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

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Only, in the cab on the way back to the house on Rue du Val-de-Grâce, Richard said, “If there is a café which the anarchists prefer above all others, which one would it be?”

  Ève thought it through. “The Café Des Soirées Agréables, on the Left Bank,” she said. “It has three separate rooms and lots of private corners. There is always a handful of known anarchists there, on any single night.”

  Richard nodded. “Say nothing to your parents about this for now,” he told her. “I have some things to put in motion, first.”

  Ève was not sure if she was pleased or disappointed that she must wait before going through with marrying him. “Don’t make me wait for too long, Richard. My courage may run out in the meantime.”

  Richard laughed. “You? You will never run out of courage. You have too much of it. Just a day or two, that is all I ask. It might be better if we face your father after a few days of sober reflection. He is not a man who tolerates giddiness.”

  By the time they made it back to the house, and she went upstairs to bathe and sleep, she felt a touch of relief that there would be time to reflect upon her decision. It was not so much that she regretted making it, but that she wanted to become accustomed to the idea before announcing it to anyone else.

  The next two days were quiet ones, while she sewed with Mama Mairin, read and helped with other household chores, as requested from time to time. Richard came and went, yet was always at the dinner table each evening. He did not say anything to her directly, not in the house. Now and then, though, she realized he watched her.

  Well, she observed him. She found she was considering Richard in light of this new fact: He was to be her husband.

  Richard’s mother, the late Natasha, had been considered a great beauty. Richard had acquired some of her beauty, in a decidedly masculine way. His black eyes were fringed with dark lashes which did not make him at all effeminate. His hair was thick and wavy, and he had that dimple in his chin. His jaw was strong, with a clean line, for he did not wear a beard and mustache as so many men did.

  She even liked the evidence of his working life—the scars on his hands and his muscular wrists. The thick shoulders and sturdy legs. Although she had to guess about the legs to a certain degree, yet when he sat, his thighs were outlined by his trousers, and they were not spindly at all.

  Two days passed in idle contemplation and not once did Ève consider retracting her proposal. Besides, Richard had proposed marriage and she had accepted. It would be the height of indecency to withdraw her acceptance now. Only, if she had really wanted to, she suspected Richard would understand.

  In the late afternoon on the second day, Richard tapped on her bedroom door. She opened the door a crack. Her heart gave a little skip when she saw it was him peering through the crack.

  One black brow lifted over his eyes. “If you are still of the same mind, Ève, then I will speak to your father tonight.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind at all.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he might smile, but he did not. “I’m pleased to hear it.” His voice low. They were simple words, yet they were imbibed with meaning.

  She shivered. “Tonight, then.” She paused. “Only, may we speak to him before dinner? I’m hungry right now but I won’t be able to eat a bite if we are to wait until after supper.”

  Richard did laugh then. “Very well, just before supper. Meet me at the bottom of the stairs in half an hour.”

  Ève closed the door and hurried to get ready for supper. When she descended the stairs thirty minutes later, Richard did wait at the bottom of them. Unlike her, he had not dressed in evening clothes. She knew that the only evening suit he had was his tuxedo, which was too grand for supper in this house. He was presentable, though, and had combed his unruly hair into obedience.

  He gave her a small smile, which she thought might have some nervousness in it. “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  Papa Iefan sat in the easy chair by the fireplace. There was no fire, because it had been a warm day. The easy chair had a foot still, which he had his right foot propped upon. He had laid an open book upon the arm of the chair to keep his place. Instead of reading, he stared at the clean and freshly blacked grate in the fireplace. He looked up as they approached and his brows came together.

  “May we have a word with you in private, Uncle Iefan?” Richard asked.

  Papa grew still, just as Richard had done when she first proposed they marry. Had he guessed what they intended? Possibly.

  Her heart hurried as her father got to his feet and glanced at the table where Gwendolyn, the maid, was laying places. Mama supervised with her spectacles on the end of her nose.

  “I have no intention of climbing back up to my study. Not tonight,” Iefan said. “The sewing room must do.”

  He led them to the back of the house, to the tiny room in the corner. The room was so small that a normal bed could not fit in it, in either direction. There were narrow shelves holding all manner of linens and sewing equipment. A lady’s wing chair in the corner and a worktable beside it were the only furniture. It was where Mama did her sewing and substituted as a morning room for her.

  Papa settled on the wing chair, his hand on his knee. He thrust his foot out and rubbed heavily. He glanced at Richard and raised his brow.

  Richard picked up Ève’s hand. “I think you have already guessed why we wanted to speak to you. If you can find it in your heart to give your blessing, I would very much like to marry your daughter.”

  Papa did not speak at once.

  Ève clutched at Richard’s hand, squeezing. Her heart was running far too hard. She was braced to hear some of the awful things which most of English society said about Richard to emerge from her father’s lips. She knew Papa far too well. He tolerated much in others, but not his children.

  He might be willing to have Richard linger beneath his roof, but this was an altogether different matter. Now Richard wanted to marry her.

