and look good."

"You're such a coward." Lizzy rolled her eyes amusedly.

"Nope, I'm the one that's got to work here all day with both of them," she said. Then, smiling as an afterthought and with a coquettish tilt of her head, she glanced into the mirrored wall and ventured, "Besides, I really do look good..."

"Jimminee, you're starting to sound like Lydia," Lizzy muttered, shaking her head as she moved through the dining room toward the office and the heated voices, "Atlanta won't be safe."

In the span of less than a minute she crossed the room and, placing her hands on the door to push her way through, she heard her father bellow out, "Enough!" This was the signal that Thomas Bennet had reached his limit and was a sign that Simone Bennet had been wise enough to heed over the years. The stream of French halted. Silence ensued.

Lizzy entered the office gingerly to discover her parents in the midst of a glaring contest. Simone Bennet stood resplendent in Ralph Lauren with hands fisted and planted firmly on her hips, not a hair out of place, makeup picture-perfect and attractive blonde looks belying her years, her appearance giving testament to her motto, "Always out-dress the clientele". Standing in the middle of the large carpeted office area, Simone faced the massive desk and its owner, who had been seated but was now standing, leaning forward slightly with hands palm down on either side of the large box on the top of his desk. Shirtsleeves rolled and necktie loosened, Thomas Bennet did not subscribe to his wife's motto.

"Mama," Lizzy began softly, "Daddy?" She looked first at her mother's face then to her father's.

Simone snapped to quickly and acted as if they had been calmly discussing nothing more innocuous than the weather. "Chère," she began, dropping her hands, turning to her eldest daughter and smiling, "it is good to see you. What brings you here so early in the day?"

"Daddy called and said that my box had arrived and I..." Lizzy started and stopped, noting the box on the desk sporting international mail markings, "Is that it?"

"Yes," her parents both tensely replied simultaneously, briefly resuming their glaring showdown at each other. Lizzy walked over to the front of the desk and lightly ran her fingers across the top of the package, her eyes beginning to fill with tears and her mouth forming a wistful half-smile. She gently laid her hand to rest on top of the box and sighed.

"Shall we open it?" Simone asked brightly, moving quickly towards the desk and reaching for the box, not waiting for her daughter's reply.

"Simone, stop right there," Thomas admonished. "It's Lizzy's and she can open it where and whenever she wants, and ... with whomever she wants".

Giving her husband an icy look she replied forcefully, "He was my father. This isn't fair, it's not right. I should at least..."

Lizzy moved between the front of the desk and her mother, blocking the box from her reach. Sensing an unavoidable storm if the tension in the room was left unchecked, she asked, "Could we possibly not have this conversation right now, Mama?" Oh, man, she thought, being surrounded by only strangers here would be good.

"Elizabeth Marie Bennet, watch your tone! You know perfectly well that this needs to be settled now," sputtered her mother excitedly, "After all, it's only fair that..."

"It's only fair that you parcel out what Grand-pere left to me?" Elizabeth gently interrupted. "Isn't that what this is all about?" Turning, she pulled the large box on the desk towards her into an almost protective hug. "This was meant for me, you know it was. Grand-pere told you a long time ago this would happen. This was his wish, not mine. It's the way he wanted it.

"Daddy," she looked up beseechingly at her father, "could you help me carry this up to the spa?"

"Elizabeth, I insist that you stay and finish this discussion," Simone screeched.

Lizzy gritted her teeth. The Bahamas were looking pretty good too. She turned back to her mother and replied, straining to keep her tone calm, subdued and even, "Maman, you know the estate is being auctioned and you'll receive the proceeds. These few keepsakes can hardly have value to anyone but me. Please, please leave this be."

"I just think that..."

"And I just think that I don't wish to discuss this right now. Once again, Mama, this was his wish and I will not go against it. As you say, it might not be fair, but it's not my fault." Can I make that drink a double? she mentally pleaded. Turning back to her father she asked in an almost whisper, "Daddy, could we go now?"

