Chapter 15 #2
“Did he?” Nathaniel’s voice was lazy.
“He was quite sorry to lose the game to you. It was most dramatic, so I hear, your winning hand.”
“Certainly the finish had a sense of drama. Perhaps I will play your friend again sometime with less excitement.” There were sharply edged layers to Nathaniel’s words, matching Dubois’s, not entirely blunted by their easy tones.
The tentative sips of marc de Bourgogne she’d already had fired off nausea in the pit of her stomach.
“Perhaps.” Dubois smiled slightly. “And you, Mademoiselle— He was also sorry to find you were already in M. Beaumont’s company and not open to new friendships.”
Had Dubois sent Oberlin to watch them? “I am open to new acquaintances,” she managed, “but not other friendships. I am quite satisfied with my current situation.” She caught Nathaniel’s eye.
He returned her look, something flaring there. “Indeed,” he concurred softly. “I should not like to be asked again to share you.”
He’d said something similar, in front of the mirror: If challenged, the man I am outside these rooms, Beaumont, won’t scruple to lay public claim to what is his—mine—alone.
Nathaniel looked back to Dubois. “You might inform M. Oberlin of that when next you speak.” Menace was in the quiet delivery rather than the tone.
“I shall tell him so.” Dubois steadily returned Nathaniel’s gaze. “I tell you what is what, M. Beaumont. My English friend who brings me whisky and other fine goods will be joining me here tomorrow night.”
Oh, surely he meant Compton! This was more than she’d dared hope for.
“A group of friends gathering to enjoy drinks, you understand,” Dubois continued. “The business, it is closed for the day as law requires. Perhaps we might at that time further discuss mutual interests.”
Nathaniel inclined his head.
“Do you know Baron Alphonse Cuvelier?” Dubois asked.
“The name is not familiar to me, no.”
“He will also be in attendance, along with his most lovely companion, Thérèse. You shall bring Mlle Blanchet as well.”
Gooseflesh prickled up her neck. She didn’t like Dubois’s assessing glance.
“It is unusual.” Dubois’s tone was thoughtful, looking at her. A man talking to himself, almost. “Thérèse has très beaux blue eyes, just as does Mlle Blanchet.”
A full-body flush of blood served as instantaneous warning before she’d fully processed the words, chased by an even stronger chill.
Was he implying that— Can Thérèse be Lucy? Oh dear God, please let it be Lucy. But has he recognized beyond doubt the similarity in our eyes?
Her mind froze on further implications except that—
If those things were true, this meeting had just become monumentally more dangerous. For herself, certainly, and for Nathaniel as well.
Because Thérèse might be Lucy.
And Dubois did not trust them.
Please, let my face show nothing. Please, let her trembling not be visible.
As though entirely unaware of any possible subtext, Nathaniel said, “We are pleased to accept.” He tipped his glass towards Dubois. “To the beginning of a profitable friendship.”
Dubois returned the salute. “You will both join us tomorrow evening at ten, then, for this meeting of friends. But now you will be desirous to visit your private room. I have kept you waiting for some time.” He traced the rim of his glass.
“You mentioned earlier the salle céladon. That chamber is already for the night reserved, however.”
She lifted her face. Dubois’s eyes did not match his casual tone.
“I suggest to you another in its place, the salle écarlate, which will have for you many of the same attractions you enjoyed on your previous visit.” He toyed with a jewel-handled letter opener, running his thumbnail along the sharp blade, more weapon than tool.
“Of course, it is not a room entirely private.” His gaze chilled her when it transferred to her.
“Although certainly there is a lock on the door, and you will not be interrupted. Is this for you a problem?”
Her mind blanked briefly at his meaning.
Nathaniel drummed the fingers of one hand against his thigh. “It is not a problem for me, but I will defer to your wishes, chérie. You are new to these sorts of games.”
His fingers called to mind the dark fiacre ride, him in shadows, something dangerous and barely leashed. She laid her hand atop his, pinning his fingers.
The room was a test. What would happen if they refused it? Right now, or moving forward? And if there was any chance that Baron Cuvelier’s companion was Lucy . . .
It was impossible to refuse the room.
Nathaniel’s expression was unreadable. He had not wished to expose her to the more salacious activities at Le Repaire; it was why he had not wanted to bring her at the outset. Now it seemed they had little choice but to enact some sort of scene, knowing themselves watched.
Her stomach roiled, but as Nathaniel’s hand slid to hers, clasping it, she steadied herself. If he could brazen out such a situation, she could as well.
She must take the initiative, then, and trust him for the rest. “It suits me, mon amour.”
“How pleased I am that you say this,” Dubois murmured. One could determine nothing from his tone as to his true opinion.
“Come, chérie,” Nathaniel said softly.
Nate would be damned if he’d force Isobel into anything just because she too had quickly grasped the implications.
There was no way to confer with her, no chance to set her mind at ease—if such a thing was even possible.
There was no time to chastise himself for his own part in exposing her to danger.
Later. Later, when they were safely away from here.
It was not impossible that the salle céladon was truly occupied, with Dubois merely acting as an accommodating host, but he highly doubted it was only that.