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“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?”
