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

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “My friends have an abhorrence for the powers that be. They study them closely. Yes, Mr. Devlin. I am sure we will learn everything we need to about the people in your life.”

  Richard held his faced rigid to hide his reaction. Was Einaudi threatening him? He remembered to react as Einaudi expected him to. “Then I am interested. When may I meet your friends?”

  Einaudi took the remaining half of Richard’s last croissant, tore a hunk from it and pushed it between his lips. “Ah, to meet my friends… It is not quite as simple as sitting at one’s table at a café. You understand, my friends are suspicious of anyone new. Consider your own misfortune. My friends have been just as unfortunate. Now they are aware of the truth, they will not open their hearts to just anyone. They must be sure you are a like-minded fellow. Do you understand?”

  It all sounded perfectly reasonable, which made it all the more repulsive to Richard. Einaudi clothed his organization in a coat of logic.

  Richard made himself nod energetically. “Perhaps, if you were to tell them my story, they would see I am just like them.”

  Einaudi pretended to consider this for a moment. Then he shook his head regretfully. “I am afraid it would not be enough to allow them to relax. They must know for certain you are one of them. Do you see?”

  “I do see. It makes perfect sense to me,” Richard lied. “How, then, do I demonstrate I may be trusted?”

  Einaudi got to his feet and thumped his fist against his chest, perhaps to dislodge the lumps of croissant he had swallowed. “I will give the matter some thought,” he said. “I am sure we can devise a way for you to meet my friends. I have a feeling you will like them and they will like you, once they understand you are one of them.” His eyes fluttered closed in a wink.

  Then, without saying farewell, or giving any indication that he would be in touch, Einaudi turned and ambled away. He appeared to be a man without a care in the world. He even turned his tanned face up to the sun and smiled.

  Richard did not finish his coffee. His throat was too constricted. His heart was a runaway steam engine which threatened to explode at any moment.

  Einaudi was diabolically clever. Did Bertrand understand how smart this organization was which he was attempting to destroy?

  Richard would have liked to have asked Bertrand that directly but now, more than ever, he could not afford to be seen anywhere near Bertrand. He went back to the apartment to prepare for work that evening. The skin between his shoulder blades seemed to crawl with the touch of a dozen invisible gazes. He saw no one looking at him directly, yet it still felt as though he was being watched.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Eve waited even more impatiently for Jacques to arrive the next day.

  When Richard had returned from the café yesterday, he asked her to make coffee for him. He’d sat at the table with his hands together and told her of his conversation with Einaudi.

  It troubled Ève that Einaudi had appeared in an unanticipated place, far sooner than they expected. After waiting for weeks and weeks for the anarchists to talk to Richard at all, she had thought Einaudi and his friends would take a few more days to have their promised conversation with him. These people did not seem to be in a rush about anything. They talked and possibly planned, but never with any urgency.

  Ève had never seen them do anything but talk. It was only from Bertrand’s assurances that they were ruthless and that the Sûreté had dedicated an entire department of men and resources to the task of dismantling the anarchists, that she could assume they were of any danger at all. In part, her lack of clarity was because Bertrand did what he could to keep her away from any risk. Her work involved merely observing and reporting.

  Now, though, she was indirectly involved in danger. Even worse, Richard was directly involved.

  When Jacques arrived with his pastry—blueberry this morning—Ève pulled him into the apartment and shut the door. She rounded on him. “They want Richard to demonstrate his commitment. What on earth does that mean?”

  Jacques was a short man, with little spare fat, intelligent gray eyes and a square jaw. Despite his youth, Bertrand trusted him implicitly. Jacques said thoughtfully, “I’ve not heard of anything like this before. I suppose, because Devlin comes from the type of people they hate, they want to be completely certain of him before exposing themselves.”

  “Yes, yes, but what is he expected to demonstrate?” Ève pressed.

  Jacques shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps they merely want him to swear fealty. Or even sign a document, one which commits him to them. They could use against him if he proves unsuitable.”

  “Richard thinks they want money,” Ève said.

  Jacques raised his brows. “Yes, it would be another way to secure him. Only, he has none…or does he?”

  Ève scowled. “Not the sort of money they would judge buys his loyalty, I am sure. You must ask Bertrand to provide Richard with a line of credit he can use to pay them when they ask for it.”

  Jacques raised his hands, alarmed. “Oh, no, I cannot ask Monsieur Bertrand that! You must ask him.”

  “I’m not supposed to be seen at the station,” Ève pointed out.

  “Then you must slip in the back way,” Jacques insisted. “Bertrand is most careful about the money provided for his work. He must account for every franc. He even makes me pay for the pastries I bring you.” Jacques grimaced. “If you want a large amount, you must ask him for it. He will take it better from you.”

  Ève sighed and nodded. “Very well. I cannot come today—it is late and I am to sing tonight. I will stop by tomorrow, around noon. I will rise earlier than usual so I can get there and back before I am due at the café tomorrow night. Everything must look as it usually does.”

  “You usually visit prefecture stations in the middle of the day?” Jacques asked, amused.

