Squaring her shoulders, Gabrielle stood and began to walk with jerky movements toward the apartments above the Care de Foy.
The stairway still smelled of the same perfume, but this afternoon there was no rattle of a dice box and no woman's laughter. The building seemed strangely empty, although she could hear snatches of conversation and voices raised in argument from the cafe below.
Her hands shook so badly trying to fit the key into the lock that for one heart-stopping moment she thought he must carry more than one key and Agnes had picked the wrong pocket. Then suddenly it slid smoothly into the hole, the lock turned, and the door clicked open. Gabrielle darted inside and quickly shut the door behind her.
She didn't feel so nervous once inside his apartment, perhaps because there was already a familiarity about it. The broken glass from the windows and mirrors had been swept into one comer, but all his scientific paraphernalia—what hadn't been shattered by the explosion—still littered the shelves and tables of the large room.
She peered through the microscope, first with one eye and then with the other, but could make nothing out. She looked through the telescope and saw a square of blue sky. She tilted the instrument toward the galleries across the way, focusing on the newspaper vendor. His seamed and pitted face jumped before her, startlingly close, and she watched for a moment, fascinated, while he dug the wax out of his ear with a twig.
One end of the room was dominated by a large fireplace equipped with a spit and trivet for cooking, but there were no ashes in the grate. He probably eats all his meals in the cafe downstairs, she thought, and felt strangely sad to realize he had no one to cook for him.
A set of heavy mahogany bookcases lined the wall beside the door. He had, she saw, every single one of the thirty-six volumes of Buffon's Histoire Naturelle, as well as a complete set of Diderot's Encyclopedic Most of his books were scientific tomes, or treatises on travel and geography. But here and there she spotted a novel, mostly untranslated English titles, and she was pleased to see her favorites by Fielding and Defoe. Next to the bookcases, maps of the stars and constellations had been tacked onto the wall. She saw that the charts had been corrected where he had made discoveries of his own.
The slam of a door downstairs startled her, making her suddenly aware of the passage of time. She looked around the cluttered room with despair, if the ring was in here she would never find it.
She decided to look for it in the bedroom first.
His bed was a large but plain, uncurtained affair, fashioned simply with a bolster and a good feather quilt. An impressive, classically styled armoire filled one wall. Opposite squatted a marble-topped commode table with two drawers faced with mother-of-pearl marquetry. The top of the commode was empty but for a large silver candelabra. The only incongruous note in the room was a stuffed owl on a perch near the window facing the gardens. In contrast to the laboratory, this room was sparse and neat.
She laid the door key on top of the commode and pulled open one of the drawers—
Oooooh.
Gabrielle whipped around, so startled by the strange noise that she emitted a tiny, high-pitched shriek. She pressed a shaking hand to her chest in case her heart decided to burst right out of it, but the room was empty and now utterly silent.
"Who's there?" she called tentatively, then cursed herself for a fool. After all, she was the intruder here.
A breeze drifted through the broken panes of the window, cooling Gabrielle's sweating face. The feathers stirred on the neck of the stuffed owl. Then, slowly, his two glazed yellow eyes blinked at her.
Warily she approached the bird. She started to reach out to touch him, to see if he was real, when he blinked again.
Gabrielle snatched back her hand, then began to laugh. It was just like the man, she thought, to keep an owl for a pet. Like a wizard straight out of English folklore. She pressed the back of her wrist against her mouth to stop the laughter, sure she was getting hysterical. Resolutely she turned her back on the bird and began to search the drawers of the commode, although it was difficult to do with an owl watching her, well . . . owlishly, she thought with another warbling, nervous giggle.
Her ring was not in the top drawer, but she did find something that made her pause. It was a case filled with mercury molds used to make copies of the red wax seals which closed letters. She wondered whose secret correspondence Maximilien de Saint-Just had been steaming open and then resealing.
In the second drawer she found a large Chinese wooden casket elaborately carved with warriors in strange armor fighting with swords. She lifted the hinged lid. Inside was a heavy black pistol gleaming with oil. It looked well cared for, and used. She hefted it. Was it loaded?
A small velvet bag lay in the casket with the pistol. She emptied the contents on top of the commode. A scattering of foreign coins, a man's diamond stock pin, a miniature of a young woman. And a single ring—the ruby ring he bought that morning.
She picked up the miniature.
It was of a girl at the first bloom of womanhood. Her hair was very pale, powdered probably, for her eyes were a deep rich hazel. She had a round, full mouth that quirked up at the corners, dimpling one cheek. There was something familiar about the girl, but Gabrielle couldn't place her. She wondered if this was the girl destined to receive the ring, or if she was an old love; if she, perhaps, was the reason for the cynical glint in Max's sooty gray eyes.
She stared at the miniature a moment longer, then gently slipped it back inside the velvet bag. Her fingers closed around the ruby ring—
"Looking for something?"
Chapter 3
Any other woman in the world, thought Maximilien de Saint-Just, would have screamed. Any other woman . . . but not this one.
She slammed shut the drawer to his commode table and whirled to demand of him indignantly, "Jesu! What are you doing here?"
