He blinked groggily. Oddly enough, he had apparently been conscious enough last night to take off his spectacles. He found them neatly folded near his hand. Putting them on, he stared blearily down at the book he had been poring over late last night: a text describing case studies of amnesia patients.
He sighed heavily. He had hoped to discover better methods of prodding Marie’s memory—since Wolf’s and Fleming’s drug had proven to be a complete failure.
For over an hour last night he had questioned her, asking about the chemical compound, wood ashes, gun powder, the navy, military weapons, explosives. None of it had shaken loose a single memory. Not so much as a flicker of recognition. And he had to accept her answers as honest. Under the influence of the drug, every “No” meant she truly couldn’t remember.
Even more disturbing, her replies might also mean that the memories were locked away so deep that nothing would be able to break through the barriers in her mind.
Frustrated, he had finally changed strategy.
“Is there anything you do remember?” he had asked.
“Mmm…yes,” she had said, her voice heavy and slow.
“Good.” He felt encouraged. “Very good. What do you remember? Tell me, Marie. Tell me what you remember.”
“Combustion.”
He smiled with relief. “Excellent. Tell me about combustion. What do you remember about combustion?”
“What it…feels like.”
“What?” he asked in confusion. “Were you involved in an explosion? Marie, how do you know what combustion feels like?”
“Mmmax…kissed me.”
That unexpected response rendered him temporarily speechless. “Uh…very good. Yes. But what else do you remember about combustion?”
“Would like…Max…kiss me again.”
Hellfire and damnation. That was not the kind of truth he was after. He began to wish he had never decided to use the drug in the first place. Instead of revealing memories of the past, it had revealed thoughts of the present. Thoughts he did not want to know.
After questioning her for another half hour, he had finally given up and carried her upstairs to her bed. In her semiconscious state, she probably wouldn’t remember the interrogation. If she did, he could explain it away as a dream induced by the amount of wine she had consumed. He had pulled the covers over her and left the room swiftly, before the smoldering heat in his body and her whispered wish could make him do something he would regret.
Would like…Max…kiss me again.
Now, in the morning sunlight, he straightened uncomfortably in his chair, rubbing at his sore neck. That was the grand sum of what his efforts last night had netted him, he thought sourly: an unwanted truth, a pain in the neck…and an ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away.
He yanked off his spectacles, stuck them in his waistcoat pocket and stood up, his back and legs stiff from a night spent in the chair. Shutting the book, he picked it up and thrust it back onto the shelf. The text only repeated what the physician in London had told him: some amnesia patients regained their memories upon seeing familiar persons or places. Others responded to the kind of mental stimulation he had tried during the past three days. Some experienced a spontaneous memory “flood” with no apparent cause.
And some never recovered.
He headed for the door, his frown deepening. He wasn’t making any progress in learning the chemical formula—and time was running out. They had to leave for the coast soon. Tomorrow. The next day at the latest. Which left him one day, perhaps two, in which he could work on getting the formula from her. Once they were traveling, he would need to concentrate more on her safety than on her memory. He walked down the corridor toward the front of the house, thinking.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Nanette called out from the dining salon as he went by.
“Bonjour,” he replied, his tone somewhere between a grumble and a growl. He wasn’t feeling at all bon this jour.
The maid came out and followed him into the main entry hall. “Would you like your breakfast now, monsieur?”
“Later, Nanette.” He started up the stairs.
“Yes, sir.” She stopped at the bottom. “Madame LeBon came down to breakfast an hour ago. She was in a very happy mood, monsieur. I think she enjoyed your supper al fresco last night. She said—”
“Very good, Nanette. I’ll see her as soon as I’ve had time to change clothes.”
He went up to his room, his mind on his problems. So Marie was happy. Good. That meant she didn’t remember the interrogation. He was glad someone was feeling happy. He sure as bloody hell wasn’t.
