“This is intriguing,” he murmured.
“That looks like the jacket Seurat was wearing when I caught sight of him,” Carlos said with a frown. “But why would he leave his clothing here?”
Philippe considered for a long moment. “Perhaps he is well enough known in these streets that he could not risk being seen attired as a priest.”
“Which would mean that he must be close.” Carlos glanced about the surrounding streets before giving a rueful grimace. “Still, it will take days to search all the buildings. If Seurat possesses any wits at all, he will disappear before he can be cornered.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PHILIPPE COULDN’T ARGUE with Carlos’s logic. There were far too many shabby apartments and hotel rooms to easily narrow their search. With only the two of them it would take forever.
With a sigh, Philippe leaned against a nearby building and absently rubbed his aching arm.
“We have a few acquaintances that can assist us,” he said, his thoughts turning over his numerous contacts within the city. His years of espionage did have its benefits. “With some help we should be able to keep a careful watch on the neighborhood. If Seurat attempts to flee, he will be followed.”
“We have only a vague description that could fit any number of gentlemen that live in this area. How will they possibly know if it is Seurat or not?”
“Do you have a better plan?” Philippe demanded dryly.
Carlos gave a shake of his head. “Not at the moment.”
“Then let us find Belfleur.” Philippe straightened from the wall and headed down the street. “He has an entire network of thugs and pickpockets that work these streets. They will be capable of determining the local citizens from the visitors.”
It took only a few moments to press through the thick traffic toward the small shop tucked between a coffeehouse and a gambling club. Philippe left Carlos to keep an eye on their horses, as well as the passing crowds, as he stepped over the threshold.
The shop was filled with a strange jumble of items from lacy handkerchiefs to silver candlesticks to small pieces of jewelry locked behind glass cases. Belfleur insisted that they were all purchased from honest citizens who had fallen upon hard times, but there were few who did not know that most of his possessions came from his small army of thieves.
What most did not know was that Belfleur had been a guiding force in the rebellion against Napoléon’s rule, and that he had often used his considerable resources to assist Philippe in gathering information on the lingering Bonapartists. Not that the short, pudgy man with a shock of silver hair allowed the least hint of recognition to touch his face as he hurried forward.
“Monsieur, welcome to my humble store,” he purred with a deep bow. “Please tell me how I can be of service.”
Philippe cast a rather contemptuous glance about the shop, noting the two ladies sorting through a basket of handkerchiefs and the younger gentleman who was clearly in Belfleur’s employ.
“I seek a gift for a beautiful lady.”
“Of course.” Belfleur smiled as he rubbed his hands together. “We have many lovely items, as you can see.”
“I am searching for something far more special than these triflings.”
“Ah. A gentleman of discerning taste. I possess several items in the back that might capture your interest. If you will follow me?”
He waved a hand toward a curtain at the back of the room, covertly signaling to the younger man to keep an eye on the two other customers. In silence Philippe allowed himself to be herded through the curtain and down a short hall. Belfleur halted at a door and retrieved a key from his pocket. Together they entered the small room that held the more valuable jewels.
Absently, Philippe crossed to study the necklaces that were laid out on the swath of black velvet. There was a delicate silver collar with diamond teardrops, a large square-cut ruby that was framed by tiny pearls and a pure amber pendant that dangled from a gold chain.
A small smile touched his lips as he was assaulted by the image of Raine lying on his bed draped in nothing more than the sparkling jewels.
Now that would be a sight worthy of a fortune.
There was the sound of a door shutting behind him and then the click of a lock. Philippe turned in time to discover Belfleur moving forward to slap him on the shoulder.
Although the man was attired in a tailored black jacket and crisp cravat, there was no mistaking the years he had spent on the streets as a common cutthroat. It was etched in his battered, scarred features and the shrewd hardness in his pale eyes.
“I had heard rumors you had made an appearance in Paris, but I could hardly believe them to be true. You usually have the sense to keep that ugly countenance of yours hidden.”
Philippe smiled. For all his rough, and some would claim illicit, habits Belfleur was a man who possessed an unwavering loyalty to those he counted as his friends.
“On this occasion it suited my purpose to travel openly.”
“Then this is not official business?”
“No, it is personal, but I hope that I can still count upon your assistance.”
“But, of course.” The shaggy brows lifted in surprise that Philippe would even pose the question. “You know that you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, old friend, I know how valuable your time is.”
Belfleur grimaced. “Not so valuable these days. To be blunt, I have grown bored with our political games. We seek to make changes only to discover that the greed and corruption remains no matter who sits upon the throne.”
Philippe gave his friend a pat on the shoulder. “It is always the way with power.”
“So it would seem.” Belfleur shook his head in disgust before he sucked in a deep breath. “Now, what can I do for you?”
In concise words, Philippe explained Jean-Pierre’s arrest and his futile chase for Seurat. He touched only lightly on his father’s part in Seurat’s crazed need for revenge. Despite Raine’s outrage, he felt no particular remorse for the man who was determined to ruin his family. Louis Gautier was without doubt a selfish, self-absorbed creature who would stoop to any level to achieve glory, but he was still his father and Philippe would do whatever necessary to protect him.
