Theduchesselooked at him out of the corners of those perceptive eyes. “Something tells me you already know that,monsieur.”
He did. Three years. She’d been in Paris before that, but he’d wanted to see if theduchessewould tell him the truth.
“Besides,” theduchessecontinued. “Does it not seem strange to you that a husband would fail to know the whereabouts of his own wife?”
“I assumed Nicole had told you that we’re…” He cleared his throat. “Estranged.”
“Yes, she’s told me.” Theduchesseglanced over at Nicole and nodded. “We are quite close. I know many things about Nicole.”
“Such as?” He couldn’t help but ask.
Theduchesseraised her glass to her lips and sighed. “She is clever, she is beautiful, and she istrès… lonely.”
“Lonely?” Mark nearly spit out his brandy. He struggled to keep his face blank. “She doesn’t look lonely to me.” In addition to thecomte,there were at least three other men hovering near Nicole’s skirts.
He focused on Nicole’s features. It was true. Her face was devoid of animation, despite her engaging smile. Her eyes held a certain… sadness?
“Looks can be deceiving as I’m certain you know,monsieur?” theduchessesaid.
He turned his attention back to the blonde. Had Nicole told theduchessewhat he did for a living? That he was a spymaster? Something told him she knew. “Only too well,” he replied cryptically. Yes, lookscouldbe deceiving. And so could words.
It reminded him of the night he’d met Nicole. She’d seemed so special then. So different from other young woman. She’d seemed lonely then too.
***
Mark located an animal’s water dish around the side of the mews and splashed it on the face of the man who’d stolen a silver spoon from the most intriguing young woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Too bad she was an aristocrat… and no doubt a debutante at that. The worst kind of aristocrat. Naïve, innocent, and heavily guarded… usually. It had been a surprise to see her outside, chasing down a thief. Not the usual sport for a gently reared girl.
She obviously didn’t have much sense. She could have been killed or raped. If not by the chap who’d stolen thespoon, then by him. Of course he was no rapist or murderer, but she didn’t know that. She’d been unwise to leave the party alone. Especially looking like that. Her hair was the deep red of fire. Her eyes were a curious green color. Her face looked as if it had been drawn by a master. High cheekbones, slight winged brows, petal-pink lips that pursed when she was amused. He’d been toying with her by not telling her his name, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. He’d pretended he didn’t know her either, but of course if her grandmother lived here, she was the granddaughter of the dowager Countess of Whitby. It would be simple enough to ask someone and discover the girl’s name.
The thief sputtered and woke up. Her pushed himself up to his elbows uneasily and lifted a hand to rub the large knot forming on his forehead. “Wot in the ’ell is going on ’ere?” he growled.
Mark leaned down and braced a hand on his knee. “You have been caught stealing, my friend, and I suggest you hie yourself off before the good lady of this household calls the watch on you.”
The man’s eyes widened with panic. “It was ye wot ’it me?” The thief scrambled to his feet, his eyes filled with fear.
Mark straightened and then bowed. “Yes, it was me.”
The man patted his pocket, obviously searching for the pilfered spoon.
“It’s not there,” Mark said calmly, leaning one shoulder against the side of the mews, lighting a cheroot, and regarding the chap down the length of his nose.
“Ye took it?” The man’s face remained scrunched into a scowl.
Mark pulled the cheroot from his lips. “I gave it back to its rightful owner, who indicated that she might ask a footman to call the watch on you, as I said. I suggest you go.”
The man took a tentative step backward, eyeing Mark with suspicion. “Ye’re not gonna turn me in?”
Mark waved the cheroot in the air. “I have better things to do than incarcerate poor people who make bad decisions. I suggest you look for decent work and stop this type of thing. The army is always looking for good men, you know.”
The man shook his head slowly. “I’m not a good man.”
“No, you’re not, but you could be. Think about it.” Mark reached inside his coat and pulled his calling card from his pocket. He handed it to the man. “If you decide you’d like to change your life, get in touch. Otherwise, begone.”
“Thank ye, thank ye, sir,” the servant said. He stooped to gather his bundle from the ground and took off at a lumbering pace around the side of the mews.
Mark turned around and contemplated the town house. Then he tossed his cheroot to the ground and snuffed it under his boot. He sighed. He would make his way back into the ball. No doubt he’d regret his decision, but he wanted to see the redhead in full light. Would she be as beautiful as he imagined? There was only one way to find out.
***
