Chapter Three
“A good, clean cut.” The physician, a balding man with a beak-like nose, wrapped a fresh band of linen around Raoul’s arm. “No jagged edges, and it’s not that deep. You won’t need sutures.”
Suzanne let out a breath of relief as she paced at the foot of the bed. Raoul turned his head on the pillow, away from the late morning sunlight filtering through the tiny window of her garret room. “I could have told you that. I’ve stitched up wounds before.”
“I don’t doubt it, Monsieur Prevost,” the physician replied evenly. “You own the barbershop next to Saint Aphrodise, don’t you?”
“Indeed.”
“I’ve heard of your handiwork. Those are some fine surgical skills you have, not to mention bone setting. Who taught you human anatomy?”
Suzanne bit her lip. She’d wondered the same many times, when she’d witnessed Raoul wrenching a dislocated shoulder back into place or splinting a broken limb. But Raoul was utterly silent about his origins, his past in Marseilles. And if Nicolas knew anything about it, he’d apparently been sworn to secrecy.
“Never mind that,” Raoul growled. “Just tell me when I can get back on my feet.”
“That was quite a knock to your head, but two days’ bedrest should be fine.” The physician turned to Suzanne. “ Madame , you’ll need to keep your husband’s wound clean. Stay by his side and send for me if he starts to experience delirium or becomes uncommonly drowsy.”
Suzanne opened her mouth to correct the physician, but what difference would it make? “Of course. Thank you for your advice, monsieur .”
She took out a few coins to pay the physician and he took his leave. Suzanne went to sit next to Raoul.
“A waste of money,” he grumbled. “And a waste of time. Bedridden for two days, it’s madness. This man must be a charlatan.”
Suzanne reached out to smooth the pillow. “Nicolas himself recommended him to me. Says he’s the best physician on this side of the Seine.”
“ Physician .” Raoul snorted. “A fancy gentleman too afraid to soil his hands, who leaves the dirty work to surgeons.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and he complimented you on your surgical skills, you big oaf, so stop sulking. Come now, is it so very unpleasant to be stuck in my bed?”
Her fingers had slid from the pillow to Raoul’s hair, and she stroked a silken strand. Raoul’s expression softened somewhat, though he was still scowling.
“It’s too small for me,” he mumbled.
She bent over to kiss his forehead. “Regardless, I’ll try to make your stay as comfortable as possible. Rest now, I have to buy bread and cheese.”
He caught her hand before she could pull it away and squeezed. “Be careful.”
She smiled and gently withdrew her hand. “I will.”
His words stayed with her as she skipped down the stairs. How odd that Raoul was worried for her, even though she was going out in broad daylight. True, he’d shown more concern for her safety after they’d gotten involved in Nicolas’s deadly feud with a crime lord a few months past, but that monster was rotting in the catacombs now.
No, it must be last night’s attack. Whoever had assaulted him—or hired the man who’d done it—must not be a practiced criminal, or he’d never risk a fight with Raoul not knowing if he was armed.
A flush of embarrassment rose to her cheeks. It was partly her fault. If Raoul hadn’t been moments away from slipping his hands under her skirts, he wouldn’t have been so distracted and so vulnerable. Not that she could bring herself to regret any of the heated kisses they’d shared after the ball, even if the evening hadn’t ended as she’d hoped.
She stepped out of the building and crossed the streets. Damn that rotten scum who’d injured her man. If it weren’t for him, Raoul would be in bed recuperating from a night of passionate love-making, rather than his wounds. If only she could have intervened during the fight. Her usual way of dealing with ruffians involved kicking, hitting, or biting, then fleeing the moment they loosened their grip. None of which would have been much help to Raoul. But she could help him now.
She quickened her pace and headed toward the Café Roussillon on Thérèse Street. As soon as she turned into the narrow lane, she spotted Albain Marchand sitting on a rickety chair out front, a worn hat covering his curly mop of hair, idly shuffling a pack of cards.
Albain made most of his money playing cards at the Roussillon, and the rest by acting as the middleman for people who wanted something illegal done and those who were willing to do it for a price. Of course, if she wanted anything out of him, she’d have to pay, too.
“Good day, Albain,” she called. “Have you got a minute?”
He smiled and kept shuffling his cards. “Lovely Suzanne. Always, for you.”
“No sweet talking. I need information.” She took three coins from her purse and jingled them in her palm. “Worth about that much.”
“All business today, I see. What’s happened?”
“Someone attacked Raoul last night on Vivienne Street—charged right at him. A man I’ve never seen before—slight of build, not very tall, a scar on his chin. And probably a broken nose now, as well.”
Albain laughed. “Who the hell would be that stupid? Are you sure it wasn’t just a drunkard?”
“He didn’t act drunk, and he had a knife. Maybe someone was paying him.”
Albain’s gaze fell on the coins in Suzanne’s palm. “A scar on his chin, you say? Doesn’t sound familiar. Not anyone I’ve dealt with, in any case. But I’ll see what I can do.”
She handed him the coins, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her closer. “I’ll be even quicker about it if you add something to sweeten the deal.”
