“You really are impossible, you know.”
Philippe flashed a devilish smile. “Without a doubt.”
They entered a room that was nearly overwhelmed by an ornate walnut table and matching sideboard. Jean-Pierre’s taste in furnishings was nearly as hideous as his taste in art. Hiding his grimace, Philippe forced himself to spare a smile for the hovering housekeeper.
For whatever ridiculous reason Raine found it important that the servants feel as if they were properly appreciated. On this night Philippe was willing to indulge her wishes.
“Ah. Madame LaSalle, it smells delicious,” he murmured. “Roasted lamb?”
A startled blush of pleasure touched the woman’s round cheeks. “Oui, with my own rosemary sauce.”
“How did you possibly know it was my favorite?”
“Is it?” The woman fussed with her apron, attempting to hide her smile. “Well, I believe that a gentleman should always have a hearty dinner, and there is nothing tastier than lamb on a cold winter night.”
“Yes, indeed.” Philippe ignored Raine’s startled glance as he escorted her to the table and seated her. Taking his own seat next to her, he glanced toward the servant. “I think that will be all for now, Madame LaSalle.”
“Yes, of course.” With a hasty curtsy the woman scurried from the room and Philippe smiled smugly as he filled Raine’s plate with the various dishes spread across the table. “There, you see? I am not entirely without charm.”
She rolled her eyes. “When it suits your purpose.”
Philippe filled his own plate before pouring them both a glass of the rich burgundy. At least Jean-Pierre could always be depended upon to keep a respectable cellar.
“It has been my experience that most people employ charm when it suits their purpose, which is why I prefer a more direct approach.” He deliberately held her gaze as he took a bite of the lamb. “And why I prefer others who speak their mind.”
“Are you implying that I have no charm?”
Philippe gave a short laugh. “You have charms enough to bring men to their knees, as you well know, meu amor.” He studied the pale features that should only belong to an angel. “It is little wonder your father felt compelled to keep you hidden behind the walls of a convent. You would have created chaos in that tiny village.”
Tasting of the delicate soufflé, Raine gave a small shrug. She was remarkably indifferent to her astonishing beauty.
“My father sent me to the convent because it was my mother’s dying wish.”
“Did you enjoy your days among the good sisters?”
A small, reminiscent smile curved her lips. “Yes, I did. It could be stifling at times, but I took pleasure in being surrounded by friends.” Her smile widened. “I even enjoyed my studies.”
Philippe watched the play of emotion cross her pale face. There was a softening to her features that revealed her memories were pleasant ones. For once her guard was entirely lowered and Philippe forgot his dinner as he savored the small glimpse into her heart.
“I suppose you tormented your hapless teachers beyond bearing?” he prodded her to continue.
“Not at all. I wanted to learn.” She sipped her burgundy. “Unlike most of my companions I understood that I was being offered a gift rarely given to girls in my position. I never took my education for granted.”
Philippe could easily imagine her as an eager student. She possessed an innate intelligence and natural curiosity. The perfect combination for any scholar.
“So you were wise even at a young age.” He raised his glass in a small toast. “I commend you.”
She shrugged as she nibbled a stuffed mushroom. “I do not know if I was particularly wise, but I did consider the possibility of becoming a teacher.”
Philippe swallowed his instinctive denial. This woman wasted teaching a pack of ungrateful brats? It would have been a sin against nature.
Instead he regarded her with a faint curiosity. His experience had taught him that Miss Raine Wimbourne rarely allowed herself to be distracted when she set upon a goal. If she had truly desired to teach, then it was surprising that she had allowed anything to stand in her path.
“Why did you not?” he demanded.
“I thought—” she paused as if struggling against an unwelcome surge of emotion “—I thought my father would have need of me.”
Philippe frowned at the hint of sadness in her voice.
“Which he obviously did,” he said softly.
The thick sweep of her lashes lowered over her eyes. “Yes, well, not precisely in the manner I had expected. You see, he had become accustomed to living without me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has Mrs. Stone to tend to his home and friends to keep him entertained.” Her lips thinned. “He is not quite certain what to do with me.”
Philippe’s fingers tightened on the stem of his glass until the fragile crystal threatened to break. By God, some day he was going to get his hands on Josiah Wimbourne and thrash him within an inch of his life.
His eyes narrowed. “And yet you desire to return to your father.”
“He is the only family that I have.”
“Is family so terribly important?”
Her lashes abruptly lifted to reveal a startled glance. “Of course. Without my father I would be utterly alone in the world.”
Philippe reached out to grasp her slender fingers, holding her gaze. “No, not alone.”
He heard her breath catch before she was tugging her fingers from his grasp and hiding her hands in her lap. Almost as if she feared his touch.
“Perhaps when I return home I shall consider teaching,” she said in a sudden rush. “The local vicar instructs a handful of boys in the area, I could do the same for the young girls. They have as much right as anyone to learn how to read and write.”
Philippe ground his teeth at her sharp retreat. Damn the woman. She would readily allow him to perform the most intimate caresses upon her body. He had taken her in every position possible. But the moment he threatened to slip past her defensive walls, she was scurrying away.
