Ève tried to match his efforts. She worked to be charming and flattering, all the things a good wife or even a clever mistress did for their companions.
Their conversation was a mish-mash of English and French, champagne and laughter.
Then…and then they returned to their room. Richard turned the key in the lock, then drew her into his arms, not even pausing to light the lamp. His mouth met hers in a kiss which scored her heart.
Ève did cry then.
He wiped her cheeks and kissed them without comment, then drew her back into his arms and over to the bed.
They both slept late. Ève woke when the sun was high in the window and realized with a start that she had slept—and for far too long.
But then, there was nothing in her day for which to rise early.
Richard was already up. Clearly, he had only just risen, for he still wore his gown and he was rinsing his face.
Ève sat up and let the sheet fall to her hips. “Come back to bed.”
Richard glanced at her and for a moment she saw heat flicker in his eyes. Then he reached for the towel and wiped his face, and said, “I have a sudden yearning for a very English scone and jam and cream. Where is the nearest tea house, Ève? I’m sure you’ve discovered one by now.”
“Not far away at all,” she admitted. “I believe they even serve coffee.”
“Best not drink it, if an Englishman made it,” Richard advised her.
She sighed. “I suppose…just to step out of this hotel would be very pleasant.”
“And the weather has turned, too,” Richard added. He nodded to the window. “It is a mild, still and cloudless day.”
She could feel the coolness in the air against her skin. It would be even cooler outside.
Suddenly, Ève wanted to feel the touch of air against her face. She hurried to dress.
When Richard stepped out upon the footpath in front of the hotel, he drew in a deep breath and let it out. Then he smiled and held his arm out for her to take.
Ève slid her hand under his elbow, her heart soaring. She would drink all the tea in England, if only Richard remained as he was.
They strolled along the footpath, while other pedestrians hurried around them. The traffic on the street clattered and drivers shouted curses at each other. It was noisy and vibrant and alive. Ève didn’t even mind that the curses were in crude English.
She realized she was smiling.
Then Richard’s step faltered, his gaze farther ahead along the road.
Ève swayed to see what he had seen, beyond the people walking in front of them.
The black uniform of the police constable stood out among the light white muslin morning dresses and light colored suits most men wore. So did his domed helmet and the shining silver badges of office. The brass buttons winked in the sunlight.
The constable stood upon the corner of the street, watching the traffic and the pedestrians, on the lookout for trouble he might head off.
Ève bit her lip. If they turned around and went back the way they had come, everyone would see them do it. Perhaps even the policeman would notice and it would call attention to them.
Richard laid his hand over her fingers, holding them against his arm. “Come along,” he said quietly and continued walking.
Ève’s heart beat heavily as they drew closer to the constable. She realized she was staring at the man, when a normal person would pay little attention to him. She tried to keep her gaze upon the footpath or the people ahead of them. Her gaze skittered about, not landing upon anything for long, which made her feel dizzy.
Or perhaps the dizziness was a result of her heart, which would not beat steadily or calmly…
All they must do is walk past the man, their gazes ahead. That was all. Once they were past, they would be safe. After all, the English police only knew they were to detain a Mr. Richard Devlin, and Richard did not have his name emblazoned upon his chest or his forehead…
Then they were there, the constable only three feet away.
It felt to Ève’s fevered mind that Richard angled toward the policeman. Then she realized with cold shock that he was moving directly toward the man.
Richard stopped in front of the constable. “Can you help me, constable?”
Ève’s mind chattered at her in panic. She couldn’t put together a single coherent thought. She could only stand there, her breath coming far too quickly.
The constable was an older man, with a graying mustache and beard. His gaze slid to Richard. “I can try, good sir,” he said, his tone gruff. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“No trouble, sir. Not yet,” Richard said. “You should know I am Richard Devlin, the man you are searching for in connection to the explosion of the Paris police station.”
Ève screamed silently in her mind, her fingers digging into Richard’s arm. She had no capacity for anything but bewilderment. She felt as though the day had grown still around her. She couldn’t hear anything but the beat of her heart and the silent hysterical babble of her mind as it reeled in shock.
The constable considered Richard for a moment, then he shook his head. “Sir, I am on duty. I don’t have time for pranks of this kind.”
“I am not lying,” Richard replied. “I am Richard Devlin. How would I know you are looking for me, if I were not who I say I am? You need to arrest me and take me to the police station on Whitehall Street.”
Ève’s panic checked. She stared at Richard, thoughts coming together. Why did he specify that police station? It was the place where the odious Inspector Lamb had met them. Why did Richard want to return there? Why was he baiting this man to take him there instead of simply walking to the police station himself…?
The questions gathered and circled as Ève looked from Richard to the constable.
Pedestrians made tutting sounds and moved around them, for the three of them took up a greater part of the corner of the footpath, diverting the flow of people in both directions. They did not seem to realize that a drama was unfolding right beside them.
