The squealing and grunting from next door stopped, and Beatrice flopped her head back on the pillow. Now what? She was awake with no one but herself to talk to.
Time was a luxury she could ill afford. A life such as hers required dedication and meticulous attention to detail. Lives depended on her clarity of mind, so she focused on what she could control. Only in rare moments did she indulge in retrospection and regrets, a tedious and self-serving pastime in her opinion. Since arriving in Paris, she’d had nothing but time. Time to obsess about her son and whether Michelson had been lying. Time to dissect the meaning behind Thomas’s and Luka’s beachside conversation. Time to drive herself mad with waiting.
Six weeks had passed, and she’d yet to discover Michelson’s location. She twitched under her bed sheets and ground her teeth together when Amy’s nose hit a piercing note.
“For heaven’s sake, Amy. Be quiet!” she hissed.
Amy’s incessant whistling ceased, and her roommate snorted awake. “Did you say something, Beatrice?” she asked, her sleepy blue eyes struggling to open.
Contrition ate at her. Amy woke early and worked late. The child needed her sleep. Bea forced a gentle smile. “Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Another bad dream?” She was awake and full of sympathy, having experienced Bea’s nightmares before. Amy swung her legs over the bed, wrapping the quilt around her shoulders. She padded the short distance between their two beds and nudged her leg on the bed. “Move over, Bea. The floor’s cold.”
Scooting to the far side of the bed, Bea held open her blankets while Amy crawled in. The child curled like a kitten in sunshine and was soon asleep, her whistling fainter than before.
Bea flung a protective arm around the girl and snuggled in. The night was cold, and Amy’s company helped chase away the chill. Poor child. Orphaned at the age of eight, she had been sent to Paris by her maternal aunt when it became too difficult to feed and clothe her along with her own children. Cosette had found her wandering the streets, a ragged urchin with more fleas on her than on the dogs she bedded with, and took her home. Amy had worked for her ever since, helping Cook in the kitchen and running small errands for the girls. At twelve years old, she’d seen more heartache and pain than most adults see in a lifetime, yet here she was in Bea’s bed, offering comfort. She was two years older than her own child.
What is he like? Is he quiet and sincere, like dear Amy, or does he possess a wild streak like me and Luka? Is he even alive? Her arms ached to hold him, and a fierce longing, never far away, consumed her. She hated this constant worry and questioning. Action suited her, not this uncertain limbo. Cosette had cautioned her to be patient, a trait she’d barely mastered. She was doing all she could; all the girls were. Every day she went to the market with Amy to inquire after any men matching Michelson’s description. Amidst fondling and kissing, the girls questioned their callers, and Cosette placed a discreet word in a high-ranking French official’s ear, requesting information should he come across any. They’d found nothing, and Bea feared Michelson, and the location of her son, was gone.
Michelson could be anywhere by now. Paris was the most likely location, given the news Thomas had shared with Luka regarding what his superiors at the War Office had learned. Men like Michelson went where the fighting was the heaviest, to profit from the misfortune and despair which followed a war like the plague. Since Napoleon’s recent marriage to Marie-Louise of Austria in April, the fighting had eased in the capital, and the majority of French and British troops fought on the peninsula. News from the front was infrequent, but yesterday word had arrived that Wellington had stopped an attempted invasion of the Iberian Peninsula. The French retreated after suffering serious losses, and tensions in France’s capital had been high since then. To ensure her safety, she’d have to refrain from asking questions about Michelson and caution Amy and the girls to cease for now, as well. When the news of this defeat faded and other battles caught the public’s interest, she could resume her search. Until such time, she’d harness the often praised but seldom practiced patience. Maybe she and Amy could refashion some of the girls’ discarded gowns. Amy was growing like a weed, and her work dress skimmed her knees. It was time for some new clothes, and though she was less than a proficient seamstress, she understood the basics and had nothing but time to practice. A new dress for Amy would bring a welcome distraction while she waited. Settling on a plan, she snuggled against Amy and slept.
