A Duke By Any Other Name

Chapter Five

A fragrant cloud of tobacco wafted over the bustling crowd at the Cabaret Doré. Suzanne poured clear plum liquor into two small glasses, then handed them to a young man leaning against the counter. “There you go. Enjoy!”

His cheeks were round and red, his chin bare—probably a student or apprentice, freshly arrived in the capital and tasting the pleasures of the Palais Royal for the first time. He smiled at Suzanne and his gaze slid down to her bodice. “Thank you, mademoiselle , I—”

“You have your drink, now get out of here,” Raoul growled from the other end of the counter. His usual spot, where he could glower and snap at customers who tried to dally with her as he’d always done, and yet everything had changed in a few short days.

The young man’s eyes widened, and he backed away, sloshing plum liquor on his shirt. Suzanne shook her head, though a grin fought its way to her lips, and walked over to him.

“No need to scare that poor boy,” she scolded. “He’s nothing but a harmless pup. I’ve defended my honor against far worse scoundrels.”

Raoul raised an eyebrow. “Truly? I seem to recall you weren’t so eager to defend it this morning, and I may be the worst scoundrel of them all.”

A flush of heat rose to her cheeks. Three days had passed since she and Raoul first made love on her bed in the gray morning light and she’d experienced the most intense pleasure of her life—at least up until that moment. For they’d scarcely been apart since, and with his wound on the mend, he’d been increasingly ravenous for her. And vigorous as well. Lord, she could scarcely wait until the cabaret closed for the night and they were both back in her room. If she was besotted with Raoul before, it was nothing compared to the frenzied desire that stole her breath at present.

“Why must you work so late?” he muttered. In his eyes, the same flame burned as the one within her. “We could spend these wasted hours in a more pleasant manner.”

She leaned over the counter and trailed a finger on his collar. “Perhaps I should find a wealthy lover who would keep me in silk gowns and pearls, and I would spend my days waiting for him in bed.”

Raoul caught her hand and squeezed it. “Well…”

“Suzanne! Prevost!”

Raoul whipped around. Beyond his shoulder, Albain shoved his way through the crowd.

“I have news for you,” he said as soon as he reached the counter. “More precisely, the name of the man who hired Pasquier.”

Suzanne narrowed her eyes. “And how much will that cost us?”

Albain eyed Raoul. Their heads rose to the same height—though Raoul was still seated. Albain cleared his throat. “Just a drink. Cognac, if you please.”

Suzanne whirled to grab a bottle and a glass, then poured him his drink. “So, who is it?”

“A barrister, if you can believe it.” Albain drained the cognac in one gulp. “At least that’s what he claims to be, but I warrant he spends more time running from the law than practicing it.”

“So give us his bloody name already,” Raoul rumbled.

“Jourdan. He has rooms at 27 Chauchat street.”

Suzanne smiled and poured him another glass. “Many thanks, Albain. We’ll be sure to pay him a visit.”

Albain drained his cognac once again, then bade them good night. But Raoul paid him no mind, as he was staring at Suzanne, his gaze dark and serious. “You’re not coming with me.”

She laughed. “I survived being kidnapped by a band of criminals. Do you believe a barrister can frighten me?”

He sighed heavily. “Perhaps I should keep you at home in silk and pearls, so you’ll stay out of harm’s way.”

“We can discuss that after we’ve found Monsieur Jourdan.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss his forehead. “Let us go early tomorrow morning and be done with it.”

*

Raoul paced on the pavement in front of 27 Chauchat street. A barrister? Why in blazing hells would a barrister recruit a thug to attack him? It didn’t make any sense, but as soon as Jourdan made an appearance, he was going to get some answers. No matter what it took.

A delicate hand gripped his arm, and he stopped to turn toward Suzanne. “It’ll be fine,” she murmured. “We’ve faced much worse, haven’t we?”

“I don’t care about Jourdan,” Raoul muttered. “But this whole muddled affair… There’s something behind it that doesn’t sit well with me.”

In a sense, fighting an enemy head-on would be easier, no matter how dangerous he was.

Suzanne squeezed his arm. “I understand. It won’t be long now.”

