And he was talking to Richard.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was barely nine o’clock when Hook Nose walked into the café. Richard was busy with the influx of customers who arrived around that hour. He saw Hook Nose from the corner of his eye and hid his surprise. While he helped customers select their drinks, then brought them to their table, he turned the matter over in his mind.
He had spent the evening so far anticipating the two or three days when he and Ève would be alone with none of this nefarious business hanging over them. He intended to speak to Eugene at the end of the evening, to arrange the time off for both of them. He even had his excuse as a blackguard in place. He would explain to Eugene that Evelyn insisted he take her to Alençon for a few days, or she would no longer be his mistress.
As Hook Nose passed by, he nodded at Richard.
Acknowledgement.
Richard knew then that the few days they had been planning would not take place. Hook Nose’s appearance signaled that something had changed.
Even though he could not spare the time to examine it properly, Richard was aware of deep disappointment in the bottom of his heart. It was a measure of how taxing this life had become.
It was a remarkable change. Once, this life had been his real life. He had been the angry man who had appalled Ève, last night. The icy dismay which filled him when she said she did not know him after all told him exactly how far he had traveled from that life.
Now it was drawing him back in.
While Hook Nose settled on the chair at a table with three other men, Richard adjusted to this turn of events. He ran through the few facts they had about Hook Nose, all of them supplied by Bertrand. Hook Nose’s real name was Ivan Einaudi. He was the son of a French prostitute and an Italian man from the far north, just across the Alps from France.
Einaudi survived on no visible income and well-moneyed friends. He had been in and out of jail throughout his life. Everything known about him said he carried a mountain-sized chip on his shoulder. He was exactly the sort of man who would be drawn to the anarchists.
Where he stood inside the organization was unknown. “It is something you must determine when you are within their clutches,” Bertrand told Richard.
It was interesting that Hook Nose should appear at the café the night after Richard and Ève had had their public argument. How would arguing with his mistress change things in the eyes of the anarchists? It was un-guessable, for now. Richard must simply play along, while remaining an angry man.
He continued his work, moving from table to table in the same order he did every night. He did not approach Einaudi’s table until Hook Nose lifted his finger and beckoned.
Richard moved over to the table and nodded at them. He did not smile. “Wine?”
“Is there one you recommend?” Einaudi asked.
Richard shrugged. “Any red is good. Although if I had a preference, I would drink brandy.”
“Typical Englishman,” one of the other men murmured.
“Do you want a bottle of red wine, then?” Richard asked Einaudi, ignoring the murmur.
Einaudi’s gaze flickered over Richard’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed a little, then he looked up at Richard. “Red will be good. A bottle of whatever you think will suit us.”
Richard gave a brief nod and turned to leave.
“Perhaps you can share a glass with us, later,” Einaudi said, behind him.
Ève was preparing to sing. Richard had not seen her enter. She must surely have seen who he stood by.
She did not look toward him. It was as if he was not in the room at all, which was as it should be.
Richard remembered to answer Einaudi. “I do not finish until late,” he told the man. “And I would lose my position, if I sat down with the customers and drank.”
Einaudi raised a thick brow. “Heaven forbid we cause you to lose your employment. Later, then.” It was a promise.
Cold, thin fingers walked up Richard’s spine. He turned away from the table before they could see him shudder.
The waiting was over.
It was dreadful to have to walk home from the café and maintain their usual stoic silence. Ève vibrated with questions and her heart had not remained steady since she had seen Hook Nose at the table where Richard stood talking.
It was as if she had been tipped into a vastly different world, where the air blew icy notes. She trembled and wished she had brought a stole or a jacket or her heavy winter coat with her tonight. There was no warmth in the night, even though it was August and Paris normally sweltered at this time of year.
Richard did not speak as they walked. He never did and it would look odd if he became verbose now, after weeks of scowling at the world. Ève felt as though they were being watched. Even though there were few people upon the streets they walked, Ève sensed the gazes of dozens of suspicious men, perhaps standing in dark alleys monitoring them.
She shuddered, her breath escaping in an uneven gasp.
Richard glanced at her. “Nearly there,” he murmured in English.
It seemed to take forever to reach the safety and privacy of their apartment. At last they stepped inside. Richard shut the door and leaned against it, his head down.
Ève moved over to the stove. She would build a fire. An enormous one.
Richard took the matches from her hands and lifted her back onto her feet. He smoothed his thumb over her cheek, his gaze searching her face. “No fire. We do not normally light a fire. We go to bed as we usually do.”
Ève nodded. She understood the wisdom of it. She could be just as warm in bed as she would beside the stove.
Richard lit the candle stub with the matches he had taken from her. By its small light, they prepared for sleep as they had done every day, although now Ève could barely remember what they normally did.
Everything had changed.
She slid beneath the covers and laid shivering as Richard doused the candle, then joined her under the light blanket.
