"I've intended to do that all along."
The sincerity in his voice calmed her a little, and she looked down at her hands clasped together in her lap. "I know you have." She drew a deep breath for encouragement because she was about to expose her trust in him. "The emeralds are in one of my trunks."
"Really?" he exaggerated.
She closed her eyes, smiling to herself. Of course he would have known that. Where else would they be? He'd even likely found them by looking through her things, probably when she slept, which apparently was the way his devious mind worked. He was a thief after all, experienced with deception and discovery, and her own stupidity at forgetting that disgusted her. But what warmed her heart was the sudden consideration that he had brought her to Paris without really having to do so. He'd done it for her, and she owed him the rest of what she'd promised him.
"The comte d'Arles and several others are hosting a banquet tomorrow night, to raise money quickly for their cause," she revealed sedately without looking at him. "Louis Philippe returns from holiday on Sunday, and they're planning to unseat him as he's escorted through the city."
The bed creaked as he sat up behind her. "What did you say?"
The tone of his voice dropped so dramatically she turned to him, trying to ignore his half-naked form as the sheet fell to his hips. "The comte d'Arles is hosting—"
"I heard the part about the banquet."
It wasn't his harsh interjection but his penetrating stare that unnerved her. "Several of them are planning to unseat King Louis Philippe," she repeated. "On Sunday. I thought, considering your affiliations with those in government, you'd find the information interesting—"
"Interesting?" he cut in. "I find it interesting that you kept this from me, Natalie."
The anger he expressed in look and manner took her by surprise. He scrutinized her with hard calculation, and she frowned in a fast irritation of her own. "I didn't keep anything from you. It's simple gossip I overheard at the ball in Marseilles."
"French nobles meet in secret to discuss the assassination of their king, and you find this to be simple gossip?"
She stood and faced him, startled by the disgust now flowing from his voice. "Why on earth would you think this is about an assassination attempt?"
Immediately he threw the covers from his body, and she spun around just as quickly to avoid looking at him.
"What did you think 'unseat' meant, Natalie, that they were going to toss him from his carriage?"
She would have laughed at the thought had he not uttered the question with such coldness. She hugged herself, her palms rubbing against her cotton sleeves, staring at the rose-print wallpaper, listening to his clothes flap as he swiftly dressed.
"We were at a party, Jonathan," she reasoned, exasperated. "The wine was flowing, and people say all sorts of things under those conditions. I assumed it was boastful talk between gentlemen who'd had a little too much of it."
"And yet you didn't overhear this in the ballroom while everyone laughed and drank and danced, did you?" he returned abrasively. "These men were closeted in a private meeting when they discussed it."
She frowned. "How did you know that?"
"I saw you, Natalie. Walking away from the count's private study."
"You were spying on me?"
He brushed over that to add frankly, "I wonder where precisely you place your loyalties."
She gasped at his audacity, his unfairness in assuming an involvement on her part, and she whirled around to confront him. His clothes nearly covered him now as he rapidly moved his fingers through the buttons on his shirt.
"That's a cruel thing to say, Jonathan, and quite preposterous."
He ignored that, reaching for his neckcloth.
"I didn't know," she insisted. "I didn't really even think about it. My ancestry has nothing to do with this. The French are always considering ways to dethrone the current king, and most of it is nonsense."
He glanced at her, pausing just long enough for her to know she'd made a perfectly logical point. Then he turned to the wardrobe, pulled out the appropriate pair of shoes to match his attire, and sat on the edge of the bed to address them. Still he offered nothing in reply, which in turn ignited her anger.
"I fully intended to tell you this, Jonathan, when you gave me my mother's letters. That should have been yesterday."
She knew her biting comment would elicit a response. His head flipped around so quickly his entire body jerked from the movement. For a flash of an instant he gaped at her, making her feel that perhaps the blow had been too brutal. Then he shook his head in disbelief.
"This information was your promised gift in return for the letters?"
She straightened, unsure, dropping her arms to her sides. "Of course." She hesitated as her brows furrowed lightly with conjecture. "What else would I have to give you here? My ivory-handled fan? I know you didn't want my cameos."
He stared at her so sharply, sitting so incredibly still, she thought for a moment he'd quit breathing. Then, whether it was from his continued silence or the shrewdness of his gaze, she couldn't be certain, clarity filled her in a surge of pure denial and a shock she couldn't begin to describe.
"You—you thought I would give you me?" she mumbled, her voice sounding small and foreign to her ears.
For seconds he did nothing, just watched her, a vivid uncertainty augmenting his expression. And that's when she knew.
Rage enveloped her. She fisted her hands at her sides, her body becoming rigid where she stood, eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. "You thought I'd give you my virginity in exchange for letters?"
Her sudden realization made him noticeably uncomfortable. He wiped a palm awkwardly over his brow, standing to face her. "Natalie—"
"How could you think that about me, Jonathan? How could you think I'd do that?"
He placed his palms on his hips, stalling. "I don't know," he answered gruffly. "It just—seemed logical."
"Logical?" Her features twisted in deep pain. "You thought I'd give myself to you in payment?"
