Chapter 19
The nearer they drew to Le Repaire, the more nervous Isobel became.
Several times she felt perhaps her nerve would, after all, fail her.
Her mouth was too dry for speech; she hadn’t anything to say in any case.
Nathaniel was also silent, but judging by the sharpness of his gaze and the tension in his shoulder brushing hers, he likewise entertained uneasy thoughts.
She drew a deep breath, checking for what was surely the twentieth time that Maman’s ring remained on her finger. She had worn it needing some kernel of truth: a reminder of who she truly was and the comfort of an object intimately tied to memories of home.
“It is not too late to change your mind,” Nathaniel said softly. “It will not be too late until you are through the door, and even then—”
“I have not changed my mind, and I will not.” Her voice was scarce above a whisper; it was all she could manage. “But I am nervous.”
“Only a fool wouldn’t be.”
She swallowed. “You are nervous?”
He considered his response. “I am uneasy about the unknown variables,” he said at length. “And certainly I do not trust Dubois any further than he trusts me. Perhaps even less so, given what I know for certain of him. I think he has only suspicions right now about me. Nothing concrete.”
“And if it is Lucy—” Her voice broke. She did not try to find it again.
Nathaniel’s hand settled gently on hers, enclosing her fingers within his. “Remember, there are many eyes on Le Repaire tonight. And Chrysanthème will be there and alert.”
It should have reassured her, but the reminder only increased her anxiety, knowing well that such measures were prudent.
They had already discussed logistics at L’Orchidée; there was nothing more to be said on that score.
Men of Nathaniel’s were nearby should things go badly, but they would not be inside.
Should things go badly . . .
She gazed sightlessly out the window, buildings passing in a dark blur. Nathaniel kept his fingers firmly laced with hers.
Her legs carried her from the fiacre, barely. Kept her standing beside Nathaniel on Le Repaire’s doorstep—barely.
Save for the doorman, the same silent and somewhat forbidding man as the previous night, Dubois appeared to have sent all employees away.
Was it so there would be no witnesses? It might be benign caution on Dubois’s part given the enterprises in which he and Compton were engaged.
She hoped it was not because he had more nefarious action planned.
They were not the first arrivals; Compton was already present.
In a way, it was a relief and perhaps the best-case scenario.
Compton she fully expected and had already schooled her features accordingly, although the inner burst of mingled fury and fear was nonetheless strong enough that she fought to keep her gaze steady.
Nathaniel’s arm about her waist tightened as he introduced her.
The dress was, as Amélie had phrased it, its own form of defense by way of distraction.
If Dubois had mentioned her eyes to Compton, he did not appear to take special notice of them; although he looked her over, his eyes lingered longest elsewhere than her face.
His expression when he finished his perusal chilled her.
It would have even had she known nothing about him, even had her nerves not already been strung tight enough to snap.
There was something almost inhumane in his face. It set her further on edge.
It was best that Cuvelier and his mistress were not yet present.
Had she been presented to both Compton and Thérèse at the same time, it might have been impossible to discipline her reaction.
Whether Thérèse was Lucy or not, she would have strong emotions either way; she was not fool enough to believe otherwise.
It was that she most feared in this entire scenario, that she would give herself away at once when Thérèse arrived, either way it went.
So much hope and fear were tangled up in the possibility that she may have found her sister against all expectation.
It would be shocking if true, equally crushing if not.
She was unpleasantly giddy, shaky, unable to settle, although she hoped that was not visible.
It took effort to keep her face blank; she feared she was not succeeding.
It steadied her at first, looking at Nathaniel as he spoke with the men, until that too began to feel like an out-of-body experience.
How had she come to be here, with this man—whom she barely knew—in this situation, in some sort of depraved sexual club in France?
It was not real. It could not be real. This was another nightmare, stranger than the others. It must be.
Nausea surged.
Nathaniel’s arm encircled her, pulling her close. Grounding her. He was real. Whatever else this room was, whoever else he was pretending to be, he was real. The man who’d laid himself bare to her the past two nights, who’d held her as she slept—that man was real.
It made it just a little easier. She was not alone.
Compton, Dubois, and Nathaniel engaged in casual conversation, waiting for Cuvelier.
