Alix chewed slowly, staring pensively into the hearth fire. There was no one in the city who might help her, but could she confess this to him? He’d saved her today, but that had been an impulsive gesture. Would he risk his neck to save a woman he didn’t even know? There was something about his face, his voice, that made her want to trust him, but was she simply seeing what she wanted to see?
The door banged open again, and Jervis reentered carrying a steaming tureen, a bowl tucked under one arm. He set them down and pulled a spoon from his pocket. “This’ll warm you up miss. And if you don’t mind,”—Jervis paused and sniffed loudly for effect—“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you up a bath. You’ll pardon my manners, mademoiselle, but you smell like chicken squat. And if you’d like, while you’re soaking, I’ll take a look at that dress and see if there isn’t something I can do to fix it up for you.”
“That sounds like heaven.” Alix couldn’t decide if it was the smell of the stew or the mention of the bath that won her over more. If she wound up on the guillotine, she thought wryly, at least she’d go clean and well fed. She leaned forward for another piece of cheese and a discreet rustle reminded her of her stays. How would she get them off without Solange’s help? She’d just have to manage, she told herself resolutely. After days of riding along dusty roads, hiding in barns and filthy back rooms, the lure of a bath was simply too difficult to resist.
Lamartine steppedinto the small room off the château’s great kitchen. In contrast to the kitchen itself, which looked as if a party of cannibals had feasted and then been abruptly called away, the barren room furnished with a simple desk and chair was undisturbed. He smiled; people were so easily fooled by appearances.
He carefully dislodged a loose brick from the wall and slid out a stack of books and papers. He felt for, but did not withdraw, the carefully wrapped bundles of money that lay pushed to the back, reassuring himself his fortune remained intact. He dropped the books and papers on the desk and slid into the chair. Closing his eyes he tried to imagine what was going on in the mind of Alix de Rabec de La Brou. Where would she have gone?
Deep in thought, he reached out a soft white hand and caressed a small stack of correspondence. Such a shame Madame la Comtesse’s letters had failed to reach her daughter. So much valuable information they contained: fascinating tales of confusion in the court, violence in the city, entreaties to Alix and her father to flee France, and a most touching farewell letter written seven months ago before Madeleine left for England. Lamartine grunted. If the foolish girl was trying to reach her mother in Paris, she was in for a surprise.
For a moment, he imagined Alix helpless and alone in Paris, pictured himself coming to her aid, convincing her to let him safeguard her father’s property. Then he shook his head. A sheltered, well-bred young lady like Alix would have no idea how to get to Paris on her own. Most likely she was hiding somewhere nearby. All he had to do was figure out where.
He picked up a quill and drew the estate payroll book close.
Stroking the neat columns of names with the quill’s feather, he muttered into the silence. “I need those titles. Aslong as they remain in de La Brou hands, Alix or some other relative can reclaim the estates.” A dreamy expression flickered across his smooth pale face. “I suppose I could denounce you. Ah, but then the state might claim the château and put it up for auction.” He stabbed the desk with his quill, loudly snapping the point. “I will not spend good money on properties that should be mine.”
He returned his attention to the book, his eyes circling restlessly like a hawk scanning for prey. “Alix, Alix, Alix, you have no close family, so whom would you have turned to for help?” The list of names was long and it was some time before he found what he was looking for. His pale eyes lit with pleasure.
Solange.
“So careless of me not to have thought of her sooner! I will pay the Chaumiers a call. And if you’re not there, Alix, I’m sure I can persuade them to tell me where you’ve gone.”
Five
Rafe sat before the fire, idly twirling the thick stem of a wineglass between his long fingers. The plates had been cleared, and his unusual guest had retired to take her bath in the antechamber. There was something curious about her, he thought. She spoke courtly French and carried herself like a lady, and yet she was dressed like a woman of the streets. He found himself intrigued to see what she looked like underneath the dirt.
The wind rattled the panes of the room’s long window and set the curtains fluttering. Jervis rose and stoked the fire, which had begun to sputter from the draft. “Weather’s beginning to change captain. If we don’t get started for Calais soon, it’s for sure theXanthuswill sail without us.” He gave the fire a strong poke. “I don’t relish the thought of being stranded in another French inn, waiting for the next available passage to Dover.”
Rafe placed his near-empty wineglass on the table. “I’dlike to make sure those cargoes of silks reach London in time for the opening of the season.”
Jervis nodded and sat down across from him. “The troubles here have been driving prices sky high. With the right timing, you stand to make a pretty profit.” He tapped a finger along his long nose and his dark eyes twinkled. “And I’ll be betting you’ll need to keep a sharp lookout on Miss Elizabeth, this being her first season and all.”
Rafe frowned; Lord knew what trouble his sister would get herself into with only her mother in tow.
“So what about the little baggage next door? She’s not exactly your style, Captain.”
Rafe explained how he’d found her.
Jervis frowned. “Those sans-culottes are a bad lot. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about them attacking women on the streets and no one lifting a hand to help.” He shook his head. “Still it seems odd that the girl was wandering about alone. You think it could be some kind of a set up? Maybe she’s part of a gang and they play along until somebody rescues her and then she sets the poor sod up for robbery.”
“She claims she was looking for her mother.”
Jervis raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure it wasn’t her madame?”
An erratic bumping followed by a loud crash interrupted their debate. “What in hell’s...” Rafe muttered as he flung himself from the chair and burst through the antechamber door without stopping to knock.
Alix was sitting on the floor, her face flushed beneath the tangle of her hair, her hands twisted around her back. She looked up at him and grimaced.
“I appear to have knocked over the table while trying to unlace my stays.”
A small three-legged table lay on its side along with a now-dented candlestick, a lump of soap, and a hairbrush.Jervis, peering around Rafe’s shoulder, gave a whoop of laughter. Rafe motioned for him to step back.
Alix mustered a tone of great dignity. “Perhaps you might send someone up to assist me with my toilette?”
A smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Rafe held out a hand and helped her to her feet. “I have some experience in these matters. Perhaps I might be of service.” When she hesitated, he spun her about, hooked a finger in the laces of her stays and pulled her toward him. Ignoring her sputter of protest, he deftly unlaced the rose satin ribbons and slid the heavy garment off.
Alix gasped both from the unexpected familiarity of the gesture and from the fear that he might examine the stays too closely. Turning to face him she said in her most imperious voice, “I’ll take back my stays if you please.”