Her words surprised a laugh out of him. "Silly me," he drawled in his mocking way. "I thought I lived here."
He leaned against the doorjamb, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tight breeches. He watched her from beneath lowered lids. Her fiery hair blazed in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. Her skin was so translucent it seemed illuminated from within. Dark violet eyes, purple like a mountain range at dusk, glowered at him.
Damn, but she was beautiful, he thought. But then, the most treacherous ones usually were.
"If you're looking for money," he said, "you won't find any in there."
Her lips curled with pure scorn. "You're a fine one to be calling me a thief after what you've done."
Max thought of the many crimes he had committed over the years, wondering which one had managed to touch on this intriguing girl. He was sure that, until two days ago, he had never seen or spoken to her before, although she had managed to haunt his thoughts every moment since.
He straightened and took a step toward her. Her back stiffened, but she didn't turn away or shift her eyes from his face. He stopped when he was standing right in front of her. He saw the movement in her throat as she swallowed, and the muscle in her jaw tense as she lifted her chin to look at him.
"Gabrielle." He stared down into a pair of mesmerizing; purple eyes . . . and forgot what he was going to say.
He slid his hand along her neck, under the heavy fall of her hair. Her skin trembled beneath his palm and he heard her breath catch. Splaying his thumb along her jawline, he tilted her face up. She started to turn her head away, then stopped as he brought his lips down over hers.
Her mouth was warm and moist, opening and moving easily beneath his.-He increased the pressure of his lips, forcing her head back as he slid his tongue along the sharp edge of her teeth, probing the wet, silken cavity of her mouth. She made a small sound in the back of her throat—of protest or perhaps of surrender.
He had expected anger, resistance, fear—but not this. The depth and uninhibited warmth of her response fired an answering and unexpected hun
ger deep within him. Surprised, he tried to repress those feelings, shuddering with the strength of will it took.
Swaying into him, she reached up and clasped the lapels on his coat. Her tongue met his, curled around it, drew it deeper into her mouth.
Max felt himself surrendering to the hot, hard need that surged through him. He wanted this woman, would have her, but first . . . Keeping his lips locked on hers, he moved his hand down the column of her neck and along her shoulder, following the length of her arm. The material of her dress was thin and soft with wear and repeated washings, and he could feel her skin quivering underneath it. Her flesh gave off a warmth, a vital heat, and she smelted of sunlight and summer flowers: His strong fingers encircled her wrist, around bones that were light and impossibly fragile—
He tore his mouth from hers and jerked her curled fist up between their faces. "Open your hand," he said, his voice silken, dangerous, and more than a little breathless.
She clenched her fist tighter. "No," she said. Her lips were reddened and slightly swollen from his kiss, but her eyes were hard and defiant. "Give me the other one first, then you can have this one back."
"Other what? What in bloody hell are you talking about?" He increased the pressure of his fingers around her wrist, saw the pain of it register in the tightening of her mouth, but she didn't make a sound, and he felt a sudden, and unusual, stab of self-disgust that he was deliberately hurting her.
He relaxed his grip, although he didn't let go.
"Open your hand or I'll snap the bone in two," he said, for the first time in his life making a threat he had no intention of carrying through. Still, his voice had lost its courtly inflections. Now it was the rough street French of cutpurses and pimps, and harsh enough to convince her he meant what he said.
Her eyes were on his face, measuring his strength even as he measured hers. Max knew she could read nothing in his expression, but the maddening thing to him was that he could read nothing in hers. He had never before encountered such a strong will in a woman.
Then she surprised him again by smiling suddenly, deliberately teasing and tantalizing.
"Very well, Monsieur de Saint-Just," she said, mimicking his former mocking tone. "Since you've asked me so politely." She relaxed, uncurling her fingers.
The ring he had bought in the pawnshop that morning lay in her palm. He was surprised, surprised especially at his disappointment that she had come to his rooms simply to steal from him. It had been a long time since Maximilien de Saint-Just had been disappointed by anyone or anything. For to be disappointed, you first had to care.
Max had spotted the little pickpocket's ploy right away. Noticing things like that had helped to keep him alive during his twenty-eight years, and he was good at staying alive.
Curious as to what the voluptuous urchin was after—once he realized she was lifting his key and not his purse—he had let her play the trick through, allowing enough time for her, or an accomplice, to make it up to his rooms with the key before following.
Years of practice had taught Max how to move through a house without making a sound. It was especially easy to enter and walk silently through his own apartment where he knew every loose board and squeaky hinge. He had paused in the doorway to his bedroom, waiting while the girl he knew as Gabrielle searched his drawers, hesitating until he was sure she had found what she had come for.
Sighing now, he plucked the ring from her hand and tossed it on the marble top of the commode. They watched together as it rolled across the smooth surface to nestle against the velvet bag.
"And how many times has this particular ring been sold?" he asked, hard weariness in his voice.
She blinked in confusion. "What?"
He flashed his mocking smile. "Come now, Gabrielle, the game is hardly an original one, although I'm sure it's consistently profitable. You sell the ring and then steal it back again. Over and over—"
"How dare you accuse me of such a thing when you're the one who—oooh!" She tossed a clump of copper curls over her shoulder and glared at him. "I know what you're trying to do and it won't work!"
