Smuggling? And thisfriend. . . Compton?
“We provide services to one another in this way,” Dubois continued. “He supplies me from England, not only whisky but other articles of particular interest to Frenchmen, and I find buyers for what he sells.”
“Mmm. Are you amenable to making other English friends who might also trade services with you?”
“That depends upon what you are offering.” Dubois sat back, fitting his fingertips together.
“You will have learned that my father works in the British Foreign Office.”
How easily Nathaniel slid into this other persona. It was fascinating, in a way, but her stomach was uneasy. Why? The thought of Compton? But that was precisely why they were there. She must not grow faint of heart now.
Dubois was regarding Nathaniel thoughtfully. “And you believe this interests me?”
Nathaniel’s expression was purely neutral. “Does it?”
“We could both prosper from such a friendship,” Dubois said slowly. “Do you know, a friend of mine was last night at Frascati’s? He played attrente-et-unand said you were a most formidable opponent.”
The antagonistic blond man? Surely it could not have been the student. Even more disquieted, she adjusted her skirt, careful not to look up lest she give away any sort of reaction.
“Did he?” Nathaniel’s voice was lazy.
“He was quite sorry to lose the game to you. It was most dramatic, so I hear, your winning hand.”
“Certainly the finish had a sense of drama. Perhaps I will play your friend again sometime with less excitement.” There were sharply edged layers to Nathaniel’s words, matching Dubois’s, not entirely blunted by their easy tones.
The tentative sips ofmarc de Bourgogneshe’d already had fired off nausea in the pit of her stomach.
“Perhaps.” Dubois smiled slightly. “And you, Mademoiselle—He was also sorry to find you were already in M.Beaumont’s company and not open to new friendships.”
Had Dubois sent Oberlin to watch them? “I am open to new acquaintances,” she managed, “but not otherfriendships. I am quite satisfied with my current situation.” She caught Nathaniel’s eye.
He returned her look, something flaring there. “Indeed,” he concurred softly. “I should not like to be asked again to share you.”
He’d said something similar, in front of the mirror:If challenged, the man I am outside these rooms, Beaumont, won’t scruple to lay public claim to what is his—mine—alone.
Nathaniel looked back to Dubois. “You might inform M. Oberlin of that when next you speak.” Menace was in the quiet delivery rather than the tone.
“I shall tell him so.” Dubois steadily returned Nathaniel’sgaze. “I tell you what is what, M.Beaumont. My English friend who brings me whisky and other fine goods will be joining me here tomorrow night.”
Oh, surely he meant Compton! This was more than she’d dared hope for.
“A group of friends gathering to enjoy drinks, you understand,” Dubois continued. “The business, it is closed for the day as law requires. Perhaps we might at that time further discuss mutual interests.”
Nathaniel inclined his head.
“Do you know Baron Alphonse Cuvelier?” Dubois asked.
“The name is not familiar to me, no.”
“He will also be in attendance, along with his most lovely companion, Thérèse. You shall bring Mlle Blanchet as well.”
Gooseflesh prickled up her neck. She didn’t like Dubois’s assessing glance.
“It is unusual.” Dubois’s tone was thoughtful, looking at her.A man talking to himself, almost. “Thérèse hastrès beauxblue eyes, just as does Mlle Blanchet.”
A full-body flush of blood served as instantaneous warning before she’d fully processed the words, chased by an even stronger chill.
Was he implying that—Can Thérèse be Lucy? Oh dear God, please let it be Lucy. But has he recognized beyond doubt the similarity in our eyes?
