A Touch of Sin (7 page)

"I want the Englishwoman found," a tall, grim-faced man asserted, tapping his fist into his palm, his eyes the unforgiving color of ice. Surveying his companions at breakfast, Jerome Clouard added in a low growl, "We can't have her going to Clouet."

"We've a watch at the solicitor's office and at the judge's," a smaller man bearing a familial resemblance quickly affirmed. "Another at the coaching station for Calais, three more covering the routes north. The neighboring police prefects are all under observation." His gaze came up from his coddled egg. "Also, Langelier's man tells me she was without friends in the city, so—"

"It sounds as though you're rid of Madame Grosvenor," a younger version of the two men interposed. "Sit down, Jerome, and relax. She's gladly gone from the city. I'll bet a thousand francs on it."

"If you had a thousand francs, Victor," Jerome rebuked.

"Do us all a favor and eat. A rasher or two of bacon might mitigate your rudeness," Victor retorted. Disparaging remarks about his gambling habit were all too familiar.

"I recommend the coffee this morning," Phillipe, the man eating his egg, blandly remarked, his spoon arrested just short of his mouth. "And the sweetbreads with mushrooms are particularly fine. Is there any news concerning Langelier's murderer?" he casually inquired, clearly not as agitated as his brother.

"Some Balkan rabble from the looks of it," Jerome replied, sitting down at the breakfast table, a faint frown still creasing his forehead. "The murder weapon was found in the gutter," he went on, reaching for the coffee. "A Macedonian ax blade, the prefect said."

"A paid killer, then," Phillipe said through a mouthful of egg.

Jerome nodded.

"Hired by one of Langelier's numerous enemies." Victor Clouard gambled in the same clubs.

"Creditors, you mean," the older man corrected his younger brother. "The man owed everyone."

Victor looked up from his brioche. "He won on occasion."

"Not from you I hope."

"Would I tell you if he had?" Victor coolly countered. "Although you weren't supplying him with enough money to play high."

"
Au contraire
. We paid him a substantial sum to keep Theodore's paramour captive."

"I never understood that," Victor noted, disgust evident in his tone. "Holding her prisoner. Why not buy off the judge instead?"

"The woman's petition had been scheduled for Clouet's jurisdiction. The risk was too great."

"The boy
is
Theo's son," Victor maintained.

"Perhaps." Phillipe's jowls quivered with the same indignation he'd exhibited when he'd first heard the news of Christopher's birth. "A woman like that—who knows?"

"Theo adored her and his son. If she could have divorced, he would have married her. Surely you know that."

Jerome's eyes snapped with affront. "Are you defending her?"

"There's no need to defend her," Victor replied. "Theo's will was quite specific."
²

"Our nephew was a wild, bohemian artist without morals," Jerome irritably declared, cutting his bacon into precise lengths. "Hardly the kind of person likely to make a practical decision about his life."

"Some would debate your view." Victor had never understood the paradox between Jerome's righteous propriety and his unprincipled malevolence.

"Theodore died at thirty-two from debauch and excess. Any
proper
person would understand the unbalanced state of his mind."

"He died of a horseracing accident, not excess."

"Because his racers were as wild as he."

"A shame Clouet won't interpret the law to suit your bias," Victor sardonically noted. "The man's integrity must be disturbing."

"Clouet may no longer be a problem now that the Englishwoman has disappeared. And should she reappear—"

"All likely locations are being watched," Phillipe interjected. "The Grosvenors are being apprised of her escape as well," he went on with a self-satisfied smile. "If she returns there, we'll be notified."

"I'm surprised you didn't have her done away with like Langelier," Victor remarked, his gaze jaundiced.

"We're businessmen," Jerome replied, reaching for the sweetbreads. "Nothing more. Not murderers."

"If she happens to starve to death though, that's acceptable."

"Since when did you become a pillar of sensibility, Victor? If I recall, the young woman with child you left in Rouen was rather low on funds."

"I was very young. And I hadn't lived with her for two years, for God's sake.
And
if you must know, the allowance I send her is generous."

"So you don't spend every last sou at the gaming tables. I commend you," Jerome mocked.

"Theo meant for the boy to have his inheritance. You know that, of course."

"How fortunate for us then that you haven't yet reached the age for
your
inheritance."

"Seven hundred days and counting," Victor countered, his voice chill.

"Thankfully, Papa understood your propensity for cards, or you would have gone through your fortune by now."

"Thankfully, I only need appear here on infrequent occasions to collect my stipend. I wish you good day, brothers," Victor coolly said, rising from his chair. "May your greed bring you all the happiness you deserve."

"Kindly try to last til the next disbursement, Victor," Jerome said in a deprecating murmur. "I dislike your moneylenders at my door."

"I'll allow you the last word." Victor was already moving across the room.

"Then kindly do so," Jerome sourly noted.

But the youngest Clouard was gone, exiting without a backward glance.