He laughed. "You'll have to rid yourself of those haughty airs if you expect to play the part of the falsely accused innocent, Gabrielle. Or whatever your name really is."
"I am innocent! You're the one who's a thief!"
He shrugged and made a movement toward the door. "In that case, perhaps we should summon the police . . ."
"No!" She grabbed his arm, desperation in her face and in the strength of her fingers that grasped his sleeve. She forced out a smile. "Surely we can settle this matter without involving the police. I didn't come here to steal from you, I swear, monsieur. Please ..." Her lips trembled and tears filled her eyes. He watched, amused, as she squeezed her lids shut to keep the tears from spilling over. "I only want back what is mine," she said, her voice low and husky.
Max couldn't help himself. His hand came up and touched her face, his palm cupping her cheek and tilting her head up. "Ah, Christ, Gabrielle—" He cut himself off and pulled away from her, removing her fingers from his arm. "What am I supposed to have that is yours?"
"My ring!"
His brows drew together in a frown. "But I paid for that ring. Five hundred livres. You offered to wrap it for me, remember?"
"Not that ring, you fool. The other one."
"Which other one?"
"But you . . ."
She searched his face. He watched her thoughts revealed in the purple pools of her eyes. Thoughts that changed from fear and righteous anger to confusion and doubt.
"Mon Dieu. Is it possible it wasn't you who stole it after all?" she said, more to herself than to him. She sucked on her lower lip in consternation, which made her look like a pouting child, and to Max's eyes quite adorable. "I think perhaps it's all been another silly mistake, monsieur ..." She began to scuttle sideways like a crab, trying to get around him.
"No, you don't, ma mie. " His hand snaked out, grabbing her. He swung her around, flinging her onto the end of the bed. She stared up at him, and he saw fear darken her eyes and the pulse jump in her throat. Or perhaps she wasn't afraid at all; perhaps it was something else that he didn't want to put a name to.
"Oh, to hell with it," he said aloud, taking a step toward her with some vague idea of taking her in his arms and kissing that pouting mouth. It was, he decided, the only thing to do with her that so far made any sense.
She misunderstood the determined expression on his face and cringed away from him. "Please, monsieur . . . don't. I can explain."
He stopped. "All right then ..." Leaning against the bureau, he folded his arms across his chest. "Explain." He didn't expect to believe much of what she told him, but one valuable lesson he had learned over the years was that the lies one told often revealed as much, if not more, than the truth.
"It was the sapphire ring, monsieur," she said. "The one you so admired this morning. I noticed it was missing shortly after you left the shop, so naturally I assumed ..."
"That I had stolen it."
Splashes of bright red dotted her cheeks like rouge and she lowered her eyes. "Yes. I'm sorry."
"Never mind. I've been accused of worse." And done far worse, he thought.
"It's just that the ring was given to me by my husband," she babbled on, desperate now to atone for her mistake. He studied her face whole she told him a tale he didn't believe, about a husband who had been a wigmaker's apprentice at Versailles before his untimely death, who had given her the ring during the first and only year of their marriage.
"He left me destitute, monsieur. There were debts—he had his professional image to maintain, you understand—but then he died, and with a little one on the way . . . what could I do?" she finished with a shrug. "I borrowed some money from his uncle, Simon Prion, and in return I gave Monsieur Prion the ring. I never really meant to sell it, you see. It was only out of foolish pride that I insisted it be displayed in the case until I could redeem it, and now that it's turned up missi
ng ..."
Her voice trailed off and she licked her lips nervously. Max thought about those lips, about how sweet they had tasted. He didn't want to question her any more, didn't want to hear any more lies from those lips. He wanted to kiss them.
"Your wigmaker's apprentice must have had a generous master," he said instead, "to afford such a ring."
"It was given to him as a "gift by a rich patron at court. He invented a new wig style that was full but weighed little and he had a light touch with the powder paste. The patron was pleased, and he wanted to show it with a small token, you understand. Such a thing happens all the time." She clenched her hands together in an unconscious supplicating gesture that moved Max more than her words ever would. "Oh, why can't you believe me?"
"But I do believe you," Max lied. "You plead your case so convincingly." He took her hands in his, drawing her to her feet to face him, and his mouth curved into a soft, teasing smile. "I'm sorry you lost your ring, but you didn't need to go to this elaborate ruse of picking my pocket for a chance to rifle through my drawers, ma mie. There would have been plenty of opportunity during the coming days. And nights."
The bright color that stained her cheekbones deepened. "I ... I don't understand."
He brushed the back of his knuckles across the blush on her cheek. "You do understand. You could have searched my rooms to your heart's content. After we become lovers."
She jerked away from him so fast she stumbled backward and had to clutch the bedpost to keep from falling. Then, when she saw what she was grasping, she let go as if the wood were a burning torch singeing her flesh. He almost laughed.
She threw up her head, tossing back her hair. "I don't know what has provoked this delusion of yours, monsieur, that I desire to become your lover—"
Hearts Beguiled Page 6
