Bloody hell. He was entirely responsible for every single one of his own uncertainties. Personal involvement with Isobel was a complication and unwise, and he’d done it anyway. Would do it again.
He had, in truth, barely fought to maintain his responsibilities as an agent and instead given in entirely to his desires as a man. If he was now in a logistical quandary, he had only himself to blame for it. And the devil of it was, hestillcouldn’t find it in himself to regret it. Last night had been one of the most satisfying sexual encounters of his life. No, he could say categorically that it wasthemost satisfying. Not that he was any great lothario, but he’d never before lost his head sufficiently to finish in a partner.
Twice.
Christ, he’d been half hard all day, remembering it.Get your mind straight, Blackmore.
Tonight a few of his own men, Santiago Pereira and Kieran Quinn, would be nearby and watchful in case of trouble at Le Repaire. Baudelaire was equally invested in matters pertaining to Dubois; he’d have men nearby. And there was Chrysanthème on the inside.
Today had brought a revelation about Baron Alphonse Cuvelier’s possible involvement, at least. The baron was a wealthy man and of great use to Dubois and Compton for that reason, if no other.
Meeting with Baudelaire, he broached his concerns about Isobel’s attendance. And was brutally honest about why, despite his discomfort. He needed someone more objective to weigh in.
Baudelaire’s smirk was friendly. “At least it is no longer fiction, that you are lovers. One less deception on which you must concentrate yourself.”
“True enough.”
Baudelaire sat back, dropping some of his lazy good humor. “Do you trust in yourself, that you can keep her safe? Have you the capacity once you enter Le Repaire to remain focused despite her presence, to pursue with great attention your objectives? If the answer to either of these questions is no, then you must not risk her. But if the answers are both yes, then I think you must leave the decision to her.”
Baudelaire’s advice was not misplaced. Although he was uneasy with his answers to those questions, ultimately he did trust himself. But she was also desperate to find her sister. Was he using that—usingher—taking her back to Le Repaire? He put that question to Baudelaire as well.
“You have not coerced her yet, I do not think?”
“Aside from the first night, bringing her to the garret, no.” He hadn’t pushed her into anything. He’d even tried, somewhat, to talk her out of going to Le Repaire early on.
Early onbeing relative. It was less than a week ago.
“From my few encounters with Isobel, she does not to me seem at all a woman who will do or not do something only to please another. If she wishes to go tonight, for her own reasons or for yours, you must leave that to her. For even if it was something you could persuade her into, I do not think it is a thing you could persuade her out of.”
Thatwas true. A truth he’d needed to hear from someone else.
“So long as you are with yourself honest,” Baudelaire added. “You are aware of these entanglements you have created. I do not say I have never made a similar one.” Baudelaire’s face, briefly, was softer than he’d had ever seen it. And then the mask of carefully crafted joie de vivre was firmly back in place as Baudelaire continued, “But I do not think this is reason to pull back now. We will make our efforts, both of us, to cover every possible angle in this business.Oui?”
“Aye.”
More objective heads than his had endorsed Isobel’s presence; he would trust their judgment given his own was somewhat frayed. As for the rest, he still trusted in his abilities. That, at least, was not something he questioned.
It was apparent as soon as he arrived at L’Orchidée that Isobel’s decision was also made. Her gown was the sort of dress a woman wore purely for a masculine gaze, revealing enough of her figure to invite a man to imagine the rest.
Much as he wanted to aid Isobel with regard to Miss Muir, his highest obligation tonight must be his own work. Not at the sacrifice of anyone’s life; he would act if necessary even at the expenseof his cover. But otherwise his utmost prioritymustbe infiltrating Compton’s operations. At all other costs.
He disliked what it said of him that he felt discomfort at the last. Self-doubt was not a thing that had ever plagued him before.
Chapter 19
The nearer they drew to Le Repaire, the more nervous Isobel became. Several times she felt perhaps her nerve would, after all, fail her. Her mouth was too dry for speech; she hadn’t anything to say in any case. Nathaniel was also silent, but judging by the sharpness of his gaze and the tension in his shoulder brushing hers, he likewise entertained uneasy thoughts.
She drew a deep breath, checking for what was surely the twentieth time that Maman’s ring remained on her finger. She had worn it needing some kernel of truth: a reminder of who she truly was and the comfort of an object intimately tied to memories of home.
“It is not too late to change your mind,” Nathaniel said softly. “It will not be too late until you are through the door, and even then?—”
“I have not changed my mind, and I will not.” Her voice was scarce above a whisper; it was all she could manage. “But I am nervous.”
“Only a fool wouldn’t be.”
She swallowed. “You are nervous?”
He considered his response. “I am uneasy about the unknown variables,” he said at length. “And certainly I do not trust Dubois any further than he trusts me. Perhaps even less so, given what I know for certain of him. I think he has only suspicions right now about me. Nothing concrete.”
