Chapter Four #2
She met his gaze with the memory of a thousand vicious arguments careening through her head. “My parents taught me that. Every day. More often at night. My mother was brave, strong, opposing him verbally.”
“And he?”
“He opposed her with his fists.”
Rafe groaned, repulsion in the downward curve of his mouth.
“My mother learned to hold herself up to him with the help of whiskey. Our slaves distilled a strong concoction of bourbon. My mother got a daily supply from them. Papa could never stop her—or them. Our servants favored Mama, and hated him.”
He took her arm. His concern for her was what the gentle Rafe would do. “And you? Did he hit you, too?”
“No. His assaults on me were in the cold derision of his gaze. I was too red-headed for him. Irish trash. He wanted a frilly little blonde thing to order around. I was also too educated for him. Too smart for a woman, he said. But I did his books, you see. Corrected his accountants’ work. For that, and only that, he valued me.”
“Ha!” Rafe was quick to counter her. “He should see you now. What you have done for me is an enormous service, finding four thousand pounds I seemed to have lost.”
“That took me a long time.”
“I care not for the days you worked at it. I care only for the results, my dear.”
“I am glad I gave you that service.”
“Who else could have?” He beamed. “Only you, my dear.”
His dear. She took that as her finest reward for today.
But her abilities at mathematics conjured up her other challenge.
She had found no news in gossip sheets or London newspapers of her young friend Cosette Lenoir, who had escaped Paris with her father.
That man had become notorious in Parisian Society and had to flee Bonaparte or die.
In the moments when Zeph and Rafe spoke of their future move to London, she had begun to worry about finding Cosette at all.
She had asked him if he knew a French banker who had emigrated to England.
She couched her question amid a list of others who had fled France.
Rafe knew a few, but not the banker named Lenoir—and that he found odd, because he said he knew most such men who had left France in disgrace.
She found it odd, too, that a man like Lenoir, so impressed with himself, would hide away in his new home.
Particularly if he spent the wealth he had stolen.
He was a frivolous man and had boasted in Paris of his association with Bonaparte.
When he had been accused of the theft of military funds, he took his only family, his daughter, and ran.
“You are frowning, Zephora.” Rafe paused. “Why?”
She could be honest about her fear for the fate of her friend. “Yes, I worry that in the gossip sheets I find no reference to my friend, Cosette Lenoir.”
He arched a brow. “Oh. Why do you worry about her? I do believe she was among those about whom you asked me the other day.”
“She was. Her father was very proud of his status, his friends, and his work for Bonaparte. He was a banker, but he stole money allocated to buy arms. Do you suppose he is in hiding here in Britain? Might he even have changed his name?”
Rafe shot her a dour, dark look. “If he is smart, he has.”
She didn’t like that answer. “Why?”
“Zeph, he committed a crime against the French government. They will hunt him down.”
“Hunt him?” Why had she not thought of that?
“Of course—he took their money. I have heard rumors of one banker who had taken sums allocated for the rifle factory in Charleville in eastern France. I had forgotten his name, but I wonder if it is the man Lenoir whom you mentioned the other day.”
“And? What have you learned about the one who took money from Charleville?” She hated to ask and feared to learn.
“Nothing much yet, but I hope to. Yesterday, I wrote to Halsey and another colleague, the Marquess of Carlisle. We three are great friends and used to work for the previous prime minister.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Yes, it is true,” he said nonchalantly.
“You were not simply associates but friends with the Prime Minister of Britain?” No wonder Rafe had the means and connections to cross the Channel, ride through the French countryside, rescue her, then hide her and himself away in a seaside cabin near Bordeaux.
Would she ever know all about this valiant man who had rescued her from hell?
“We three worked for him for years. He died very young. I think you were in the Conciergerie when he passed away.”
That could be true. She did not recall this news. “Did someone kill him?”
Rafe winced. “No. He died of a natural malady. But we liked him tremendously. He built the British treasury so that we could afford to fight the French for many years to come.”
He took her hand, something he rarely did these days.
“Oh, my dear, I see you fear for your friend and her father, and you are not wrong to do so. Vaillancourt has most likely charged his French spies here in Britain with the task of finding Monsieur Lenoir and returning him home to the comforts of a Parisian dungeon.”
She halted. Her vision blurred. French spies?
