“Even if what they did was wrong?” Ève asked curiously.
“Richard has done nothing wrong. His only sin is to be the brother of a man found guilty of crimes and put in jail. And even that man is guilty only by association.” Her father paused. “Even if a man was in the wrong, if he is truly repentant, then he should still be helped. Every man deserves a second chance. Society is far too parsimonious in their distribution of second chances.”
Mama straightened, stabbed her needle in the fabric of the jacket she was repairing and shoved the jacket away. “If Richard is staying here, I intend to burn this jacket. We will find him another one.”
CHAPTER SIX
Her father seemed reluctant to share details about Richard’s life or anything which he had learned during his conversation with man. However, over the next few days, Ève surmised more from observation and offhand references.
Richard was quite as penniless as she had suspected him to be. The morning after his arrival, he came downstairs wearing one of her father’s jackets. Richard and her father took a cab and when they returned some hours later, Richard carried a battered valise. He also wore a new jacket which did not fit him properly. Ève assessed the cut and line of the jacket and knew it was one of the new pre-made garments which the department stores were carrying in greater numbers.
He spent a great deal of time sleeping. Ève and her mother had made the bed in his borrowed room, adding sheets and pillows and blankets. They also found a worn rug to lay on the floor beside the bed. The chair with the scratched legs, which successive generations of kittens had used as scratching posts, made its way into the room, too.
The more she learned, the more puzzled Ève became, though.
It was her understanding that Richard’s stay in their house was meant for him to relax and restore his health and spirits, before moving on. Yet with each passing day, Richard seemed to close in upon himself. The tension in his shoulders increased. He spoke even less and he never smiled—not even at the dinner table, where his upper class manners clashed with his working man’s jacket.
On the third morning, Ève received a note from Bertrand with the suggestion that she visit a dinner café which was not known to her. It was on La Rive Droite—the Right Bank, a part of the city she was not particularly familiar with.
After breakfast, she sent a note to Jacques, asking if he could escort her that evening. By the return mail, he replied that alas he could not that evening—he had a prior engagement.
After lunch, she found her mother talking with the cook, Madame Fischer, about soup for the evening meal. Ève interrupted. “I am dining out tonight, Mama.”
“Oh?” Mama Mairin raised her brow. “With your young man? Jacques?”
Ève glanced at Richard where he sat in the front room reading the two-day-old English newspapers. Papa purchased them from the newsstand down the street for next to nothing, as they were too old to be news. “Actually, no, Mama. Richard has asked me to dine with him.”
Mama glanced at Richard, startled. “Do you even have a tuxedo, Richard?” she asked, lifting her voice a little.
Richard looked up from the newspaper. He showed not an inch of surprise or puzzlement. “As it happens, Aunt Mairin, I do. It is in need of cleaning and pressing, so if I may impose upon your maid…?”
Mama frowned. “I’m not sure…”
“We are dining only as friends, Mama,” Ève added quickly, hiding her own shock, for she had not considered the matter of tuxedos at all. “A simple evening out, to refresh the mind, instead of this rowdy dining table of ours where everyone speaks on top of each other. That is all.”
Mama looked from Eva to Richard, who returned her look with an unwavering gaze. For once, he did not scowl.
Mama’s frown did not lift as she said, “It sounds innocent enough, I suppose, but you must ask your father, too.”
Ève’s heart sank. She had forgotten that when Jacques had first accompanied her anywhere, he had also presented himself to Papa and suffered through an interview of probing questions.
Only this time, when Mama informed Papa the next time he came downstairs from his study, he looked at Richard thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. “Yes, of course. It is a fine idea. Enjoy yourselves.” His light response did not match the look in his eyes.
Accordingly, at seven o’clock, Ève descended the stairs to the front room and found Richard waiting for her. His tuxedo looked immaculate, if not a little outdated, and he had shaved closely, which revealed his solid jaw and the dimple in his chin.
He gave her a small smile which did not reach his eyes, as his gaze flowed over her and came back to her face. “You are quite lovely.”
Ève gave him the same false smile back. She knew he was saying that only because Mama sat in the chair by the window, a book open upon her lap which she was not reading.
Ève smoothed the apple green brocade and refolded the drape on her hip. It was a Worth dress she had acquired at a reduced price, for the lady who ordered it had cancelled the order. The dress had only needed to be taken in at the waist to fit Ève properly. Even the length was correct, which was unusual, for Ève was taller than many women.
“When do you think you will return?” Mama asked, as Ève held her stole out to Richard and turned to let him place it around her shoulders.
“It will be quite late, Mama,” Ève said, clipping the fronts of the stole together.
“There is a singer I would like Ève to hear,” Richard added, “but she does not appear until close to midnight.”
It was exactly the right thing to say. Mama sighed. “Ève and her songs!” she murmured and returned to her book. “Enjoy yourselves!”
Richard opened the front door for her and once they were outside, murmured: “No gig?”
“Not tonight,” Ève said. “Look, there is a cab.”
Richard raised his arm to hail it. “And where are we going?” His tone was mild.
