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Maurelle flushed accordingly, although Hibbert was aware that her show of maidenly shyness was just that: show. Indeed, at the same time that she attempted to preoccupy him with her allure, she was assessing him with a shrewd but subtle thoroughness the average man would never have perceived.
Hibbert perceived it.
“Merci. What a lovely compliment,” she murmured, her English punctuated with a soft French accent. “However, now that we meet face to face, I have to sadly agree you're a stranger to me, as well. Still, perhaps I can help in your search.” She tucked a tendril of hair off her face. “You're English. Yet your message said you met this woman in Paris. May I ask when?”
Interesting that she didn't ask where, Hibbert noted.
His brows raised in a semi-hopeful gesture. “Why? Do you know another woman who wears that scent?”
“Possibly. But I don't know you well enough to say.”
“Ah, you're being cautious.” Hibbert nodded his understanding. “I don't blame you. One can't be certain whom one is speaking with these days. Well, I assure you, I'm an honorable man. Lonely, but honorable. What would you like to know? My name is Albert Hobson. I live in Surrey, but I also have estates in Yorkshire, Dorset, and Devon. I'm a man of considerable means, and can provide handsomely for the young woman in question. As for when I met this mystery lady, it was last summer. I was in Paris on business.”
“I see. She must have thoroughly impressed you, to still be in your thoughts six months later. Yet you didn't get her name.”
“Unfortunately not.” Hibbert gave a discreet cough
“I'm not sure how to say this delicately, but it was an arranged evening. I'd had a fair amount to drink when the liaison began. I can describe her to you, if that would help.”
Maurelle lowered her lashes. “You're very frank.”
“Have I offended you?”
Her lashes lifted. “No. I prefer candor to evasiveness.” Another pause. “I'd like to hear more about you, and about this woman you're seeking.”
“Indeed. I'll tell you anything about myself you wish to know.” Hibbert shivered a bit, turned up the collar of his coat, and glanced about. “It's cold. Can I take you somewhere warm where we can talk?”
She rubbed her gloved palms together, still inspecting him closely—his expensive clothing, his cultured demeanor. “Oui, my lord,” she said at length. “I believe you can. You can take me to my establishment. There, we'll continue our chat.”
Le Joyau looked more like an opulent manor than a brothel.
The entire dwelling was furnished in rich blue velvet and carved mahogany, its drawing rooms warm and cozy, each with a cheery fire burning and adorned with plush sofas and drapes of gold brocade.
Maurelle escorted Hibbert into one of the rooms, after giving their coats to a sophisticated young woman at the door, who greeted mademoiselle and her guest politely, then went off to get them some refreshment.
Hibbert warmed his hands by the fire, thinking it was no wonder affluent men came here. With very little effort, they could pretend they were calling on a virtuous lady, rather than buying a prostitute for the night.
“I don't understand,” Maurelle returned with a genuinely perplexed look. “I thought you wanted... ?”
“What I want, and what's available to me are two different things.” Hibbert tossed off his brandy, glad he'd had the presence of mind to fill his stomach with a large meal before leaving his inn—just in case he needed to lessen the effects of any liquor he'd consume.
Heavily, he set down his glass, taking in her uncertain expression, and attempting to explain. “I'm a realistic man, Miss Le Joyau. Candid, as you yourself said. I know my attributes ... and my limitations. I'm well past fifty. I'm not displeasing to the eye. But I'm hardly able to capture the fancy of a beautiful, well-bred young lady. I can pay for a roomful of women. But the one I truly want can't be found at a brothel, no matter how elegant.”
The tiniest flicker in Maurelle's eyes was his only indication that what he'd said had struck a chord.
Calmly, she reached for a piece of cake, nibbling at it as she asked, “And what type of woman is that?”
He waved away her question. “Please, my dear. You're not required to listen to my fantasies.” He peeled off several hundred-pound notes, pressed them into Maurelle's hand. “Where shall I await my liaison?”
“S'il vous plait —in a minute.” Maurelle set the bills aside, her fingers closing around his. “My job is to see that you're happy. If there's something more you need, just ask for it.”
He quirked a brow. “Forgive me, but what I need is not something you can provide.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Very well.” Hibbert averted his gaze, staring off toward the fire. “It's quite simple. I'd like a companion. Not just for a day, or a week. For an extended period of time, maybe even for the rest of my life.”
“But you object to paying for her,” Maurelle guessed softly. “You want her to fall in love with you.”
