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

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Eugene scowled. “I cannot have you taking up a table a paying customer may use.”

  “Perhaps just a chair in a corner somewhere?” she suggested.

  “There is a stool in the kitchen. You can stay there. Just for tonight, though. You understand?”

  “If I am to sing at ten o’clock every night, then I will not arrive until that time.”

  Eugene rolled his eyes. “After you have sung tonight, we will decide if you will sing in the future. Now, I am very busy…”

  Ève sang that night and afterwards, Eugene actually smiled. Also, patrons tossed her coins, which she collected and tried to give back to Eugene. Clearly, her singing pleased him, for he pushed the coins back toward her. “If my customers tossed coins to you, it means they are pleased. Keep them. It will encourage you to sing well every night.”

  The next night, Richard walked Ève to the street where the café was located. She spent the intervening hours in the café across the road, as a paying customer. She made her single cup of coffee last the entire time she waited.

  After that, Ève and Richard walked to the café together every night. She was quite sure the neighbors noted their passing, although no one said anything. After all, she was a mistress. Mistresses were treated differently. They did not linger to exchange gossip with matrons who lived beside them.

  Ève could have remained in Eugene’s café to wait for her time to sing every evening, as a paying customer. It would have been simple enough to eat there every evening. Only, being in the café was uncomfortable for her. It had nothing to do with the patrons. Most of them were somber men wearing scowls and unshaved chins, who spent the evening muttering together, stirring mutual discontent.

  On the contrary, her reluctance to wait in Eugene’s café had everything to do with Richard. Ève had forgotten, in the space is only a few short days, how moody and unsociable Richard had been when she first met him.

  Now, in accordance with their plans, Richard adopted that attitude when he was in public, including when he worked. He was a surly wine waiter, who pleased customers only because he understood wine and liquors so well. He would critique their choices and make suggestions. They put up with his bad mood in order to access his knowledge.

  Even the first night Ève worked at the café, she was reminded that no one else knew the Richard she did.

  While sitting upon her stool in the kitchen, waiting to sing, Ève was acquainted with the unpleasant stranger she had all but forgotten. Richard barely spoke to anyone. He merely grunted at the chef, when the chef yelled at Richard about staying out of the way of his waiters and confining his liquor bottles to the sideboard.

  Richard ignored Ève on her stool, too. He scowled at her once or twice and said nothing.

  Even as they walked to and from the café each evening, he said nothing. He did not hold her hand or show affection in any way at all. They might have been strangers who happened to be walking together.

  It made her uncomfortable to be in his presence. She was happy to stay at the café across the road before she presented herself to sing each evening in Eugene’s café.

  When they were in their apartment with the door closed, Richard reverted to the man she had got to know. Then…ah, then! Then he became someone whose company she was more than happy to keep. He would smile and make her laugh.

  “I know it must be wearing upon you to put up with me as I am out where everyone can see me,” he told her. “Only, that is the man Hook Nose and the anarchists first met. I must maintain that appearance for now.” He kissed her. “You do understand, yes?”

  Ève did understand, although that did not make it any easier to deal with him when he was that way. He did it so well, it felt to her as though he was made up of nothing but anger, held tightly inside under such pressure that if someone was to prod him too hard, his skin was split open and all the anger would pour upon anyone nearby.

  Yet the anarchists stayed away from him.

  There were dozens of them in the café every evening. Ève got to know their faces. Jacques showed her drawings of known members of the organization and she could confirm that most of the morose men at the café were anarchists.

  Yet no one spoke to Richard beyond a request for more wine.

  May turned to June, then June became July.

  In late July, the regular patrons of the café began to disappear. Paris was emptying of people, as the summer heat forced them to flee to more pleasant environs, including Nice and Monte Carlo and the Alps. The anarchists, who did not belong to a society which could afford to spend months by the seaside, continued to dine and drink and meet at the cafe.

  And still they did not reach out to Richard.

  “I sent them away with the flea in their ear,” Richard said one night, as they laid in bed. All three windows were open and the sounds of the early morning floated through the curtains. It was a hot night. They had pushed the covers to the far end of the bed and faced each other, talking as they often did before sleep stole over them. “Apparently I was convincing. Possibly because I meant it.”

  “And possibly because you are intimidating, especially when you growl and frown the way you do.”

  A small laugh shook him before he sobered and added, “We must wait. If we try to force their hand, they will be suspicious. The way I present myself to the world tells everyone I have no tolerance for distractions. Let them measure me. The longer we wait, the more convinced they will be that I am exactly who I appear to be. Everything they will have learned about me—my history and my family—will solidify the impression. Therefore—”

  “We wait,” Ève finished.

  Waiting, though, was difficult when Jacques grew increasingly impatient as the weeks slipped by. “Monsieur Bertrand says the anarchists are building toward a plan, some project which aims to disrupt life in Paris. He must know what those plans are. His usual informants have all gone missing, which further convinces him the plans are going ahead soon.”

  When Ève passed this information along to Richard, he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “There is nothing to be done, for now. Monsieur Bertrand must wait, just as we are.”

