There was only one way to earn a living on the street.
“India, wait.” Millie reached for India’s arm, suddenly short of breath.
“Are you all right? Do you have another headache?”
“No, I...it’s nothing. I was only thinking of Lord Taggart. What if he decides not to accompany you to your portrait sitting?”
“Do not worry about that. He won’t miss it.”
“Perhaps you would be better served with a more subtle approach.” One that would take a bit more time. This game India was playing with Lord Taggart...it could too easily result in Lord Taggart growing angry, and then all opportunity to speak with him about the payment could be lost.
“A less effective approach, you mean,” India countered, and began a list of reasons why her current strategy was the best plan.
Millie took a deep breath and told herself to be optimistic. She was fulfilling her end of the bargain to the best of her ability. Lord Taggart would fulfill his. The problem was, optimism had never been a strong suit, and it was too easy to imagine him not fulfilling it.
Betrayer. Guilt clawed at her. She loved India, hated scheming behind her back, even if marriage to Lord Taggart did seem like the best life India could hope for.
And Millie needed what Lord Taggart had promised. Everyone she knew had someone. None of them knew what it was like to be fully alone, without a soul in the world who could truly be relied upon, who was bound by blood to honor and protect her.
Her brothers may have been bound by blood, but they had no honor, and the last time she’d gone to them for protection, Gavin had beaten her nearly to death.
“...might have pretended indifference,” India was saying, “but he will be there tomorrow—mark my words—likely contriving a way to prevent my having my full portrait painted, if you understand my meaning, just as he intervened at the last moment yesterday as I was making plans with a very agreeable sculptor.”
“You wanted him to intervene yesterday.”
“That’s beside the point, because he refused to admit that he was intervening. But he will admit it tomorrow, as I’ve arranged a very special surprise— Wait.” India put her hand on Millie’s arm, staring intently down the street. “It’s him, going into that church. Look!”
Millie followed her gaze past a gentle curve of buildings with shops below and apartments above, to a stone church that broke up the line of buildings.
“For heaven’s sake, India, how could you possibly tell from this far away?” A carriage trundled by, interrupting their view. “And what do you mean by a very special surprise?”
“It was him,” India insisted, “and there’s only one reason he might have gone in there.”
In fact there were any number of reasons, but once India had latched on to something there was no use dissuading her from it. And not only that... “If you really think he’s gone into that church, perhaps you ought to go confront him.”
“And end up married for my trouble,” India scoffed, her eyes glued to the pair of carved wooden doors.
“I’ll go with you.” If Lord Taggart was in that church planning a wedding, how grateful might he be if Millie brought the bride to the altar and enabled him to finish the business immediately?
Millie’s palms grew damp, and she smoothed a hand down her skirt, staring at that church as intently now as India did.
“Your presence didn’t stop him before,” India said.
“Then don’t go, and accept the fact that he’s probably gone into that church for reasons of a more spiritual nature, and hope that whatever happens tomorrow will bring out the truth.”
India looked at her then, blue eyes narrowed and calculating, and Millie saw that last argument had done the trick.
* * *
INDIA PUSHED CAREFULLY through the wooden doors and stepped into the cavernous silence of the church. It was a blessing that these churches were so dark inside. She paused in the shadows inside the door. Nicholas Warre was nowhere to be seen. A woman knelt at a shrine to the right, and two people prayed in a pew near the back. Banks of flickering candles glowed around the perimeter of the sanctuary.
“He must be somewhere at the front,” she whispered to Millie.
Millie rubbed her arms. “It’s cold. I’ll wait here.”
“I need you to come with me,” India hissed.
“I’ll be right here,” Millie hissed back. “You know I don’t like churches.”
Ever since she’d met Nicholas Warre, India didn’t care for them much, either. Already Millie had scooted into the near darkness behind a massive stone pillar.
India held her breath and veered left, tiptoeing toward the front, staying in the shadows. If she presented herself at the wrong moment, the marriage might take place here and now. Nicholas certainly cared more about the money he would receive than he cared about Auntie Phil’s wrath.
There was no sign of him. She glanced back. Millie peeked from behind the pillar in the back, likely thinking that India had made a mistake and whomever she’d seen was not Nicholas Warre.
It was no mistake. She would recognize him anywhere.
She was nearly to the front now. A door at the side stood ajar, and the quiet murmur of men’s voices drifted through the corridor behind it. She crept as close to the gaping door as she dared and paused, straining to listen.
“It is all very doubtful,” a man with a heavy French accent was saying.
“I’m sure her mother could lay those doubts to rest.” It was Nicholas Warre’s voice, clear as day! Her pulse raced.
“Perhaps so,” the Frenchman said, “if she could be trusted—and if she still lived.” If who still lived? “But alas, she does not. C’est tragique.”
“Oh, yes.” Nicholas Warre’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “I can see how tragic you find it.”
“Is this why you came to see me? To inquire after the welfare of an urchin laundress?”
“That ‘urchin laundress’ is my sister.”
