His Parisian Mistress (Scandalous Family--The Victorians Book 1)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Do I hear a disapproving note, son?” Raymond asked.

  Vaughn sighed. “I suppose, yes. Uriah is one of the directors sunning himself on a beach, somewhere. Still, despite it being October.”

  “So judgmental!” Natasha told Vaughn, her tone teasing. “You should be more charitable, Vaughn. Your own family history is far more colorful.”

  “And firmly in the past,” Vaughn said. He picked up Laura’s hand. Her expression softened and her eyes grew warm as she and Vaughn gazed at each other. “There is nothing but respectability in my future,” he added. “Thank God.”

  Thatcher cleared his throat, making everyone turn or look up. He dropped his gloved hand. “Forgive me, Lord Marblethorpe, Lady Natasha, Baroness Gedling, Lord Richard. There are six…um…gentlemen waiting to speak to Lord Devlin in the library. They were most insistent.”

  “Me?” Vaughn said, letting go of Laura’s hand. “Here?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Who are they, Thatcher?” Raymond said. “If it’s friends, they can come out here and enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.”

  Thatcher cleared his throat once more. “They say they are from the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police Force of London, my Lord.” He hesitated.

  “What is it, Thatcher?” Natasha asked, with a gentle tone.

  Thatcher spoke to Raymond. “They’re armed, my Lord.”

  Raymond’s smile faded. The two women gasped.

  “Armed?” Richard repeated. He glanced at Vaughn. “Do you know what this is about?”

  Vaughn shook his head. “Absolutely no idea.” He bent and kissed Laura’s cheek. “Stay here and sun yourself. I will deal with this and return as soon as possible.”

  Laura got to her feet. “Don’t be silly, Vaughn. Armed men are waiting to speak with you. I cannot sit here and leave you to face them alone.”

  “I must concur,” Raymond added. “It all sounds rather ominous.”

  Natasha got to her feet and folded her parasol. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Me, too, brother,” Richard told Vaughn. “Family and all that, right?”

  Vaughn gave a lopsided grin. “It’s been a long time since anyone reminded me of it. Very well. Five of us and six of them. Lead the way, Thatcher.”

  Thatcher said, “Six of us, my Lord,” he said. “I was a sapper in the Fifth.”

  “Good lord, I hope it doesn’t come to that!” Natasha said.

  “Thank you, Thatcher,” Raymond said. “Does Cian know his house has been invaded by armed men?”

  “I did mention it as I came to find Lord Devlin, my Lord.”

  They moved back around the house to the open French doors and passed through the drawing room to the front hall. The library doors were opposite the stairs. The doors were closed. Richard wondered if Thatcher had been tempted to lock the doors when he left.

  Thatcher opened both doors and stood aside.

  The six men in the library got to their feet and tugged their tunics in place, for all of them wore the dark blue serge uniforms of the Metropolitan Police. Each wore a buttoned holster on his belt, too.

  One of them had bushy muttonchop whiskers, steel gray and stiff. His tunic had multiple chevrons on the sleeves. He held his helmet under his arm and his shoulders were square.

  Vaughn held his arm out to Laura, who took it with a nervous smile.

  Raymond picked up Natasha’s hand and held it.

  They moved into the library.

  “And who might you be?” Vaughn enquired of the gray-haired policeman.

  “Chief Inspector Lionel Lamb of the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police. Are you Lord Devlin?”

  “I am. What is this about, Inspector?”

  “Chief Inspector, sir. You are the director of the Darnell & Sattler Banking Company of Bournemouth and London?”

  Richard’s heart gave a little lurch. None of the policemen were smiling. They all watched Vaughn with wary expressions.

  “I am one of the directors, by virtue of my inheritance,” Vaughn said. “And I must repeat my question, Chief Inspector. What is this about?”

  The man raised his helmet and put it back upon his head. “I’m afraid, sir, that you made this necessary when you absconded from London five days ago.”

  “Absconded?” Natasha repeated, her voice strained.

