His Parisian Mistress (Scandalous Family--The Victorians Book 1)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Yes, he passed the message along,” Einaudi said, his tone calm. “The only thing is, Mr. Devlin, we’ve never had a friend like you, and we don’t want to lose you.”

  Richard snorted. “It is far too late for that. I’ve got to know you and your friends and their ways now, Einaudi. They are not to my taste.”

  “I suspect we can change your mind on that matter,” Einaudi said.

  “I really don’t think so,” Richard replied.

  “We have your mistress tucked away, you see,” Einaudi said. “Somewhere safe and quite comfortable…for now. Or shall we call her what she really is? Your wife..”

  For a moment, Richard heard nothing but a high singing note in his mind. Then, slowly, sense returned. And with it came pain. His chest hurt. His throat. His heart was working far too hard, sending silvered agony through his chest. It felt as though it might explode.

  He was breathing too hard, too quickly. Bert, on the opposite bench, had a hand inside his shirt, his gaze pinned upon Richard. He was braced to respond if Richard did anything alarming.

  Einaudi was calm. His black eyes watched Richard with amiable curiosity.

  Richard got his breath back under control–enough to speak. “You just made a grave mistake, Einaudi. The worst mistake of your miserable life.”

  Einaudi nodded, as if he heard such threats all the time. For all Richard knew, he did. The man dealt in extremes. Taking Ève was just another days’ work for him.

  Was she afraid? Had they hurt her?

  Richard pushed the fear aside. It wouldn’t help him now. He reached deep inside him for the hard, bleak coldness which had once—not so very long ago—filled his days and nights. It had kept him upright, that coldness. It had kept him moving forward, even when he did not know where he was going.

  “I want to see her, before anything else happens,” Richard said. “I want to know she is unharmed.”

  “A reasonable request,” Einaudi replied. “We’re on our way to a location where you can see her for yourself. Then we will sit down and talk, you and I. As Bert told you, there is someone we want you to meet.” His gaze flickered over Richard from head to toe. “We will find you a bath and a clean suit. Perhaps a razorblade, too.”

  “Nothing, not a single thing, not a single word between us, until I see Ève.” Richard sat back and stared through the window, upon the streets of London. He didn’t look at Einaudi or Bert, after that.

  The carriage continued through Marylebone and Chalk Farm and passed through Hampstead Heath. The city fell behind them. They were in Barnet, Richard judged. On any other day he might have appreciated the loveliness of the countryside, with the hues of green and sleepy villages tucked behind ancient trees.

  Even though he sat perfectly still, Richard seethed inside. He longed to feel Einaudi’s neck within his hands for what he had done. If Ève was hurt in any way at all, Richard would spend the rest of his days making sure Einaudi was suitably rewarded.

  The coach passed through one of the little villages which dotted the landscape like blooms. It was market day. Traffic clogged the narrow road, slowing their coach down to a pace which Richard could better if he was walking. There were more people on foot weaving through the carriages than there were vehicles. The market square itself was thick with people and tables with produce and goods for sale. The carriage did not turn toward the square.

  At last they were through the traffic and the village fell behind. A moment later, the carriage turned into a narrow cart track which wound around trees. Richard was sitting behind the driver and couldn’t see ahead, yet his heart thudded, anyway. They were drawing near their destination.

  The carriage stopped. For the first time Richard turned to peer through the window on the other side of the carriage, for there was nothing to see on his side but more oaks and a great yew.

  He saw a large house with a thatched roof, latticed dormer windows and whitewashed walls. A garden which ailed in the heat, behind a rock wall and a woven willow gate. More trees stood behind the house.

  No other houses were within sight. Such isolation would work well for Einaudi’s people.

  And for holding a woman captive, Richard added to himself.

  The other two men exited the carriage, making it rock on its springs. They did not seem to care if Richard followed them or not. Of course they did not—they knew he was compelled to follow them.

