Chapter 10
Ten
Lamartine ran ink-stained hands over his bristled pate and frowned at a crack in the plaster running down the wall in front of him.
The room was dank and smelled of cabbage and unwashed bodies.
A candle flame cast a spidery light over the crumpled wads of paper on the scarred wooden desktop where he sat.
He gave a delicate shudder as he thought of the fleas infesting the low rope bed behind him.
Hopefully none of them would find a home in the bagwig packed in its worn leather traveling case on the grimy washstand.
These miserable lodgings were all Alix de La Brou’s fault, he thought, angrily scratching at a fleabite on his scalp.
If she had just stayed put and died at the chateau, he wouldn’t have to be wasting his hard-earned money on rented rooms and public stables.
He grimaced as his fingers traced the small lump at the back of his head.
He’d like to find the man who’d struck him as well.
He’d had a rough time of it when the neighbors had found him in Madame de La Brou’s small salon.
He’d had to whine and cringe his way past the district constable.
It had been humiliating and that too was Alix’s and the strange man’s fault.
Once he’d gotten those titles, he’d denounce them both and gladly watch them die.
But first he had to find them.
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. They’d only met once, but he’d recognize the tall stranger if he ever saw him again.
The long nose, the arrogant smirk, the elegant English-style riding boots.
Too well dressed to be a thief, but almost certainly not a friend of the comte’s.
He prided himself on remembering the names and faces of every noble visitor to the estates.
And yet, recalling the man’s evasive responses to his questions, he could have sworn the stranger knew something about Alix, perhaps even had the girl hidden away somewhere. Could he have been a friend of Madame de La Brou?
The sounds of vigorous commercial lovemaking disturbed his thoughts, a woman repeatedly groaning, “You’re the best.” Lamartine slammed his fist against the wall.
A man’s voice answered with an obscenity and a bottle crashed against the wall.
He scowled. The place was disgusting, but in overcrowded Paris, having a room, much less a bed to himself, was a luxury.
The people here lived like rats. Each district in the city was a warren, with people crowded in on top of each other, marrying, producing children, growing old, and dying all in the same neighborhoods.
But, he mused, their closeness did have its advantages.
If Alix or her protector were in the area, or went near the apartment on the Rue de l’Université, the filthy urchins he’d paid to watch the place would let him know.
He took a battered gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat and flipped it open.
The comte’s watch no longer ran, but it still had its uses.
Inside it was a delicate miniature of a dark-haired girl with wide gray eyes, an impressive likeness of Alexandre de Rabec de La Brou.
He’d shown the portrait to every little street beggar he could find, along with the coins he’d pay for information concerning her whereabouts.
It would work, he reassured himself, and he would find her.
He took a sip of wine from the glass at his elbow, ignoring the vinegary bite as it slid across his tongue, and resumed his practice of the drafting notes in the comte’s hand.
The shadow of a smile played about his thin mouth.
Wouldn’t Father Bonheur be proud if he could see Robert Lamartine working so diligently at his lessons?
If there was one thing the village priest had beaten into him after his parents had died, it was the importance of hard work.
He dipped his quill into the ink and wrote out a few sentences.
He had to get the tone of the letter just right, the correct balance of command and sentiment.
After a few moments he crumpled his draft and tossed it into the pile on the desk.
Command was easy; it was the sentiment that gave him trouble.
He dipped his quill again. He’d stay another week in Paris.
If Alix didn’t turn up, then perhaps he’d pay a visit to Madame la Comtesse in London.
And when he did, he reflected, reaching for a fresh piece of paper, he’d be well prepared.
Darkness was falling and the street lamps had been lit.
As the coach passed them, their flickering light would briefly illuminate its shadowy interior.
Lying back against the velvet cushions, Rafe used these moments to study the face of his sleeping bride.
She’d discarded her hat and lay slumped against the side of the carriage, her head pillowed in her cloak.
A frown creased her brow and there were smudges of fatigue under her eyes.
Bride. New wife. He considered the words thoughtfully.
Not his to keep he reminded himself, his fingers drumming softly on the coach door.