  Laura looked up at Vaughn. “Vaughn?” Her voice was small and shook.

  Vaughn frowned. “I came to my family’s annual gathering, which I do every year.”

  “So you say, sir. We’ll have to determine that for ourselves, of course. I must ask you to accompany me and my men back to London.”

  “Why, Inspector?” Vaughn asked, his tone cold. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lamb replied. He glanced at his men, who stepped around the group surrounding Vaughn.

  Natasha moaned. Richard gripped his mother’s elbow, holding her up as she trembled.

  Vaughn spluttered. “Whatever for?”

  “The charges have yet to be fully established, sir,” Lamb said coldly. “Most of them will be for criminal fraud.”

  In the thick silence which greeted the inspector’s words, one of the policemen pulled a pair of manacles from his pouch. They rattled with a cold sound.

  Natasha gave a soft sigh and sagged against Richard. He caught her and carried her over to the big wing chair, his own heart hurrying far too hard.

  “This has to be a mistake,” Raymond said. His voice was strained. “My son is not a criminal.”

  “The judge will determine that, my Lord,” Lamb said, as the manacles were closed around Vaughn’s wrists with loud clicks.

  Richard bent to check his mother. Her eyes fluttered and her chest rose and fell far too quickly. He patted her hand, wondering if he should force brandy upon her. Only, he had heard that drink was not the best thing to give faint ladies, anymore.

  Laura clung to Vaughn. Her face was white. “Vaughn, what have you done?”

  Vaughn turned to her. He shook his head. “I have done nothing. Stay here with my family. Once this is sorted out, I will return and we can pick up from where we left off.”

  One of the uniformed policemen gripped Vaughn’s sleeve and tugged sharply. “Come along, my Lord.”

  Vaughn wrenched his arm from the policeman’s grip. “Kiss me,” he told Laura quickly.

  “Oh, Vaughn!” Laura reached up on tip toes and kissed him soundly, right there in front of everyone.

  The policeman tore Vaughn from her. He staggered as they wrenched him toward the front door.

  The Chief Inspector nodded at Laura and Raymond. He spared barely a glance at Natasha, where she reclined in the wing chair. He marched away after his men.

  “My Lord, what can I do?” Thatcher asked Raymond.

  “Nothing,” Raymond said softly, peering after Vaughn. “We must trust in the processes of the law.”

  Richard’s mother gave a soft, agony filled cry. She clutched at her chest, her fingers turned into claws. Her body stiffened.

  “Father!” Richard cried.

  Raymond whirled and swept Natasha into his arms. He held her, sinking to the floor with her in his arms.

  Richard moved over to Laura. “It will be all right,” he assured her. “Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

  Laura sniffed, her eyes sparkling. She gave him a tremulous smile. “Of course it will be,” she said. “Vaughn is a good man. This will sort itself out when the truth is established. Then we can be engaged and leave this all behind us.”

  Behind them, Raymond spoke urgently, his voice hoarse. “Fetch a doctor. Quickly!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  La Floraison Moderne, Latin Quarter, Paris. March 1888. Four years later.

  The songbird on the tiny stage was both colorful and musical. Not that Richard cared about either quality. While his French was good enough to maintain a conversation, sorting out lyrics was beyond him. He let the warbled notes wash over him. The song sounded sad and wist
ful. As it matched his mood, more or less, he drank and listened with more patience than he normally could muster.

  There were a great many cafés in Paris, which pleased him. Cafés were good places in which to become lost. This particular café he had not visited before. It was deep in the Latin Quarter and was appropriately filled with bohemians and people who lived on the fringes of society.

  Richard was glad he had not bothered changing into a tuxedo for the evening. In his tweed day suit, he was almost overdressed for this crowd.

  He wasn’t entirely sure where his tuxedo might be, anyway. It was probably buried at the bottom of his valise, which laid in the corner of his bedroom in the pension where he had been staying for the last month. So far, his landlady had not insisted upon him paying the rent he owed her. It was just as well, because he was down to his last few francs. When she did ask, he would have to admit he could not pay her, then find yet another pension.

