Chapter Twenty
Verity removed her bonnet. “Would you like water? I’m sorry. Apart from a bite of cheese, there’s nothing to eat here.”
“Water is fine.” He leaned back on the sofa, stretching his long legs over the rug, tucked his fingers into his gray cotton waistcoat and glanced around. “You have some nice possessions.”
She handed him the tumbler of water. “They belonged to my father,” she said, stung into defending herself.
“This is your father’s house?”
Annoyingly, her eyes teared up again. “He never lived here.”
He put his tumbler down on the table purposefully. “Best you tell me all.”
Verity sat on the sofa and took a sip of water to dampen her parched throat. “First you must tell me more about yourself, monsieur.”
She listened quietly while he described how he’d seen her and Henrietta leaving London in the carriage and followed them to France.
“You came to France because of us?”
“No. On business.”
She suspected there was much he wasn’t prepared to tell her. There was something reassuring about him, confidence, and a core of solid strength. She was tempted to trust him but what was he doing here? An Englishman, seemingly at home in the heart of Paris, shabbily dressed and blending in with the rest wandering the streets, and wearing the cockade. Certainly not the man of means she’d seen, dressed in tailored riding clothes atop a thoroughbred in Hyde Park. Was he an English spy working against France?
“Can you not throw me a crumb? Some reason for you to be in Paris. Dressed like that?”
“Not now, mademoiselle.”
He wouldn’t tell her later either. But for some reason, recognizing the fact didn’t increase her apprehension. He seemed totally in control. She was exhausted and heartbroken and very tempted to hand the matter over to him and see just what he was capable of. Her muscles loosened as fatigue settled like a weight on her shoulders. Her back ached.
She confessed it all. What had happened, where Anthony, Phillipe and Henrietta were, and prayed she’d made the right decision.
He gave her very little in return, except his given name. Christian.
Christian was relieved to hear that Henrietta was not in Paris. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to your uncle’s house.” He patted the sofa. “I’ll sleep here tonight, if I may.”
“Take the bed.” Verity eyed his lanky frame. “You won’t fit on that.”
“No need. I’ve slept on worse.” He rose to go to the window and looked down into the street. “You’ve arranged a cart to take your trunk to Argenteuil, you say. The man is trustworthy?”
“I would stake my life on it.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to. We must make a stop on the way.”
“Two stops,si vous plaît. Monsieur Morel at the Gaite theatre may have news of my father.”
“If you find out that he still lives, what will you do?”
“I will try to help him.”
“I’ll consult a friend of mine who runs the Hotel de Buci. Some of the guards from the Conciergerie drink in the bar there.” He studied her as if gauging her emotional strength. “And if… there is nothing further we can do here in Paris… we will fetch my bag and leave the city.”
She nodded in agreement. “I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket.”
At dawn, he still wore his shabby clothes, and she her dark-blue linen. Christian told her of a story he’d come up with to use if they were stopped by the guard. He was Verity’s lover who hoped to become employed as a stage hand at the theatre where Verity was soon to perform.
Monsieur Balzac had come to the door, bearing warm rolls from his wife’s oven and two fresh peaches. They ate the food gratefully. Christian climbed into the back of the cart and sat on the trunk while her big landlord took up the reins and drove them to the theatre. He and Christian remained outside with the trap while she visited Monsieur Morel, only to be told he’d heard nothing about her father because his source had not shown up. Morel’s eyes shifted away from hers. What wasn’t he telling her? Had his man been carted off to prison? Or did he lie for another reason? She wrapped her shawl tight around herself and hurried out. Despite everything, she held on to a shred of hope.
She took Christian’s hand and climbed up beside Balzac. In St Germaine Christian entered the hotel. She searched his face when he reappeared, her heart pounding. He looked grim as he climbed aboard.