And indeed, no sooner had she said the words than a short, stocky man tromped down the sidewalk, holding a worn leather brief bag. When he spotted Raoul and Suzanne, he slowed, his expression hardening into a scowl. “Can I help you?”

“Monsieur Jourdan?” Suzanne asked.

Recognition flashed through the man’s eyes, but he said nothing.

Raoul advanced on him, his hands curled into fists. “A man named Pasquier tried to beat me up and knife me. I heard you hired him.”

“One more step, and I’ll call for help,” Jourdan said, his jowls quivering. “At this hour, the whole street will see you attack an innocent man, and you’ll be locked up at the gendarmerie before noon.”

Raoul squared his shoulders. “I’ll be locked up, but you’ll no longer have a face. All I want to know is why. Speak your truth, and you can get on with your day.”

Jourdan clutched his brief bag tighter, but his gaze was calculating. “You’re Raoul Prevost, then? Bertrand Bonnefoy’s natural son?”

The name hit him like a slap to the face. His father. That bloody, no-good scoundrel. Why now of all times, when the blackguard had been quite happy to let him and his mother fend for themselves? What had changed that he decided to have his bastard son killed? Suzanne slipped her hand into his. The warmth of her palm grounded him, steadied him even as uncertainty whirled through his mind and pricked at his heart like a needle.

This was a different kind of fight, one where he needed her by his side. This was why she’d insisted on coming.

He nodded and straightened his shoulders. “I am.”

Jourdan heaved a sigh. “Come in, then. No need to have this discussion in the street.”

He took out a key and led them through a narrow corridor and into a small, cramped office that smelled of cold sweat and mildew. Raoul sat on a creaky chair in front of Jourdan’s desk. Suzanne hadn’t let go of his hand, and he stroked her knuckles with his thumb.

Jourdan settled into a threadbare armchair and took off his hat, slicking down a few wisps of hair over his head. “A few weeks ago, I received a letter from an acquaintance in Marseilles. A colleague. He was writing on behalf of Bonnefoy’s cousin, the heir to his fortune.”

“Heir?” Raoul asked. “So that means…”

“Bonnefoy is dead, yes. An illness took him six months ago.”

Nothing. He felt nothing hearing these words. No ripple of emotion, not even the satisfaction to know that this snake was no more.

“He was his parents’ only living child, and he had none of his own. His cousin is set to inherit everything—the shipping company, their lands, their assets. But before Bonnefoy died, his mother begged him to name you in his will, so that you might inherit something, if you were still alive.”

His mother. Madame Floriane Bonnefoy. The woman who had treated Helena with such generosity and kindness. By god, the old lady had not forgotten Raoul, even though more than twenty years had passed. Agitation rose within him now, and he shook his leg up and down nervously.

“Madame Bonnefoy is still alive, then?”

“She is, as far as I know. And quite intent on finding you, apparently. Needless to say, the cousin didn’t particularly want someone else taking a slice of the pie. He managed to trace you from Marseilles all the way to Paris, and that’s where I come in. My colleague knew I had certain… connections at my disposal.”

Suzanne snorted. “So you often hire petty criminals to do that sort of dirty work?”

Jourdan sniffled and slicked his hair again. “Being an attorney in the worst neighborhood of the city doesn’t pay as much as one might hope. One does what one must to survive.”

“Indeed,” Raoul muttered. “Did you inform Bonnefoy’s heir that your plan failed?”

“I didn’t have to. I got a letter two days ago informing me he got the will overturned. He argued that Bonnefoy wasn’t sound of mind. I’m afraid you’ll get nothing.”

Suzanne leaped to her feet and leaned over the desk. “ Sacredieu , I have half a mind to ask a few of my cousins to come teach you a lesson, you bastard—or better yet, I’ll do it myself and scratch your bloody eyes out. Raoul could have died, and all for naught!”

Jourdan blinked, pale and wide-eyed, gripping the arms of his chair. Raoul stood and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Calm yourself, love. He’s not worth the breath you’re wasting on him.”

No use staying here any longer. He had all the information he needed from this miscreant, and he didn’t give a bloody damn about Bonnefoy’s cousin. Floriane, on the other hand… He had not forgotten her either. And just as he’d promised his mother, he’d kept her last gift with him all these years.

“Let us go home, now,” Raoul told Suzanne. “There’s something important I must show you.”