  The roiling in his heart and chest increased. Richard climbed from the cab and looked around.

  There were out-buildings to the east, with well-worn tracks leading to them. A stable, he guessed. Possibly a barn. A coach house.

  The silence around the house was broken only by the click of crickets and bees buzzing somewhere nearby, and the clink of the horse’s harness. No one came out of the house to greet them, despite the house being large enough to justify the employment of a butler, or a housekeeper.

  It was a lonely location.

  Einaudi pushed the wicker gate open and moved down the path.

  Burt stood at the gate and looked at Richard expectantly.

  Richard stepped through the gate and followed Einaudi along the path to the front door and inside. It was cooler in the house, although the air was close and still. Einaudi was familiar with the house, for he did not hesitate in his direction. He moved through another doorway.

  This led to a sitting room filled with overstuffed chairs and an anniversary clock spinning silently, the weighted balls catching the light from the window. A newspaper was spread over the arm of a chair by the open window, hinting that someone would return momentarily.

  The room was empty of people, except Richard and Einaudi. Even Burt had not entered.

  “Where is she, Einaudi?” Richard ground out.

  “Somewhere safe and comfortable, I assure you,” a man said with an upper class accent, behind Richard.

  Richard turned.

  The man was in his fifties, with orange-red hair and a pointed beard, and piercing blue eyes. He wore a good suit, stiff white shirt and striped tie with a gold pin. He gave Richard an easy smile.

  “I know you,” Richard said, for the man’s face and eyes were familiar. He reached into his memory. “Baron Sandford,” he breathed.

  “Indeed,” Sandford said. “Austin Rayne, Baron Sandford. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Devlin. I have heard a great deal about you in the last few weeks.” He moved into the room, picked up the newspaper and folded it.

  Richard stared at the man. “You? You are one of these people? You are…you stayed at Marblethorpe, when I was a boy. My father counted you one of his friends!”

  Sandford didn’t seem upset, or even concerned. “That was many years ago. You have a good memory.”

  “You are a peer! A member of society!” Richard said. “How can you be…be…”

  Sandford dropped the paper onto the mantelshelf and considered Richard. “Most people misunderstand the philosophy behind our movement.” His tone was a lecturing one. “Politicians and men like you think it is the ideals of the penniless and homeless, of men with no means and therefore no power. So they dismiss us. Yet, as you can see, Mr. Devlin, the ideals we espouse are not just for the little man. They are robust principals which serve any man who understands their power and embraces them.”

  “You…you lead these men?”

  “There are no leaders among us. Leaders would imply a structure we find abhorrent. The men in our circle of friends look to me for wisdom and guidance and I am pleased to share all I have with them.”

  “Including your directions,” Richard replied, his tone dry. “Tell me, was it you, Sandford, who decided I should be manipulated into murdering gendarmes?”

  Sandford didn’t look shocked at the frank language. “You made those choices all by yourself, Mr. Devlin. We merely gave you options for you to choose among. At any time, you could have chosen to walk away, yet you did not.”

  “If that is how you justify what you have done to allow yourself to sleep, I co
ngratulate you,” Richard muttered. “I would rather call it what it is. You blindsided me. You made me an accomplice to murder.” He shook his head. “I do not care for your philosophies. I demand you bring my wife to me. Now, Sandford. I am rapidly losing my patience.”

  Sandford glanced at Einaudi, who moved to the sitting-room door, opened the door an inch and murmured through it.

  “She will be here in a moment,” Sandford said. “Would you care to sit down while you wait?”

  Richard rolled his eyes. He turned his back to Sandford and watched the door where Ève would appear.

  Ève could barely focus upon walking. Staying on her feet was difficult enough. Her head ached and her throat was so dry it clicked when she tried to swallow. Turning her head took strenuous effort, so she abandoned her attempt to see where she was.

  Instead, she focused upon putting one foot after the other.

  The man gripping her elbow was a stranger. He had said nothing to her by which she could measure him. His clothes were those of a working class man.