None of it required her to participate. She needed do nothing more than lean against Nathaniel’s body on the couch they shared.
He kept a hand stroking her lazily: her arm, her waist, the exposed skin above the gown’s neckline.
Dubois tracked the touches, an oily smile on his face.
On the occasions he looked their way, Compton looked amused in a way that turned her stomach.
Dubois was dangerous, but Compton exuded something malevolent.
She affected not to notice their attention, striving to keep a half smile on her face that she hoped resembled complacent affection for her protector and maybe a little boredom that she’d been brought along to a meeting merely as his adornment.
Chrysanthème knocked, entering. “Jacques has all secured, Monsieur,” she informed Dubois, “now that M. le Baron Cuvelier and Thérèse have arrived.” Chrysanthème’s eyes caught hers as if by accident. “I will remain in the back should you have need of me.”
She dropped her eyes, fussing with her skirt so she needn’t look as Chrysanthème stepped aside to allow Cuvelier and his mistress to enter.
Nathaniel’s hand on the back of her neck tightened just before she looked up.
At Lucy.
Oh merciful God, Lucy!
Lucy’s face was perfectly blank, save for her eyes. In them was incredulity and . . . fear? Lucy looked quickly away.
The rush of blood in her ears nearly drowned out Nathaniel saying, “Come, chérie.” He looped an arm around her waist possessively. “We will free up your place for the baron or his friend.”
Yes. She needed his arms. She allowed herself to be drawn onto Nathaniel’s lap, the picture of obedience. She shook everywhere, she was sure of it, every nerve overfiring; he would ground her.
She wanted to reach for Lucy’s hands, but of course she couldn’t. Thérèse and Isobel Blanchet had only just met.
She bit her lip against tears—or wild laughter or both at once—and to stop the words that wanted to burst from her: I found you. I found you, Lucy. She wasn’t dreaming. She wasn’t hallucinating. It was truly, truly Lucy.
A sharp pinch on her inner arm reeled her in: Nathaniel’s fingers getting her attention, pulling her out of the tempest of her mind and back into the room.
I need to speak. What was expected? Something innocuous. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur le Baron, Madame.” Breathy, yes, but her voice did not shake, thank God.
Lucy took the seat she’d only just vacated. “Please, you must call me Thérèse.” Her sister’s voice held a faint note of warning.
My sister’s voice.
She forced a smile. “And I am Isobel.” With effort she turned away from Lucy as though the introduction had been of no import rather than utterly cataclysmic.
She willed her smile to give nothing away.
Was Dubois’s chuckle forced? Suspicious?
She’d momentarily lost all ability to gauge others’ reactions, too involved in hiding her own.
One of Nathaniel’s hands tightened on her ribs, gentler than his fingers had been: a small squeeze of acknowledgment.
His arm around her waist was a tangible reminder, again, that she was not alone in navigating this.
He offered reassurance in the silent warmth and strength of his body.
He believed she could do this. He would not have brought her otherwise, for any reason; she could not have talked him into it even had she tried, if he’d not trusted her. It steadied her a tiny bit.
She was hiding her emotions, she hoped, but she very much feared she couldn’t for much longer, not with Lucy—oh merciful God, Lucy!—sitting close enough that they might have held hands if they wished.
The men began conversing. Cuvelier was complaining about an issue with a servant that had occurred, causing them to be late. Dubois commiserated about how difficult it was to find good help . . . She gave up trying to follow their conversation, her mind awhirl.
Waiting had been almost unbearable. Sitting beside Lucy, unable to speak freely, afraid to look at her lest she give herself away, was entirely unbearable.
Whether Dubois also knew—and perhaps Compton—because surely if Dubois knew, he would reveal it to Compton if Compton himself had not pieced it together? Whether or not they knew, the most pressing issue had now become what to do about it.
She couldn’t sit here. All the careful subterfuge would be for naught if she could no longer hold it in. She’d give herself away. Not just herself, but Nathaniel and Lucy as well.
Once again a seam in this gown was strategically weakened. She couldn’t surreptitiously tear it without standing, however. Nathaniel held his wine goblet casually in his left hand, listing slightly towards Lucy—he’d created an opening, waiting for her to pick up on it.