  There were far more salubrious characters at this café than usual. They clung to the tables at the edge of the room, in the dark corners. They kept their heads together as they talked earnestly.

  Bohemians, on the other hand, were easy to spot. The painters and writers and poets enjoyed the brighter lights. They gulped at life, laughing a lot and smiling even more. Richard could not stand them. Still, they left him alone, which was all he could ask of life these days.

  The song ended on a quivering note. The entire café got to its feet to applaud the songstress. She gave a deep curtsy, looking pleased. Someone threw her a rose, which she caught and blew the man a kiss. French women were so much more forward than English women. In the Latin Quarter they were even more so.

  Richard didn’t bother clapping. It would require letting go of his glass. He reached around the lantern on his table, grasped the bottle and pulled it toward him. Only two inches remained. It was still early. He could always order another.

  Then he remembered how many francs he had left in his pocket and scowled. This would be the last bottle for the night. That was unfortunate. He needed more than one bottle to sleep.

  “Can you spare a glass for a thirsty singer?”

  Richard looked up. The pretty songbird stood in front of his table, the beads on her evening dress glittering in the light from the lantern on his table. She was even more beautiful, this close, and worth a moment or two of study in appreciation. Like all Frenchwomen, she had creamy skin, pure and smooth. She wore a minimum of jewelry, letting the dress speak for itself. Rosebud lips, very blue eyes, black hair. A faint line between her brow said she was used to getting her own way.

  Her waist was agreeably small and her arms slender. She wore no evening gloves. Instead a small charm dangled from a slender chain about her wrist.

  “Ah, if only this was not Paris,” Richard said, regret touching him.

  “You do not like Paris?”

  “I like Paris. Paris is wonderful. When I can remember it.”

  “Perhaps I can help you remember some of it.” She pulled out the black chair opposite him and sank onto it with a graceful movement. She lifted her hand toward someone behind Richard. Silently, a glass was placed in front of her. She pushed the glass toward Richard. “May I share even a small glass with you?”

  Richard considered the last two inches of the bottle, then shrugged and poured one of those inches into her glass. Her forwardness was a novelty. In a sea of nights he could barely remember, she provided a new experience. She deserved an inch of his wine.

  He poured the last inch into his own glass and pushed the bottle aside. “Why do you wish to share wine with me?”

  “Why would I not?”

  He just stared at her. He had no patience for flirtations and empty conversation.

  She must have sensed that. She gave him a small smile. “When I sang, you were the only man who did not appear to like it.”

  “You believe every man should love your singing?” Richard scowled, as he realized she was drawing him into the silly conversation after all.

  “I do not have such an inflated opinion of myself. I merely wondered what weight of troubles would stop you from enjoying even a small moment of pleasure. Or why you sit here by yourself, when more than two people sit at every other table.”

  “Perhaps I do not enjoy company.” He stared at her, reminding her that she was company.

  “Or perhaps you can take no enjoyment in the night, because you have none.”

  Richard took a deep swallow of the wine. It burned the back of his throat. “It appears I have you.” He wasn’t sure if he was annoyed by the fact or not. His gaze drew back once more to the clean line of her jaw and the point of her chin. It was a small face, but strong. Her clear eyes matched the rest of her.

  As he studied her and she sipped her wine, a fat Frenchman in shirtsleeves and wrinkled trousers staggered to the table and bent over her.

  “Mademoiselle Evelyn, you have captured my heart. Kiss me, or I will die.” He bent even farther. His hand groped at her knee through the lace of her evening gown.

  Before Richard could decide if he should do something about the lecherous man, Mademoiselle Evelyn picked up a spoon from the napkin on that side of the table and rapped the back of the spoon sharply upon his knuckles.

  The man howled and released her knee. He shook his hand, blinking at her.

  “I think, perhaps, you must die without my kiss. I regret, Monsieur.”

  The man stumbled away, still shaking his hand.

