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

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  She didn’t know the answer to that. She had never been in love before. She did not think she would ever be in love again, not in this way.

  Yet the kiss was different. Rich, and deep, imbibed with meaning. It did not stir her body as much as his kisses normally did. Instead her heart ached. She wanted to weep with the perfection of it.

  Then the kiss changed again as the heat grew between them. Lust came to powerful life.

  Richard drew her to the bed and lay her up on it.

  Ève raised her arms up to him, more than willing to put aside all her concerns and worries about the future, in exchange for these sweet moments of bliss.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Three days later, they stood upon Whitehall Place, in the heart of London, only a little north of Westminster Palace.

  They wore their own clothes and carried their own possessions. Bertrand had arranged for the Chief Inspector to send his gendarmes to search the public fugitive’s apartment. They hunted for information which would tell them where they might find the man they most eagerly sought to capture.

  While the gendarmes turned Richard and Ève’s apartment upside down, Jacques placed as many personal items as he could into their trunks, which were carried out along with anything the police thought might be useful in their investigation. The trunks were placed inside a closed wagon and taken away with the other evidence.

  Now those trunks sat in the small hotel room where they had slept last night.

  Richard looked at the plaque attached to the stonework beside the big doors of the building the cab had delivered them to.

  Metropolitan Police.

  He glanced at her. Ève gave him the best smile she could manage, which was not very warm at all.

  More and more, Richard was returning to the dark, silent man she had first met in May. She did not know how to halt that progression. It was as if his failure to have himself accepted by the anarchists had removed all the pleasant aspects of his personality, wiping them away like the fallen petals of a bloom which had outlived its season.

  “Well, perhaps we should get this over and done with,” Richard said.

  “I am sure Bertrand explained everything to them.”

  “He cannot explain away my brother being in prison,” Richard said. “The police measure everything from that one fact.”

  Cold despair touched her once more. She pushed it aside and followed him into the building. She stood meekly behind him as Richard asked to speak to Chief Inspector Lamb.

  When he gave his name, the man behind the counter reassessed him with a quick, suspicious glance. Richard did not react. The man wrinkled his nose and curtly told Richard to wait over there.

  “Over there,” was a corner of the room.

  After a few moments, an inner door opened. The same man beckoned to Richard.

  Ève looked at the man, appalled. There had been no pleasantries and no evidence of good manners. The man did not seem to see her at all. She followed Richard, who had made no comment about the rudeness.

  The man looked at her with a startled expression. He raised his hand, as if to halt her.

  “My wife,” Richard said. His gaze met the man’s and did not shift away.

  The man blinked and lowered his hand. Then he gave the same flick of his fingers, to indicate they should follow him. They were led into a room with no furniture, not even chairs. The door was shut on them.

  Ève moved around Richard until she could see his face. “This is terrible! They are treating you as if you were—”

  “A criminal?” His tone was bleak.

  Ève drew in a breath but did not speak again. What could she say? Nothing would pull Richard out of his descent into old ways of thinking and behaving.

  The man who came to speak to them next was red-faced, with a red nose which said he liked his brandy overly much. He reeked of tobacco, too. Ève drew in her breath and held it for as long as she could while the man stood before them.

  He thrust his hands into his pockets, tilted his head and considered Richard. He had to raise his chin to do so, for he was nearly a foot shorter than Richard. “I understand you are living up to your family’s standards, Devlin. I confess the letter I received from Chief Inspector Bertrand was highly confusing. I cannot establish if you have been of genuine help to the French prefecture, or if you are merely playing an intricate game with them, and now your ways are spilling into my backyard. I cannot say I am pleased to see you back in London.”

  “I am no more pleased to be here than you, Chief Inspector Lamb,” Richard said.

  “As a courtesy to our French brothers, I will err on the side of presuming you have been of assistance to them. I will not arrest you today.”

  “I appreciate that, Chief Inspector,” Richard said. His tone was sincere.

  “However,” Lamb added, with relish in his voice, “the British police force is under the impression that you are wanted by the French police in connection to the explosion in their police station three days ago. The London bobbies are aggrieved by what you did to their brethren. I would stay out of their way, if I were you.”

  “You have no intention of telling them the truth, do you?” Richard was not shocked. He sounded weary.

  Lamb smiled. It was a horrible smile. “As I think you are playing a game with all of us, no, I will not arrange for you to move freely around this country. I think the walls are closing in around you, Devlin. I think if the pressure remains, you will make a mistake which will reveal your true nature. And then, Mr. Devlin, I will take great pleasure in arresting you and throwing you in a jail cell beside your brother. You can keep each other company for the next twenty years.”

  Richard gave no reaction at all. Ève stared at the Chief Inspector, her lips parted in surprise, astonishment swirling with a growing anger in her middle. “How can you assume…” she began.

  “No, Ève,” Richard said softly. He turned back to the Inspector. “May I go now?”

  Lamb stepped aside and waved toward the door. “Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you will be back here. The next time, you will be in chains.”