Thomas Bennet, ever in tune with his favorite daughter, wordlessly picked up the box and moved towards the door, his back then to his wife. Simone opened her mouth to speak but before another sound could pass her lips and although he was unable to see her face, he said quietly but firmly, "Enough."

Half a world away, in the Galerie Belevoiux, pleasantly situated at 93, rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré, Paris, history would be sold to the highest bidder. Piccard International's Paris office, located at that address and with offices worldwide, was handling the disposal of the estate of Comte Louis Michel François d' Villiard. As is routine, the items and properties had been catalogued and those lists distributed to interested parties in preparation for the present sale of the remaining possessions of the minor member of French peerage.

His title roughly equivalent to an English Earl, the Comte lived a sedate life of reflection and study, eschewing the societal expectations his inherited rank demanded, instead concentrating on his gardens and laboratory. In addition to his château and lands, the estate consisted of household furnishings, art, jewelry and an extensive library. Now, the accumulations of a lineage, the possessions of several lifetimes would be disposed of in lots.

This property was available for examination a few days before the actual sale in a pre-auction viewing and was accompanied by several of Piccard's specialists, that they might provide more information or answer questions about the items being offered. So, when a smiling towheaded American with a natural sparkle in his eyes asked to look at the Villiard lots, it caused no raised eyebrows. That his manner was friendly and engaging, and that he filled out his obviously expensive cashmere suit to perfection only made the Piccard staff more solicitous.

Asking to take a closer look at the jewelry, books and manuscripts in the estate, he seemed to be looking, no, searching for particular items, but ultimately his efforts were in vain. Hoping that perhaps the entire lot had not been displayed or that it had been miscatalogued, he motioned for assistance. "Pardon, Madame", he spoke, gaining a jewelry specialist's attention, "is this the entirety of the Villiard jewelry? I am looking for a certain piece, a gentleman's ring to be specific, that seems to be missing."

" Assurément, Monsieur," the specialist replied, "I will help if I am able. I can tell you that I, myself, catalogued all the pieces here in this estate." She swept her hand over the entire jewelry display. "And all that is listed is here for you to see. There are a number of gentlemen's rings, no?"

"So this is all that Piccard's received?" he asked, almost frowning while concentrating on the ring display.

"Oui. But this estate was a bit unusual," she replied.

Looking up at her, he asked, "In what way?"

"Under normal circumstances, the family or relatives keep much of the jewelry for investment or sentimental reasons and we receive comparatively little of the original collection. In this case, however, the Comte had only direct heirs in another country and he wished for us to liquidate his entire estate. Rarely are we handed an entire estate without the family going over the property, but, in this case, that was the wish of the Comte. There were but a very few items, personal, I think, that we did not receive and those were in already prepared by Villiard himself for shipment." She looked, thoughtfully, then continued, "You might check with his avocat, his lawyer, to find more. Perhaps he could help, no?"

"Perhaps," he said with a gracious smile. "I thank you..." he stopped, interrupted by the ring of his cell phone, "Excuse me, please..."

He retrieved his phone, stepping and turning away from her in an effort to obtain a modicum of privacy while not seeming impolite, but she was still able to hear his half of the conversation, "Hello ... yes, yes, everything is on schedule ... I've looked through the manuscripts and rings already ... not here ... it's not here either ... and you still want to bid?... let me call you later from the hotel ... no ... I'll talk to you in about an hour then, alright?"

Flipping his cell phone closed and feeling the beginnings of a headache, he rubbed his temples and turned towards the door. Walking across the showroom, he muttered out loud the words he wished he had said to his friend on the phone not 30 seconds ago, "Leave it alone, Will Darcy. Leave this one alone."

It was a shaky woman who walked out of the club's office door with her father in tow, and the churn of feelings inside Lizzy Bennet was now roiling to the point of nausea. Crossing the dining room to the foyer, she moved through tables being set-up by the wait staff in anticipation of the usually brisk lunch crowd, all the while being followed silently by a concerned Thomas Bennet carrying her treasured box in his arms.

