Alex frowned, and Lucia knew what he was thinking. He suspected John of helping De´charne´ plan the abduction and then, when they had escaped, of giving De´charne´ Madame Loinger’s address. The very idea was ridiculous. John, a traitor? Never. She licked her dry lips. Then who had betrayed them? And had that same person betrayed John as well?
Her heart seized as it always did whenever she thought of her brother in danger.
“Whoever the traitor is,” Alex said. “De´charne´ doesn’t need him now. All of France is looking for us, or they will be soon. After losing us twice, De´charne´ can’t afford to do so again. He’ll have his soldiers scouring the countryside, and word will spread fast. Our saving grace is that De´charne´ can’t be certain we’ll go to Paris. He’ll have to spread his men out, and that may slow them down. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to Paris before the news of my identity does.”
He strode to his horse, and as Lucia watched him ready the animal for travel, she had the sinking feeling she wouldn’t get any more rest that day.
She was right.
They rode hard, changing horses twice more, finally reaching Paris at sunset. They crept through the alleys and avenues until they reached a building in the Latin Quarter where Alex kept an apartment. Christophe Homais had a comfortable town house in Paris, and Lucia would have loved to see it, but it would have been suicide to go there.
Lucia noticed immediately that although the Latin Quarter apartment was dusty and neglected, it was also comfortable. It was small with two bedrooms and a central room down the hallway. Alex showed Lucia to the larger bedroom, then, leaving her alone in it, disappeared into the room across the hall and shut the door. Reluctantly Lucia closed her own door. She took in the details of the room quickly, somewhat disconcerted to note the place boasted a woman’s touch.
It would have made the perfect residence for a mistress, and it probably had been. She didn’t see any evidence of one now, but the small bed with the lacy white coverlet and curtains to match, the dainty dressing table, and the pretty armoire bespoke a woman’s presence. The last rays of the setting sun filtered through the lacy curtains, and Lucia sank onto the bed, watching the light fade. She would lie down just for a moment, then go across the hall and ask Alex about his plan to find John.
A woman’s voice pulled Lucia out of her deep, dreamless sleep. She stared into the heavy blackness of the room, struggling to remember where she was—London? Tanglewilde?
Then she heard Alex’s velvety baritone rising and falling in soft French, and the past few days rushed back to her. She rose and padded to the door of the room to peer out.
Squinting into the light shining from the drawing room, she caught a glimpse of Alex moving back and forth, gesturing to someone out of her line of vision. He moved with the easy grace she’d always admired, looking rested and at ease, as if he’d been lounging about for days instead of riding like a madman for Paris through a sleepless night.
He paused, and one of the lamps bathed his features in pale light. He’d shaved, and the light emphasized the hard planes and angles of his face. His wavy hair, always a little long, was now past his collar, and he’d tied it at his neck with a strip of black. He’d changed clothes, his new garments a little worn and snug. When he moved again, his black trousers molded to his legs, while his white shirt, open at the collar, shifted to reveal a patch of bronze skin.
As though he’d felt her stare, he turned and looked directly at her. Heat coiled in her belly, spreading through her as his smoldering gaze roved her body. She was still clad in the scanty gown provided by Sophie, and his mouth curved in the ghost of a smile before he turned back to his guest.
The woman’s voice had faltered when Alex looked away, but now that she’d regained his attention, she continued in rapid French, “Listen to reason, Alex. I know a place we can hide, away from all this. Just you and me.”
“I have to find Dashing,” Alex said with another glance at Lucia. She stepped into the hallway, wondering if she’d been wrong in assuming the mistress was no longer in residence.
“Forget him,” the woman said. “He’s probably dead anyway. But you and I are alive. We can—”
Lucia stepped into the drawing room opposite Alex. His gaze fastened on her, and the woman spun around. Lucia blinked in surprise as the petite, olive-skinned woman with large brown eyes stared at her.
Camille. Of all people, it had to be Camille—the woman in front of whom she’d humiliated herself at Alex’s London town house.
Unadulterated jealousy jumped into the French woman’s face, forcing Lucia to take an involuntary step in retreat. Then just as quickly, Camille’s face transformed into a mask of politeness, and Lucia wondered if she had only imagined the jealousy.
“Why, Alex,” Camille said sweetly—too sweetly. “You did not tell me we had guests.”
“I thought you knew. You said everyone in Paris was looking for Christophe Homais and his blond companion.”
She waved a hand, her attitude light and flippant. “Naturally I assumed you had left her in Calais.” She flicked her wrist at Lucia. “Lucia, isn’t it?” Camille interrupted the silence.
“Yes.” Lucia stepped forward again. “It’s my brother we’re looking for.”
“I know,” Camille replied. “I’m sorry if I seemed callous just now in speaking of him, but I’ve searched the city for days and found nothing.”
Lucia narrowed her eyes. “Why are you searching for him? Even Alex didn’t know John worked for the Foreign Office.”
“Camille’s a courier, Lucia.” Alex jammed a shoulder against the wall. “She delivered several of John’s messages for us.”
“When was the last time you heard from John?” She turned back to Camille. “When did you receive his last message?” she said, heart beating faster.
“Right after he arrived in Paris. Over a month ago.” Camille’s face filled with pity.
Lucia shook her head. “He’s alive,” she said firmly, meeting Alex’s eyes. “I’d feel it if things were otherwise.”
Alex frowned. He probably thought she sounded ridiculous.