“A difficult task, but not impossible,” Belfleur said as Philippe finished. “I will call in my lads and discover if they have any information on this Seurat. It might be that they can tell us precisely where he resides.”
Philippe smiled sardonically. “With my current streak of luck it is not bloody likely.”
Belfleur shrugged with a Gallic wave of his hands. “We shall see. Is there anything else I can do?”
Philippe paused, his gaze shifting back to the elegant necklaces. The image of them resting against Raine’s ivory skin remained a potent force. So why battle it? Raine was surely born to be drenched in his jewels.
“Actually, I did not entirely lie about needing a gift,” he murmured.
“Ah.” Belfleur smiled, his shrewd eyes glinting as he calculated just how much money he could squeeze from his friend. “Is she beautiful?”
“Astonishingly, breathtakingly beautiful.”
The glint in the pale eyes brightened. “Then you will de-sire my most exclusive wares.” Belfleur moved to run a pudgy finger over the sparkling ruby. “Is there anything that catches your eye?”
“I will take them all.”
Belfleur gave a startled blink. “All?”
Philippe smiled. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” With a swift, efficient motion Belfleur wrapped the necklaces in the large swath of black velvet before folding them into a neat package and laying them in a carved, satinwood box. “Mon Dieu, she must be quite a wench.”
Philippe’s smile disappeared as he regarded his companion with a cold, dangerous expression.
“Do not ever refer to her as a wench,” he commanded icily. “She is a lady.”
Realizing his error, Belfleur hastily thrust the box into
Philippe’s hands. “Oui, of course. Forgive me, Philippe, I meant no offense.”
Philippe battled back his anger with an effort. A gentleman could not go about flogging everyone who presumed his mistress was a common tart. Even if it was precisely what he longed to do.
“Do not forget to send word the moment you learn of anything.” He headed toward the door with Belfleur scurrying in his wake.
“Most certainly,” the older man promised. “The very minute I have word, you shall know.”
RAINE SMILED AS THE YOUNG maid seated next to her in the drawing room managed to struggle through the last of the words that Raine had written on a piece of parchment.
“Très bien, Nanette,” she said with genuine pleasure. “You have been practicing.”
A blush of pleasure touched the round cheeks. Nanette was a simple girl with a frizz of brown hair and plain features, who hoped someday to become a lady’s maid in Paris. A dream that would be far more attainable if she possessed the ability to read and write.
“Oui.”
Raine patted the girl’s work-roughened hand. “If you continue to study I do not doubt that you will soon be reading and writing anything you desire.”
“Merci, mademoiselle,” Nanette breathed. “You are so very kind.”
“Nonsense.”
Raine waved aside the maid’s gratitude even as her heart filled with warmth. Oddly, she had discovered during her brief hours of helping the maids with their reading that she experienced the same thrill of excitement as she had when she had taken the role of the Knave of Knightsbridge.
During her nightly escapades she had assumed that it was the daring risk and illicit danger that made her pulse race and her heart fill with pleasure. Now she was beginning to realize that at least a portion of her excitement came from the knowledge she was helping others.
She needed to be…needed.
Perhaps not so surprising when she considered the fact that she had lost her mother when she was very young, and her father had never known precisely what to do with his daughter. She had always known she was loved, but she had never felt as if she truly mattered. As if there was someone who depended upon her to fulfill their life.
Raine swallowed a small sigh at the same moment that Nanette abruptly jumped to her feet and glanced toward the nearby window.
“The master has come back. I must return to my duties,” the maid muttered before rushing from the room.
For a brief, insane moment, Raine was nearly overwhelmed with a sense of relief.
Since the moment Philippe had left the cottage she had been fretting and stewing in the fear that he had collapsed on the streets of Paris. The stubborn fool would never admit he was too weak to be dashing about.
And, of course, there had been the unmistakable knowledge that Seurat was still lurking about with the desire to see Philippe dead.
As her muscles unknotted, however, a sense of annoyance replaced her anxiety. Why should she spend her time worrying when it was obvious that Philippe would do what he pleased, when he pleased and how he pleased? Let him risk his stupid neck. After all, the devil did take care of his own.
Clearing away the bits of parchment and quill that lay on the table, Raine was still standing beside the rather hideously ornate desk when Philippe swept into the room and crossed directly toward the fireplace. He placed a small wooden box on the mantel before pulling off his gloves and tossing his greatcoat onto a nearby chair.
Covertly, she watched as he held his slender fingers toward the leaping flames, her gaze skimming over the aristocratic profile and tousled curls. There was no mistaking the pallor of his countenance and the lines of pain that framed his sensuous mouth, but even wounded he managed to fill the room with his commanding presence.
Raine shivered as a heat prickled over her skin. It was grossly unfair that he should manage to disturb her with such ease. Especially when she was quite certain that he could dismiss her from his mind without the least effort.