****
The next morning, Bea talked to Cosette about making Amy a new day dress, and two of the girls volunteered their old gowns to be remade for the young girl. Amy heard her planning and almost burst from excitement. After a morning of constant pestering, Bea relented and took the girl to the front sitting room to measure and pin the fabric.
“Hold still!”
Amy wiggled and grabbed a swath of blue satin. “Look at the colors! I’ve never seen such a beautiful blue.”
“If you move one more time, Amy, I swear you’ll get pinned in your soft derriere, and I’ll not be sorry.”
The child froze, doing a grand imitation of a statue save for the impish smile on her face. “I’m sorry, Bea. It’s exciting to have a new dress. I promise not to squeal if you stick me again.”
“Again? I was being careful,” she said around a mouthful of pins.
Red stained Amy’s cheeks. “Ah, I meant to say if you stick me. Again.”
Bea sighed. “Has it been bad?”
“A few dozen pricks. Didn’t hurt at all.”
“Liar,” Bea said, pulling on one of the girl’s fat, brown braids before peeling back the pinned cloth. “I’m done with you anyway. Off to the kitchens with you. Cook was baking bread earlier today. Go and pester her for a change.”
With a smile and a wave, Amy skipped out of the room. Bea gathered her supplies, pulled a chair near the window, and stitched. An hour later, Bea had sewn the skirt to the sleeve, her head ached, and her fingers bled from her sheer ineptness. “Damn,” she said. “I’m never going to finish.”
“You have other talents, my lady,” Cosette said. The woman had entered the room without her awareness, an unheard of feat mere months ago.
She scowled. “You shouldn’t arrive unannounced. It’s not polite.”
Cosette laughed. “I knocked and called out twice. You were engrossed in your sewing.”
Bea showed her the skirt. “I’m awful. At this rate, I’ll never finish her dress.”
“Give. I have some free time the next several nights. I’ll see what I can do.”
“But I promised Amy I’d sew it.”
“We’ve seen how well your attempt has gone, mon amie. It’ll be our secret. You can give it to her and be the heroine. My gift to you.”
Bea resisted the urge to protest, for the woman had more than repaid whatever debt she imagined she owed her. However, Cosette was as stubborn and proud as she, so Bea passed over the fabric with a smile and said, “Thank you.”
“Now, I’ve brought you your tea. Cook was in a generous mood today, so we have an apple tart, fresh bread, and some aged cheese.”
“Won’t you stay?” Cosette never did, though, and Bea was unsurprised when she declined yet again. She viewed herself as the help and Bea as the lady of the house. Despite years of separation and dramatic changes for both of them, Cosette treated her as an honored guest.
“I’ll be in my room attempting to, ah, undo all your hard work. Enjoy.” Bea poured herself a cup of tea, but Cosette paused at the door. “Oh, you have a visitor. I forgot to mention it.”
“For me? Is it Michelson?”
“Come, chѐrie. You know a man such as he does not pay social calls. No, I was referring to a tall, handsome man who claims to be your fiancé.”
“I don’t have a fiancé.”
She shrugged, a delicate lift of her shoulders, and said, “The man is here. Shall I send him in?”
Curiosity, as it was wont to do, prompted her to say yes, and when s
he looked through the door and met a pair of steely gray eyes, her heart warmed. In spite of their recent separation, he was a dear friend.
“Thomas! What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t expect me to sit back and rusticate on Herm when you decided to take on Michelson by yourself.”
“My decisions can have no bearing on your actions, Thomas. We are no longer involved.”
His gray eyes darkened to forged steel. “Damn it, Beatrice! Of course they do!”
“Why? Because you take responsibility for me?”
“We’ve been together eight years, my lady, so yes, you are my responsibility.”
