I became aware of the sudden hush around me. The men who’d come to accept or ignore my presence had trained their gazes on me, every one of them hostile.
“I beg your pardon,” I said awkwardly. “I heard the name, and I was curious.”
“Never speak it again,” Beaumont growled at me. “Ever. Do you understand?”
He glared at me a moment longer, then he turned his back and marched through to his kitchen, taking the coffee pot with him.
Chapter 15
I cleared my throat, meeting the collective stares of the tavern’s patrons. “I beg your pardon,” I said again.
None were moved by my apology. One by one, they turned away, resuming their breakfast or their coffee.
I slid a local newspaper toward me and began to peruse it as I ate, but I could little concentrate on the words within, nor on the excellent meal.
The atmosphere in the congenial coffee house had become as chilly as a mausoleum, and I had no idea why.
Not long later, I joined Brewster in the market streets. He enjoyed his strolls through them, finding little trinkets to take home to his wife in London.
When I told him what had transpired in the coffee house, he sent me a dark look.
“Not surprised, guv. I made the mistake of saying that name to one of the vendors. Had a box thrown at me. I twigged right quick to keep my mouth shut. Whoever that bloke was, it strikes a tinder in these parts.”
“Vernet might know,” I said. “But perhaps not, as he is not from here. Even Colonel Moreau didn’t recognize the name.”
Although, I realized when I thought it through, Moreau had said nothing at all. I couldn’t be certain of his knowledge or ignorance.
“Might be specific to this part of the city,” Brewster suggested. “Like His Nibs is well known in certain circles.”
“Possibly.” Was I to encounter another notorious criminal? And would Denis assist me if I ran into trouble with him? “I’d like more information before I draw conclusions. Obviously the name alone is enough to unnerve people, which explains why it wasn’t part of a letter or document.”
“No need, if even saying it makes everyone chary.”
I’d tucked the paper we’d found into my pocket, and now my coat felt heavy. “The Deveres might know, or Auberge.”
I hoped I would not have to ask Major Auberge. He likely possessed great knowledge about the people of Lyon, but I still had difficulty sitting down and having a chat with him.
“Or, your lady wife’s friend, the comtesse.”
“True.” Donata had no qualms about coaxing particulars from her acquaintances, which she did skillfully, without causing offense. I was rather more blunt, easily upsetting people.
Once Brewster had finished his shopping, we returned home, where I intended to plan my day more coherently. I’d fatigued myself rushing all over Lyon yesterday and would hire a coach for the entire afternoon. I’d move logically from place to place, asking my questions as discreetly as possible.
That was my intention. However, while I sat at the desk in the library, making notes, Bartholomew interrupted me.
“Young Mr. Devere is here,” he said, his blue eyes troubled. Bartholomew had grown fond of Emile, and now he exuded distress. “He’s very upset. I’ve put him in the back sitting room.”
I rose in alarm. “Is Gabriella with him? Is she all right?”
“He wouldn’t say. He insisted on seeing you, and he’s crying.”
I seized my walking stick and moved as fast as I could past Bartholomew and out of the room. All I could imagine was Gabriella hurt, ill, with Emile dispatched to tell me.
My calmer reason told me that someone would have sent a message if Gabriella had been ill, with Emile remaining with her in concern.
These thoughts barely glimmered past my panic as I tramped down the stairs, cursing my slowness.
The sitting room was a sunny chamber in the rear of the house, beneath the one in which Donata, Grenville, and I had conversed last night. This room had high ceilings and wide windows that led into the garden, a lovely place for whiling away a summer afternoon.
