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He made himself speak. “Filthy night,” he said.
“Yes, your grace.”
“Paris isn’t pretty in the rain,” Clevedon said.
“No, your grace. The gutters are disgraceful.”
“What took us so long?”
“An accident, your grace,” Joseph said. “A pair of vehicles collided. It didn’t look serious to me, but the drivers were shouting at each other, then others got into it, and there was a bit of a riot. But when the lightning struck, they all scattered. Otherwise we might be boxed in there yet.”
The way Noirot had fussed about his poor, drenched footmen, Clevedon had expected to find them slumped on the ground, clutching their chests.
But when he’d looked back, Thomas was talking animatedly over the top of the carriage to Hayes, the coachman. And here was Joseph, full of youthful energy, though it must be close to two o’clock in the morning.
All three servants would have vastly enjoyed watching the Parisians pummel one another. They would have laughed uproariously when the lightning sent the combatants scurrying.
Hayes was a tough old bird who cared only how circumstances affected his horses, and he’d kept them calm. The footmen were young, and youth cared nothing for a bit of damp.
All of Clevedon’s servants were well paid and well dressed and well fed. They were doctored when they were ill and pensioned generously when they retired.
That wasn’t the case in every household, he knew, and a shopkeeper would have no way of knowing how well or ill his servants were treated. Being in the service line herself, Noirot was liable to attacks of sympathy.
Even so ...
He climbed into the carriage. The door closed after him.
He didn’t trust her.
He didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her.
She cheated at cards—he was sure of it—or if she didn’t cheat, she shaved honesty mighty close.
She said she did not seduce her patron’s menfolk, but she’d—
“By God,” he muttered. “By God.” Her scent lingered in the carriage, and he could almost taste her still. He could almost feel her skin under his fingertips.
Only a kiss.
He’d gone from desire to madness in a single pulse beat.
He was still ... not right.
And no wonder.
They would have to finish it. Then he could put her out of his mind and complete in peace his remaining weeks of freedom.
Chasing a provoking woman about Paris was not part of his plans, and certainly not in his style. He was accustomed to games with women, yes. He liked play as well as foreplay. But it was an altogether different matter, dancing to the tune of an impudent dressmaker who would not stop talking about her curst business—even if she made him want to laugh at the exact instant he wanted to choke her—and even if she kissed like Satan’s own mistress, trained specially by Mephistopheles, who’d helped design her body ... her perfect breasts ... the smooth arc of her neck ... the exquisite curve of her ears ...
Her wicked tongue.
Her lying tongue.
What engagement had she with Sylvie Fontenay that would occupy all of Friday and Saturday?
Meanwhile, at the Hotel Fontaine
“Pack?” Jeffreys repeated. Expecting Marcelline to come back late, she’d napped. She was brightly alert at the moment.
