“Yes, we got talking and I said I was a painter. I showed her some drawings in my sketchbook, and then she fetched this one and showed it to me. I recognized it at once. Maman had painted something similar from memory, and I knew that was her beloved doll, Marianne.” She pointed to the doll in the painting, but didn’t tell them what had happened to the doll.
“So then we made a bargain—my painting of the widow and her children in exchange for this one that she didn’t want. She told me, in fact, that she was glad to be rid of it.” Madame LeBlanc had actually said that to Reynard, but that was a moot point.
“What an amazing story,” Lucy said. “And what incredible luck for you.”
Zoë smiled. The way she’d told it, finding that particularpainting was an incredible coincidence, but it wasn’t when one considered that Reynard’s whole strategy was to gather as many paintings as he could that had been looted from the Château de Chantonney and any other grand houses in the area. As one painting out of a dozen or more that he’d retrieved so far, it was not nearly so coincidental.
She’d worked out his plan, his strategy, on the long journey bydiligenceback to Paris. It was clever, but she still felt it was dishonest. Though, was it really dishonest to cheat people out of profiting from paintings that had been stolen—looted—in the first place? Even though it had happened several decades ago?
Her thoughts and feelings about him were still a great tangle of contradictions. Painful ones. Had he been furious when she left? Or hurt?
If only he’d been the man she’d imagined he was. But he wasn’t. He was a cheat and a swindler.
Though, what did that make her? It wasn’t the same, she told herself. This painting was of her family. She, more than anyone, had the right to it. And Madame LeBlanc was satisfied, so it was just Reynard who would be angry.
And she didn’t care about him. Or his feelings. Not a bit.
She was going to forget all about Reynard. In fact, she’d quite forgotten him already. Reynard? Who was that? Nobody, that’s who.
The unprincipled rat.
After two hours of trying to be coolheaded and businesslike and refusing to think about a certain beautiful, deceitful, light-fingered baggage, Reynard packed up his paints, hitched Rocinante to the wagon and drove to the widow LaBlanc’s farm, where he asked her and her children, in exchange for a handsome sum, to look after his horse and his dog until he returned. He had urgent business in Paris, he told her.
The widow nodded sympathetically. “Yes, monsieur, I heard she had run off to Paris.”
“Run off? Nothing of the sort. She lives there. With my uncle and aunt,” he added, recalling that he’d claimed Vita as a cousin. “But I’m not concerned about her. My trip to Paris is purely for business purposes.”
“Yes, of course, monsieur,” the woman said, clearly humoring him. “I hope you find her. Paris is no place for a young girl.”
“My going to Paris has nothing to do with Vita. Nothing at all.”
“No, monsieur, of course not,” she said in an annoyingly soothing voice. “You will find her, I’m sure of it.”
In the village he hired a horse and rode to Nantes, where, thediligencebeing not expected for another week, he hired an elderly chaise for an exorbitant sum and drove in stages to Paris. It took forever.
He hoped to hell that she did have someone to go to in Paris.
He needed her to be safe. And when he was sure she was, then he would…what? Strangle her. Probably.
He actually did have business in Paris, though he could have taken care of it at any time; there was no urgency. Not wanting to leave them behind, he’d brought the paintings, a thick, heavy roll of valuable canvases.
He made his way first to a small gallery. A bell jangled as he entered. A small elderly man with a neat, pointed beard came forward, smiling. “Reynard, my friend, I’m delighted to see you.”
Reynard gave a wry laugh. “You’re delighted to see what I’ve brought you, Gaston, you rogue.”
The little man spread his hands in a very Gallic gesture. “But of course. You bring me such delights, so why not?” He locked the door, saying, “Come through to the back room and show me what you have.”
An hour later, Gaston having almost exhausted hisrepertoire of extravagant compliments, they returned to the main part of the gallery. “Are you sure you won’t—” Gaston began.
Reynard laughed. “Absolutely not. You know my conditions.”
Gaston’s narrow shoulders drooped. “I know, but it is so wasteful. What do you do now?” the Frenchman asked as the two men shook hands. “Back to the hunt?”
Reynard shook his head. “Not just yet. I have business in the city first.”
“Thenbon chance, my friend.”
Good luck?Reynard thought as he walked away. It was an impossible task, finding one lone female in a city of thousands. But he had to try.