  Papa sighed. “I can tell from your faces that you expect me to object. Is that because of your reputation, Richard?”

  Richard cleared his throat. “Ève has assured me you have different standards when it comes to your children. I can understand that. It would be reasonable to expect you to object to a man of my reputation marrying into your direct family.”

  “A reputation which was neither earned nor deserved. You would like me to be a hypocrite in this, then?”

  Eva drew in a breath to speak but held herself silent. It was not her place to speak, right now.

  Richard actually laughed. “I had hoped you would not be so, sir. It is a relief to know you are as sensible as I suspected you to be. Thank you.”

  Iefan waved toward the door. “Open the door and call for your mother, Ève. She must learn of this before we sit at the table for dinner.”

  Ève’s heart gave another jump. Mama would be a different matter.

  She moved to the door, opened it, leaned out and called for her mother.

  Mama’s voice answered from somewhere upstairs. Then, the rattle of feet upon the stairs.

  Ève returned to Richard’s side. She took his hand, because there was comfort to be found in his grip. It made her feel not quite so alone.

  Mama stepped into the room, eyed the three of them and shut the door. She moved over to where Iefan sat and rested her hips upon the edge of the worktable and studied them.

  “Richard has asked for my permission to marry Ève,” Papa said. “I have told him he is free to do so, with my blessing.”

  Mama’s lips parted, and her eyes widened. “But… So quickly? How did this happen? When did it happen?”

  Ève was at a loss to answer. Richard answered for her.

  “For me, Aunt Mairin, the decision was made the night we went dancing. Ève is an extraordinary woman, a fact which made itself known to me that night. Since then, I have been making arrangements. It might reassure both of you to know that I have employment, now.”

&
nbsp; Ève gasped. So did her mother. Papa merely raised his brow.

  “It is quite humble, but it is honest,” Richard said. “I am to be a wine waiter at the Café Des Soirées Agréables, in the Latin Quarter. It seems that being raised to drink wine and brandy is sufficient qualification for the work.” He paused. “I have also found an apartment for me and Ève, not far from the café and quite close to the Sorbonne, on a respectable street.”

  Mama wrung her hands. “But this is moving far too quickly. You have only been here for a few days, Richard. It isn’t nearly enough time to be certain of such a decision. There should be an engagement, and…and…”

  Papa hauled himself to him his feet and pulled Mama against him. He kissed her temple. “It is right that you should worry about such things, but they are both sensible people and I trust them to know what is right for them.”

  “But it is not right!” Mama cried, her voice muffled against Papa’s shoulder.

  “Actually, Mama,” Ève said. “This feels very right. It is the most certain thing I have done in my entire life.”

  Richard’s hand shifted in hers and his fingers tightened for a moment.

  Papa said, “Why don’t you two go to dinner? Let me speak to Mairin for a moment.”

  Richard rested his hand against Ève’s back. “Here, let me get the door for you,” he said softly, guiding her toward it.

  When the door was shut, Mairin raised her face from Iefan’s shoulder and blinked. Her eyes glittered suspiciously. “But they cannot possibly love each other, not in such a short time.”

  “Why not?” Iefan replied. “I fell in love with you inside a week. It just took me the rest of the season to understand that. Even then, I was willing to marry you, long before my heart caught up with the decision.”

  Mairin’s lips opened in surprise. “Iefan! You never told me that! Not in the eighteen years we have been married. Really?”

  He smiled at her indignation. “Ah, you are such a romantic, my love. For all your practicalities, it pleases me that I can still make your heart patter.”

  Mairin waved him away. “You’re changing the subject!”

  “I am,” he said evenly. “Let them marry without objections, Mairin.”

  “But they should marry for love and it is very clear to me they are not in love. Why on earth would they feel they must marry?”

  “There is a connection there, one which is very deep. Perhaps that is what they sense. Ève is her father’s daughter. I am astonished she would consider marriage to any man. It pleases me she chose Richard. Let this be, Mairin. I suspect the pair of them will suit each other rather well, once they have sorted each other out.”

  “Do you not mean once they have sorted their lives out?”

  “I said what I meant.” He picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles, which were prettier in his eyes for their work-worn appearance. “And tonight, after dinner, I promise I will return to the subject I have ignored. I will tell you a story about a morning I spent upon London streets, entertaining thoughts of marriage, when I had considered myself utterly unsuitable for it the day before.”

  Mairin’s gaze softened. “I will hold you to that,” she murmured, as he moved to the door and opened it for her.

  “Oh, I hope so,” Iefan said fervently.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The evening included a champagne-soaked dinner and more drinking, during which both her brothers became completely sodden and required assistance to climb the stairs and go to bed.

  Ève let Richard walk her to her room, where he kissed her cheek and closed the door upon her.

  She went to bed and peered up at the new moon showing through her windows, and realized she was oddly happy.

  The next morning after breakfast, Richard pulled her gently away from the dining table, where she and her mother had a pile of household linens requiring repairs upon the middle of it.