The constable did not seem to understand it either. He gave a gruff laugh, more of a chuff of escaping air and shook his head. “Sir, this is not the time or place for silliness. If you are trying to win a wager, some wild bet you made with your club members—”
Richard made a rough noise in his throat. “I insist you arrest me, constable. Your commander will approve of your forward thinking, I assure you. Arrest me and take me to Whitehall Street. Now.”
The constable’s expression hardened. “Listen here, sir—”
Richard punched him in the jaw.
Ève gasped and stepped backward. So did a number of the people passing them.
The constable staggered back, his helmet falling to the back of his head and only the chin strap keeping it from clattering to the footpath. His arms waved wildly as he sought to keep on his feet.
Then he shoved his helmet back into place. “Right…” he muttered, digging in a pouch on his belt. “You asked for it.”
Richard looked relieved as the man shook out iron manacles, gripped Richard’s arm and spun him around, shoved his arms behind him and screwed the irons in place.
Then the constable lifted his whistle to his lips and gave three sharp, loud blasts upon it.
Another whistle answered.
The constable waved his spare arm and beckoned with his fingers.
Hooves clattered. A black enclosed wagon came up to the corner.
Richard turned and pressed his lips to Ève’s. Then he breathed in her ear. “Do not follow me.”
The constable marched Richard around to the back of the wagon, undogged the door and pushed him up the steps and inside. He closed the door and slapped his hand upon the black paint.
The wagon rocked forward and raced away. The constable moved off in the same direction.
Ève was left alone on the corner, with a thousand questions and no one to answer them.
This time, the room he was shoved into ha
d no carpet or rugs, or paint on the walls, either. It was an underground room without windows, and a single gas lamp to light the place.
After the heat of the day, the air in the room felt cold.
Richard rubbed his wrists where the manacles had bit into them, as he examined the depressing room. A tin bucket sat in the corner, with a wooden lid on it.
After a great many long minutes, when it was clear no one would come to speak to him with any great speed, he settled on the floor with his back to the wall.
He had done what he could for now. All he could do was wait.
Astonishingly, he drifted toward sleep. Perhaps it was the calm in his heart and mind which induced it, now he had made a decision. Because of the sleep-induced haze, he was not certain how much time had passed, for the room had no window by which to judge the rise and fall of daylight.
From the ache of his muscles and the chill creeping into his rear from the cold stone floor, he judged some hours had passed when the lock of the iron door clanged. The door opened.
Richard had not thought he would ever be pleased to see Chief Inspector Lamb, yet when the rotund little man stepped through the door, Richard almost smiled. He got to his feet, his body aching.
“It is you,” Lamb said. “I didn’t believe the copper who told me. Well, I knew you’d be back, although even I didn’t think—”
“Please just shut up and listen to me,” Richard said urgently. “I don’t know who to talk to about this, but you must. The—”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do here,” Lamb shot back. “You struck a policeman, which is a crime and that will be enough to—”
“Just listen to me, damn it!”
Lamb drew back, astonishment warring with anger in his face.
“The anarchists want me to meet with one of their leaders,” Richard said quickly, before Lamb found his voice once more. “One of the leaders here in Britain,” he added. “I don’t know who—they don’t share details, not even to me. I’ve told them I’m not interested, yet they found me here in England and I am running out of room to escape them—”
“As you are one of them, why do you want to run away from them?” Lamb said, his lip curling up.
Richard drew in a breath, reaching for calm. Losing his temper would not convince Lamb of his sincerity. Overcoming the man’s biases was essential to his plan. “Chief Inspector,” he said patiently, keeping his tone flat and devoid of emotion. “I am no more an anarchist than you. Every principal and belief they have is abhorrent to me.”
“You’re a criminal at heart, just like your brother,” Lamb pointed out. “It runs in the family. I’ve seen it time and again.”
“My brother was guilty only by virtue of the responsibilities of his office,” Richard said. “And he was not accused of murder or violent crimes—”
“What he did was violent enough for those whose money he stole,” Lamb shot back.
“Who in your family lost their money when the Darnell & Sattler Bank collapsed, Chief Inspector?” Richard asked curiously.
Lamb’s face colored, matching his nose. “That’s beside the point.”
“It is,” Richard agreed heavily. “Who is your commanding officer, Chief Inspector?”
“That certainly is none of your business,” Lamb blustered.
“I don’t need to know his name,” Richard said. “I do want you to tell him everything that has happened today and everything I am about to tell you. Whoever he is, he should consult with Cyprien Bertrand, a director with the Sûreté in Paris.”
“You know the man’s rank?” Lamb said, sounding surprised.
“Yes of course I do,” Richard said impatiently. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Lamb’s expression was thoughtful. “Criminals generally don’t give a damn about the rank and title of those chasing them. The name is enough, if they care about even that much.”
“I was working with Bertrand in Paris,” Richard said patiently. “Everything he said in his letter is true. Or did you think he was in cahoots with the anarchists, too?”
Lamb stirred out of his thoughtful quiet. “It isn’t my place to think anything at all, Devlin.”