They did not make love. The matrimonial privilege was one of the highlights of Ève’s day. She had grown to enjoy the act and look forward to the earthy moments in Richard’s arms. In many ways, it helped her feel connected to him. As they were supposed to be helping each other with this work, and because Richard spent his days wearing an angry mask and not talking unless forced to it, these moments helped anchor her days and reassure her that everything was as it should be.
Only Richard did not kiss her as he usually did. His lips touched hers briefly, then he turned her over and pulled her up against him.
He was as hot as any stove against her back. Ève sighed.
His arm came over her waist and his hand tucked under her breast—it was not a sensuous touch, though.
Richard murmured close by her ear. “I have become suspicious of every shadow and hidden corner. I dare not show my true self, not even here where an anarchist might have his ear pressed up against the door.”
Ève swallowed. Then it was not just her quagmire of doubt and fear.
“What happened tonight, with Hook Nose? Einaudi, I mean.”
“Call him Hook Nose,” Richard said. “If we are overheard, no one will know of whom we speak.” He paused. “He said nothing. Not there. He merely said he will talk to me later. He knew who I was, Ève. He has learned what he can about me, just as we guessed he would.”
Ève gave another great shudder, her heart banging against her chest.
Richard soothed her, his mouth against her shoulder and the nape of her neck, his hand in her hair.
“What do I tell Bertrand?” she whispered. “Jacques will visit tomorrow.”
“Tell him Einaudi has made the first overture. All I can do is follow his lead and see where he takes me.” Richard’s voice was strained, too.
Even though they did not make love, it was still a long time before Ève slept. Even then, her sleep was broken. They both woke well past noon, with the sun blazing against the windows and the covers kicked o
ff.
Richard dressed and went to the café around the corner to buy coffee and croissants and to linger to read that morning’s newspaper. It was a signal for Jacques, who would not visit Ève until Richard had left the apartment.
Ève made herself coffee upon the stove. She sat at the table sipping the hot liquid and waiting for Jacques to arrive, so she could give him a message for Bertrand. Jacques invariably brought a pastry for her, as the poor man would bring to his mistress. Even though she had no appetite at all, she tried to eat it after he was gone, and waited for Richard to return. She wanted to see him and to be with him. She understood her longing was purely a product of fear. She had put this into place, this thing which was happening to Richard now.
For the first time, she considered the fact that she might well have placed Richard in danger. If anything happened to him, it would be her fault.
The thought came to her, as clear as if someone had been standing at her shoulder and speaking the words aloud. Stop this business now. Run away, take Richard with you. Do not take any more risks.
Almost vibrating with impatience, she waited for Richard to come back to her.
Richard had only taken two bites of his croissant when the iron chair on the other side of the little round table was scraped across the footpath. Einaudi dropped onto the seat and nodded at him.
Richard lowered the croissants back up on the plate. He hid his dismay. That Einaudi was here at this café said the anarchists knew more about him and Ève than he had supposed. Even though he had been cautious last night, he had not really thought anarchists were standing with an ear against the door. Only, now he wondered if that might even have been true.
Einaudi reached over and hooked the second croissant from Richard’s plate. He took a huge bite and chewed. Still chewing, he said, “Now it is time to talk.”
Richard tried to assemble an expression of mild stupidity. “Do you live around here?”
“No, but you do,” Einaudi said.
Richard nodded. “Yes, just around the corner.”
“With your lovely mistress,” Einaudi added. “My friends wonder how a discontented man like you could possibly hold a mistress of such charms. But then, some women are drawn to men they should not be with, yes?”
Richard made himself reach for his coffee cup with a languid movement which implied he was not at all alarmed by the mention of Ève. He suspected Einaudi had deliberately spoken of her just to tell Richard he was aware of the woman in his life. It confirmed to Richard that their public argument had been the catalyst which—in some way he still could not fathom—had made Einaudi reach out to him.
“As a mistress, she is reaching the ends of her use,” Richard said, his tone dry. “She has grown far too demanding, of late.”
“Yes, so I have heard.” Einaudi smiled. His smile was lecherous. “That is the problem with having women in one’s life. They bring too many expectations with them. Even the mistress cages one in with expectations. Tell me, your mistress, has she changed your apartment at all?”
It was only now when Einaudi asked the question that Richard recognized just how many small changes Ève had introduced to the apartment. When he had first inspected the room with the landlord trailing suspiciously behind him, Richard had considered it the poorest of studios, yet much better than the shabby bedrooms he had rented before then.
Now, he recalled that empty and clean room, and compared it to the apartment he had left this morning.
There were curtains shielding them from the afternoon sun. When had they appeared? He had barely noticed them.
A different cover laid upon the bed and there were extra cushions apart from the single threadbare one which had been there when he inspected the apartment.
A broken water jug sat upon a little table. Most days it held fresh flowers. Richard had no idea where Ève found them, for there was no money to spare to buy them. Did she steal them from other people’s pots? Only now was he conscious of the colorful and cheerful note they added to the little room.
A saucepan and lid sat upon the top of the stove. The saucepan was bent, and the lid dented. Ève made coffee in that pan which was better than the coffee even this café presented.
