“Well, wouldn’t you want the element of surprise on your side? And what better way to do that than to convince the person that you did not want to marry them when in fact you did?”
Millie stopped and looked at her. “India...”
India stopped, too. Saw Millie’s tired eyes and drawn mouth, and felt terrible. “Oh, Millie.” She sighed. “I’ve been thinking of nothing but myself and my own fears, when you are just as affected by all this as I am. Please forgive me. I haven’t forgotten that we need a solution.”
There was a moment, and then, “What if Nicholas Warre is the solution?”
The question caught India behind the ribs. “You can’t be serious.”
Millie gave her a you-can’t-fool-me look. “I think you have a fancy for him and you won’t admit it.”
“Very well. I admit it.”
“I knew it.”
“But it doesn’t change anything.”
“How can it not change anything? It’s a good deal more than most women ever—”
“Millie, look there.” Speak of the devil. “Do you see him? What a convenient coincidence.” Nicholas Warre, here on the Pont, at exactly the same time she and Millie had decided to visit. She wondered if perhaps Auntie Phil was to blame, having stayed behind at the last minute to deal with a row between her butler and housekeeper.
Millie looked. “Perhaps it is a coincidence.”
“You give him too much credit.” India took Millie’s arm. “We shall keep walking and pretend we don’t see him. Let’s go back this way,” which would take them by several shops the girls had seen earlier on their walk, all of which were attended by flirtatious young artists.
If Nicholas Warre was here to keep an eye on her, she would give him an eyeful indeed.
They meandered back down the Pont, where rows of shops stretched out, each framed by a great stone archway and filled with a dazzling variety of artwork and other wares. She paused to study a collection of Greek replicas.
Three shops behind, Nicholas Warre paused to inspect a painting.
They moved to a shop with several large bronzes on display.
He shifted to study a collection of portraits.
“He’s following us, Millie.”
“Where else do you expect him to go?”
“Quickly, in here—”
“No, not here.” Millie yanked her away from the shop full of nude portraits they’d bypassed earlier.
“Then over here.” India hurried back to the shop filled with marble statuettes—only some of them nude—where a young sculptor had shown a particular interest in her. She lingered in the archway, making sure Nicholas saw her, then headed toward a table of small sculptures.
It wasn’t long before Nicholas found his way to the shop’s entrance.
She admired a miniature marble of Venus and glanced over her shoulder. Oh, yes. He was well within listening distance. She extolled the sculptor’s talent, bestowed her most winning smiles, leaned forward to admire his sculptures in a way that would assure him an excellent view of her breasts.
“You are far more beautiful than any of these, mademoiselle,” the sculptor said.
“You mustn’t say such things,” she protested lightly in French, and checked over her shoulder again.
Nicholas was gone.
Gone?
And so was Millie.
“Pourquoi pas, when it is the truth?” The sculptor’s eyes sparkled with appreciation. “A figure such as yours should be immortalized in marble.”
“You...you go too far, monsieur.” They could not be gone. Nicholas would not leave her here. Alone.
Would he?
“Do I?” The sculptor smiled a little wickedly.
“Such flattery could hardly be sincere.” She checked again. Definitely gone.
Surely any moment he would return.
“Dieu, you wound my honor, mademoiselle, by questioning my sincerity on such an important matter. But if you do not believe me, perhaps you will allow me to prove it to you.”
“And how do you propose to do that, monsieur?”
He leaned closer across the table and lowered his voice. “I know somewhere close by where we can become...plus intimes.”
More intimate.
She exhaled. Smiled a little less brightly. Glanced over her shoulder yet again, and— Oh, thank heaven. Nicholas stood near the entrance once more, bent over, studying a trio of statues.
“That sounds...interesting,” she said a bit loudly.
