Chapter 9 #3
Isobel straightened her skirt after sitting. “Yes, please.”
Amélie prepared Isobel’s cup. “I will ring for some food besides.” Her eyes moved shrewdly between Isobel and himself.
He sat in silence as a maid discreetly took Amélie’s quiet directions.
He’d bucked up the courage of men in his company on the verge of fleeing when panic filled their minds and loosened their guts before battle.
He’d been woken by men with tormented dreams. He’d lived through scenes of bloodshed.
Had quite actively contributed to arguably necessary carnage, especially among the guerrilleros.
But he was left out of sorts by this morning.
When Isobel’s first dream came, he was yet awake.
At first he thought she’d woken, but when he heard her voice, words twisted and indistinct, he realized she was in another nightmare.
Most of her words were garbled, unintelligible save Jamie, once, anguished.
She sat upright, body rigid and arms groping in front of her.
Gentle pressure on her shoulders and a few soft words, and she lay back down.
She never fully woke as he replaced the blankets around her.
He more than half expected the next dream when it came, was listening for it.
She made a strangled noise, something between a sob and a scream caught in her throat.
Her eyes were open, unseeing. She pushed frantically at her night rail like she couldn’t bear it against her skin.
When he knelt beside her, she first gripped his wrists, then put her arms around his neck, clinging for dear life as breaths were torn from her.
He held her until her frame softened. He slept once she did.
And sometime between then and now, he’d misplaced his equilibrium entirely.
He’d also had half a cockstand in the moments after waking. Not surprising, first thing in the morning, to say nothing of it having been some time since he’d had any release save that of his own hand. While inconvenient, ignoring his cock was a matter of discipline.
What he’d not anticipated was the stirring of emotions he barely recognized, with his arms around her as she made herself vulnerable to him and put her anguish into words.
Certainly she did not need his protection, nor had she asked for it, but she’d trusted in what he offered.
She’d relaxed in his arms as though she belonged there.
She had a great wealth of inner strength.
The more he learned of her history, the more he appreciated just how deep her strength ran.
He admired her for how she had responded to a series of events that could have broken her or paralyzed her from moving forward.
He had meant it in all sincerity, that she had more courage than many would have had under similar circumstances, woman or man.
But he’d dropped his own guard unintentionally.
And he’d liked more than he ought the simple act of having her in his arms, the smell of her hair in his nose with her warmth against him.
He’d have preferred not subjecting himself to this present introspection, but circumstances larger than his own discomfort demanded objectivity.
He’d looked down into her face just as light touched it and . . . Christ, what did it say about his morals that she’d only just finished reliving aloud the week of her husband’s death?
No chaste kiss of comfort, on his side, had it happened. He was a cad for even thinking it, but it also didn’t stop him wanting her. And her breath had caught, audibly. She hadn’t turned away; he had.
She wasn’t someone to trifle with casually. She deserved better than that.
It was bloody inconvenient, the quicksilver awareness that crackled between them. Touching—kissing, even—before leaving for Café de Foy had been practical. But also unwise? Because now his motivations were no longer related only to his work.
With some difficulty, he recalled himself to his current surroundings and found Amélie’s maid gone and Amélie watching him. Had she asked him something?
“Ah, you are back with us once more,” she said lightly before turning to Isobel. “Now you must tell me of your little meeting last night with étienne. You showed him your sister’s miniature, I comprehend.”
“Yes. He thought Lucy might perhaps look familiar, but if he has seen her, he did not know from where.”
“That was for you most disappointing, I am sure,” Amélie said gently.
“Yes.” Isobel looked down at her coffee bowl. “Although I suppose I shouldn’t have hoped for more.”
“Are you determined still in your own mind to do this, to continue an active part in these investigations?”
“I am.” Isobel’s voice was steady although she still looked at her coffee rather than at Amélie. “I will accompany Nathaniel to Frascati’s tonight to see what I may learn there. Even if it is nothing.”
“Then we have work we must do together. And if I might say without rudeness, you look very tired, ma chère. Perhaps you will wish to rest a little more now that you have finished your coffee and had a small bite to eat? And then we shall put our heads together, oui? But first I have matters to discuss with Nathaniel.”
Isobel thanked her, departing with only a small glance at him.
After Isobel absented herself, Amélie turned her attention to him.
“You are quite far away this morning, mon cher. And also you are the smallest bit . . . rumpled.” Her lips curved up.
“I had considered whether it is polite to mention this”—he snorted at that—“but the buttons of your waistcoat are askew.”
He frowned down at the garment; he had indeed misbuttoned it. “It was a late night,” he said shortly.
“Mmm.” Amélie’s expression did not change.
His fingers were tapping the arm of the chair. He stilled them. “Are you inquiring—with rather less than your usual subtlety, I may add—if anything transpired between us?” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You may rest assured nothing did.”
Amélie regarded him, remarking at length, “So you did not make love to her. However I do not believe that nothing passed between you. I have met many men in both these occupations of mine. You know this. I have, with time and necessity, learned to understand them by what they do not say as much as by that they do. You are a most careful man with your face, always, to keep from it your thoughts, but this morning even you are not so difficult to read.”
He looked at Amélie consideringly, and she laughed.
“Isobel has nightmares,” he said abruptly. He’d not meant to discuss it, truly. “One woke her the night I brought her to the garret. The first night. She’s had more. And they were . . . worse.”
Amélie took a sip of her coffee.
“We spoke of them this morning,” he finished tersely. “At some length. And then I brought her here.”
“And so you did not take her to bed last night. A good man would not, with these nightmares. However, you wish to do so,” Amélie stated.
He refrained from answering. It would do no good to deny it, but neither would he admit it aloud, even to Amélie.
She sighed, signaling a change in subject. “And what is your opinion of how it went with you last night at the Palais-Royal with Isobel and le bel étienne?”
“He did his utmost to charm her.” What a remark to lead with that was. I need to focus.
“But of course he did. étienne is one for the ladies, always.”
Yes, Baudelaire’s pursuits were somewhat legendary, and only sometimes part of his work.
“What did our M. Baudelaire make of her?” Amélie asked.
“He broached Frascati’s tonight. Of her joining us there. I had not yet discussed that with him.”
“He has approved, then, of her involvement.”
“Aye. There was a note this morning. One of his men had eyes on the patrons. Isobel’s presence will have been noted and reported elsewhere.” To Dubois, certainly.
“Très bien. For your plan, this is good. Now we have much to do, your Isobel and myself, before tonight. A visit to the café, that is one matter. Frascati’s is rather more.
” She flicked a glance at him. “You will make yourself scarce when you have finished your coffee so that we ladies may undertake our work. You have no doubt other matters which take you away.”
Accepting the gentle dismissal—grateful for it, if he were honest—he gulped down the last several swallows of coffee and stood. He did not ordinarily consider himself a coward, but he was glad to escape the room.
And she was not his Isobel.