“Mille pardons, Monsieur, Mademoiselle.I will go away if you wish.” A feminine voice, speaking French.
“Non.” He trailed a hand down Isobel’s face to her shoulder and on down to her hip before pushing himself back from the chest of drawers. “I will open the door.” He kissed her lingeringly, using the act to murmur, “Chrysanthème.” He turned away, hitching his unfastened trousers just high enough they didn’t slip off his hips. If anyone watched and had not yet been convinced,they could little doubt the authenticity of his arousal on full display. With effort, she averted her eyes.
For God’s sake, what kind of sister am I?Thérèse...Lucy... Her entire reason for having come to Paris, the objective—theonlyone—that had driven her life recently. She’d lost the thread of that just now, however briefly. Atop the chest of drawers, animal instincts prevailed.
If he’d let his control slip, I wouldn’t have stopped him.
His partially nude nonchalance was more than she could match without him there to steady her. She adjusted her skirts enough to satisfy some degree of modesty, hoping the trembling of her limbs was not visible, forcing herself to sprawl, loose-limbed and languid, against the chiffonier’s backboard like a woman who’d just been in the process of being...fucked,to use Nathaniel’s language. Or Beaumont’s.
Chrysanthème was perhaps a few years older than herself, lithe and strikingly lovely, with fiery copper-gold hair. She exchanged a few words in a low voice with Nathaniel before he beckoned Isobel over.
“The room is no longer watched.” He was quickly setting his attire to rights. “Chrysanthème does not know for how much longer.”
It was their opportunity to leave, then. But theyhadbeen observed. Her breath came short, as it sometimes did before it got away from her.Not here.She would examine her feelings about that later, safely away from here, and if she had an attack of nerves there, so be it.It can’t be here.She sucked in a harsh breath.Not here.
Chrysanthème touched her wrist briefly, breaking the rising panic. “Your gloves, Mlle Blanchet,” she murmured, handing them over before leading them from the room.
Nathaniel walked a half step behind her, one hand splayed on the small of her back and the other on her shoulder, neverbreaking contact. She focused on those points of connection and managed, barely, to keep her breath even.
He drew her fully against his body, banding an arm beneath her bosom, as they waited in the entry drawing room for their cloaks. To Chrysanthème he said, “If you would be so kind as to inform M.Dubois that we have enjoyed this first visit together, I would be obliged. We found it to our satisfaction, did we not,chérie?”
She produced a smile. “Very much,mon amour.”
“It will be my pleasure.” Chrysanthème dropped a slight curtsy. “He will be most glad to hear it.”
“Please also relay that I will return tomorrow as discussed.” Nathaniel arranged her pelisse over her shoulders.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“Thank you,” she managed, looking at Chrysanthème.
“Bien sûr.” In better light, Chrysanthème’s eyes were an almost crystalline green. “I will see you here as well, with M.Beaumont?” Her gaze travelled between them.
“Yes.” She tried not to think of that moment of intense fear, walking into thesalle écarlate. She still trembled, although not so badly as she had. Nathaniel wrapped her pelisse more firmly around her shoulders.
“Bonne nuit,Monsieur, Mademoiselle.”Chrysanthème motioned with her hands for the outer door to be unlocked.
Outside, the wind was raw, hinting at winter not far off. Too early in the year for it, but it had been a strange year of ill cold and wet weather. Just now it was bracing, when her thoughts tried to pull her under.
There was a fiacre stand just down the street with a driver half asleep and huddled deep into his coat. He sat up at attention as they approached. Nathaniel gave him instructions in a low tone and helped her ascend the step. They sat across from one another.
She closed her eyes briefly and rested her head against the backof the bench. “Thérèse.” She spoke low to ensure the driver wouldn’t overhear. “That is the name of the woman who may be my sister.”
Nathaniel’s hand touched the back of her own lightly and then was gone. “Aye.”
“And she may be there tomorrow night. With this Baron Cuvelier. I must—” She bit down on her lip, unsure what she’d meant to say. “Do you know him? Or know of him?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “Amélie almost certainly will. If she for some reason does not, she will be able to find out. I will ask her tomorrow, first thing. Baudelaire as well.”
There seemed nothing else to say. Or rather, far too much to say but nothing specific she could verbalize, not with the questions flooding her mind. At least her breathing had settled.
Was Lucy Thérèse? Would she see her tomorrow after having nearly given up all hope? How might she get Lucy away from Cuvelier and Dubois and Compton? Or would Lucy even want to come? What might she have endured—might still be enduring, at their hands?
What was the source of Dubois’s mistrust? Was it directed at her or at Nathaniel? What might it mean for them?
And then there was what had transpired in thesalle écarlate... That, she did not wish to think about for multiple reasons.
Her thoughts refused to settle. She was on the verge of flying into pieces, of crawling out of her skin.