“Bien sûr,” the sculptor agreed, and reached across the table to touch a lock of her hair. “Très intéressant.” He reached behind him for a large canvas cloth and began to unfold it. “We shall go, eh?” The sculptor nodded across the shop to his friend, then draped the large cloth over the table of sculptures. “Fortune has smiled on me today,” the sculptor murmured.
Her pulse was beating faster now, but she made herself smile. “On me, as well.” Had Nicholas even been paying attention? “Although I can’t possibly—”
“Pardonnez-moi,” came a too-familiar voice behind her. India had to hold in her sigh of relief. “Your statues exhibit such excellent craftsmanship. I was just coming to observe them more closely when to my great disappointment you covered them over.” He looked at India as though only just noticing her. “Oh, but do excuse me. In some circumstances, business must wait. I don’t expect to remain long in Paris, but I may well have time to search you out again before I leave.”
“Non, non,” the sculptor said, already whisking away the canvas. “A few minutes, ma cherie,” he murmured. And then, to Nicholas, “By all means, do take your time.”
“Liar,” India said under her breath.
“Not at all,” Nicholas Warre said casually, leaning forward to study a replica of a discus-thrower.
“What have you done with Millie?”
“Miss Germain complained of a headache,” Nicholas said. “I put her in a chair back to Philomena’s.”
Odd...Millie hadn’t complained of a headache a few minutes ago.
“You are acquainted with mademoiselle?” the sculptor asked.
India answered quickly. “No.”
Nicholas gave her a chiding look. “Indeed, our families are acquainted. I fear Lady India looks on me quite as an insufferable older brother. It would appear that I have ruined her fun.” He gave the sculptor a quick, knowing grin that she felt in her knees. “Aha,” he said then, reaching past the Venus and selecting a small marble of a bare-breasted woman reclining on—Good God—a bed of intricately carved straw. “This one.”
“An excellent choice,” the sculptor said.
India watched Nicholas’s thumb pass lazily across pale marble breasts. “It reminds me of something...I can’t quite place it.”
Nicholas gave the artist a sum of money she knew he could not afford, and he turned away to wrap the statue in paper.
“You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve delivered your pistol to Lady Pennington’s as promised,” Nicholas told her.
“Thank you, Mr. Warre. And apparently you inquired about my afternoon plans, as well.”
“I don’t recall any such inquiry— Au revoir, monsieur, et merci—” He accepted his statue from the sculptor. “Although the butler did assure me he would keep the pistol in a safe place for you.” Now they were outside the shop without any further discussion of a possible tête-à-tête with the sculptor. “And I can see now that you are unlikely to be successful in parting with your virtue,” he added, surveying the row of shops across from them.
“Of course you can, since you are the reason.”
“Only half the reason, I daresay.”
“No, you are the whole reason.” She met his gaze directly. “But I shall indulge you by asking what you believe to be the other half.”
“Your technique.”
“Ah. We have returned to the subject of you assisting me with my affairs.”
“We have? I meant only to point out a flaw in your str
ategy.”
“Yes. And then I am supposed to inquire what exactly is wrong with my strategy, at which point you will offer to show me. Although for what purpose I can scarcely imagine, since you profess to have no interest in me. Unless, of course, that is a lie. Is it a lie, Mr. Warre?”
He laughed. “Hardly. But I’m thinking of a saying.... How does it go? Something about ‘He who hesitates...’ Oh—I’ve got it.” He bent close to her ear. “‘She who hesitates will not part with her virtue.’ I have to wonder why, if a common sailor would have been sufficient mere weeks ago, a talented sculptor would not do for you now.”
“He would have done nicely but for your interference.”
“So you would have gone with him.”
Absolutely not. “Of course.” She turned on him. Looked him directly in the eye. “Do you find that objectionable?”
His expression did not flicker as he returned her gaze. “Not at all. In fact, let us return to his shop at once. Perhaps this time, with a bit of coaching, you might— Bloody hell.”
He reached out and yanked her to him, pulling her suddenly into the nearest shop just as a trio of large ruffians barreled through the crowd, followed by a shrieking woman in a dirty apron and mobcap.