Kitty took one glance at her approaching sister and gasped, "God, Liz, are you okay? What happened?" Her voice was so full of concern, so loaded with care that all Lizzy could do was to look at her with tear-filled eyes and give a shallow bobbing nod.

"Kitty, keep an eye on the fort here while I run your sister upstairs. Okay?" their father asked as he trailed Lizzy out the doors into the Concourse. Thomas Bennet knew his daughter well enough to allow her space and silence to regain her composure. When she's ready to talk, she'll talk, he assured himself. And he knew that because she was so much like him, it wouldn't take long.

They walked along the Concourse to the escalator and in that brief passage, Lizzy went from indignant to confused to hurt. She didn't understand why this woman who was supposed to love her, who was her mother, would attempt to take something so important away. Why she would try to intrude on her relationship with her grandfather. Why she would treat something so irreplaceable, so special, as a- well, a pie or cake to be divided between her and her sisters. That box was only full of things to her mother; it was full of love and memories to Lizzy. Her mother seemed to have no respect for her privacy, no respect for her property, no respect for ... for her.

With that realization, she became agitated and was fairly well stomping as she stepped to board the escalator. Standing on the moving ribbed-metal stairs, she grabbed the black handrail, her knuckles white and eyes flashing in fury. "I don't believe her!" she finally exclaimed, her voice beginning to rise, her face flushed. "Does she honestly think that I would let her blithely prance up and dole out Grand-pere's private things he left me? That I would..."

"Lizzy," her father interrupted, " I know you're angry but maybe it would help to know that your mother is a little- shall we say, jealous?" He paused and then continued, looking at his more-than-piqued daughter, "Now, now, just stop and think about it for a minute. You were always his favorite and he made no secret of it. All the summers you spent in France with your grandfather, all the time he spent with you, teaching you, in a way, molding you to carry on with his work. You were the only one that he let loose in his lab. The only one he shared all of his research with..."

"Mama was never interested in any of it..." she interjected, defensively.

"Your mother didn't have the head for it. He knew it, she knew it." They stepped off the escalator onto the second level of the Concourse and continued to walk. "And then you came along and were close to him in a way she never, ever could be because you were so like him. And as you grew, you came to love his work as much as he did." He chuckled, "A few times we damn near thought you were going abandon ship and stay in France."

"As much as I loved him, that wouldn't have happened, Daddy," she replied, looking only perturbed now.

"I know, I know. But the point remains that he was closer to you and did more for you than he did for your mother or sisters."

"He wanted to pay for my education," she said huffily, "and had Kitty, Lydia or Mary wanted to go, he would have done the same..."

"Yes," he stopped her, "but he didn't offer to fund a business for them like you. And when you stop to tally the amount he spent on your college, graduate school, the spa and lab gardens- well, I'm sure your mother and sisters have done some quick math and come up with a healthy figure. One that can make them good and resentful, if they've a mind to be that way."

Lizzy grimaced. It would really hit the fan if they knew how much money he had insisted she take. 8 million dollars. Damn and hell, she had choked on that number, but he hadn't batted an eye. He was adamant. He'd worked the figures himself and knew it would take that to recreate his lab and gardens. And the spa ... a wonderful testing ground. His dream...

The seemingly endless row of common marble, glass and brass mall shop fronts along the Concourse suddenly gave way to two large black lacquered doors with heavy brass handles, flanked by hefty flattened white column facades and huge potted topiaries, all against a white stucco wall. In gleaming simplicity, the polished brass letters over the top of the door frame announced only: Le Jardin.

Lizzy and her father approached the spa's front. "Daddy, let's use the side door," she said, turning to round the corner. Grasping the brass handle of the staff entrance door, she pulled it open and they walked into background sounds of a distant waterfall and soothing new age music, mingled with scents of a lilac, lemon grass and rainfall.

