by Diana Quincy
Her probing gaze discomfited him. “Then stop behaving like a jealous lover.”
“I’m hardly that.” He examined his cuffs in a practiced show of the indifference he did not feel. “I’ve never been one for a buttered bun.”
She inhaled sharply at the insult. “Of course not. You prefer to despoil virgins.”
He shot to his feet, almost upsetting the small table. “If you were a man, I would challenge you,” he ground out, his blood boiling at the invective. The guilt he felt at having taken her innocence still clawed at him—but she was the one who had denied him the chance to right the wrong he had done her.
She rose, outwardly calm, and smoothed her skirts, but her hands were shaking. “You have no right”—her voice trembled with anger and another emotion he couldn’t identify—“after what passed between us—”
“Surely you don’t mean to leave so early, my dear.” Général Duret’s voice drifted toward them. “Monsieur Naismith, again I find you by Madame Laurent’s side.”
Instantly relaxing his tense posture in an effort to regain his outward composure, Will inclined his head in greeting. “A more agreeable spot in Paris I cannot imagine,” he lied even as he heard Elle snort at his words.
“Good evening, Général.” Elle turned to go. “I was just leaving.”
Duret took her hand and bent over it. “So early? Perhaps Monsieur Naismith and I can persuade you not to deprive us of your delightful presence.” The hard undertone in the general’s voice sounded more like a command rather than a pleasant request.
“I fear not,” she said briskly, avoiding looking in Will’s direction. “I have an early engagement in the morning. Mr. Verney and I are going to the exposition.”
Some sort of understanding flashed between them. “I see.” Duret’s countenance visibly softened. “I will escort you home, then, my dear.”
They exchanged polite farewells before Duret offered his arm and led Elle away. Will watched them go, her lithesome figure a marked contrast to the general’s hulking bulwark form. After they disappeared into the crowd, he sat back down at the table where the abandoned frozen pudding began to melt across the wooden surface.
Devil take it. Elle was infuriating and impossible. She was the worst kind of jilt, yet he continually allowed her to wreak havoc on his equilibrium. He’d offered her marriage and she had refused. Once her illicit physical interest in a low-born bastard had been satisfied, she’d turned her attention to landing a husband whose rank and bloodlines matched her own. He remembered the sting of her rejection as clearly as if it had occurred yesterday.
—
He held her in silence for a long time after taking her innocence. Once the euphoria began to ebb, his gut tightened as the ramifications of his thoughtless actions sank in. He would have to marry her, of course. Which he would gladly do, but he despised himself for putting her in this position, for leaving her with no choice but to wed a bastard.
She did not appear to share his concerns. Her face was soft and glowing in the aftermath of their coupling. She had the look of a woman who had been well loved. “What shall we do next?” she asked, her voice dreamy. “I confess I wouldn’t mind trying that again.”
“We shall marry, of course.” The words were brisk; he had a task to do and was determined to set about doing it.
She shifted onto her elbow to study his face. “Is that a proposal?”
“I’m sorry, Elle. None of this should have happened, but I’ve left us with no other choice.” Regret spun through him at having lost any sense of restraint. He’d stolen her promising future from her. “I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was the champagne.”
Her expression lost its shimmer. “The champagne?”
“It was wrong of me to compromise you.” He shifted and sat up so that they were no longer touching. He could hardly look her in the eye after wronging her so completely. “But we shall marry and I pledge to do my best to make the situation as agreeable as possible.”
“Agreeable.” She repeated the word slowly as she sat up and hugged her knees to her chest.
He watched the light in her eyes dim. She was clearly beginning to comprehend just how ruined she was. Elle could easily have been a duchess, but now, thanks to his appalling selfishness and lack of self-control, she’d be nothing but the wife of a by-blow.
He cleared his throat. “I’m well aware that I don’t have much to offer you in the way of status and riches, but I pledge to be a faithful and dutiful husband.” The words sounded all wrong, but there was little he could say to ease the reality of her debased station in life.
The truth was that he’d gone at her like an animal that couldn’t control its baser instincts. His lowborn mother had behaved in the same manner with his father. The earl, ever fearful that the actress’s common nature would show itself in her son, had kept a tight rein on Will, always reminding him to know his place.
He looked at Elle now, hugging herself protectively, her hair wet and tousled, her chemise askew around her pale slender thighs, and his heart clenched. His father had been right. Blood would always out in the end.
“You want to marry me out of duty.” She swallowed, the delicate cords in her neck sliding under the smooth skin of her throat. “Because you have made a terrible mistake.”
“I take full responsibility.” He reached for her fine-boned hand—his heart panged to find it so cold—and gave her a light squeeze of reassurance. “You mustn’t blame yourself in any way. I am solely and completely at fault. I promise to talk to your father and put everything to rights.”
“No,” she said faintly.
“We shall marry as soon as I can obtain a special license.”
She pulled her hand away from his. “No.”
He drew back. “Beg pardon?”
She met his gaze, her expression adamant. “I will not marry you.”
“Elle, you must understand that we have no choice.”
“I’m not marrying you.”