He must get her to remember the chemical formula before they reached the coast. If he failed, Wolf and Fleming would no doubt resort to more ruthless methods when he turned her over to them.
And if that weren’t disturbing enough, he thought as he entered his bedchamber, something else worried him: he and his “wife” wouldn’t have separate sleeping quarters while traveling. They would be staying at rustic inns in country villages, and it would be difficult to explain to Marie that they needed two rooms.
Difficult and dangerous. Here at the house he had some measure of control, but on the road…he didn’t dare let her stay alone at night, unguarded.
He tossed his waistcoat onto the rack beside his armoire and dragged a hand through his tousled hair.
He was going to have to share a bed with her. There was no way around it.
Mercy of God, he didn’t want to imagine the untold tortures that lay ahead of him. He glanced at the door that separated their bedchambers. When they left here, there would no longer be a nice solid barrier between them each—
He felt a tingle of unease as something Nanette had said clicked into place in his brain.
Madame LeBon came down to breakfast an hour ago.
How could Marie go anywhere when both of her doors were…
Damnation. In his haste to leave her bedchamber last night, he had neglected to lock her in!
A sinking feeling spread through his stomach as he turned and ran for the door. “Nanette!” he shouted, halting at the top of the stairs. “Nanette, where is Madame LeBon?”
The maid hurried into the foyer. “Monsieur, I tried to tell you before,” she said in a tone of puzzlement. “She’s gone out. She said to tell you—”
“Out?” Max almost strangled on the word. “What do you mean, she’s gone out? You let her leave? Alone?”
“She did not want me to accompany her, monsieur. She said she merely wanted to go for a morning stroll—”
“Where?” He rushed down the steps. “Where did she go?”
“T-to the park, she said, monsieur. Je suis desolée. I’m terribly sorry! I know she is convalescing, but she looked so happy this morning, and so healthy. I said she should ask you first, but she did not want to disturb you.”
Max ground out a curse, his mind racing as fast as his heart. Marie didn’t realize how much danger she was in. Every gendarme in Paris was probably searching for her by now! He jerked to a stop halfway down the steps, turned and went back up, taking them two at a time. “It’s not your fault, Nanette. It’s mine.”
And if anything happened to Marie…
Refusing to finish that thought, he ran to get his pistol.
Marie hoped Max wouldn’t be too upset that she had decided to extend her morning stroll beyond the park.
She inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh air, the warm breeze, the warmth of the sun on her shoulders as she threaded her way among the crowds on the Rue Saint-Honoré, studying the shop signs that jutted out from the brick buildings.
It felt so good to be outside! The sense of freedom was irresistible. Even better, when she had seen all the fashionable ladies walking in the park with their parasols, a flash of memory had come to her, a name: La Blandine.
She wasn’t sure why, but she felt it was the name of a shop. Perhaps she had been there before. Perhaps they would recognize her. Or she might see someone or someth
ing that would help bring her memory back.
She had asked a lady in the park about La Blandine and how far it was. Though Marie had difficulty understanding at first, the woman had been kind enough to speak more slowly and offer directions to the shop. She had also helped summon one of the coaches for hire that circled the park when Marie explained that she didn’t know how, and told the driver the name of the street. Marie didn’t have any money, but the man had been happy to accept the pearl necklace she wore in payment, and even gave her a few coins in return.
Walking along the bustling street, she felt a twinge of guilt that she had traveled such a distance from the town house. She hadn’t meant to be gone this long. From the woman’s description, the shop had sounded close by, but the coach ride had taken a rather long time.
Max wouldn’t be too angry…she hoped. Now that she was here, it was too late to worry about that.
Besides, she was being careful. Because of his warnings about the people who were searching for them, she had donned a cloak and one of the large hats from the bottom of her armoire. The floppy brim concealed her features quite well, so long as she was careful to keep her gaze downcast.
Which was difficult to do. All the sights and sounds around her were so new, so wondrous, so fascinating.
So this was Paris!