“You saw to my education, Thomas. I assure you I am prepared for any eventuality. Tea?” She arranged a cup and poured, her movements precise and graceful in spite of the turmoil his presence had brought. Even though she had terminated their relationship, he had found her and was behaving with more than a little possessiveness.
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and sat.
“How did you find me?” she asked when she had passed him his tea.
“I was there when you received the letter from Cosette. I assumed you’d come here, as the war has limited the establishments taking in boarders.”
She raised the porcelain cup to her lips and sipped. “I’m disappointed, Thomas. Six weeks have passed. I expected you much sooner.”
“We encountered some difficulties.” He gulped the hot liquid and replaced his cup on the table, rubbing his hands together as he looked over the refreshments.
“We?” She arched a brow and stared over the rim of her cup.
Thomas grunted and placed some bread and cheese on a plate. “Stefano and I traveled together.”
She returned her cup to its saucer, filled her plate, and sat back determined to enjoy her tart, a rare treat given the shortage of supplies in Paris. Luka Stefano and his choices were none of her concern, and she refused to let him spoil her afternoon. “He is continuing his journey east?”
“When we left Herm, Russia was his destination. I did mention we had some difficulties. He was captured and is being held prisoner in Paris.”
Her fingers slackened, and her plate slipped from her hands to the floor. It landed with a dull thud. For a moment, she was unsure what had happened, but Thomas pointed to her feet and spied her discarded plate. “Oh, how clumsy of me,” she said, bending over to retrieve the fallen pastry. A knot formed in her stomach, and she pushed back the panic which arose the moment he’d told her Luka had been taken. She returned her plate to the table, her appetite having disappeared, and smoothed her skirts. “Captured. What an unfortunate turn of events. He was most anxious to travel to Russia. Will he be released?”
“Unlikely. He’s being held on several charges, desertion and theft the two most serious of his crimes.”
“Desertion? He was in the army?”
“More like he provided the army with certain services and did not inform his commanding officer, General Reynard, he was not returning.”
“How can they charge him if he was not enlisted in the French army?”
“It seems Reynard took exception to his failure to bring in an English captain along with the supplies the captain was said to be smuggling. Stefano sent his men with a quarter of the estimated shipment, the rest having exploded and sunk to the bottom of the ocean, and he kept the captain.”
“Me.” She stood and paced to the window, inaction unbearable given this distressing news. Pressing her fingers to the cool windowpane, she tapped her fingers to help her focus on Thomas’s narrative. Each word he spoke, her finger pulsed on the glass, creating a soothing rhythm to calm her heightened emotions.
“You are not responsible for his choices, Beatrice. He was hell-bent on revenge, and all his other obligations faded into the background when he found you. He wasn’t going to let you go.”
“How did this general even know Luka had captured me?”
Thomas set his plate on the table, stood, and walked to her perch by the window. He towered over her, and for this moment, she permitted his strength to bolster her own. As she sagged back into his embrace, he wrapped his arms about her waist and hugged her close. “When Stefano’s men returned to the mainland with the supplies, the general asked if there were any survivors from the explosion. One of the men slipped and mentioned you lived. Reynard let the two men go, having no further need of them, and waited for Stefano to return to France.”
Her voice wobbled when she asked, “Will he hang?”
“It’s almost certain. He’s a good man and did what was necessary to guard the welfare of his clan. Do not judge him harshly.”
She turned in his embrace and rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t. Luka is a good man. My regret is for the suffering I’ve caused him.”
“I admit my own intentions toward him were not always honorable, yet he sacrificed himself in the end. When it became clear travel from the coast to Paris was near impossible, he arranged to turn himself in, ensuring our safe passage to Paris but condemning him to death.”
She shivered despite herself. “Did he have a message for me?”
“He told me to tell you he’s always loved you.”
“Oh.” She moved outside the comforting familiarity of Thomas’s arms and returned to her seat by the fire. “Thank you for telling me. It couldn’t have been easy for you to hear.”