There was hardly time to consider that her hands were pressed against his chest and his arm had banded around her waist before the ruckus had passed, and Nicholas eased his grip.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think a bit of my gown tore,” she said, looking down. Sure enough, a small slice of fabric gaped open. “Nothing that can’t be mended.”
He was too close, looking at her too seriously, still touching her as if he actually cared whether or not she was run down in the street. As if she hadn’t fended for herself dozens of times in Athens and Constantinople and Alexandria—well, William had been there, and Auntie Phil and Katherine and Millie, too—but even so. She’d spent time in markets much more colorful than the Pont Notre-Dame.
But being in Nicholas’s arms was something entirely different. The need to press closer to him buzzed crazily in her head, but she couldn’t. This was madness. And it needed to stop, somehow, before she lost her mind completely and did something irrevocably stupid like agree to marry him, because it would make things so much easier, and because there was a certain comfort in the idea of being mistress of her own home, and because it would mean that this incredibly handsome man would be hers.
She knew better than that, though. Easier? She would merely exchange the fight against his schemes for a lonely life married to a man who cared nothing for her. Her own home? Hardly. Taggart was his home, and he would carry the keys that could too easily shut her away as an inconvenience. And Nicholas Warre, hers? Quite the opposite. Once they wed, she would be nothing but a bit of unwanted chattel—the price he’d been forced to pay for the money he so desperately needed.
She pulled away from him, looking about for any possible distraction, and found it immediately.
“Mr. Warre,” she said brightly, trying to sound mischievous even though she wanted him to enfold her once again in his arms, “I’ve just had an excellent idea.” All around them hung portraits—the very nude portraits Millie had spurned with disgust. She headed toward a man at the back of the shop who was sketching a drawing on a large sheet of paper.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” she said to him. “I would like to have my portrait painted.”
He looked up, cast a critical eye over her, and smiled. “And I would very much like to paint it,” he told her agreeably, then shifted his smile to Nicholas, who now stood behind her.
“When could I have an appointment?” India continued.
“For you, mademoiselle, shall we say...Thursday?”
The day after tomorrow. Perfect.
“You see, Mr. Warre?” she said, turning to him with a smile. “I do believe I am perfecting my technique already.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HOW INDIA THOUGHT having her portrait painted by a professional artist would lead to an affair, Nick wasn’t quite sure.
And by the next day, he didn’t care. Because he was too busy being a bloody fool.
The church was so quiet, Nick could hear his own heartbeat quietly swish-swish-swishing in his ears. It was cool inside. Tomblike. The sightless eyes of cold statues watched him silently as he avoided the center aisle and walked down the side instead. It smelled of candlewax and faded incense and must. At small shrines all around the perimeter of the sanctuary, dozens of candles flickered with the prayers of those who had lit them. With his eyes fixed on the area around the altar, he slipped into a pew near the front.
He knelt and pretended to pray, all the while watching, waiting for the preparations for mass to begin. All he wanted was a glimpse. One look at Father Yves Dechelle—that was all.
Nick’s knees ached already and he shifted a little, only to have the kneeler let out a great creak that echoed sharply through the sanctuary. A confrontation would be entirely inappropriate, not to mention unnecessary. The man was probably wizened and frail and in no condition to be confronted about an indiscretion that had taken place more than three decades earlier.
Not that Nick wanted to confront him. It was just a fantasy he’d been finding himself indulging in ever since he’d left Vernier’s house.
Père Dechelle?
Yes. I am he.
I am Nicholas Warre. My mother was Marie, Lady Croston. I don’t suppose you remember her.
The fantasy broke down at this point. He might say, No, I am afraid I do not. How may I help you, my son? In which case Nick would want to murder him.
Or he might say, Marie? No, I cannot say that I do, with a gleam in his eye that said he was remembering quite clearly. In which case Nick would want to murder him.