  Richard put his hand on Ève’s back, to lead her to the door. They moved back out to the front of the police station and on Whitehall Street once more. It was an overcast day and damp. She had forgotten how damp England could be.

  She looked up at Richard, trying to shake off her astonishment. “People keep surprising me by their unreasonableness,” she said. “How can he just presume in that way?”

  “It is his job to suspect everyone,” Richard said, his voice stiff.

  Ève straightened her shoulders and looked up and down the road. “Is there a café nearby where we might buy some coffee?”

  “I would suspect the nearest tea room is quite some way from here and they will not serve coffee.” He raised his arm and waved, drawing the attention of a cabdriver, who eased the horse across the road in their direction.

  “Where are we going?” Ève asked.

  “Where else? The only place we can go. Back to the hotel.” His tone was bleak.

  They stayed in the hotel for three days. Richard was not inclined to leave the room. He had newspapers brought to the room and arranged with the concierge to have books purchased and brought to the room, too. Richard seemed content to sit in the one armchair and read endlessly.

  Ève grew restless. She tried to hide her growing unease until Richard said with a disinterested voice, “You may go out and walk, if you wish. I will not stop you.”

  “But you will not come with me, either.”

  He did not answer.

  Ève stared at him, her heart racing. Since they had arrived in England, he had not once kissed her. He had not touched her at all, except for the absent-minded contact of a gentleman helping her in and out of cabs or opening doors and shepherding her through.

  The man she looked at was a stranger to her.

  She collected her reticule and hats and gloves, hesitated, then picked up her parasol,
too.

  She tried one last time to stir Richard to any interest at all. “I wonder…perhaps we could go rowing upon the river? In the afternoon, the breeze would make it cool, and there are so many ships out there…”

  Richard didn’t look up. All he did was shake his head.

  Ève left. She walked along the Embankment and through the streets of London, aimlessly changing directions and peering in shop windows when they presented themselves. She didn’t see the goods behind the glass. She had no money to buy anything and no interest in acquiring what she saw.

  She even found a tea shop, although she did not go in. She would have to get used to the taste of tea once more, she supposed. Right now, though, she did not have the energy to deal with even that simple matter.

  For the next few days, she walked every day, sometimes for hours. She could not abide the idea of sitting and reading. She did not think her worry would allow her to sit still for long.

  Sleep did not come to her easily, either. She tossed and turned each night, the damp heat of mid-summer keeping her awake.

  For the first time during those long nights, she faced the possibility that she was losing Richard. She did not know how to change things. Any possibility she came up with, including reaching out to his family or anyone she knew in London, she quickly abandoned. Richard himself had not told anyone he was back in Britain. If she made contact with them, he would see it as a betrayal.

  She was on her own, with absolutely no idea what to do.

  When the knock came upon the door to the hotel room, Richard did not immediately stir. He barely looked up from the volume of Dickens he was reading. He had not rung for a footman or ordered anything. No one but Ève knew he was here and she would not knock. The knock must be upon one of the other hotel room doors along this corridor.

  The knock came again, firm but soft. It was definitely this room’s door the knuckles rapped against.

  Richard put the book upon the pile on the floor beside the chair and answered the door.

  The man standing on the other side was as tall as Richard, but half his girth. He had thin cheeks touched with the rosy red of a consumptive. His shoulder rested against the doorframe and his arms were crossed. He wore no jacket.

  He straightened up as Richard opened the door and raised a shaggy brown brow. “‘bout time, gov.”

  Richard hid his dismay. The man was a complete stranger, yet the attitude and his appearance told a story of their own. “What do you want?” Richard demanded, as if he had no suspicions at all.

  “Just to talk, that’s all.” He peered past Richard. “Is that a pot o’ jenny, then?” He moved past Richard, into the room. “Wouldn’t mind a cup o’ char t’all…” He picked up the clean cup and the tea pot.

  “Now, see here…” Richard blustered. He did not shut the door.

  The man grinned at Richard as he dropped four lumps of sugar into the tea and stirred it. “The name’s Bert. You’re Devlin. Now we’re all caught up, see?” He took a deep mouthful of the tea.

  “No, we are not caught up at all. Who the devil are you?”

  “Best shut the door, gov,” Bert replied. “The lady’s a long ways from ‘ere, although there’re others might listen in and we can’t ‘ave that.”

  Richard considered. Silently, he shut the door. “You’re one of Einaudi’s friends.”

  “Very good,” Bert said approvingly. He drank again and gave a satisfied sigh.

  “You and your people—Einaudi, all of you—can all go hang,” Richard ground out. “You murdered people at that police station. At least two men! And you put me in the middle of it. Now the French police are looking for me! The last place I want to be is back in England. Thanks to you, that’s exactly where I was forced to come.”

  “Well, ya might ‘ave run east, only we figured ya wouldn’t. Rest easy, gov. You’re with us, now. We’ll take care of ya.”

  “I said no. I want nothing more to do with you. You repeatedly asked me to demonstrate my good faith, while you have shown none in return. You duped me and involved me in a reprehensible act which will stain my conscience the rest of my life.” That part was no lie.