“This evening has clearly been a shock.” Reaching for his coat, he withdrew his spectacles from the pocket and put them on, allowing himself time to give words to his thoughts. “Once you look at your situation clearly, you will comprehend that this is the only path available to us now in light of…what’s just occurred.”
“I see everything very clearly now.” The words were calm and firm. “As you said, this was a momentary lapse. Too much champagne and all that.”
Uneasiness stirred in his belly. “I don’t take your meaning.”
“We shall both continue on as before. You have your numismatic pursuits and I have a Season to look forward to.”
He stared at her. “You intend to go forward as though nothing has changed?”
“Of course; I’ve already ordered a number of gowns.” She stood and brushed grass off her clinging chemise, which exposed just about everything of her lithe legs and slender curves. “No one ever has to know of this. We shall never speak of it again.”
He sat back on his arse, the chill of his wet clothes seeping through his skin and into his bones as the reality of just how strongly she wished to avoid marrying him settled in. “That is what you wish.”
“Yes.” She stooped to pick up her ruined gown and turned to go. “This never happened.”
—
An excited roar from the Frascati’s game room cut into Will’s thoughts. The tables had likely turned in someone’s favor. He took a deep breath and buried the painful memories of Elle back in the past where they belonged. Picking up the wafer she had deserted on the table, he scooped some of the melting cream back into the cone.
She was with Duret now, which clearly illustrated he’d never understood her at all. What kind of woman would desert her child as his mother had? She also seemed to be taking a decided interest in Lucian. He’d have thought Elle would find the diplomat too priggish, but she could easily be drawn to his physical good looks—Lucian possessed even features and a tall, athletic form. Perhaps
she meant to bed him next.
A shock of cold numbed his hands. Without realizing it, he’d crushed the cone he’d been holding, causing the cold thick cream to overflow onto his fingers. With a colorful curse, he flung the shattered remnants down on the table.
Damn Elle and her miraculous return from the dead. He wiped his hands with the napkin she’d left behind. The chit had never been anything but trouble and, God help him, trouble seemed intent on finding him wherever he went.
—
Elle gave herself a final assessing look in the mirror before going down to greet Mr. Verney, who’d arrived a quarter of an hour before the appointed time to visit the exposition. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to it—the idea of spending her afternoon admiring machinery did not sound particularly engaging—but it was a way to become better acquainted with the diplomat in the event he could inadvertently provide information about Le Rasoir.
Her fine lawn white gown draped smoothly over her hips, which wasn’t terribly surprising since she had few curves to speak of. The flesh-colored pantaloons she wore beneath the gown hinted of indecency but, if anything, the gown was overly discreet. Especially with the chemisette Sophie had insisted on tucking into her low-necked gown to protect her modesty.
“Bother,” she said to the girl, who was fussing with a stray thread in the hem of her gown. “This tucker causes my neck and chest to itch.”
“You’ll be half-naked without it,” Sophie said, completely without sympathy. “There, I’ve taken care of the loose thread. Enfin. You are ready.”
Elle grimaced. “Not quite.” She tugged on the lace half-blouse. “Help me remove this contraption.”
“Mon Dieu.” Sophie shook her head. “No decent English lady should bare her neck and her bits in the bright light of day.”
“You were in England too long; you’ve become a prude. Besides, we are in Paris.” Elle searched for the side fastening that kept the chemisette in place. “Hurry; Mr. Verney awaits.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Sophie dipped her hand into the low square neckline and easily unfastened the lace. “There. I hope you’re pleased that your cat-heads are out for all to see.”
“Do not be insolent.” Elle adjusted her neckline. The cut was low but revealed very little. “I have no breasts to speak of so nothing is exposed. Bring my topaz necklace.”
“I see what you are about,” Sophie said when she returned with the jewels. “You wish to turn the cull’s head.”
She sat at her dressing table. “Duret wants information, and if there is some to be had, I will obtain it.”
Sophie’s belligerent posture eased. “You truly believe the general has your babe?”
Elle’s gaze caught Sophie’s in the looking glass. “I cannot know for certain.” She inhaled deeply against the sudden pressure in her chest, the usual sensations of regret and loss assailing her whenever she thought of her baby girl, a child who had never known a mother’s love. “But I cannot risk Susanna’s well-being if the general is telling the truth.”
“I’ve seen the way Duret looks at you.” Sophie fastened the jewels around Elle’s neck. “Zut. It’s a wonder he doesn’t make bedding you a condition of the child’s release, to see if you can cure what ails him.”
Elle shivered with disgust. “Don’t even speak of it.”
“Maybe he doesn’t care to embarrass himself with a gentry mort the way he does with the whores.” She cast a gimlet eye at Elle’s exposed décolletage. “Although you don’t look like much of a lady with your dairy exposed for all of Paris to see.”
“I don’t know why I continue to abide your impudence.” Elle stood. “If the sight of my bare neck and modest chest compels Mr. Verney to share his secrets, all the better.”
—
They arrived at the Louvre to find the public exhibition had been set up under stately porticos in the courtyard. Crowds filled the expansive space, the spectators lingering at the dozens of individual exhibits. There were separate halls for the art and sculpture displays; the craftsmen had been separated from the snobbish artists who’d refused to show their work in the same space.