  “I sometimes visit my mother,” Ève replied. “Only, her house is in the opposite direction to Bertrand. That is why I must rise earlier. I will walk nearly all the way to her house, then I will circle around to the second arrondissement.” She opened the door.

  “But I am here for an assignation,” Jacques said.

  “And today, you spent yourself far more quickly than your youth would deem possible.” She pushed him toward the door as his cheeks turned bright pink. With a touch of relief, she closed the door upon him and turned back to the empty apartment, her heart fluttering.

  Now she had something to do which did not involve merely waiting.

  As Ève was forced to rise far earlier than they were accustomed to, Richard found himself with an unexpected hour or two of leisure time. He strolled to the café earlier than usual. Instead of ordering cold croissant with his coffee, he instead requested a full meal of cassoulet, bread and a slice of gateau to finish it.

  He picked up one of the newspapers which earlier diners had left behind and settled at his usual table to wait for his meal to arrive.

  Only ten minutes later, he heard his name being called. He looked around, puzzled, for the pavement was empty.

  On the other side of the street, a cab waited. Through the windows of the carriage, Richard saw Einaudi’s face. Einaudi beckoned to him.

  Richard spread the newspaper over the table, to indicate the table is being used. He walked over to the cab and Einaudi opened the door.

  “Get in,” Einaudi said.

  Richard waved toward the table he had just deserted. “I have lunch to eat. I paid three francs for it.”

  “I will give you six francs. Get in.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  Richard detected irritation in Einaudi’s eyes, yet the man painted his face with a false smile. “I was struck with an idea last night,” he told Richard. “I thought of a way for you to demonstrate your commitment and qualities to my friends. It is a simple matter and it can be completed inside the hour. You can return to the café and buy a second lunch with your six francs.”

  So soon.

  Was there a reason
for the haste? Or was Einaudi simply trying to keep Richard off-balance by the speed of his arrangements?

  A matter to be completed implied action. Was Richard about to be driven to his bank and told to withdraw a sum of money? It would be ironic if Einaudi paid him the six francs he promised from Richard’s own funds.

  There was nothing for it but to get in the cab. If he did not, Richard would certainly irritate Einaudi and may raise suspicions. He should appear to be eager to do whatever Einaudi suggested.

  Richard stepped up into the cab. Einaudi shut the door behind him, rapped on the roof with his knuckles and sat back. Richard had taken the seat opposite him, with his back to the driver. He was not comfortable sitting beside the man.

  Einaudi did not seem to object to his position. He settled back in the seat with a small smile. “We have a short drive to get there.”

  The carriage took a corner, turning north. Richard peered through the window and saw the glitter of the Seine ahead. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

  “Nowhere that will make you uncomfortable, I assure you,” Einaudi replied.

  Richard looked at the large carpet bag sitting beside Einaudi, under his elbow. “Are you traveling somewhere?”

  “No.”

  Richard gave an awkward laugh. “Then I am traveling somewhere?”

  Einaudi raised the hand which rested on the carpet bag. “I spoke truthfully when I said you would be back at your café within the hour. Rest easy, friend. This is a simple matter. It will not tax you at all.”

  Contrariwise, Richard grew increasingly uneasy. There were too many unknown elements at play here. He did not like the speed at which everything was happening.

  At least Ève was safely removed from the affair. She should have reached her parents house long ago and would already be in a cab taking her back across the river. The doubling back would confuse anyone who tried to follow her. Besides, Einaudi thought so little of women, it was unlikely he would bother to follow Ève. He had dismissed her as a grasping, demanding mistress and nothing more.

  Richard sat back and tried to relax. He did not bother maintaining the conversation. He did not have the capacity to chat right now. Besides, everyone who knew him knew he did not willingly talk.

  He stared out the window as they crossed the river. The carriage made its way through the first arrondissement. It was Wednesday. The businesses and institutions Einaudi and his friends hated were conducting their affairs at full pace.

  Was that why they were here?

  The carriage continued, moving steadily north. Then it swung toward the east, and Richard’s heart strummed. The direction they were heading would take them to the second arrondissement. Richard did not know the area, except for one location—the Commissariat de Police du 2e arrondissement from where Bertrand conducted his business.

  Quickly, the direction became unmistakable. Richard’s uneasiness grew. He said nothing, for Einaudi did not know he was familiar with the station. Until the cab pulled up alongside the station itself, Richard might still be wrong about their destination.

  When they turned into the street where the station was located, Richard shifted uneasily on the bench. He could still say nothing, for he was not supposed to know this area at all. His heartbeat thudded in his temples.

  The cab continued past the station. Hot, weakening relief trickled through him. Richard glanced out the window again, trying to spot a possible destination.

  The carriage pulled over to the gutter. The driver murmured to the horses. There was nothing but houses here. Richard peered, puzzled.

  Einaudi leaned forward. “Now, let me tell you about this simple matter.”

  Richard raised his brow. “What is it?”

  Einaudi picked up the carpet bag and put it on the floor between their feet. “There is a police station, back there. You may have seen it when we went by.”