  Bert didn’t seem upset by Richard’s denunciation. He drank more tea and swished it around his mouth and swallowed. “Ye might want to reconsider that, gov. The local bobbies are looking for you and the constabularies across England ‘ave you on their books, by now. Ya might ‘ave been better off ‘eading east, after all. Only, we can ‘elp with all that, you see.”

  Richard gave no answer, for the man was correct. Moving about England would be extremely difficult now. “I don’t want your help,” he said finally. Churlishly.

  “Fine. Don’t take our ‘elp. Instead, come and meet someone.”

  “Another friend?” Richard asked dryly.

  “Something like that,” Bert said, his tone wary.

  Richard pretended to consider. His thoughts raced. Was he being offered a chance to meet someone high up in their organization, now he had proved he was one of them?

  He moved to the window and pulled the drape aside to peer down at The Strand. People moved along the footpaths in pairs or alone. A family traversed the street, the three children walking ahead of their nurse, who shepherded them with soft command. The mother held a gay parasol over her head and walked beside their father, who strolled and smiled indulgently at his family.

  Once, it might have been Richard’s fate. It was what he had expected his life to be until Vaughn’s arrest put it completely beyond reach. The well-born wife, children, a life of ease and little pressure. Endless Seasons rolling one after another. Riding, hunting, cards and brandy…

  Ève was out there somewhere, he reminded himself. She walked and walked because he was unbearable and she could not stand being in the same room with him. Only now did he acknowledge how much it gnawed at him. He was driving her away, yet he seemed incapable of stopping himself from descending into the black morass of self-pity and anger which had dogged him for years.

  England was doing that, he suspected. Just hearing English instead of rapid, florid French, was a jolt.

  How could he stop this? Could he stop it? Could he claw back the contentedness of the days in their little apartment?

  Or had he merely been deluding himself that a man like him could actually grasp happiness and hold on to it? Perhaps it had been a brief detour and now the natural order of things had caught up with him.

  Richard curled his hand up into a fist, aware that Bert was waiting for his answer. He had already stood for too long in silent contemplation.

  He turned back to face the odious man. “No,” he said, startling even himself with that single word.

  Bert frowned and returned the cup to the saucer on the tray where it belonged. “No?” he repeated, puzzled.

  “No, I do not want to meet your friend,” Richard said. “I do not want to meet any more of you. I will take my chances with the English police…and the French. I require neither your help nor your friendship.”

  Bert scratched his throat. “Well, see, that ain’t ‘ow it goes.”

  “It is how this will go with me,” Richard replied. “I have delivered your bomb, and I shall regret it all my life. Your people owe me for that…that service. I will take in payment your complete removal from my life. All of you. Do you understand?” His heart thundered and his throat ached. His temples beat with the pressure of his heart as Richard waited for Bert’s reaction. Was it possible that escaping this dark morass was as simple as saying no?

  Bert pulled a flat cap from his pocket, snapped it open by smacking it on his hand, then shoved it on his head. “I’ll pass the message on, gov. Thanks for the tea.” His tone was mild. He nodded as he left.

  Richard sank back onto his chair, staring at the door.

  Suddenly, he yearned for Ève to return. She would bring with her all that was good and right in his world.

  Yet Ève did not return until hours later and by then, Richard remembered she stay
ed away because of him.

  By then, he had the beginnings of a plan. It was weak and depended upon a great many people behaving as he had come to expect them to behave, yet it gave Richard something he had lost sight of: Hope.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Something had changed. Ève could almost feel the difference when she stepped into the hotel room.

  To begin, Richard was not reading. He stood at the window, the drapes pulled slightly to one side so he could peer down at the street.

  He had shaved, too. The shirt he wore was his only white “gentleman’s shirt.” While he still had not put on a collar or cuffs, Ève almost gasped at the sight of the shirt and what it might represent.

  Richard dropped the drape when she closed the door and moved around the bed to the pile of books sitting beside the armchair. “We cannot go out anywhere in public, so I thought…would you like to take dinner in the dining room downstairs, Ève?”

  Her eyes prickled with hot tears and her chest ached. “Oui,” she whispered. “Very much so.”

  Then Richard stole what little breath she had left by pinning his collar and cuffs in place and putting on his worn tuxedo jacket.

  It was a heavenly evening, made more delightful because it was so unexpected. Ève realized she was holding herself in wary alertness, waiting for Richard to shift back to the silent man he had been. However, as the meal progressed—a very English roast beef and fruit cake with brandy sauce for dessert—her tension eased. Richard was pleasant and even though he did not smile, he did talk.

  He did not speak of their troubles, for there were waiters and diners who would hear them. For once Ève was grateful for strangers around her, for she did not want to talk about those things.

  She was more than happy to pretend they were a contented married couple having a wonderful evening, with not a care in the world.

  Richard seemed to be just as determined to do the same thing, even though he clearly had something on his mind. Sometimes his conversation would trail off and he would fall silent, his gaze upon her face, or upon the tablecloth. Then he would stir himself and make a visible effort to be congenial and interesting.