His sister. India’s heart lodged in her throat as she realized suddenly, sharply, that whyever Nicholas Warre had come into this church, it had nothing at all to do with a marriage.
“Forgive me.” The man with the accent again. “I fail to see what you want from me.”
“I don’t want a bloody, goddamned thing from you.” Nicholas Warre’s voice was ice cold. “What my mother could possibly have seen in you, only God knows.”
His mother!
“Mon fils—”
“Do not ever call me your son. I may owe my birth to you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll allow you to acknowledge it.”
“I am a priest,” the other man said, laughing. “Everyone is my son. It was not meant to be personal—a slip of the tongue, c’est tout.”
India’s pulse raced wildly. I may owe my birth to you...Nicholas Warre? Owed his birth to...the man in that room? A priest?
If he found her here, listening—
She backed away from the door, only to cry out and whirl around when a hand touched her back. A young priest steadied her elbow.
“Mademoiselle, puis-je vous aider?”
She shook her head in a panic. “No. Merci. I am fine.” Footsteps! Footsteps in the corridor! She pulled away and hurried down the side aisle in a deafening rustle of skirts. If Nicholas Warre found her here, if he suspected she had overheard—
“India.”
She kept going, pretending not to hear him.
“India.” He was right behind her now.
She stopped. Fear pounded in the base of her throat as she turned.
Nicholas...the French priest’s son? She stared at his face, desperate to look away but unable to.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a low whisper.
She swallowed and lifted her chin. “You know very well what I’m doing here,” she said as furiously as she could. “Just as I know very well what you are doing here—the same thing you’ve been trying to do all along. You can’t imagine I will beli
eve your lies now, Mr. Warre. But know this—I’ll not allow you to bribe that priest into performing our wedding.”
“Our wedding.”
“You can’t fool me, Mr. Warre. Our marriage is worth too much money to you to let it go so easily.” Behind him, an aging priest came through the door and walked toward them, looking on with interest. And there was no doubt, in that moment, that everything she’d overheard was true, and that the priest standing there was Nicholas Warre’s father. “I did not believe that piddle about helping me with my technique, and I’ll not believe whatever tripe you may offer me now about your reasons for being in this church. But I shan’t go through with any wedding to you—not ever.”
He pointed behind him, his expression thunderous. “Were you listening outside that door?”
“All this lack of concern, all this proffered assistance,” she went on, ignoring the question. “You are a consummate actor, Mr. Warre. I am quite certain there is a special place in hell for men who force women into marriage. And for the priests who consent to it. I only hope he’s taken you for twice as much as the priest in Marseille did. But rest assured I shall be doubly on my guard now.” His chin was as far as she could make herself go toward looking him in the eye.
“Against a forced marriage,” he said.
“Precisely.”
She held her breath, willing him to believe her. His stare penetrated to the tips of her toes. Every pounding heartbeat chanted, Bastard, bastard.
Finally he smiled—an indulgent curve of his lips that signaled a lie was coming. “Your capacity for misunderstanding is limitless, Lady India.”
“As is your capacity for deception, Mr. Warre.” When had those shadows appeared beneath his eyes? He looked exhausted. Weary.
“I have any number of business acquaintances in Paris that I plan to confer with before I leave,” he explained dispassionately, “in an effort to salvage at least part of this journey from being a complete loss. Père Dechelle happens to be one of them.”
The business acquaintance behind him smiled a little and turned away, moving toward the altar.
Do not ever call me your son.
She made herself scoff. “Very well, and as I have business of my own to attend to—I have a very important appointment tomorrow, if you’ll recall, for which I must prepare myself—I shall leave you to your...business. Good day, Mr. Warre.”
Outside, she practically ran back toward Auntie Phil’s.
She’d thought she knew everything that mattered about him. That she understood him. But she’d been wrong.
Very, very wrong.
“What happened?” Millie asked, following close on India’s heels. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
I may owe my birth to you....
“Why was he so angry?”
Nicholas Warre was not an earl’s son at all. Which meant... What? What did it mean?
Very little, if nobody ever discovered the truth. He’d been born within the bounds of matrimony. As far as the world was concerned, he was the Earl of Croston’s youngest son.
But he wasn’t. And he hadn’t gone into that church looking for a priest to bribe.
“India, slow down!”
India slowed a tiny bit.
“For God’s sake,” Millie said. “You’re acting as if he tried to drag you to the altar!”
“He would have,” India lied, hardly knowing what she was saying. He had to realize that she’d heard more than she admitted to. The way he’d looked at her, as though he could read her very mind...
As if he was caught in a torment of shame that nothing could ever remove.
And then, after less than a heartbeat, his expression had changed to anger.
“If I had stayed a moment longer,” she repeated, “he would have forced me to the altar.” Except that he probably wouldn’t have. Not just then.
“Bollocks. He expressly told you he was meeting with a business acquaintance.”
And that had been an utter lie. He’d been meeting with his father. His father!
That ‘urchin laundress’ is my sister.
And he had a sister, right here in Paris. A laundress.
Had he known all this time? Did his family know? If they did know, they kept the secret very well. She’d never heard so much as a suggestion of scandal connected with Croston.