  Richard’s belly cramped. He peered through the windows with a curious expression, as if he searched for a glimpse of the station. “I thought you said I would be comfortable with our destination. I am not particularly comfortable in police stations these days.”

  “Then your task should make you utterly comfortable,” Einaudi said. He pointed at the carpet bag. “All you are to do is carry that bag into the station. You carry it as any man would carry his luggage, you understand?”

  Richard peered blankly at the bag. “It sounds simple enough. And then I bring it back?”

  Einaudi’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, no, no. You leave the bag there. Then you return here and I will take you back to your café for your lunch. That is all you must do.”

  The fear built in Richard’s chest. He stared at the carpet bag, wishing he could see through it to what laid inside. “Why on earth would I leave it there?”

  “Because I ask you to. This is how you demonstrate that you are a reliable man, one we can trust. Do you understand? You walk into the station and perhaps you take a seat to wait to be called upon by the officer at the front desk. Just as any man might do. You put the bag beside you, then you consult your watch and decide you have not the time to linger. You stand and leave. The bag remains on the floor where you put it. Simple, no?”

  Richard stared at the bag, which suddenly seemed much larger than it had before. What was in it?

  Einaudi waited for him to respond.

  Richard gave him a tight smile. “It does seem simple.”

  Einaudi reached for and pressed on the door latch. “It would be better if you put the bag against a good solid stone wall or in a corner. Something to reflect the…” He shook his head. “Put it against a wall.” He waited for Richard to move.

  Richard could not take his gaze away from the bag. He understood that he was expected to pick it up now. He would sooner pluck a rabid ferret up by the tail than pick up that bag. His suspicions were building swiftly.

  He could not hesitate for much longer, though.

  Richard willed himself to lean down and grasp the handle of the bag. He pushed past Einaudi and stepped onto the pavement. The bag was heavier than he expected, which did not please him, either.

  Einaudi shut the door. “Oh, and do not try to open the bag. That would be very bad. For me and for you.” He sat back, as if he had already forgotten Richard was there.

  Richard hefted the bag and moved toward the front steps of the police station. People were entering and exiting in a steady stream. It was a busy police station, one of the biggest in Paris. It was made of stout stone, too.

  His mind ran swiftly as he walked. He devised then discarded a dozen different possibilities—what he might do with this bag which would avoid Einaudi’s outcome. He was afraid he knew exactly what was in the bag. Einaudi’s warning not to open it confirmed to Richard that the contents were deadly.

  He stepped into the station. The air inside the tall stone building was cool after the heat of the day. It touched his cheeks with chilled fingers. He shivered and looked around the front room. There were cages like bank tellers’, where citizens could speak to policemen. There were two benches against the wall with people sitting on them, waiting for their turn.

  A matron had a small child on her lap, chatting softly to him as she smoothed his curls.

  Richard swallowed and turned on his heel to consider the other front wall. There were two more benches there. A man with round, unshaved cheeks and a soiled striped shirt, a red kerchief tied at his neck and no jacket sat at the end of one of the benches. He stared at Richard openly.

  Richard knew his face. The man had dined with Einaudi, two nights ago. He was here to ensure Richard did as he was instructed. When Richard left the station, so would he, to report back to Einaudi.

  The benches were full, with no room to sit and place the bag on the floor. Richard’s gaze swung back to the matron and her child. He would not sit at any of the benches, he decided.

  The bag hung heavily in his hand. He must put it somewhere. Now he was being observed, he could not simply give it to the g
endarmes and let them deal with it. He could not go in search of Bertrand, either.

  From one of the corridors which emerged onto the front hall, a man stepped out adjusting his waistcoat and cuffs.

  It gave Richard an idea. He caught the elbow of a uniformed gendarme as the man passed him by. He did not lower his voice as he said, “Excuse me, monsieur, is there a convenience I may use?”

  The gendarme scowled and pointed toward the corridor. He did not wait for Richard to thank him.

  Richard thanked him anyway and moved into the corridor. One of the many doors along the corridor had “water closet” written in French, in small letters.

  Richard put his hand on the door and weighed what he might do. He glanced over his shoulder. Einaudi’s friend had not moved to the end of the corridor to watch Richard. He had spoken loudly enough the man would have overheard the question and determined what Richard was doing.

  Only, he could not linger here.

  He could leave the bag. Then he would knock on doors until he found a gendarme or lieutenant or inspector—someone who could deal with the bag, while Richard returned to the front room as if he had done what he had been asked to do.

  It was a simple plan, yet it was the best he could come up with right now.

  He stepped into the room and examined the white tiles and porcelain. He pushed the bag beneath the big sink.

  As soon as anyone stepped into the room, they would see the bag. Perhaps that was a good thing. Einaudi had not said anything about hiding the bag.

  Richard turned and left. It still felt as though the weight of the bag were hanging from his arm. He experienced no relief for having left it where it was.

  He glanced up and down the corridor, which was empty. At the other end, the corridor split and went into different directions.

  One of them led to the offices where Bertrand worked. He could not go back there. He had already spent too much time lingering in this corridor, dithering about what to do.

  He stepped across the corridor and tried one of the doors. It was locked. He tried the next door. Also locked.