  Mama did not object to Richard drawing her away to speak to her in private. In fact, Mama had been quietly supportive ever since she and Richard had left her alone with Papa to discuss it. Ève wondered what Papa had told her which allowed her to become so complacent.

  Richard glanced at Mama, then said in a soft voice, “I think it might be a good idea for you to speak to Bertrand and let him know what has happened in the last few days.”

  “And what is to happen in the near future, too,” she added.

  “I suspect Bertrand may have objections of his own to your plans.”

  “My plans will help him. How could he possibly have objections?”

  “You may be surprised,” Richard said. “You are about to demonstrate to a man that you are capable of thinking and coming up with strategies which outshine his own. Bertrand is a typical man and likes his power.”

  “If you are sitting beside me, then I do not care how angry he gets.”

  Richard looked as though she had said something startling.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “Is one hour sufficient to prepare?”

  “More than,” she said.

  “I will have a cab waiting out the front in an hour, then.”

  The prefecture building where Bertrand kept his offices was in the second arrondissement. It was not the same station where Richard had been detained and questioned. Bertrand’s work for the Sûreté was not confined to a single arrondissement. Anarchists lived, worked and spun their plans all across Paris and beyond, into the countryside. They had spread across Europe, in fact. Bertrand went where the anarchists were to be found. He called upon the gendarmerie of whichever arrondissement he was within.

  Monsieur Bertrand listened politely to Ève as she explained her proposal and asked sharp questions when she told him about what had happened at the café where he had sent her. He tossed down his pen with a sigh once she had finished describing Hook Nose and what had transpired.

  “It seems to me that you have more than successfully rebuffed them,” he said, scowling. “They will not try to approach you again.”

  Richard said, “Sending Hook Nose away as I did merely reinforced that I am a man who prefers his own company—and that of a lady, when she agrees.” His gaze flickered toward Ève. “As I did not try to worm my way into their company at the first opening, it will reassure them that I am exactly who I seem to be—a perfect candidate for their ranks.”

  Bertrand considered it with an unhappy expression. “I am not sure this plan of yours will work, Ève,” he told her. “I know little about your Mr. Devlin—no offense, sir. The information which is available is not reassuring, especially in light of your family history.” His gaze settled upon Richard once more.

  Ève shifted on her chair. “That is what makes Richard such a suitable lure for the anarchists. He has every aspect of an angry, lonely man who resents society and every structure which supports it.”

  “Yes, you make my point for me,” Bertrand said, his gaze still upon Richard. “How am I to know you are not the blackguard everyone presumes you to be?”

  Richard did not seem to be offended by the direct question, although Ève felt a tightness in her chest and a sinking sensation. He said, his tone mild, “I have descended into being that man more than once in the last few years, yet I have managed to withdraw from the morass. Sometimes, with help. This time, with Ève’s help and with her father’s, too.”

  Bertrand gave a waving motion with his hand. “We all need friends…”

  “Exactly,” Richard said.

  Ève shifted on the chair once more, her irritation building. “This is ridiculous, Bertrand. How can you question his character now? You thought him to be of better quality when you hauled him out of the police cell last week. You told him so.”

  “I did,” Bertrand said, his tone even. “But then, if I had been wrong, the worst that would happen would be the release of a man who should have been charged. Men like that always return to a prison cell. Now, though, you are asking me to trust this man to work for me among da
ngerous people, to risk himself for no greater reason than he believes it is the right thing to do. There is a much greater probability of things going wrong, if Mr. Devlin’s character is even slightly less sterling than you think. In which case you, my dear, would be exposed. Your father would never forgive me for that. I suspect he would shoot me out of hand.” Bertrand smiled sourly.

  “I am vouching for him,” Ève pointed out, her heart thudding. How could Richard sit there so calmly and accept the slurs against him?

  “The largest reason I am doing this is so I can protect Ève,” Richard said. His voice was still completely calm and reasonable. “Men like you use anyone who will help you achieve your ends. Your ambitions may be noble, but they do not forgive your methods. Ève says she has been doing this work for you for two years. She was barely beyond childhood when you recruited her to your ranks, which I find reprehensible. If I am a blackguard because of my family history, what does that make you, sir?”

  Bertrand simply lifted a brow. “I see.”

  Ève slapped her hand upon her knee. “Stop it, both of you. This sparring can be resolved with a simple fact—”

  “No, Ève,” Richard said quickly.

  She ignored him. He might think it prudent to sit still while a man impugned his character, but she could not. “Richard and I are to be married tomorrow, Bertrand—with my parent’s blessing.”

  Bertrand sat back. For the first time something other than urbane placidness showed in his face. His mouth pursed. “That…makes a difference,” he said softly. His gaze met Richard’s.

  Richard gave no reaction, even though Ève had revealed what he clearly had not wanted Bertrand to know. “No one other than the immediate family will know of the marriage,” he said. “And now, you. To everyone else, Ève will be my mistress, a frivolous distraction to be discarded the moment something more interesting comes along.”

  “And any proposal the anarchists make will be the more interesting thing?” Bertrand finished.