"He's incorrigible," Jerome muttered.

"Like Theodore."

"Not precisely. Victor has no talent."

"But fewer vices."

"Yes," Jerome gruffly agreed. "Considerably fewer. And if we have the good fortune to be rid of the Englishwoman, the last of Theodore's vices will be eliminated."

"The police are on the outlook for her as well."

"So I've been told. But I don't have much faith in Tulard's efficiency. We'll keep our staff on alert for the rest of the week."

"Until the hearing has passed."

"Yes, until then."

The sun was already up when Pasha rolled over in bed and discovered he was alone.

Instantly alert, he surveyed the room. Had she managed to slip away again?

Softly swearing at his days without sleep that had finally overcome him, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed and came to his feet. He had no intention of letting Trixi Grosvenor walk out of his life—at least, not yet. Already debating the most likely route she'd take to the Calais station, he swiftly crossed the large room and shoved the dressing room door open with the flat of his hand.

"I was going to wake you before I left."

Arrested on the threshold, he blinked against the sun shining through the bank of windows. "Would you have now?" he murmured, taking in her packed valise and traveling clothes.

"Yes, of course. I had an absolutely wonderful time."

He was taken aback. Her response was amiable, courteous—like that of a convivial dinner partner.

"Don't look so shocked. I take it you're not usually thanked."

Standing nude in the doorway, he slowly smiled. "Not precisely in that way. You're very polite."

"And you're a very remarkable man—sensational, actually. I shall
always
remember last night with gratitude and fondness."

"As will I,
chouchou
." He stretched with an unstudied grace, every sleek muscle momentarily in high relief. "But there's no need to leave so soon, is there?"

"I must," she said, picking up her gloves, finding it difficult to remain focused on her priorities, pressing as they were, with such unalloyed male virility before her.

"I'd rather you didn't."

Her body went rigid. "Don't, Pasha." Knowing his strength, she wondered nervously how well she knew him after all. "Don't do this to me, or even think it. Just move away from the door."

"Rest easy, darling," he said, stepping into the room. "I don't intend to detain you against your will." Walking to a nearby wardrobe, he opened the mirrored door, took out a patterned green dressing robe, and slipped it on.

"You understood I wasn't staying." She quickly snapped the locks on her portmanteau. "I've been gone too long. I want to return home as quickly as possible."

"Why don't you show me Kent?"

She turned to him. "Just like that?"

He shrugged. "Why not? England in the spring has its charms. And I haven't had enough of you."

Nor she of him, she thought with a frisson of longing. He stood in his sumptuous Japanese silk robe like some barbarian prince transported to Richelieu's ornate dressing room, his powerful masculinity striking against the delicate fabric, his long black hair gleaming in the morning sun, his exotic bronzed skin the heritage of ancestors beyond the Urals, his sensual, tilted eyes so compelling she felt a spiking heat race through her veins. But she couldn't so casually oblige him when her life was circumscribed by parochial, parish values, by the presence of powerful, hostile neighbors. She didn't have the advantage of his princely fortune and its concomitant freedoms. "I'm sorry," she gently said, "but circumstances in my life won't allow me to bring you home with me."

"We could stay in London if you prefer."

She gazed at him, mild affront in the arch of her brow. "You must always get what you want."

"Just about always."

The audacity of great wealth, beauty, and charm, she thought. "I may find that offensive."

"I'm sorry. I should have lied," he casually said, unabashed. "I thought you enjoyed yourself last night."

"Of course I did." The word enjoy was much too abstemious for the extent of her enthusiasm. "But that's not reason enough."

"Yes, it is," he simply said.

"For men like you perhaps."

He had no intention of arguing the finer points of gender roles. "You could show me the sights
beyond
Burleigh House," he pleasantly remarked.

"And you could show me what you know, I suppose." Her voice was sardonic.

He grinned. "If you'd like."

"Such smugness."

"How can it hurt to have company at your house?"

"Because I have dangerous neighbors there. Grosvenors who don't like me. And servants and villagers who gossip, and a son."

"No problem. I'll be scrupulously prudent in public." His voice drifted into a lower register. "I'd very much like to touch you again."

She shook her head, knowing her responsibilities. "It's not possible, Pasha."

"How many times did you come last night?" he asked, his voice like velvet.

And her body opened as if his query were a lush password to her deepest longing.

"Everything doesn't have to have a reason in this world," he whispered. "I can give you pleasure on any terms you want."

"Don't say that," she breathed, a blush rising on her cheeks.

"I'll make love to you wherever you want, whenever you want," he murmured. "In the dark of night, behind locked doors, anywhere you feel safe…"

Feverish need overwhelmed her, a vaulting rush of pleasure coursed through her body. Prey to all the carnal temptations he so lustily offered, she heard herself say as if reason had departed her mind, as if such an answer could be given without lengthy deliberation, "If you come with me, you must consent to my terms—completely."