"Jesus, that's not how I looked at it," he asserted through a rush of air, taking a step toward her.
Icily she whispered, "Of course you would think I had virtues like my mother."
That stopped him dead in his stride. He stiffened, his eyes shining into hers with dark brilliance. "I knew you were a virgin, Natalie," he said very quietly. "But I also knew, just as you did, that eventually we would make love. Your desire for me was no secret. It was blatant."
"You're such an arrogant man," she spat. "I wanted you to help me. I thought you were my friend."
His cheek twitched, his lids narrowed. "Friendship aside, the sexual attraction between us couldn't be denied forever. This started the minute you walked into my town house."
She fought the urge to slap him for that—for his gall, for understanding her mind so intimately, and for using his experience against her innocence to a purely selfish end.
"It's my fault, then," she admitted sarcastically, digging her nails into her palms. "I should have prepared myself for your advances. Unfortunately I don't know anyone who knows more about sexual attraction than you, Jonathan."
His eyes widened just enough for her to know she'd stung him with that. But fury seeped from her in waves now, and she refused to stop there. His motives were becoming so very clear at last.
She swallowed as tears she could no longer control filled her eyes. "I suppose you'll next tell me that everything you said to me last night was rehearsed. Or perhaps you simply called upon phrases you've used before? I'm sure you know exactly what to say to a woman at precisely the right moment."
She realized immediately that she'd gone too far. At first he appeared only stunned by her vehemence. Then intense pain sliced through his eyes, and she knew she'd wounded him deeply. It shook her, too, and she wavered, but she refused to back down completely.
After moments of excruciating silence, staring at each other from across the
corner of the bed, his features softened to an unspeakable sorrow he couldn't conceal, and he slowly lowered his gaze.
He turned away from her, walked three feet to the chair, picked up his jacket, and moved to the door. When he grasped the handle he looked back into her eyes.
"You're going to have to come to terms with this on your own, Natalie," he warned in a clear, grim voice. "I can't make you trust me and I can't change my past. If you cannot accept it for what it is, you alone will ruin everything between us, and we'll have no chance at all."
He opened the door and glanced to the plum carpeting beneath his feet. "I'm going into the city to discover what I can about the banquet tomorrow night."
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
Natalie sat primly on a high-backed, pink velveteen chair in the private, third-floor suite of the Hotel de Monceau. She had arrived only minutes ago after a day of frustrating investigation of her own, traipsing through Paris by herself and with all her luggage in an attempt to find Madeleine DuMais.
She'd discovered Madeleine's whereabouts by no unusual manner, but by moving from one elegant hotel to another until she did so. The Frenchwoman was in Paris because she'd accompanied M. Fecteau in some secrecy to the capital city to finish her business with the British government regarding the emeralds. This much Natalie had known before coming north herself. But it wasn't until this morning, after the fiasco with Jonathan, that she'd considered seeking her out.
Her first inclination after their horrible argument had been to leave France entirely. She had packed her trunks quickly once he'd left and had removed herself from the distress she felt within the four walls of their beautiful room at the Auberge de la Cascade. She'd traveled to the city with every intention of catching the first train to Calais, then booking passage to Dover. She could be home in three days if all went well. And yet something restrained her. At first she thought it was just the simple feeling of regret for the words she'd spoken to Jonathan that morning. But after attempting to find transportation to the city, and then spending half of her day paying an enormous sum to have her trunks carried all over town, she realized she stayed in France because of her confounding feelings for him—the man who lied to her, humiliated her, deceived her, helped her to his advantage, made love to her so perfectly, and carted her tremendous wardrobe through France because she'd asked him to.
Yes, she had to admit she'd had second thoughts about running home strictly because of the inconvenience she'd caused him for weeks without a serious complaint on his part. She'd been an imposition to him, steering him away from his work, distracting him with her presence and demands, stealing his emeralds, which she still had in her possession. And that's exactly how her relationship with Jonathan had always been—confusing, amusing, and ridiculous. Before she tossed it all away, if she hadn't lost everything already, she needed the advice of an experienced woman, and that's how she'd found herself in Madeleine's hotel suite at last, seven exhausting hours after deciding to locate her.
She'd been greeted at the door by a tall, prosaic-faced maid with dark-brown hair and eyes, wearing a starched gray gown, white apron, and cap. She took Natalie's name and after only moments, ushered her into the sitting room to await her mistress.
She sat in something more like a parlor, actually, adorned in shades of pink, tastefully done—not garish as one might expect. The decorations were sparse, as the room was somewhat small, containing only two velveteen chairs facing a settee of the same material and a mahogany tea table between them. To the west, behind her, was a wall of windows, now open to allow for any breeze that might find its way inside, offering a splendid view of the lush park across the street. Pink brocade wallpaper with tiny velveteen flowers of an unknown variety covered the other three walls, from the plush carpeting to the ceiling. Three oil paintings of Parisian sights graced the long wall, and at opposite ends were a large fireplace with a carved mahogany mantel, and the door leading to the sleeping room.
The look could certainly have been overdone, Natalie mused, sitting erect and fanning herself against the persistent heat. But of course it wasn't. The suite was sophisticated and feminine, quite Parisian, and it certainly suited Madeleine.