She wrenched away and slapped the side of his head. “Keep your paws to yourself if you know what’s good for you. Raoul won’t take kindly to you propositioning his woman.”
Albain leaned back on his chair. “An honest mistake. No need to tell Prevost anything. I didn’t know you were spoken for.”
She wasn’t, exactly. At least not yet. But hopefully, when all of this was behind them, she wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
*
Raoul opened his eyes. Rain pattered on the tiny window. Plink. Plink . Drops fell from the corner of the pane into a bucket on the floor.
He sat up, his head heavy. Where was Suzanne? She’d been there when he’d woken this morning after a fitful sleep. He’d tossed and turned so much, his slumber broken by the pain of his wounds, that she’d spent the night dozing in the chair. And then she’d gone out again early in the afternoon, and told him to rest.
What time was it now? Why wasn’t she back? His head was heavy, as if he’d slept for hours. To hell with the physician’s orders, he’d get dressed and go looking for her himself.
He’d just thrown back the covers when the lock turned and Suzanne opened the door. The gray shawl draped over her hair and shoulders was soaking wet, and she held a parcel wrapped in brown paper against her chest. “I got some dried sausage. Are you hungry?”
His stomach growled. “A bit, yes.”
She unwrapped her shawl and went to the small table in the corner. She cut several slices of sausage, bread and cheese, and arranged them on a chipped plate. He propped himself against the wall, the plaster cool against his bare skin, and she sat on the edge of the bed next to him.
“You’re not eating anything?”
“I had a bite at the Café Roussillon,” she said. “Go ahead, you need your strength.”
Raoul tore into the dried sausage. If the last day and a half was anything to go by, if he insisted, she’d only scold him and cut him another slice of bread. It surprised him, how nurturing she was. He knew her to be streetwise and resilient, but he’d never witnessed her softer side.
“Listen, I’ve been talking with Albain Marchand,” she said carefully. “He thinks he knows who attacked you.”
Raoul raised an eyebrow. “Marchand? That rat? How much did you have to pay him?”
“Never mind that. He gave me a name. Pasquier. Does that sound familiar at all?”
Raoul shook his head. “No. Never heard it before.”
“Albain is trying to find who paid for his services. Can you think of anyone who would wish to harm you personally, and not just because of what you store in the backroom of your barbershop?”
Raoul stared down at his plate. “I had enemies, back in Marseilles. Territory wars, insults traded after an evening of drinking, fighting over the attention of some coquette… Nothing out of the ordinary for young men with too much time on their hands.”
Suzanne reached out and stroked his arm. “And before that?”
“Before that, I lived with my mother. She died when I was fifteen.”
He’d nearly spent half his life without her now. But he could still remember the sound of her voice, the way her blue eyes glimmered when she laughed, the way her hands moved, sure and strong and able, while she treated patients.
“What was she like?” Suzanne asked gently.
“Her name was Helena. She was a remarkable woman. She’s the one who taught me how to set bones, and she’d learned it from her father. He was an apothecary and a surgeon, out in the countryside of Provence. That’s where I was born.”
Suzanne didn’t say anything, simply waited for him to continue. He’d never spoken to anyone about his mother before. Nicolas was only aware that bone setting was a family tradition, and that Raoul had never known his father.
True, Raoul had never met him. But he did know the man’s name. And for some reason, he wanted to tell Suzanne, to share the weight of his secret with someone he trusted completely.
“The man who sired me was the son of a bourgeois, Monsieur Bonnefoy, who’d made a fortune in the shipping industry and had his summer mansion outside our village. My grandfather had saved Monsieur Bonnefoy’s leg after a riding accident, and after that he was called on whenever there was an ailment in the family. My mother often assisted him, and that’s how she met Bertrand. I’ll let you guess what happened next.”
Suzanne’s eyes filled with sadness, and she gave a little nod. Bertrand was a liar and a bounder, like so many others, who had seduced a young woman, promised marriage, then coldly abandoned her. The coward had run off to Italy to expand his father’s shipping business as soon as he’d learned Helena was with child. To make matters worse, Raoul’s grandfather had died shortly before he was born. If it hadn’t been for Madame Bonnefoy, Bertrand’s mother…
There are good, kind people in this world, Helena had told him on her deathbed, her beautiful face gaunt with malaria. Never forget this, and keep an open heart, or you might turn them away without even realizing it.
And then she’d given him the ring. But that was a whole other story, and he needed to focus on the problem at hand.
“My mother was one of countless women to raise a child by herself,” he continued. “She was brave and honest and skilled. Everyone who knew her liked her. I can’t imagine anyone carrying out some sort of vengeance years later, especially not Bertrand Bonnefoy. He never wanted anything to do with me, and for all I know he might be dead. It doesn’t make sense.”
Suzanne shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. But I am glad you told me nonetheless.”
Raoul took a slice of bread, then pushed the plate toward her. “Share this with me, then. Please. It doesn’t feel right eating alone when you’re with me.”
Suzanne took a small piece of cheese and smiled. “All right. I’ll light a candle, shall I? It’s dark outside, and it’ll feel more like we’re having supper together.”
Good, kind people. Keep an open heart.
Raoul hoped he’d sleep more soundly tonight, so that she would stay by his side.