As expected, Mr. Verney lingered over the machinery exhibits and proved knowledgeable about them, carefully answering any questions she posed. He was patient and attentive when she took an interest in the lithograph and engraving exhibits. As the afternoon progressed, Elle was surprised to find herself enjoying Mr. Verney’s company. He could be quite companionable once he relaxed a bit.
After a couple of hours of wandering among the stalls, they paused for refreshment. Elle welcomed the steamy cup of tea and delicious fresh bread Mr. Verney bought for them. The bread’s exterior was a crispy golden brown while the inside was light and chewy. As they enjoyed the repast, she gently nudged the conversation toward his work at the embassy.
Like most men of her acquaintance, Mr. Verney was happy to talk about himself at length, but his description of his work—mostly boring reports and endless social engagements—revealed little about whether he could be the mysterious Le Rasoir. When he mentioned that Will had recently attended an embassy affair, she seized the opportunity to expand their discussion.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Naismith through your embassy work?” she inquired.
“No, our acquaintance precedes Paris. We attended the same university.” He sipped his tea and carefully replaced the porcelain cup on its saucer. “Although Will was a few years ahead of me.”
“Does he have business at the embassy?” she asked, tearing off a small piece of the warm bread. Even though she didn’t take Will for the spy, she had to consider the possibility.
“Mr. Naismith? No, he has acquaintances there who he calls upon whenever he is in Town.”
“He always did travel a great deal.” She’d never forgotten the gut-wrenching sensation she’d felt after learning Will had left for Town the morning following their tryst. For weeks, she’d waited anxiously for his return, before coming to the shattering realization he had no intention of returning for her.
“Yes, his numismatic interests take him all over the world. It’s a good thing he hasn’t married. No wife would countenance his being absent for months at a time.”
“I suppose he will limit his travel once he weds.” The words were light, but her heart twisted painfully at the thought of Will marrying another woman.
“Will marrying?” Mr. Verney laughed. “I cannot imagine it.”
“Why ever not?” she asked evenly, her focus on her tea.
“He plans never to wed.”
She looked up. “Why is that?”
“His prolonged absences would be hard on a family. He’s quite sought after as an expert in the field of ancient coinage, and I don’t believe he’ll ever curtail his interests in that area. As a matter of fact, he’s in Jersey on a numismatic matter as we speak.”
Jersey? She was momentarily distracted. Will had said he was bound for the country, not Jersey Island. She must have misheard him.
Mr. Verney sipped his tea before continuing. “No, I cannot imagine Will staying in one place long enough to gather around the hearth with a family.”
Despite the warm tea, frigid disappointment settled in her stomach. Mr. Verney confirmed what she’d always suspected: that Will had never wanted to marry—not her or anyone else.
—
On the way home, the hired coach rumbled along the traffic-laden streets, jerking to abrupt stops to accommodate wayward carts and the people attempting to negotiate the sodden streets on foot. She watched the people hurrying along while keeping a light conversation going with Mr. Verney.
A familiar glint of dark copper caught her attention. It was Will, dressed in a dark coat, striding purposefully into a passages couverts, a covered shopping arcade positioned between two buildings. She watched until he disappeared inside before turning to Mr. Verney. “Are you certain Mr. Naismith is abroad?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. He declined to dine with Lord Whitworth this e
vening because of it. One does not rebuff an invitation from the Crown’s ambassador to France, if one is in town.”
She murmured in agreement, but strange possibilities began to turn over in her mind. Unless there was some misunderstanding, Will had lied to both her and Mr. Verney about his whereabouts—telling her he was bound for the country while Mr. Verney thought he was in Jersey. Yet here he was, still in Paris. She didn’t know what it meant. It certainly didn’t prove that Will Naismith was Le Rasoir, but it did prove he was a liar.
Chapter 6
Two days later, Will absently flipped a worn calling card between his fingers while watching two elderly men play chess at the table next to him at the crowded café. The air was full of smoke, the sounds of clinking glasses, and animated discussions between a group of writers and intellectuals several tables away.
Will barely heard them. He’d just returned to Paris after spending a couple of days on Jersey Island, where his operatives had recruited a fair number of fishermen and smugglers to act as informants. The island and its inhabitants were crucial to intelligence efforts and would be even more so once the peace broke down. Therein lay his problem, the one that had brought him to Paris in the first place.
Hamilton Sparrow, one of his best agents, who’d successfully operated out of Jersey for more than a year, had vanished a fortnight ago, just days after sending a coded message indicating he’d made a compelling discovery. Will feared the worst; Sparrow wasn’t one to go to ground without a word to his superiors.
To make matters worse, throughout it all—the visit to Jersey and the discreet inquiries into Sparrow’s whereabouts—thoughts of Elle had occupied his mind and intruded upon his work. There was now little doubt about the nature of her liaison with Duret. He’d just received his first report from the man he’d assigned to watch Elle’s residence. Several mornings ago, the man had arrived to begin his surveillance assignment just in time to see the general depart Elle’s house during the breakfast hour, a time when society’s denizens did not entertain visitors, except for the intimate acquaintances who’d stayed overnight.