  As the café emptied of regular patrons and the anarchists therefore increased in numbers, Ève’s restlessness grew.

  She did not realize Richard’s tension was building, too. How could she? His surly attitude was a mask for everything he held inside. She only learned of how great his concern was when the tension became too much and he snapped.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  One of the few regular diners who did not escape Paris for the summer was a small Jewish man, Isiah Epstein, who only became a regular customer when Ève began singing every night. He would order the coq au vin and a single glass of red wine, then sat at the table smoking until Ève appeared to sing. His face would light up and he always threw coins into her basket. Very quickly, Ève had learned to place a basket at the corner of the stage. Instead of tossing the coins directly at her, the patrons would toss them into the basket.

  Epstein was a gentleman and quiet spoken. He wore spectacles with heavy lenses which made gave him a bewildered expression. Ève had only ever exchanged one or two comments with the man, although she was aware that he came to see her. She made sure to sing the songs he seemed to respond to best at least once every night.

  In early August, Epstein appeared and took his usual table. Ève noticed him as she entered the café and handed her wrap and reticule to the concierge to place behind his stand.

  Epstein looked as though he may burst into tears at any minute. He stared gloomily at the tablecloth, his fingernail scraping over it as he tussled with his thoughts. Rather than the usual single glass of wine, he had a bottle of wine in front of him and it looked as though it was empty. The glass itself was half empty.

  The ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts.

  Clearly, Epstein was upset. Ève decided she would sing all of his favorite song and not intersperse any of the others in between or make him wait
for his favorites.

  Epstein glanced up at her as she passed. Instead of the usual polite greeting, he stared at her. His jaw worked.

  Ève did not stop at the table. She never did. She moved on to the tiny stage and a round of soft applause greeted her appearance there. No one announced her. It was not that sort of café.

  Most often, she sung without accompaniment. Very occasionally, Eugene would find a violinist or a guitar player who knew the songs well enough to play along with her. Only, simple love songs and ballads bored most musicians, so most often she sang without music. The patrons did not seem to mind, either way.

  Ève smiled at everyone, even Richard where he stood scowling at a table, waiting for the diners to decide what they wanted to drink. She began the first song, one of Epstein’s favorites.

  Epstein glared at her, his eyes behind the spectacles narrowed in deep thought.

  Ève put her heart into the songs. Slowly Epstein’s expression changed from anger to mild interest to quiet pleasure, as she sang one after another of his songs.

  Ève could not sing for long before needing to rest for a while. After twelve songs, she curtsied to everyone. “In a short while, I will return,” she assured them.

  Most of the patrons had already turned back to their meals and their glasses and their conversation.

  Ève stepped off the stage, bent and retrieved the few coins which were already in the basket and put them in her pocket. When she stood, she was startled to find Epstein standing in front of her. He was even shorter than she had supposed. He did not stand as high as her.

  He trembled as he looked at her. “Mademoiselle Evelyn, I must tell you…”

  Ève smiled at him. “Monsieur Epstein, you look much happier now. When I first arrived tonight, you looked upset. Did my songs help? I hope so.”

  He blinked behind the spectacles, then pushed them up his nose. “No. I mean, yes, yes, of course your songs helped. They always do. That is why I must speak to you.”

  “You have other songs you like, that I can sing for you?”

  “I would wish that you could sing for me forever.” Even his voice shook. This was clearly taking all his courage.

  Ève felt a touch of admiration for the little man. He was fighting to overcome his reticence just to stand before her and speak to her. To say what was truly in his heart like this must be the pinnacle of courage for one like him.

  She gave him one of her warmest smiles. “I would like nothing more than to sing forever, Monsieur Epstein. Singing brings me such great joy, you see.”

  “Joy. Yes…”

  Ève smiled at him again. “I must step outside and take in the fresh air. There is too much smoke in this room, which makes it difficult to sing. I will be back in a moment.”

  She stepped around him.

  Epstein reached out and took her hand.

  Startled, but not at all wary, Ève lifted her hand, bringing his up, too. “Do not fear,” she said softly. “I will return to sing again. I always do. I would not like to disappoint you.”

  “I… I…” His voice shook.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Richard ground out. He grabbed her wrist and wrenched her hand out of Epstein’s grip.

  Ève whirled to face him, still not feeling more than a mild surprise. Richard never approached her openly in the café. Only, this would seem natural, for him to react this way if another man touched her. “I was merely talking to Monsieur Epstein.”

  “While encouraging him to maul you.” Genuine fury showed in Richard’s eyes. He was not playacting at all.

  Her heart lurched. “Richard, really…”

  Richard turned to Epstein. “You will leave Evelyn alone. Go back to your table. Now. If I catch you speaking to her directly ever again, I will grind your face into the table. Do you understand me?”

  “Richard!” she cried, shocked. She switched to English. “How dare you? He is a frightened little man and quite harmless.”

  Richard glared at her. “So helpless, he has no trouble taking your hand and breathing all over you.”