Only, Einaudi did not want to hear about the positive aspects of the changes Ève had introduced. Einaudi wanted Richard to agree with him that women were a nuisance and trapped a man inside institutions and expectations. He wanted Richard to tell him Ève restricted his freedom.
Richard grimaced. “Now you ask the question, I realize how soft everything has grown. Cushions!”
Einaudi nodded sympathetically. He pushed nearly half the croissant into his mouth and chewed hurriedly. “Women are too easily led. They sop up the idea of structure and process with their mother’s connivance, when they are still small girls. They are taught how to replicate those institutions which trap us. I do not know a single woman who does not try to change everything, wherever she finds herself. It is the most irritating habit about the most irritating sex.”
Richard schooled his face into something he thought might appear to be sympathetic. He sipped coffee to give himself time to compose an answer. “Yet, they have their compensation.”
“Compensations which wear thin, as you have discovered.”
Richard gave one of those shrugs which only Frenchmen seem to be able to pull off. It meant everything and nothing. It was the equivalent of throwing up one’s hands, as if the problem was not worth commenting upon.
Einaudi finished the croissant. He had a thick forehead which jutted over muddy brown eyes above the big nose. The eyes studied Richard carefully while he chewed. This time he spoke after he had swallowed, for which Richard was grateful. “I have a great many friends who feel as you do, Devlin.”
Richard tilted his head. “You know my name. I do not remember giving you my name.”
Einaudi smiled. There was no warmth or humor in it. “I know a great deal about you, Mr. Richard Devlin. You and your family. You have had some misfortune. The authorities have not been kind to you. Nor have they been fair, hmm?”
Einaudi spoke with an indifferent, offhand tone, yet his eyes glittered with intensity. He observed Richard closely, measuring him and his reaction.
Richard sipped his coffee, then said, “I believe that is my business. It is not something I wish to discuss. Certainly not with you. I do not know you.”
Einaudi seemed pleased. He gave a small nod of approval. “Such caution is wise. I am sure you have learned such caution by a difficult path. I mentioned it only to assure you that you are not alone. Many of us have faced difficulties much like yours.”
“Your friends, who you mentioned?”
“Yes, my friends. Would you like to meet them? I am sure you would have much in common with them. In fact, I know you do. All my friends I have found the same way as I found you. All of them scraped for a life beneath the iron fist of authority, governments and rules. All of them have suffered as you have. I could tell you such stories!”
Richard felt ill, which was not the reaction Einaudi wanted. Einaudi’s true friends would appreciate knowing there were others like them, that they were not alone. Einaudi was well practiced at easing a man into his circle.
Did that mean Einaudi was higher up in the organization? Had Richard stumbled upon one of the higher ranking anarchists right from the beginning? It would be a stroke of luck.
The only way he would find out if Einaudi was high in the organization would be to make himself appear to be one of them, so he was invited to meet others. When he saw Einaudi dealing with other men, Richard would know if Einaudi was a leader or not.
Richard injected curiosity and interest into his face. “Others? I did not think it was possible for anyone else to have the same bad luck I have had.” He added a note of frustration to his voice.
Einaudi leaned across the table so his head was closer. He lowered his voice. “I think you will find, Mr. Devlin, that it is not bad luck which has dogged you at
all.”
“What else could it be?”
Einaudi glanced to either side, checking for eavesdroppers. Then he said softly, “There are men who like the world just as it is. They like their privileges and their luxuries. They like the easy life, with its cushions and soft women. There are far fewer of those types of men than there are men like you and me, who must work hard to make our way in the world. Yet those men hold all the power. They have the money and they have the position to make sure the world stays the way it is, so their life is not upset in any way. They will do things…”
Richard stared at Einaudi with a touch of reluctant admiration. Einaudi was spinning a story of conspiracy and subjugation which would make any man down on his luck rise up in anger against the establishment. Richard let his eyes widen and his lips part in surprise.
“Do what things?” he asked, his tone sharp. “How much do you know about me? The way you describe it, I was one of those men. With the cushions and the softness…”
Einaudi gave a short nod. “You were born into that life but someone decided that in order for them to keep their life, yours must be sacrificed. You are a victim, Mr. Devlin. As you will soon discover, there are a great many victims, these days.”
Richard gripped the coffee cup hard, so his knuckles turned white. “You know that for certain? Someone deliberately did this to me?”
Einaudi sat back. Richard thought he looked pleased, although he hid it well. “I do not know that for certain,” he said, with a candid air. “However, my friends are very good at ferreting out information about all manner of things. They have done so for their friends. I would be happy to introduce you to them and then, perhaps, we will learn more about your troubles. We may even learn which men and organization have conspired to bring you to your knees and strip you of your pride. Does that interest you at all, Mr. Devlin?”
Richard glanced over his shoulder, as if he had just become aware of how inappropriate their conversation was. Then he leaned forward eagerly. “If, as you say, it was not simply bad luck, then I would very much like to know the truth. Can you really uncover such things?”
His Parisian Mistress (Scandalous Family--The Victorians Book 1) Page 13