"You're a study in contrasts, Lizzy," Thomas Bennet said, shaking his head slightly. Lizzy arched an eyebrow and looked at him quizzically, bidding him to continue. "Up here, from the moment I enter, it's all calmness and serenity. Everything about this place is laid back and when you step through the doors here it levels you out immediately. But put you downstairs in the club and you're a firebrand. Complete and total opposites, I'd say."

"Just two sides of the same coin, Daddy," Lizzy replied with a small smile. Continuing down the hallway, she said, "If you could put that in my office, I'll be back in a minute- I'm going to let Jane know I'm here."

She turned down another hall leading to the spa lobby and her father went straight ahead, marveling at the rapidity of his daughter's shift in mood. Walking to the hall's dead end, he arrived at her office and reached for the handle of the door marked 'Elizabeth Bennet, Ph.D'.

William Darcy of Atlanta placed the handset of the phone back in its cradle and did a mental check of the time. Charles said he would call back in an hour from the hotel so there's nothing for me to do but wait. Maybe go over some of these product specs and contracts, he thought, reaching for the stack of folders on his desk.

But he couldn't.

His mind whirled with the possibility of dashed expectations- that his plan of patience had been thwarted. He knew he should probably hie tail and run from the situation- that he should just remain good and clear from everyone involved.

That blasted book. If it was solely about the manuscript, he could simply make sure he stayed on the other side of the planet from its possessor, but he would only have to glance down at his left hand to remember that the job was unfinished and he had left family business, family honor, undone. He fingered his signet ring nervously, a golden piece with his family coat of arms encircled in small diamonds worn on the last finger. A copy. A fake.

He wanted the original back.

Retracting his hand from the fidget, he absentmindedly glanced at the panoramic midmorning view of the downtown skyline, afforded in full splendor from his office window atop the Pemberley Towers Complex. Who ever has the book probably thinks it's a quaint artifact, he thought. There's even a chance that it doesn't exist anymore- after all, it's been 150 years. And they sure as hell won't have a hint that there's an antidote. Or who has it... he mused with a smug look.

Then his look turned black. I'm just kidding myself. Villiard had it. He intimated as much to me and he knew what it was. Raking his fingers through rich, dark curls and leaning back with a rumbling sigh, eyes closed, and he settled in the soft leather chair and tried to regain focus. After a moment, he trained his eye on the stack of files in the center of his polished burl wood desk and opened the top one. Another problem to be dealt with.

Pulling the file away from the stack and reviewing the reports that three of his vice presidents had made, he frowned. He looked at the financials, his own company laboratory results and the credit and background checks. None of his people, and he had sent his best and most persuasive, had been able to budge a sale of the formulas.

When he thought of the profit potential for mass market and the boost for the Pemberley Cosmetics line, he raised his eyebrows and shook his head disbelievingly, not understanding how anyone, in the face of all that cash flow, could not want to sell. Setting the file down, he loosened his tie and made a decision just as his phone rang.

"Hello ... Charles, hello ... you looked through it all ... everything was on display?... no, I still want to bid on the jewelry, you know the pieces ... and the books ... what time tomorrow is it? ... so you'll be back late tomorrow night ... I'm was just looking at your report on the ... yes, that's the one ... just how adamant was she about not selling? ... I'll wait until you get back to discuss it further, but I think that I'll have to pay a visit and try to persuade her myself ... yes, I know, use the old Darcy charm ... call me when you get in tomorrow night ... okay ... goodbye."

Hanging the phone up, he rose from his chair and walked around the desk across his office towards the door. Pausing at the large beveled mirror on the wall behind the short conference table, he adjusted his tie and slipped his suit jacket back on. Appraising his image, he smiled. Darcy charm, indeed. He would wait until Charles Bingley got back and then he would personally pay a visit to the stubborn Dr. Elizabeth Bennet.