“Then listen, instead,” Richard told him. As swiftly as he could, he told Lamb about the events in Paris, and everything that had happened since he and Ève had arrived in London. He included Bert’s visit to his hotel room yesterday and on up to when Richard had forced his arrest by punching the constable.
“He lost a tooth,” Lamb added, when Richard finished. “You might have pulled your punch a little.” He scribbled in the notebook he had removed from his jacket while Richard spoke, the pencil scratching quickly.
“He wasn’t listening to me,” Richard said. “I had to get his attention.”
“Aye, well, you did that,” Lamb growled. He put the notebook away. “I think everything you’ve told me is a pack of codswallop, Devlin. I think you’ll say anything to wriggle out of trouble.”
Richard sighed. “You said it wasn’t your job to think.”
“It isn’t,” Lamb said shortly.
“Tell your commanding officer,” Richard urged. “Let him decide.”
“Oh, I’ll tell him, alright,” Lamb replied. “I’ll also add my recommendation that you should be sent back to Paris, to let the prefecture do what they want with you.” Lamb smiled, an unpleasant expression. “He’ll listen to me, too.”
“As long as you tell him everything I said, I don’t care what you add to it, or what you do to me.” Richard moved over to the wall and settled on the floor once more.
Lamb raised his brow, considering Richard for a long moment. “You will end up in jail just for the punch to Harvey’s jaw. You don’t care about that?”
Richard rested his head against the wall. “I only care that it keeps me away from the anarchists.”
“And your wife?” Lamb added.
“If I’m nowhere near her, then she will be safe,” Richard said. He closed his eyes, weariness pulling at him. The plan, such as it was, was in place.
After a while, he heard the door of the cell open and close and the lock tumble shut.
Sometime later, he fell asleep properly, although it wasn’t a deep or restorative sleep, for the floor was cold and the chill leeched into his bones.
While he slept, a mug of tea and a sandwich were placed on the floor just inside the door. The tea was cold and without sugar or milk. He drank it, anyway. He ate the sandwich even though he was not hungry.
Later, he slept. It was only from the growth of the whiskers on his chin that Richard could tell nearly a day had passed.
Sometime after that, the door lock ground open once more.
Richard sat up and watched the door expectantly.
Chief Inspector Lamb stepped through. He wore the same suit and a different shirt and tie. He looked grimly pleased. “You’re free, Devlin.”
Richard’s belly clamped tightly. “Free?” he repeated, his lips numb.
“Free to leave.”
“And go where?” Richard asked, trying to make sense of this extraordinary event.
“I don’t give a damn,” Lamb said. “The powers that be decided to forgive you for Harvey’s broken tooth. You would be doing me a kindness if you refrain from punching any more constables.” He stepped aside and waved toward the door. A uniformed constable stood in the corridor outside, clearly waiting to escort him to the front steps of the station.
Richard got to his feet. “You cannot release me,” he said. “I’m wanted by the French police, at the very least.”
“There’s the thing of it,” Lamb said. “We’re not obliged to do what they say, see? We cooperate when it is of benefit.”
“They think I blew up their police station,” Richard said. “Two gendarmes were murdered. You don’t care about that?”
“It’s not my job to think, remember?” Lamb said, his voice flat. “Get out of my sight, Devlin. I can’t stand privileged blackguards
like you. Get out before I change my mind.”
The curse and the anger reassured Richard, for it was what he was used to from people like Lamb. He stepped out of the cell and followed the constable through the station to the front hall, wondering what he should do now. This had not been part of his plan at all.
The constable didn’t speak to him at all. He merely opened the front door and waited passively for Richard to step through, while visitors to the station stared at him. He had been sleeping upon stone floors and was unshaved, wrinkled and disheveled.
There was nothing Richard could do but step out onto the footpath. He looked around, wondering where he should go. One thing was for certain—he would not go near the hotel, or Ève.
So he turned in the opposite direction and walked.
Only a few minutes later, a cab drew up beside him. “Devlin,” came the call.
It was Bert calling from the open door of the carriage. It was not Bert who made Richard climb into the conveyance, though.
It was the sight of Einaudi beside Bert, looking far too pleased with himself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Einaudi held out a flask toward Richard.
Richard’s throat closed over. He took the flask and drank deeply. It was wine. French and quite good. He handed it back. “I should wring your neck,” he told Einaudi.
Einaudi’s beak nose dropped, as he considered Richard. “You look as though you’ve not had an easy time of it.”
“I’ve been sleeping on rock,” Richard said. “No thanks to you.”
“Certainment,” Einaudi replied. “Such things merely measure a man. How is it the police let you go? I thought you would be on a boat to Paris by now.”
“I don’t care what you think,” Richard replied. “Can you have this vehicle turned around? I want to go back to my hotel and pack.”
“Running away again?” Einaudi asked.
“Yes,” Richard said. “From you and the police. If it means I must sail to Australia, I will. I want nothing to do with you, Einaudi. I made that clear to Bert.”
His Parisian Mistress (Scandalous Family--The Victorians Book 1) Page 17