It should not trouble him. After all, he had what he wanted. Her willing body in his bed. But, it was not enough. Hell and damnation, it was never enough.
Rattled by the realization, Philippe instinctively slid behind his own aloof arrogance. If she wished to continue with the charade that she was his unwilling captive…then so be it.
“A worthy goal, but not one that will occur for some time, meu amor. At least not in England,” he said smoothly. “If you wish to share your knowledge with my servants, however, I will not stand in your path.”
She gave a small jerk, as if she had been slapped. “Not stand in my path?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “How very gracious of you.”
Philippe offered a casual shrug. “You wish to be of service to others and many of my staff are no doubt eager to learn. It seems a reasonable exchange.”
“Good Lord, Philippe, I was not requesting your permission. You have no authority over me.”
He leaned forward, his expression hard. “You are mistaken, menina pequena, I have already told you that you are mine.”
“I am not yours.” With a surge she was on her feet and glaring down at his relentless countenance. “I am a grown woman who is perfectly capable of making her own decisions.”
“Ah, yes. Decisions that very nearly led you to the gallows.”
“Instead they led me to your bed.”
He slowly rose to his feet. “A place you have more than enjoyed.”
“How dare you…”
“I fear you will have to continue your sulking alone, meu amor.” Philippe interrupted the angry words, his thin smile not reaching his eyes. “Carlos will be expecting me. There is no need to wait up for me. I shall no doubt be late.”
Without waiting for her response, he turned and headed toward the small foyer, where he gathered his coat and gloves befo
re leaving the cottage.
Stepping into the garden, Philippe gave a small shiver as the icy breeze swirled through the darkness. He slowed his steps, sucking in a deep breath of the chilled air.
What the devil was the matter with him? He had promised himself he would not be goaded. That he would be in complete command of the situation. But he had only to be in the same room with Raine for his renowned composure to be crushed into dust.
It truly made no sense. His skill with the fairer sex was beyond question. They fulfilled a necessary purpose in his life and in return he kept them well satisfied. Not only in his bed, but with the sort of expensive trifles that always pleased a woman.
Well, every woman except for the damnable woman he had left in the cottage.
Of course, he had never asked so much from other women, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Until Raine his lovers were no more than passing distractions that were forgotten the moment he left their beds. They were never allowed beneath his roof. And never allowed to disrupt his life.
Certainly he had never sought to capture their mercenary hearts. Or to brand himself so deeply, so thoroughly, that they would never be allowed to forget him.
Gads, he was surely losing his mind.
Entering the stables, Philippe was unsurprised to discover Carlos there before him. He was, however, startled to find that his friend had already saddled the horses and was awaiting him with obvious impatience.
His instincts prickled with anticipation. Taking the reins of his black, ill-tempered mount, Philippe easily swung himself into the saddle.
“Has there been any word from Belfleur?”
“A message arrived an hour ago.” Carlos mounted his own horse and led the way from the stables. “Belfleur will be waiting for us in the back rooms of Frascati’s.”
Philippe nodded, inwardly relieved he already had the prerequisite white cravat tied about his neck. The gambling house was one of the most elegant in Paris and demanded that its guests be properly attired.
“He must have information,” Philippe muttered as they cautiously made their way down the icy streets. “Perhaps there will be some good news at bloody last.”
Easily sensing the edge in his voice, Carlos sent him a curious glance. “Troubles?”
“I am beginning to believe that females were put on this earth for the sole purpose of creating chaos in man’s well-ordered existence.”
“I never noticed you having any particular difficulty with women,” Carlos mocked. “At least not until our carriage was halted by the Knave of Knightsbridge.”
Philippe’s breath condensed in the cold air as he blew out a heavy sigh. “Had I any sense I would have turned the wench over to the magistrate that night and been done with her.”
“There is nothing forcing you to keep her. If she is bothersome to you, then simply release her.”
Philippe frowned in warning. “Turn your attentions to another woman, Carlos. You shall never have Raine.”
The younger man shrugged, but thankfully kept his mouth shut as they continued through the silent streets.
Their pace was by necessity slower than Philippe desired, but not even his impatience would allow him to risk breaking the leg of his mount on the ice. At least the traffic was light until they hit the streets of Paris. And even then the cold night had driven most of the citizens to the warmth of the nearby coffeehouses.
They arrived in the rue Richelieu and dismounted before the gambling club. Walking to the door, Philippe was brought to a halt as Carlos put a hand on his shoulder.
“You go and meet Belfleur,” his friend commanded. “I wish to keep watch out here.”
Philippe studied the dark countenance, sensing the tension. “You do not trust Belfleur?”
Carlos’s lips twisted. “I trust no one, but on this night it is the streets that have me concerned. There is a smell of violence in the air.”
Philippe had to agree. Although the wealthier citizens had crowded into the shops and gambling houses, there were still clusters of drunken revelers who roamed the streets in search of entertainment. Should they be foolish enough to clash with the King’s Guard, the powder keg could blow up in all their faces.