  Richard realized he was smiling. “I would have punched him.”

  Mademoiselle Evelyn rolled her eyes. “A punch is too soon forgotten. I broke one of the blood vessels on the back of his hand. By tomorrow, his hand will be blue with bruises. They will not fade for days. Every time he tries to use his hand or looks at the bruises, he will remember his foolishness.” She picked up the wineglass and smiled at him. Her eyes twinkled with wicked humor.

  Richard lifted his glass toward her, in a small salute. “To you, Mademoiselle Evelyn.”

  “And to you… May I have your name?”

  Wariness spread through him. He was not sober, although he was not drunk enough for the habitual caution to be repressed. “This is Paris. Why do we need names?”

  “If the café was to burst into flames, how would I warn you? I cannot call out to you without a name to use.”

  She did not understand, of course. If she did know his name, she would not want to use it, even if the café did burst into flames. “Then you must hope such an emergency does not arise in the next few minutes,” Richard replied. “Why did you sit at my table, Miss Evelyn?”

  “Miss? Then you are English.”

  “Which you knew the moment I spoke. My accent is abominable, which every Frenchman points out.”

  She smiled. “I thought it was merely the wine slurring your words. Why are you in Paris, Englishman?”

  “Because it is not England,” he growled.

  Her eyes widened.

  He shook his head, vexed at his lack of control. “Never mind. Forget I spoke.”

  “I would rather not,” she said softly. Her gaze was thoughtful. “Perhaps we should use English,” she said in English.

  Richard shook his head. “I’d rather not,” he replied in French.

  “Sad memories?” she asked softly.

  His heart shifted uneasily. Before he could answer, though, a shrill whistle pierced the air. Thudding sounded upon the door to the café.

  “Police! The police!” someone cried.

  The café became chaotic as guests leapt from their chairs with alarm, snatching up hats and coats and purses.

  Miss Evelyn twisted on her chair, a hand on the back of it, to stare at the front door where dozens of gendarmes boiled into the room in their double-breasted dark tunics and flat kepis, truncheons raised in the air.

  The darker denizens at the edges of the café did not try to evacuate through the front door. They had a better sense of self-preservation. They pushed in clumps toward
the back of the café where the door to the lavatories and the kitchen was located. The kitchen would likely have a back door they could use to escape.

  People screamed as the gendarmes swung their truncheons, attempting to control the room and contain the panic rising around them. The patrons pushed back against the police, trying to reach the front door. The wall of gendarmes was too deep. The tide pushed backward.

  Tables upended, chairs toppled. Lanterns crashed with sodden musical notes and those with good sense still intact leapt to smother the flames of the lanterns before the spreading oil ignited.

  “I would suggest you leave by the back door,” Richard told Miss Evelyn.

  “There are too many trying to do that. I would not get through,” she said calmly.

  Richard did not insist she leave, for he suspected she was right.

  He eyed the tide of patrons as they gave way to the police pushing into the room. The table beside Richard’s was shoved back with a squeal of wood upon the floor and rammed into his. At the same time, the large glass window at the front of the café broke with a loud tinkling sound.

  A patron in shirt sleeves, with no tie or jacket and a chin dark with three day’s growth staggered between two policemen. The corner of his mouth beneath his florid mustache was bloody, yet fire snapped in his eyes.

  He saw Evelyn and snatched her wrist. He brought her to her feet and around in front of him. He was using her as a shield.

  Richard jumped to his feet and stepped around the table. The man turned to see who approached him, which put his jaw at the perfect angle. Richard struck the corner of it with his full weight behind his fist.

  The man crumpled, his eyes rolling up.

  Richard steadied the singer. “Time to get you out of here.”

  “I can stand in a corner and be out of the way,” she assured him, her voice just as quiet.

  “Not if one of the lanterns goes up. If it does, you will have your burst of flames. Come along. This way.”

  He led her to the front of the café, on the far side from where even more police were sliding through the front door, shouting at everyone to halt or be arrested.