Her vague annoyance deepened as Philippe turned his head and quirked a brow in her direction. Almost as if he were daring her to lecture him on his ridiculous refusal to take proper care of himself.
Which, of course, ensured that the chiding words died on her lips. Damn his blasted soul.
Once confident that he had managed to avoid the well-deserved lecture, Philippe leaned casually against the mantel.
“Is it my imagination or does my presence launch the servants into a quake?”
With a small sniff, Raine settled on the delicate sofa and smoothed the skirt of her rose satin gown.
“You frighten them.”
“How the devil could I possible frighten them? I have yet to actually catch sight of more than a fleeting glimpse of most of them.”
Raine shrugged. “No doubt your brother spoke of you upon occasion.”
“No doubt.” His lips twisted. “’Tis no wonder they regard me as an ogre. Jean-Pierre has always taken great delight in convincing others that I am just a breath away from Beelzebub himself.”
“And you take great delight in convincing others your brother is absolutely right,” she pointed out dryly.
The devil possessed the audacity to give a low chuckle. “It is true that I rarely concern myself with the opinion of others.”
“You enjoy causing others to fear you.”
“It does have its uses.”
Her lips thinned. “So does simple human kindness. The servants would not flee if you took a few moments to assure them that you are pleased with their efforts.”
He regarded her for a long moment, as if wondering if she had lost her senses. “If I was not pleased, they would be seeking new employment.”
Raine rolled her eyes. The man’s aloof arrogance never failed to astonish her.
“And you cannot take a few moments to offer words of praise?” she demanded.
“I pay their salary. I assure you that is far more important than any words of praise.”
Without thinking, Raine was on her feet and crossing to regard him with a small frown.
“What do you fear, Philippe?”
His green eyes narrowed. “Fear?”
“Do you believe you will be thought weak if you lower your guard for even a moment?” she demanded. “Or is it that you merely prefer to keep everyone at a distance?”
“Not everyone.” Without warning his arms whipped around her and Raine discovered herself hauled against the hard contours of his body. The ice melted from his expression and a dangerous heat smoldered in his eyes. “The less distance between us the better.”
Her breath tangled in her throat. “Philippe…your arm.”
With a groan he buried his face in her neck. “My arm is not what is currently aching.”
There was no mistaking the stirring of his body as he pressed her tightly against him. Even worse, there was no mistaking her own response as his lips skated down the line of her throat.
“For God’s sake, Philippe. Do you never think of anything else?” she protested.
Philippe nipped sharply at the lobe of her ear. “Not when you are near.”
Her already raw nerves rebelled at the blatant confession that she was nothing more than a warm body he currently desired. Stupid, really. He had never pretended that he had any other interest in her.
Still, the realization that he remained impervious, while every day she was growing more deeply ensnared with the vexing man, made her struggle from his clinging grasp.
“That is hardly flattering,” she muttered, stepping back before he could halt her retreat.
A smile twitched at his lips. “It does not please you to know that I cannot keep my hands from you? That you plague me with thoughts of your satin skin and plum-ripe lips even when we are miles apart?”
“It takes little accomplishment to stir a man’s lust,” she said tartly. “As a rule one need only be a female.”
“Ah, but I am a gentleman of discerning taste,” he drawled. “Only the most beauti
ful of women is capable of stirring my lust.”
“That is still no compliment. I had nothing to do with the way I was born.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “You wish me to tell you that I am fascinated by your brilliant wit and astonishing intelligence?”
Raine flinched as he struck far too close to the truth. She did possess wit and intelligence. Why should she not be admired for such things?
All too aware of his searching gaze watching the play of emotions that flitted over her face, Raine abruptly turned to study the blazing fire.
“I suppose it does not matter.”
She thought she heard him stifle a sigh before he reached out to lightly stroke her cheek.
“You are very difficult to please, meu amor. Since it is obvious my mere words cannot convince you of my utter bewitchment, perhaps I should express my admiration with a more tangible means.”
Philippe shifted, and without warning Raine discovered that he was pressing the box he had brought back from Paris into her hands.
A chill settled in the pit of her stomach as she studied the elegantly carved box.
“What is this?”
“Open it and discover for yourself,” he softly challenged.
With hesitant motions she pulled the lid off the box and gently tugged aside the black velvet within. She caught a brilliant flash of absurdly large diamonds and what appeared to be a ruby, as well as a golden glint of amber before she was shoving the box back into Philippe’s hand.
“No,” she breathed.
For once she managed to catch him utterly off guard. His brows drew together as he regarded her with a hint of wariness.
“Raine?”
There might have been a measure of satisfaction in Philippe’s uncertainty if Raine had not been battling a sudden flood of tears. As it was, all she could think of was escaping before he could witness her distress.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, sweeping past him to head directly for the door.
Once out of the stifling room, Raine picked up her skirts and dashed up the stairs to her chambers. Within moments she had the door shut and locked behind her.
A Daring Passion Page 22