But if there were a scandal...
She ground to a halt right there, two houses away from Auntie Phil’s.
“Are you all right?” Millie gasped, out of breath.
If there were a scandal, Father would not want to be connected with it. Father hated anything shameful, and this was incredibly, irrevocably shameful.
More shameful than a daughter who couldn’t read.
If Father knew, he would undo his agreement with Nicholas and turn his back on him completely.
* * *
NICK’S HEART THUNDERED as he watched her all but run out the church door.
Bloody hell.
This was what his foolishness had gained him—the shame he should have left well enough alone, discovered.
There was no doubt she’d heard every bloody word he’d said to Père Dechelle. Perhaps she had followed him into the church thinking he sought to arrange their wedding, but by the time he’d caught her, she’d been thinking something else entirely.
Nicholas Warre is a bastard.
All that babbling about catching him in the act... She hadn’t looked him in the eye even once during that entire speech.
The India he knew always looked him in the eye.
He exhaled. Rubbed the back of his neck.
Devil take it. She knew everything. There was almost no doubt.
“Une amie?” came Dechelle’s amused voice behind him.
“Go to hell,” Nick bit out, and headed for the door. No, India could hardly be called a friend. She was...an acquaintance. One who now knew that not only was he a debtor, he was a bastard debtor who didn’t deserve his own family name.
Even she, with all her hoydenish adventuring, did not carry that shame.
And there might have been desire in those eyes before, but it bloody well hadn’t been there just now. Instead, there’d been shock. Horror. Fear.
Fear, no doubt, of the consequences of being married to a French priest’s by-blow. He could only imagine what she must be thinking.
And since when have you cared what Lady India thinks?
He exited onto the street, looked to his right and left. There was no sign of her. Would she run straight back to her aunt with the news? Perhaps by the time he returned to his lodgings, there would already be a note waiting for him: I must insist that you have no further contact with my niece.
But no note awaited him after his slow walk back to the hotel. And none arrived that evening or the next morning. Which meant...nothing had changed. Yet.
Except Lady India’s opinion of him. As if that could have sunk any lower in the first place.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE ARTIST’S STUDIO was on the third floor of a building that apparently had stood since the earliest days of Paris. India started up the stairs, acutely aware of Nicholas a step behind her, and continued the chatter she’d begun in the carriage in the hope of making him believe she hadn’t heard what he certainly thought she’d heard.
“I shall warn you,” India told him breezily, not quite daring to glance over her shoulder, “this is bound to be tediously boring. ‘Un peu au droit...au gauche... Hold still, mademoiselle.’ That sort of thing. I hardly know how I shall stand it myself.”
“I feel certain you’ll manage,” he murmured, and nerves tangled in her belly.
A day ago, she’d thought he was someone else. Now...he almost seemed like a stranger.
A day ago, the surprise she had planned for him today felt triumphant. Now it felt foolish, which only made her feel foolish, because nothing had changed. He wasn’t a stranger. He was Lord Taggart—he was, wasn’t he?—and he was here. Escorting her to the portrait
sitting, which he would have no reason to do unless he still planned to also escort her to the altar.
She should have told Auntie Phil what she’d learned in that church. Immediately, as soon as she and Millie had returned yesterday.
Instead, she’d pleaded a headache, shut herself away in her rooms and sat there like a ninny hugging a pillow and imagining she was holding him, kissing him, somehow easing from his face that awful expression that had etched itself into her mind.
It had only been the shock of the whole thing. She would tell Auntie Phil, and soon—perhaps just as soon as the portrait sitting was over.
They’d climbed halfway up the first flight when the door opened below and her surprise began to unfold.
“Mademoiselle India,” a man called up. “It would seem we are just in time.”
She turned to see the Comte d’Anterry and his friend, Monsieur Pisannes, two acquaintances of Auntie Phil’s she’d met last night at yet another soirée—where Nicholas had made a point of ignoring her.
Nothing has changed, she reminded herself sternly, and smiled the way Auntie Phil might have done. “Messieurs. I am so pleased you could spare me a few moments of your afternoon.”
“You are too modest, mademoiselle,” the comte said, kissing her hand. “Nothing could have kept me away.”
“Nor I,” Monsieur Pisannes agreed.
The two of them bowed to Nicholas, who bowed in return with a perfunctory, “Messieurs.”
And then they continued up the stairs, with the comte and Monsieur Pisannes continuing a small debate that had apparently been interrupted when they entered the building, while Nicholas helped ensure she did not trip over her skirts. The maid she’d brought from Auntie Phil’s house trailed behind.
Already, butterflies threatened the satisfaction of seeing her invitation had not gone ignored.
“You’ve invited spectators,” Nicholas murmured.
“Oh, yes— Did I not mention it?”
“Perhaps you did,” he said mildly, “and I’ve merely forgotten.”
If she had told him—which she had not—he most certainly would not have forgotten. The question now was, how much clothing would he let her remove before he confessed his intentions and put a stop to everything?
A Wedding by Dawn Page 17