Or he might say, Ah, Marie. Yes, yes I do. And you— mon Dieu, it can’t be! In which case Nick would want to murder him.
Any way he looked at it, he wanted to kill Père Dechelle. But one could not kill a frail, elderly man of the cloth.
A door opened, and Nick’s eyes snapped toward the sound. One priest emerged from a side room, and then another. Neither were frail or wizened. They went about their business, keeping their backs turned. And then one of them turned and looked out at the pews, his eyes colliding with Nick’s.
Nick felt the blood drain from his face. It was like looking into a glass and being transported thirty years into the future.
He should let things well enough alone. For God’s sake, if anyone ever found out...
But he knew. It was the reason he hadn’t used the earldom’s resources to pay off his debts during the weeks when he believed that James had died and he had acceded to the title. He had no real right to any title but his own, because the Earl of Croston had not been his father.
Nick and Mother were the only souls in the world who knew—except for the man he was looking at right now.
And suddenly Nick’s feet were moving even though he willed them not to. He was exiting the pew even though he knew better, making his way toward the altar even though it would accomplish nothing.
“Père Dechelle.” His heart thundered as he said the words.
“Oui.” The priest narrowed too-familiar eyes at Nick—brown, not green, but with the same angle of brow, the same slight furrow between. Dechelle’s hair was dark, the same shade as Nick’s, but salted with gray. “May I help you?”
“I would like a word. In private.”
The man gestured behind him. “I’m afraid I must prepare for the mass—”
“It will only take a moment.” Nick’s hands shook a little, but he didn’t dare fist them. Dechelle had the shrewd eyes of a man who knew his way around the darker side of life. Nick would be hanged before he’d show weakness.
“Very well. Come with me.”
Nick followed him through a door on the side of the church, into a shadowy corridor, and into a small room lavishly furnished with an ornate desk and bookcases on all sides. “T
here, now. We are in private,” Dechelle said, facing Nick in front of the desk.
“My name is Nicholas Warre.” It felt as though he were listening to someone else speak the words. “I am the youngest son of Margaret, Lady Croston.”
For a long moment Dechelle observed him impassively. Suddenly Nick wondered if Mother had lied about having told the priest she was with child. It would have been a foolish thing to do, would it not? But having an affair with a priest was a foolish thing to do in the first place.
“I see,” Dechelle said.
Anger flared. Somehow Nick managed to tamp it down. “Do you?”
“What is it you want? Money? I assure you, I feel no such sense of obligation.”
“That much is obvious, with a daughter working as a laundress on the river.” He spoke before thinking better of it.
Dechelle only shook his head and held his hands out to his sides. “You have me at a loss, Monsieur Warre.”
“Lord Taggart,” Nick corrected sharply, though why he should care that this man knew his title, he didn’t know.
Dechelle nodded thoughtfully, smiled a little. “A nobleman. Of course. As I was saying, I have heard this rumor you speak of, but the young lady in question—Emilie, I believe her name is—there is nothing to prove that I am her father. And as I am a man of the cloth, sworn to celibacy—” he shrugged “—it is all very doubtful.”
Oh, indeed. Very bloody doubtful.
* * *
THEY WERE IN Paris, and India had not run away, and as they strolled along a street of shops a short distance from Philomena’s house, Millie wondered exactly when and how she was to receive her compensation from Lord Taggart.
If she would receive it.
The marriage could happen at any moment. Today, even. She’d wanted to talk to Lord Taggart yesterday about the money and letter he’d promised, but when he’d put her in the hired carriage at the Pont Notre-Dame—a gesture meant only to ensure that he would be left alone with India—he’d been in a hurry to return to the shop where they’d left India, and there hadn’t been time.
And God help her if he made his move without paying her. Millie would be left alone in Paris, and she was not family to Philomena—Philomena’s lack of attention testified to that, and once India was gone, Millie may well be out on the street.
A Wedding by Dawn Page 16