  She felt the sun upon her head. She had lost her hat and parasol somewhere and now it beat down upon her with blinding brightness.

  It occurred to Ève that she could not hear any traffic. No horses, or people, or curses of cab drivers. No squeal of brakes against wheels or the snap of whips.

  She focused a little farther ahead than her feet and saw trees and a rock wall.

  A gate squeaked. The man pushed her through the open gate and down a narrow path with wilted marigolds on either side. Then, finally, blessedly, inside, where the sun did not plague her.

  The removal of the dazzling sun acted as a mild restorative. Ève could feel her thoughts pulling together properly. The house was not known to her. This was not London.

  And then she remembered.

  She had stood upon the corner of The Strand, watching the wagon with Richard in it racing down the road.

  Fright driving her, Ève had hurried back to the hotel. She did not know what she should do now. Do not follow me, Richard had said. She would make up her own mind about that. He had demanded he be taken to the Whitehall Street station. She could start there.

  The hotel was in sight when Ève reached the decision that it was time to appeal to Bertrand. A telegram would reach him in an hour or two. He would know what to do, next.

  That was when rough hands grabbed her arms. A damp handkerchief slapped over her face, smothering her. It smelled sweet and cloying and stole her breath and made her dizzy.

  Then she woke to darkness and the dusty smell of old hay. Hay beneath her poked her skin through her muslin dress, making her itchy.

  Moonlight through a chink in badly made shutters showed she was laying upon a hay pile at the top of a barn. There was no ladder to get down.

  A pitcher of water and a glass sat on a tray in the hay. Wrapped in a napkin was a sandwich which was already slightly stale.

  The water was most welcome and Ève drank two glasses of it. She had not felt any great concern in that moment.

  Then she had slept once more, as deeply as if she had been in her own bed with Richard beside her. She had been woken with sharp prods to the shoulder by the man now holding her elbow. He had demanded she climb down the ladder which had been leaned against the loft.

  Only now, as she peered around the narrow hall of the strange house, did Ève wonder if the sweet-smelling kerchief had been saturated with the chemical which doctors used to help mothers give painless birth. Queen Victoria had knighted the doctor who prescribed it for her.

  It would explain why Ève could not seem to pull together any great concern for her situation.

  The man holding her elbow opened another door and pushed her through. Ève stumbled into the room beyond.

  “Ève!” Richard’s voice was hoarse. Then, suddenly, he was there, his arms around her.

  Ève gripped his jacket, holding herself up and also assuring herself that it really was him. She looked up at him. There were so many questions in her mind that she could not choose a single one to speak aloud. Over all those questions, though, was a calm layer of certainty; Richard was here with her. Everything would be fine, as long as he was here.

  “Just in case you are thinking about using the door to escape, now your wife has been presented to you, I should draw your attention to the revolver Mr. Einaudi holds,” a man said.

  Ève couldn’t see the speaker. He was behind Richard, who stood over her, holding her tightly against him.

  Richard’s shoulders turned, bringing her with him. Now she could see the man. He wore a good suit, had carrot-colored hair and a pointed beard. And she saw Hook Nose, too. Einaudi held a gun, which he pointed at Richard.

  Trembling set up in her middle. Ève tightened her grip upon Richard’s jacket.

  A shrill blast of a whistle from outside the house made her jump.

  Richard jumped, too.

  More whistles. Shouting and the sound of running feet.

  “The Metropolitan Police!” Einaudi shouted. “He brought them here!”

  “Shoot him, please, Mr. Einaudi,” the red-headed man said, with horrible calmness. “Shoot both of them.”

  From the direction of the front door came a great crash.

  “Run!” Richard told Ève and pushed her toward the door. He spun and leapt at Einaudi, his arms up, a ferocious cry on his lips.

  The gun bellowed and Ève clapped her hands to her ears, as Richard cannoned into Einaudi.

  The man with red hair moved toward the back of the room. Another door was there.