She gave him the name of the café and the address as the cab pulled up beside them. Richard murmured the destination to the driver, opened the door for her and held out his hand to help her up, with the flawless elegance of a gentleman.
Jacques often forgot simple manners and flushed deep red when he remembered, as if the etiquette made him self-conscious.
Ève murmured her thanks, settled in the corner and pulled the fur stole more firmly around her shoulders. It was a cool night for May.
Richard took the other bench, facing her.
As the carriage rolled into motion, Richard’s gaze met hers squarely. “And is tonight merely a dinner between friends?”
Ève grimaced. “No, I’m afraid it is not.”
“Your other friend…Jacques. You did not call upon him as an escort?”
“He has a prior engagement and Bertrand insisted I attend the café tonight.”
Richard shook his head and sat back, silent.
Ève’s belly tightened, roiling. “You needn’t do anything but enjoy the meal,” she said quickly.
“I could have done that at your father’s dinner table,” Richard pointed out.
“This way, you will be helping me,” Ève replied. “And I do appreciate how smoothly you played your part this afternoon. Thank you for that.”
He tugged at his cuffs, straightening them, and said nothing.
Ève studied his face, looking for hints about his thoughts. For the last few days, his face had been shuttered, all emotions and thoughts closed off from everyone in the house, with the shield growing thicker with each passing day.
Now, though, she thought she could see a glimmer of something in his eyes. Annoyance, perhaps—yet even irritation was a response. “I know you dislike staying in my home—”
“Why do you think that?” he demanded sharply, his chin lifting.
Ève lifted one shoulder. “You say little, and less with each day that passes. You do not smile. You are polite at dinner and nothing more. You sleep when you are not required to attend meals…
shall I go on?”
Richard’s gaze seemed to drill into her. Through her. For long moments, all Ève could hear was the clop of the horse and the soft hiss of the wheels against the smooth new setts of the road.
When Richard spoke, she barely heard him over those soft sounds, for he seemed to speak to himself. “Did you know that for Christmas of 1883, my mother and father hosted thirty-three guests? It did not include the dozens of people who lived at Marblethorpe year round. There were five roast chickens and roast beef for dinner on Christmas night. Crates of champagne and singing. My father built a treasure hunt which sent people riding horses bareback through the night and making snowmen. I remember them falling about in the snow, trailing fur and satin and dripping champagne as they worked, everyone laughing so hard they lost their breath. The prize was a silver cigarette case.”
Ève held herself still, lest her movement interrupt him. “A happy memory,” she whispered.
Richard didn’t move. His gaze was still turned upon the past. “Only a memory, nothing more.”
“That is why you are unhappy, among us? Because it reminds you of what you do not want to remember?”
His gaze shifted and met hers. “Such a life is not for me, anymore.”
“Why not?” Ève said sharply. “You did not steal that money. Neither did your brother. Do you think to punish yourself for nothing?”
“The world is taking care of that for me,” Richard said, his tone bitter. “I would rather not sip from a cup which will be taken from my hand any day now.”
“Oh…” she breathed, as his withdrawn air at last made sense. “Oh, Richard…” she added.
“Do not add pity to the pile, please,” Richard said sharply.
Ève straightened her spine with a sharp movement, surprised into it, for she had felt a large dollop of pity for his lot. “Yes, you are quite correct,” she said. “Pity is not what you need.”
His brow lifted a little. “And you feel you know what I do need?”
“I do,” Ève said. “At least, I have a suspicion.” She eased herself carefully from the bench, for the carriage was rocking steadily. She resettled herself beside him. She took off her gloves and her necklace and put them in her reticule. Then she shifted to face him. “May I?” She raised her hands toward him.
Richard frowned. “May you…?”
She reached for his bowtie and tugged the ends undone, then pulled the tie away altogether. She slipped the long rectangle of silk into her reticule, too. “And your collar and cuffs,” she added.
Richard didn’t move for a moment. Then he slowly unpinned the collar and handed her the pins, then the collar. His cuffs joined them in the reticule.
For a moment, Ève considered his white waistcoat. She decided to leave it in place. There was something wicked about removing a man’s jacket—at least, she had never done so and suspected it would feel wicked if she did.
“There, that is more like you as you are now,” Ève said. She patted her hair, then slid the silver and diamante clip from it. “Me, too,” she admitted.
“You don’t feel worthy of a silver hair clip?” he asked.
“I am most certainly worthy of it, although I have different interests in life, as you well know.”
Richard considered her for a moment. Then he reached up and slid the top button of his shirt undone. “An interesting thought,” he murmured. “If we are attending a café on the Right Bank, will we not be denied entry, looking like this?”
“I am prepared to take my chances, if you are,” Ève said.
The waiter who greeted them at the door of the café did allow them into the café, with a quick glance over their attire. He led them to a table on the outskirts of the café, in a dark corner as far from the tiny stage as possible.
“This actually suits me better than a table in the middle of the room,” Ève decided, looking around.
“Yes, I think I agree with you,” Richard said. “Are you aware that several gentlemen have watched us from the moment we walked in? On the other side, also against the wall?”
“Yes,” Ève said. “I have seen their faces before, often when I have been singing. I believe they recognize us, too.”