She didn’t want him; her words, if not her body, had made that clear.
He’d said he’d give her an annulment, and a gentleman should stand by his word.
Besides, he told himself, she was not the sort of wife he ever would have chosen.
Unpredictable, argumentative... he felt the increasingly familiar surge of heat that occurred whenever he spent too much time thinking or looking at Alix... passionate.
He turned his eyes away from Alix and stared sightlessly out the window.
Lady Anne’s voice echoed coldly in his head, “I have no desire to invite Moreham to paw at my bosom.” He frowned; there had been such revulsion in her tone.
He’d never considered whether passion would be a feature of his marriage to Lady Anne; now he wondered if he could bear a lifetime without it.
And yet, he reflected, his fingers ceasing their beat, it had been Anne’s cool composure that had drawn him to her in the first place.
He needed her calming influence on Elizabeth, didn’t he?
And what if she took her revenge at his failure to come up to scratch out on his sister?
Elizabeth might be wild and impulsive, but she had a good heart.
A season laced with social barbs and vicious gossip would destroy her.
Rafe tried to recall his feelings for Lady Anne before he’d overheard her conversation in the garden, tried to superimpose her pale blond features over Alix’s sleeping ones.
Alix’s tumbled hair remained resolutely dark, and Rafe forced his gaze back to the window.
Dark masses of trees rose up, took shape and then blurred in passing.
He knew that Paris was behind them. He checked the gold watch that hung from a fob beneath his waistcoat; they were making good time.
Just before they’d left the city, they’d exchanged the sapphire blue coach for a sleek black post chaise.
He’d known the expensive hired vehicle would attract the attention of the national guards as they passed through the various checkpoints on the road to Calais, but he’d reasoned that since their papers were in order, they’d have no problems. Rafe smiled wryly.
What he hadn’t anticipated was the interest the newly minted marriage license would invite.
At nearly every stop he and Alix had been subjected to a wealth of ribald advice and demands to see the newlyweds embrace.
Not that his own manservant had been much help.
As soon as they neared a checkpoint, Jervis would wave his hat in the air, calling out that they were the newlywed express.
When he’d drawn Jones over and suggested he stop, Jervis had smiled broadly.
“That’s the beauty of it, Captain, these Frenchies can’t resist a handsome young couple in love.
Distracts ‘em from asking too many nosy questions.” He poked Rafe in the chest. “So you two just keep playing it up.” He chuckled.
“By God, the kiss at the last stop nearly had me convinced.”
Rafe nearly groaned at the memory. His eyes were drawn irresistibly back to Alix’s sleeping form: Playing it up, indeed—more like playing with a bed of smoldering coals.
The first kiss flared like tinder, the second flamed like kindling, and the third roared through his veins with the heat of seasoned wood well caught.
And when Alix trembled beneath him, he could swear she felt it, too.
God’s breath he was a man, he thought as he checked his watch again and wondered how he would last out the trip without making love to her.
His ruminations were cut short by the lurching stop of the coach. The horses whinnied, and he heard the coachman trying to calm them. Sliding back the window he peered out, saw lanterns mounted on an overturned wagon in the road, and a group of men clustered around it.
Alix sat up, rubbing her eyes and pushing wayward strands of hair out of her face. “What is it?” she asked with a yawn.
“I believe it’s an accident in the road, seems to be an overturned wagon.” But his speculations were cut short by a pounding at the coach door, and a man’s raised voice.
“By order of the Senlis Revolutionary Tribunal, we demand you stop and show your papers.”
Rafe and Alix stepped out of the carriage into a pool of lantern light.
Jervis and the coachman were standing among a group of young men, all wearing blue jackets with red epaulettes and red, white, and blue cockades in their hats.
All, Rafe noted grimly, were armed with an array of sabers, pistols, and rifles.
He pulled their passports and identity papers from his coat pocket and a sturdy young man with dark hair stepped forward to take them.
“I am Anton Doret, captain of the Senlis Guard Nationale,” he said, studying the papers carefully. “You are English, citizen?” he inquired, frowning at Rafe.
Rafe nodded.