  Ève lurched forward, her legs moving sluggishly, although the stiffness quickly disappeared. She ran after the red-headed man. As she passed the mantel shelf, she snatched up a brass candlestick.

  The man was already at the door. He fumbled at the handle, rattling it. He dropped his hand to the key beneath the round doorknob.

  It gave Ève the time she needed. The knowledge that Richard had been standing in the way of the gun which Einaudi had just fired, and that the red-headed man had coldly ordered they both be killed, removed all her hesitation. She swung the candleholder with all her might, slamming it up against the side of the man’s head.

  He didn’t slide to the floor, or fold. He dropped heavily, his eyes rolling up, and laid still.

  Blood trickled from his temple and from the corner of his mouth.

  Ève dropped the candlestick as men carrying revolvers and rifles, many of them in uniform, surged into the room, their guns waving. There were even more men outside the house. She could see them sprinting across the open area in front of the garden fence, heading for the buildings where she had been held. A great deal of shouting sounded. Then more guns fired, sounding like distant firecrackers.

  Ève ignored all of it. She hurried to where Richard laid on top of Einaudi, face down and far too still. She fought to roll him over so she could see his face.

  His eyes were closed. His shirt beneath the jacket was stained with blood which spread even as she looked.

  Behind her, the constables hauled Einaudi to his feet. The man groaned.

  Ève patted Richard’s cheek. “Richard. Richard! Please, please, look at me!”

  His eyes fluttered. They opened by the smallest margin.

  Ève held in her sob of relief.

  A man not in uniform lowered himself down on the other side of Richard’s body. He pulled Richard’s jacket aside. “Hmm…” he said, sounding bored.

  “Help him!” Ève begged. “Are you a doctor?”

  “We can certainly find one,” he told her. “We just have to wait a moment until the fuss dies down and we’ve rounded all the buggers up.” He got to his feet. “Put something on the wound to staunch it,” he suggested and left.

  Ève looked around the room, her heart thudding. There was nothing, not even a cushion she might use. She pulled up her skirt and tore a section of the ruffle on her petticoat off, folded it and pressed it against Richard’s shoulder.

  He was watchi
ng her.

  Ève drew in a startled, shaky breath. “Why did you do that?” she whispered. “Look at you.”

  “All I see is you,” Richard said. His throat worked. “There is something…I should say…”

  “No. You will not say goodbye to me, Richard. I refuse to hear it.”

  “Ève…”

  “No!” She shook her head, which did nothing but spin her tears to either side. “Do you not understand? I cannot encompass a life without you in it, Richard. So, you will not say goodbye. Do you hear me?”

  Richard swallowed again. “Yes.” The word was weak and Ève only knew he had said it because of the movement of his lips. Then he let out a long, slow sigh and shut his eyes.

  His head rolled to the side.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Richard’s first thought was one of surprise.

  He was alive, he realized, simply because he was holding a thought in his mind—a simple wonder that he could hear normal sounds.

  Then light registered against his closed eyelids. Far-off sounds which made him suspect he was in a large building—which could not be the house in Barnet which he last remembered.

  He opened his eyes. The ceiling was far overhead and a window was behind his head, bringing in plenty of daylight. He was on a not-terribly soft bed, although it was softer than the floor he had been lying upon. On his immediate left was a screen made of starched white cloth, which gave him a reassuring sense of place.

  He was in a hospital.

  He turned his head to the right. Ève sat on a hard chair, a book on her knees. She was not reading it. His movement had alerted her. She sat with her fingers to her mouth, her eyes glittering with tears.

  The tension in his chest which he had not suspected was there dissolved and vanished. “Ève.”

  She dropped the book on the floor with a heavy thud as she got to her feet and moved closer. She took his hand. “Richard…thank the heavens!” She bent and pressed her lips to his cheek. “I will find someone, the doctor, a nurse…are you hungry? Thirsty? There is water, can I help you drink some?”