Thomas ambled over to the fire and leaned his arm against the mantel. “No, but I have hope, where he does not.”
“Hope?”
“I mean us.”
“Thomas, there is no us. I’ve explained this all to you.”
“Yes, you’ve explained,” he said, an angry frown twisting his handsome features. “How prettily, too, did you tell me we no longer suited and you had decided to end our relationship. But you left before I could tell you no…no, I don’t agree. I won’t let you go.” He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her from her chair, taking her mouth in a bruising kiss. With her arms pinned to her sides and her legs trapped against the solid brick surrounding the chimney, she had nowhere to go. She screamed, the sound muffled against Thomas’s lips, and pushed against his shoulders. When he wouldn’t release her, she bit his lip, yelling to let him release her. Rearing back, he grabbed his mouth and glared at her. She stumbled backward until half a room separated them.
Her body trembled, whether from the unexpected savagery of Thomas’s kiss or from the helplessness which had overwhelmed her when he had trapped her, but she was angry. “You force me and take what you want, is that right, Thomas? Because from where I’m standing, the one difference between you and George is he’s dead and you’re not.”
“God, Beatrice. I’m so sorry,” he said, and advanced, cutting the space between them in half.
She had moved nearer the door by the time it swung open and Cosette entered, followed by Amy. “We heard a scream. Is everything all right in here?” Cosette asked, placing a comforting arm around Bea’s waist.
Her smile when it came was tight. “Everything is fine, thank you. Mr. Wickes is leaving.”
“Beatrice, please listen.” He attempted to pull her to him, but Amy and Cosette stepped in front of her.
“She has asked you to leave, sir. I will show you the way out.” Amy opened the door and pointed to the gaping space. Thomas took his leave, pausing to gift Bea with a contrite grimace, before Amy herded him out of the house. The door’s slam reverberated through the house, causing windows to rattle and more than one soiled dove to yell at Amy to be quiet.
“Well, amie, this calls for something stronger than tea, n’est pas?”
Bea rested her head on Cosette’s shoulder and held Amy’s hand as the two women talked and laughed, doing their best to cover Bea’s unnatural silence. Once in the kitchen, Cosette opened a bottle of wine, and the two women drank while Amy coaxed Bea into talking about her adventures at sea, until Cook shooed them out so she could prepare dinner. It wasn’t until later in the night
when all business had concluded and the house was fast asleep that Beatrice identified the emotion Thomas’s brutal kiss had resurrected. For the first time in eight years, she had been afraid.
Chapter 26
Paris, France, October 1810
The next morning dawned early, and the cold air nipped at her poor nose, which had the misfortune to poke over the covers. Bea groaned, her head throbbing, and tried to open her eyes. Her lids fluttered but refused to open. Pulling the blankets over her head, she attempted to go back to sleep, but the incessant ache pounding in her temples demanded attention. Her legs fell off the side of her bed, and she slumped to her knees, her torso nestled in the bed’s warm cocoon.
“Get up, lazy bones.” Small hands grasped her waist, tearing her from her cozy bed. Bea, surprised by the sudden removal from her warm nest, slumped and sprawled on her stomach on the cold floorboards. Amy’s high-pitched giggle broke through the haze of pain and caused the ache to worsen.
Amy knelt on the floor and rubbed Bea’s back. “Cook said to give you this.” A small cold glass pressed against her cheek, and she squealed. A tumbler full of greenish liquid rested by her nose. “She said it would help with your headache.”
Bea struggled to her knees and clutched the bedpost, taking the glass and swallowing the liquid in one gulp. She gagged but managed to keep in the vile concoction.
“Madame Cosette wasn’t as lucky as you. She lost her stomach after the first swallow.”
“I am unaccustomed to imbibing strong spirits,” she explained. “However, I have never had a queasy stomach.” The traitorous organ roiled, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
Silver-Tongued Temptress Page 16