“A sound notion.” He paused, his expression somber. “If there should be trouble I want you to return to the cottage and ensure that Raine is taken to safety. Is that understood?”
“Meu Deus, when have I ever left your side in a fight?”
Their gazes locked and held before Philippe was giving a wry shake of his head. The bond that had been forged over years surged to the surface and once again they were brothers.
“I am asking as your friend, Carlos,” he said softly. “I brought Raine to this godforsaken city, and if something were to happen to her I…I could not bear it. I would trust no other with her. Will you swear?”
The dark features tightened before Carlos sucked in a deep breath and gave a slow nod. “Sim. I give you my word.”
Satisfied, Philippe turned and entered the antechamber of the gambling house. A dignified servant hurried forward to take his coat and gloves, his covert gaze lingering upon Philippe’s distinctive ebony curls as he offered a bow.
“Monsieur Gautier?”
“Oui.”
“If you will follow me?”
The servant led him into the main parlor, which was discreetly hushed despite the number of patrons who gazed avidly at the long table with its green baize. At each end of the table a manager kept a close guard on the various fortunes being tossed into the hands of fate.
His passing was barely noted as the gamblers breathlessly awaited the smooth spin of the roulette wheel, which was why such an establishment was always such a convenient location for secret meetings. He could be in plain sight and yet utterly inconspicuous. Far simpler than sneaking about.
They turned into a hall that led past smaller chambers that were similarly filled. At last the servant halted before the last door, and after a discreet knock pushed it open and waved Philippe within.
Stepping over the threshold, Philippe heard the door close behind him and he glanced around the small but elegantly furnished office. A sturdy desk with a chair was set near the row of bookshelves beneath the bay window. Across the room was a brick fireplace with twin leather chairs on either side. The familiar pudgy form was seated in one of the chairs and Philippe moved forward to join him.
“Belfleur.”
“Gautier.” The man waved a hand toward the matching chair without bothering to rise. “Have a seat.”
“You have use of a private office?” Philippe demanded as he settled into the soft leather. “You never fail to amaze me, old friend.”
Belfleur shrugged, but a smug smile played about his lips. “People owe me favors and from time to time I call them in. I thought it best that we not be seen together. No one will know of this meeting.”
“You have information?”
“I believe you will find it of interest.” Belfleur paused as he glanced toward a silver tray that had been set on a nearby table. “Wine?”
“Thank you, no.” Philippe leaned forward, his entire body humming with a coiled tension. “What have you discovered?”
Clearly sensing that Philippe was in no mood for casual chatter, Belfleur crossed his hands over his stomach and regarded his companion from beneath his half-lowered lashes.
“One of my boys claims that he has worked for a man calling himself Seurat.”
“Did he say what he looked like?”
“A small, twitchy man with a limp and a scar on one cheek. He also mentioned that the man had a strange habit of muttering to himself.”
“That is him.” Philippe’s fingers bit into the leather arms of the chair. “What sort of work did the boy do for him?”
“He was paid over the past few years to keep an occasional eye on a cottage in Montmartre.”
“Jean-Pierre.” Philippe’s breath caught in his throat. The bastard had been stalking h
is brother. Hunting him like a predator until he had at last moved in for the kill.
It was little wonder Seurat had known when Jean-Pierre would be traveling to England. And how he had so easily set the trap that had landed the young, foolish man in jail.
Holy hell, it made his blood run cold just to think of how easily the madman could have killed Jean-Pierre. If not for his deranged lust for revenge, Philippe would be visiting his brother in the family crypt.
With a sudden surge, Philippe was on his feet and pacing the small Oriental rug.
“Damn the bloody bastard. I will see him in hell.”
“A charming notion.”
“Where do I find him?”
“A difficult question.” Belfleur toyed with the heavy gold ring on his finger. “This Seurat would approach Georges on the street and offer little information beyond telling the boy where to go and when to meet him for payment.”
Philippe clenched his jaw in disappointment. Of course it could not be simple. Chasing Seurat was like stumbling through a maze.
His only consolation was the unwavering certainty that he would have his hands on the man. And on that day he would take out his frustration in blood.
He came to a halt in the center of the room. “Georges is a pickpocket?”
There was the faintest pause before Belfleur gave a nod. “Among other things.”
“What street does he work?”
“The one just outside my shop.”
Which meant that he had been plying his trade long enough to have worked his way up the criminal network. And that he was wise enough to not try to sell Belfleur counterfeit information. It was an unhealthy occupation.
“When was the last time he caught sight of Seurat?”
“Not for several weeks, I fear.”
Not surprising. Seurat must have traveled to England before Jean-Pierre arrived there.
“Could he tell you anything else?”
Belfleur pressed his considerable bulk from the chair. “Non, but I believe he must have rooms close to my shop. There are boys to be hired on every street—why would he go there unless it was convenient?”
“All evidence does come back to that particular neighborhood,” Philippe agreed, recalling the clothing they had found abandoned in the alley. “Still, it will take time to search through every building.”
A Daring Passion Page 25