“One of them certainly recognizes me,” Richard said, his voice low. “He is the man who grabbed you when the police forced their way into the café, four nights ago.”
“Ah yes, the one with the large nose. I do remember him, now.” Ève did not stare at the men who brooded at the other tables and muttered amongst themselves. “I can see why Bertrand wanted me to come here tonight. After the raid upon La Floraison Moderne, those we are interested in have been forced to find a different venue for their meetings.” Even though they were speaking soft English, she did not name the anarchists, for it sounded almost the same in English and might be overheard.
“This is a rather upscale address for that type,” Richard said, sounding doubtful.
“Which may be why they gravitated here,” Ève said. “It is the unexpected place, and one of the last places their enemies would think to look for them.”
They ordered a small meal each and a bottle of wine and were sipping the wine when the man whom Richard had pointed out came up to their table. “Monsieur,” he said, his voice low.
Ève drew in a sharp breath, as if she had not been aware of his approach at all.
Richard stiffened.
The man lifted his hand up, his palm held down, by his side. “No, no, I mean not to alarm you,” he said quickly. “It is my great good fortune to find you here tonight. I am aware that in my…my haste and my inebriation the other night, I manhandled the lady and must apologize abjectly for my lapse in judgment.” He did not speak to Ève, but to Richard.
Richard’s dark eyes narrowed. “Ève?” he said softly.
Ève considered the man. “You bruised my wrist, monsieur.” She kept her hand upon her knee, where he could not see the wrist and the lack of bruising.
The man barely glanced at her. “I offer my condolences,” he told Richard. “I sought only to avoid the police. So did you. Neither of us succeeded in that regard.” He gave a shrug and a rueful grimace.
“No, we did not,” Richard said. “If I must accept your apology on behalf of the lady in order to have you leave, then I accept.”
The man cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“Please go,” Ève added, although she knew the man would ignore her.
He studied Richard. “I heard a rumor about you, monsieur. There was talk in the cell at the prefecture station, which I scarcely believe…”
Richard scowled. “Whatever you heard, it was wrong. The lady requested you leave us. We want only to have a quiet meal.”
The man bowed his head, in a short nod. “Very well. Good evening, monsieur. mademoiselle.” He returned to his table, where another two men with dark, heavy jowls and permanent scowls leaned close and murmured.
Ève considered the other table. In all the time she had been working for Bertrand, no one had ever approached her openly the way this man had just spoken to Richard. Bertrand had told her to expect the exclusion. “You are a woman, and as such, most men—especially the men who are drawn to the ideals of the anarchist—will not see you at all. It will allow you to observe what none of my gendarmerie would see.”
Richard stared at the flickering light of the candle on the table, his hand loosely curled around his wine. His thoughts were far away.
“You must forget about everything for tonight,” Ève said firmly. “You are merely a man having a pleasant meal, listening to a singer and later, perhaps some dancing. You have no cares or worries. Yes?”
Richard stirred. “I apologize. My thoughts were far away.”
“Yes, I saw that.”
His frown increased. “It seems I have painted myself as a morose man. That was not my intention.”
Ève shrugged. “You have a right to brood, if any man did.”
“That is inexcusable in the company of a pretty l
ady.” His smile was strained, though. “Let me try to make up for that.”
Ève shook her head. “No, no, you misunderstand. I was not complaining, Richard. I did not bring you here to divert myself. I have work to do—”
“Yes, of course,” Richard murmured. “What do you need to do?”
“Merely to observe, which I have been doing since we arrived. The man who spoke to you—”
“With the hooked nose.”
“Yes, it is rather large, isn’t it?” she said in agreement.
The corner of his mouth twitched, which pleased her.
“The man who spoke to you is one of them, of course,” she added. “Only, I have never seen him in any of the cafes or places where such men meet. Not until the other night, when you hit him. Now, it seems, you two are firm friends.”
“Indeed,” Richard said, lifting his glass. “He and I will be dancing, later.”
Ève smothered her laugh, as the waiter brought their meals. The coq au vin was good and piping hot. The bread was so fresh it was still warm.
Richard ate steadily, his gaze moving around the room in what seemed to be only casual glances while he ate. Then he tore a piece of bread from his loaf and said, “Behind you, also along the wall, there are three other tables of men dining together, and none of them are wearing a tuxedo, either.”
Ève glanced at his collarless shirt. Had she been divinely inspired to remove his tie and collar and cuffs? It made Richard resemble the anarchists with their day suits and rumbled shirts and cloth caps.
“In a while, I will retire to the conveniences for a moment or two,” she said. “It will give me an opportunity to look at them as I come and go.”
Richard nodded. “What are the chances this café will also be visited by the prefecture tonight?”
“That was an unfortunate coincidence,” Ève admitted. “Bertrand coordinates his efforts with the Chief Inspector, so I am not caught up in the middle when the Chief Inspector swoops in to snare what anarchists he can.”
“How many unfortunate coincidences have you been caught in?” Richard asked, his tone curious.
His Parisian Mistress (Scandalous Family--The Victorians Book 1) Page 6