The shop windows alone could intrigue her for hours, each filled with a different marvel: carpets, clocks, fabrics, toys, porcelain, and many objects she couldn’t name. Then there were the sounds—hoofbeats, harnesses jingling, graceful carriages rolling along the spacious avenue, people conversing in different languages, vendors shouting at passersby, trying to persuade them to purchase medicines or baskets or newspapers or flowers. She didn’t understand any of the rapid voices all around her, but the lively jumble of noise was exciting after so many days spent indoors.
And every corner seemed to have a show that attracted a cluster of people: here a musician playing a flute, there a man standing on a wooden box and reading aloud from a pamphlet, farther on a performer who held dancing…dancing…
Wooden dolls on strings. She couldn’t remember the word. But for once, she didn’t care. She was enjoying herself too much.
The summery breeze carried the pleasant scents of perfumes. And baking bread that steamed up the windows of the boulangeries. And hot coffee being served in the many cafés. Not to mention a few less-pleasant scents from the milling crowds. Now and then a woman on one of the upper floors of a building would lean from her window, cry something that sounded like “Gare l’eau!” and toss out a bucketful of smelly liquid, forcing everyone on the street below to jump out of the way.
And the people! There were men dressed in tall white wigs and black robes, and a great many wearing blue-and-white uniforms, and others who garbed themselves in the most outlandish, odious shades of green or yellow or purple, with white face powder and black patches shaped like diamonds or stars on their faces. Some even walked in an odd, affected way, with mincing little steps accompanied by the tap of gold or porcelain canes.
The ladies looked even stranger, so covered in laces, frills, feathers, tassels, and bows that it was difficult to see the women beneath it all. Marie had thought her hat huge—but it was tiny compared with these chapeaux. Some were nearly as tall as the ladies who wore them.
She only wished Max were here so she could ask him about it all. The thought made her smile wistfully and touch the small package tucked in the pocket of her cloak, a gift she had bought him, in a little box wrapped with tissue and ribbon.
She had intended to ask him to accompany her this morning—but he had looked so exhausted when she found him in his study, asleep over a book, his cheek resting on the page and his spectacles askew. Not wanting to wake him, she had gently removed the spectacles and set them aside, brushing her fingers over the mark they had left on his stubbled cheek.
He was always thinking of her, always looking for ways to help her: the book he had been reading was about amnesia.
And he hadn’t locked her doors last night. She thought it especially sweet of him to grant her more freedom.
Marie stopped to admire a display of cakes in the window of a pâtisserie, wishing she could remember more about last night. She had dreamed that Max kissed her again. At least she thought it was a dream. She remembered their supper al fresco, and playing a few hands of cards, and laughing together as they debated a nickname for her, and then feeling such sorrow as he talked about his illness, and then…
She couldn’t remember what had happened after that.
Frowning, she turned and continued down the street, resolving never to touch a drop of wine again. The next time her husband kissed her, she wanted to remember it.
The Rue Saint-Honoré ended at yet another park, and there on the corner she found the shop she was looking for: La Blandine. Feeling a rush of anticipation and excitement, she opened the door.
A cloud of fragrances rolled over her as she stepped inside. The shop’s silk-draped counters and cases overflowed with liquid-filled crystal bottles in every shape and size, along with boxes of powder and baskets of soaps and cosmetics.
None of it looked even remotely familiar.
Disappointment crowded in on her happiness.
“Can Iassist youmademoiselle?” a woman’s voice inquired.
Marie turned and lifted the brim of her hat out of the way so she could see. The woman facing her looked as lovely as the delicate items in her shop, her gown a soft shade of pink, her features strikingly beautiful—though masked by too much powder and rouge. For some reason, she seemed to be looking down her nose, though they were about the same height.
“HowcanI helpyou?”
“I’m…I’m sorry, but could you please speak more slowly? I have trouble understanding.”