"Goodness, Natalie, I'm so surprised to see you."
She turned to the soft, airy voice of the Frenchwoman coming from the doorway leading to the bedroom where she'd been taking an afternoon rest. As always, Madeleine DuMais was stunning to look at, elegant in stature as she gracefully walked across the pink carpet toward her, her beautiful, smiling face brimming with questions, the full skirt of her blue silk day dress flowing gently around her legs as if a natural part of her frame.
Natalie felt small and awkward suddenly in her modest traveling gown of mint-green muslin. Her damp skin caused wayward curls to stick to her cheeks and her corset to crunch her ribs together as she tried to sit properly. Of course, she would never again leave even her bedroom without a corset, but considering that now only turned her mind to the indecent memory of not wearing one in Jonathan's presence. She didn't need the distraction right now.
"I do hope you'll forgive me this intrusion, Madeleine," she said pleasantly, lightly fanning her face. "But I was in Paris and thought perhaps I'd call. Are you well?"
Madeleine's dark brows arched faintly at the question. She moved her lithe form to the settee opposite Natalie and sat in one swift, fluid motion. "I'm quite well, thank you, except of course for the heat." She smoothed her skirt, straightening the hem to swirl around her legs, and turned her body so that she pointed just to the side as she faced forward, folding her hands in her lap. "I hope you, too, are well?"
"Oh, yes, very well, thank you," Natalie returned politely. "It's been so hot, but the showers we've had for the last several days have been a lovely diversion. I do prefer the coolness in England to the heat of southern France, although the weather in Paris has been rather mild. One cannot complain."
"No, indeed one can't," Madeleine agreed easily. "In the winter months, however, I prefer the warmth of Marseilles."
She smiled. "I do think it's natural for one to prefer the comforts of one's home, regardless of the weather—"
"Natalie, where is Jonathan?"
She blinked at the candid question, pinching the handle of her fan as it stopped in midair. Madeleine knew very well she wasn't here to exchange pleasantries and was now insisting on the point of her visit.
She hesitated, licking her lips. "I'm not certain where he is. Have you seen him?" She was deathly afraid he was here, resting with Madeleine, but she quickly shoved that thought from her mind. She truthfully didn't think it likely.
Madeleine breathed deeply, leaning back serenely against the thick cushion. "I haven't seen him since we left Marseilles, and he didn't tell me you'd be coming to Paris." She lowered her voice. "Are you looking for him or running from him?"
Natalie almost laughed. She would have had the events of the past two days not made her so unsettled. "Actually, I-I was thinking of leaving France without his knowledge. My trunks are downstairs with the concierge, but first I wanted to visit with you."
"I see. Is everything all right?"
Natalie felt color rise in her cheeks and compensated for it by swishing her fan again. "We … had a bit of a quarrel."
Madeleine's head tilted fractionally. "Did you?"
Natalie could think of nothing more to add and was starting to feel restless. She turned her attention to the window, gazing blankly at green, leafy vines hanging from a white trellis.
"Have you eaten today, Natalie?"
Her gaze shot back to the Frenchwoman. "Eaten?"
Madeleine scrutinized her for a moment, then leaned forward and rang a silver bell sitting atop the tea table. Immediately her maid appeared, and Madeleine ordered in French.
"Marie-Camille, have the hotel chef prepare a cold tray, something cold to
drink, and something"—she glanced at Natalie—"something chocolate."
"Madame." Marie-Camille curtsied, turned, and walked out of the sitting room.
Natalie lowered her fan to her lap, fidgeting as she attempted to straighten her body so her corset didn't cut into her breasts quite so much. Madeleine adjusted her skirts then spread her hands wide, her palms flat against the settee cushion. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me what happened?"
She wasn't exactly prepared to be vivid in detail, but Madeleine was sincerely asking, and she did, after all, come here for advice.
Without pause, she started at the beginning. "I asked Jonathan to bring me to Paris. I needed him, as the Black Knight, to help me locate letters of a private nature, written by my mother."
"So he finally told you who he was?"
"I discovered his identity myself, the night of the ball," she countered at once, hoping to disguise her irritation. The world of deception wasn't open strictly to professional thieves and spies. Feeling proud of her deductions, she added, "He also verified my conclusions regarding your … affiliations with England."
"Did he," she stated without apparent surprise or concern. "Well, then, we have no secrets between us."
She seemed pleased with this, and Natalie relaxed a bit, deciding it best to divulge everything. "I also have the emeralds."
For a moment Madeleine stared at her, nonplussed. "The emeralds stolen from the comte d'Arles?"
What other emeralds were there? "Yes, of course," she answered courteously. With a small smile of triumph, she boasted, "I stole them from Jonathan."
"That's impressive. Evidently your talent and mind are on the same level as his."
Natalie nearly beamed in satisfaction. Quite a compliment, coming from a British spy.
"Was this the topic of your quarrel?"
She tried to organize her thoughts before she spoke. "No, actually. The quarrel was … on a more personal level."
Madeleine waited, then asked, "Of a romantic nature?"
"Yes."
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