Chapter 14
Fourteen
If Andre was correct that dirty and disheveled was the fashion of the day in Paris, then, after three days on the road riding hell for leather, Marcus Tyndale’s brown suit was definitely à la mode.
He steered the sturdy little mare through the hostelry gates, swung out of the saddle, untied his luggage, and slung his portmanteau and boxes over his shoulder.
Giving the mare’s neck a grateful pat, he was immediately enveloped in a cloud of dust and horse sweat.
An ostler, a wiry man with callused hands, stepped forward to take the horse’s bridle.
Marcus explained about the arrangements he’d made with the inn where he’d hired the mare.
After paying the remaining balance for her return, he snugged the red cap Andre had given him around his ears and strode out of the hostelry yard.
He spent the next hour weaving in and out of twisting streets, then doubling back. When he was finally certain he hadn’t been followed, he flagged down a fiacre to take him to the Rue Fromenteau.
The cabby gave him a knowing look from beneath his battered round hat, when Marcus declined to give him a specific house number, saying simply “near the Louvre will do.” Fromenteau was a notorious haunt for prostitutes.
Apparently, the cabby knew the route well. He took several sharp turns down narrow twisting streets, scraping a wall, scattering pedestrians, and barely missing a vegetable cart, a hay wagon, and a carriage, before arriving at their destination.
Somewhat surprised to find he still had all his teeth when they finally stopped, Marcus gathered up his portmanteau, writing desk and art box, and stepped down into the street.
He walked a short distance, gawping with obvious interest at the women lingering in the doorways and arched walkway; it had the desired effect of encouraging one of them, a freckle-faced red-head, whose patriotic red, white, and blue gown featured a distinctly low neckline, to grab his arm.
“Aren’t you a pretty fellow.” She cocked her head, gaze moving up his body, down, then up again. “How’s about I show you a good time?”
Though he had no interest in whatever she considered ‘a good time,’ he needed assistance. “What’s your price?”
The red head reeled off a menu of prices for a truly astonishing variety of sex acts.
Figuring that what he had in mind would take about an hour of her time—two at the most, he said, “How about I pay you your hourly rate for that fourth item you mentioned, but instead of us going up to your room…”
The red head bristled. “Here now, I’m not a common bawd. I don’t do nothing in public…”
“But instead of us going up to your room,” he repeated firmly, “you help me find Suzanne Bonneuil.”
“Suzanne?” She stopped mid-protest, clearly confused. “Brown hair?” She tapped a spot on her cheekbone about a half an inch below her right eye. “And a mole?”
“That’s the one.”
“A number four? And a three-way? That’ll cost you extra.”
Marcus sighed. “My dear citizeness, let me assure you, I haven’t the slightest interest in a three-way.”
“So, you’re an observer then.”
He was…sometimes…he mused, though not the sort she was imagining. “I just want to find Suzanne Bonneuil…”
“You don’t want a three way. You don’t want to watch. What d’you want with that scrawny bitch? She’s barely got any titties.”
Marcus didn’t bother to answer.
Glancing down at her own considerable bosom, she shook her head and said, “Though I suppose it’s none of my business, and easy enough money. An hour’s pay you say. For a number four? And all I have to do is tell you how to find Suzanne?”
“For the price of a number four. All you have to do is take me to Suzanne,” he amended. “No Suzanne. No money.”
“You don’t want me to watch, do you?”
“What an appalling thought. Decidedly not.”
“You’ll pay me in coins? Not those damned paper assignats?” She made a moue of disgust. “Too many damned forgeries about…”
“Citizeness, you wound me.” Marcus placed a hand on his chest, his offended tone only partially mock. Some of those fake assignats were among his finest works.