“I am sorry.” He reached for her, and though they were in public, he embraced her, rubbed her back, and pulled away to smile down into her eyes. Two fingers to her chin, he smoothed his thumb along the corner of her lips. “I was brash to say that.”
Alarm drifted over her like a shroud. “Vaillancourt will look for me, too, won’t he?”
“He may, though I doubt it. He has more to think about than your transgression. Plus, you have already done the worst to him with the release of his betting book. I am sorry for frightening you.”
Frightened? She was terrified. She would not tell him why.
After all, her little notebook might never have arrived in London.
Cosette could have misplaced it or lost it.
Furthermore, if Cosette had later learned that Zeph was sent to prison, the girl would think the book worthless.
She could have thrown it away. To anyone who read it—or tried to—the book appeared to be a set of endless numbers.
Gibberish. Silliness. Zeph’s translation of those numbers would be a project, long and hard, but only if she got the book back.
Did indeed the sets of numbers mean anything at all?
Yes, since they existed, since they had been in Vaillancourt’s desk, locked away, they were of great worth, weren’t they?
She felt the warm satisfaction prick her fear, even if it did not destroy it.
“Zeph, sweetheart.” Rafe’s tender words pierced her heart. “You are safe. You must not fear. I will protect you.”
She could not catch her breath. “Oh, Rafe.” She dug her fingernails into the lapels of his midnight-navy frockcoat. She had to have his arms around her. Now. Now! “I need you…but not here. Let’s go home.”
He cupped her cheek, shaken himself.
They turned and all but raced across the marine walkway back to his townhouse, up the steps, into the back parlor. There, she burrowed into him. He took her to the settee and held her. How long, she had no idea. But she never wished to leave.
She had to know more from him. “I want your assurance that you are here with me. That you are safe. If Vaillancourt comes for me, he does for you too. Oh, Rafe! I could not bear it if you were hurt or…or taken—”
He captured her face with two hands to her cheeks. “My dear Zeph.”
My dear? Tears scalded her eyes. My dear man.
“Listen to me. No one will take you away.”
“But Rafe! They can. They will! I know! I know it!” She could feel the meaty hands of the ruffians who had grabbed her shoulders, torn her gown, and shaken her so her teeth rattled. They had hauled her off, nearly naked, to face the triumphant Vaillancourt.
“Zephora!” Rafe called to her. “Look at me. Zephora, no one will take you from me.”
She plucked at the ends of his cravat. “No one takes you from me.” Not ever. “Tell me that is so!”
“It is true.” He had tears on his lashes.
Hers flowed from her, down her cheeks, in an agonizing river of fear and regret that the only man she could ever love would be killed, destroyed, because of her.
He pulled her near and nestled her against his warm and massive chest. “Cry, my darling. You have not shed a tear over what you have endured. Cry.”
And so, shocked and liberated once more to be herself with him, she gave herself over to the pain of her imprisonment and the nightmare that Rafe might suffer for her actions. Freed, she felt a sob rise out of her with a loud, gasping cry.
She curled into his embrace like a child heartbroken, bitter at those who had used her, beaten her, bruised her, and discarded her, frightened out of the peace she had claimed with this dear man, the serenity that he had helped her find.
At once stiff, then limp, she clung to him long past the minutes when her tears dried and her heart regained a normal beat.
The sun had fallen to the earth, and the shadows in the parlor went to ashes by the time she managed to push back once more into his arms and look into his gaze, tragic with his remorse.
He tried to smile, but failed. Then, pushing her hair from her cheeks, he sank his fingers up against her scalp.
She marveled at him. “How do you know how to soothe someone so distraught?”
“One day, I will tell you. Not this day. You would not want to hear it.”
“Did you save her from her horror?”
His verdant green gaze went toward the window. “Them. Yes. I did.”
“And are they happy now?” She would wager her life on it.
He dropped his gaze to hers. “One that I know of. Another, I doubt.”
Hours later, after a good pot of tea, cold roast beef sandwiches, and half a bottle of fine Hennessy cognac, he stood, took her hand, and led her up the stairs to her rooms. At the door, he dropped a kiss to the crown of her hair and bade her good night.
She could have hoped for his company in her bed. Chaste, friendly, and polite, he could have been. But she did not expect that from him. She closed the door upon him, satisfied with his embraces of her, but unhappy with his distance.