The shopkeeper’s perfectly arched brows lifted. “Is there something you wished to purchase?” she asked, each word distinct as she looked Marie over from hat to slippers. “Perhaps for a friend?”
“N-no,” Marie said a bit timidly, not knowing why the woman made her feel timid. “Th-that is…I mean…this may sound somewhat odd, but have I been here before?”
With a little huff that sounded almost like a laugh, the woman plucked off Marie’s hat and studied her face. “I don’t think so, mademoiselle. No, I certainly don’t think so. Here at La Blandine, we remember our customers, as they are the most refined and memorable of ladies. You are…je suis desolée, mademoiselle, but you are not the sort who usually patronizes our establishment.”
Marie didn’t know what to say. “What…what sort am I?”
“Oh, my dear.” The woman stepped closer and placed a finger beneath Marie’s chin, tilting her head up and then studying her face with a keen-eyed gaze. “Even our powder and rouge can only do so much,” she pronounced, shaking her head. “I think the hat is an excellent idea—the larger the brim, the better. I can direct you to a fine perruquier on the Rue Marais. Perhaps he could help you. He’s a true wizard with netting and veils—”
“But I don’t want to buy another hat. I thought I…y-you really don’t know me?”
“Non, mademoiselle.” The woman stepped back, handing Marie her hat. “What did you say your name is?”
“Marie Nicole LeBon.”
The shopkeeper sighed and tapped her chin. “Marie Nicole LeBon,” she wondered aloud. “No, that isn’t familiar. I do have a customer by the name of Véronique LeBon, but she hasn’t been in for some time. Are you perhaps of the same family—but then, non,” she interrupted herself, frowning as she flicked another glance over Marie. “I cannot imagine that. Mademoiselle Véronique is a beauty beyond description, truly magnifique…”
Marie didn’t hear the rest of what she said.
Véronique.
She couldn’t remember anyone by that name—but the sound of it splintered through her mind like a shard of broken glass.
Who was Véronique?
Marie suddenly felt dizzy. She couldn’t breathe.
A feeling of terror assaulted her. Sickening dread. All the more frightening because she didn’t know its source.
Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. The darkness rose—the shadows that threatened to pull her down into nothingness.
Panic seized her. She backed away from the shopkeeper. She had to run. Had to escape from this woman and her perfumes and her words.
Véronique.
Splitting pain lanced through her head, worse than anything she had experienced before. She cried out. Stumbled into a counter. Her hat slipped from her fingers.
“Mademoiselle?” The shopkeeper’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Mademoiselle LeBon, areyou allright?”
Marie searched blindly for the exit. The shadowy emptiness blocked out all thought, dragging her downward. She had to get away.
“No,” she cried. “No!”
She reached the door, pushed her way out into the street. The crowd jostled around her and she was buffeted one way and another. She lifted her hands to her head, desperate to stop the pain. A sob rose in her throat.
“Max…help.”
Disoriented, lost, she started to run.
“You are sureyour husband will think to lookfor you here, madame?”
Marie glanced up from her seat by the window in the Café Procope, her shaking fingers causing the porcelain cup she held to rattle in its saucer. She smiled tremulously at the red-haired serving girl who had been keeping her company on and off for the past two hours. “Y-yes, Emeline,” she whispered. “I hope so.”
“And you do not wish me to summon a coach for you?” the girl asked more gently and slowly.
“No, I…I…” Marie kept trying to judge what she should say or not say, but it was difficult because her head still hurt terribly, the pain unabated from the moment she had fled the shop on the Rue Saint-Honoré this morning. The laughter and noise of the café only made the throbbing worse. “Thank you, b-but I tried that already.”
“Mais alors, if this is your first time in Paris, your husband should not have allowed you to go shopping without a servant to accompany you.” The girl planted one hand on her slender hip as she easily balanced a laden silver tray on the other. “I become lost in these streets, and I came here from Provence three years ago. A husband should take better care of his wife.”
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 14