  Ève wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the picture Richard had painted, except the anger in his face made her feel a little giddy and a little sick, too. “Richard, you do not really mean that. Tell me you are merely exaggerating for…” She trailed off, for even though they were speaking English, it was always difficult to know just how much English everyone in the café had.

  “Tell Eugene you are ill and cannot sing again tonight.”

  “That would let Epstein down, and everyone else who comes to hear me sing,” she pointed out.

  “I do not care,” Richard ground out. “Tell him.”

  Ève wrenched her hand out of his grip. “I will not tell him that,” she said stiffly. “You are being ridiculous, Richard.” She rubbed her wrist where his fingers had dug in. “I did not think you were capable of this pettiness.” She could not hide the disappointment in her voice.

  Instead, she pocketed the francs she held in her other hand and moved through the tables to the front door, which Eugene open for her with a nod. Stepping outside to rest was a nightly occurrence. He knew she would return in a few minutes to sing again.

  The night air was cooler and certainly fresher than the smoke laden air inside. Ève drew in deep breaths. She was trembling. She was disappointed to discover that Richard had such an unreasonable streak in his nature. It was a startling discovery and a letdown. She had begun to think Richard did not have any major flaws in his character—not the character she had got to know behind the angry mask he wore for everyone else.

  “Ève,” Richard said. “Do not walk away from me like that.”

  She whirled to face him, astonished that he had followed her outside. “You are supposed to be working,” she said coldly.

  There were no gas lights in this street, only old-fashioned candle lamps and none of them were lit. It left only the light coming through the front window of the café to illuminate his face.

  Anger still gripped him. His jaw worked. His eyes glittered. “And you are supposed to be singing. That is all. Eugene does not pay you to flirt with the customers.”

  “I was not teasing that poor man! I pitied him. He was upset!”

  Richard came closer to her and lowered his voice. “I am upset. Will you take my hand and stroke it the way you did his?”

  Ève stared at him, astonishment stealing all her words. She drew in a shaky breath and said haltingly, “You have completely misunderstood whatever it is you think you saw.”

  His jaw flexed. “You are supposed to be my mistress. You are my wife!”

  Deep in her belly, anger stirred. “And you are supposed to be helping me!” She cried. “Weeks… Months! And nothing happens. So much for my grand plan to help Bertrand bring them down.” Even with her anger stealing from her, she did not allow herself to speak the name of those they sought. Even though they were using English, caution still held her tongue. “You are such an angry man, you keep even them away from you! And until tonight, I thought it was merely an act. I do not know you at all!”

  Abruptly, the anger drained from him. She saw it happen. His shoulders sagged and his breath pushed out of him. The dangerous light in his eyes faded.

  “Do not say that,” he said softly. “Of course you know me.”

  She shook her head. “I do not know you nearly as well as I thought.” And still she could not keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  “It was a moment of madness. Blindness,” he added. “I have only to look at Epstein to know everything I said was utterly foolish. Forgive me, Ève.” He paused. “I think…I suspect this waiting has twisted my brain around inside my head. I do not know how Bertrand’s professionals do this all the time, the way they do. Pretending to be something I am not, that I am moving further from every single day, is driving me mad.”

  The confession, delivered in such an urgent and hoarse voice, shifted her perspective. How had she not seen before that Richard
was not to use to dissembling and lying and deception? It was a strain for him to continue in the role day after day. Of course he was not used to it. He was a good man.

  Ève felt the jolt travel up from her toes, as she recognized she had been gripped by the same blindness. “My goodness,” she breathed. “How could I think you are really that angry man? I am as twisted around as you.”

  Richard glanced behind him at the broad window they stood in front of. From inside, everyone who cared to look would see them standing there, arguing.

  He took her hand, this time with far more gentleness, and drew her to the edge of the footpath, away from the light from the window. His fingers twined with hers, although he did not reach for her as he might have had they been at home with the door closed.

  “Please forgive me,” he said. “I will make this up to you, when we are alone. For now, let me finish this evening as an angry man with at least your forgiveness in my mind.”

  “Of course I forgive you,” she said. “Oh, Richard, I am sorry, too. I did not realize how much of a strain I am under. We are both suffering.”

  Richard’s fingers tightened against hers. “We need to rest,” he said. “We cannot continue this way day in and day out. Perhaps…maybe we should take some time away from all this. Even something as simple as staying with your parents for a few days, where we can be ourselves. Would you like that, Ève?”

  “More than anything, I would like that,” she breathed. Her eyes prickled hard with tears and she blinked rapidly. It would not do for a mistress to break down and weep. Mistresses were made of sterner stuff than she.

  Later that night, when they were finally alone in a room with a closed door, Richard did make it up to her, in the sweetest way possible. Afterwards, they talked about how they might escape Paris for a day or two, to rest a little.

  The next evening when Ève crossed the Boulevard and walked into the café to begin her evening of singing, she saw a new face among the regulars, sitting at the back of the café, in the shadows.

  It was Hook Nose.