1939912059 (R) (39 page)

If only women were just as cooperative and understanding.

Two days later

Grand-mére,

Edmund and I are not in Cairo quite yet. We have yet another month before we arrive at our destination. Shortly before boarding our connecting ship, I wanted to write a quick missive and thank you for the marvelous sense of humor you clearly do not lack. Edmund found the leather dildo you packed in our trunks in honor of our new marriage. He and I decided to leave it on the seat of a hackney we hired and hope it will find better use at the hands of whoever finds it. Leather dildo aside, I miss you very much and wish to assure you my marriage is everything I imagined it would be. Edmund and I intend to travel for some time. I promise to write again the moment we arrive in Cairo. I am breathlessly awaiting that first glimpse of the pyramids.

Sending you all of my love,

Maybelle

Gently folding the letter, Thérèse kissed it and then tucked it into the drawer of her writing desk. She sighed. There was no word of a pregnancy yet.

A knock came to the door, making her pause and glance toward it. “
Oui
?”

Clive cleared his throat from the other side. “There are two gentlemen here to see you, Madame. The Duke of Andelot and a Mr. Levin. Both are in the parlor waiting. Are you at home? Or shall I take their cards?”

Her heart popped. Dearest God. He was— “
Oui
! I will be right down!”

Scrambling up from the writing desk, the chair she was sitting in toppled over with a
bang
and clattered against the fullness of her skirts. She winced, not bothering with it, and bustled over to her dressing table.

Thérèse jerked to a halt before the mirror and gaped at herself. Her gathered hair, which had fully silvered by the time she was forty, had actually become her trademark. One she was proud of. It accented her eyes and whispered of all the adventures she had embraced.

While she had repeatedly sought out Andelot’s whereabouts and had even knocked on Mrs. Berkley’s door to do it, no one seemed interested in helping her. Mrs. Berkley, the evil thing that she was, took pride in ensuring she did not find him.

Thank goodness she was wearing a decent outfit.

Grabbing up her pearls from her jewelry box, which she knew he would recognize given the amount of money they cost him back in the day, she frantically draped them over her throat and arranged them.

Dabbing some rouge on her lips and some perfume on her wrists, she arranged her lace gown and drew in a shaky breath. It was like being eighteen again. Feeling like she mattered to him was beautiful, and no matter what happened, she would cherish this moment which she thought she would never see.

She took hold of the cane, which the doctor insisted she use. The man still believed her fainting spell had been due to apoplexy, despite her protests that it had merely been shock. She now decided having something to occupy her hand was a good thing.

Canes exuded power. One swing and—

Gathering her skirts, with the cane in hand, she darted toward the bedchamber door and flung it open. She set her chin, hitting the cane to the ground with one hand and tried to regally walk down the corridor, but her mind and her silly heart would not have it. She swung up the cane and broke out into a run, gathering her skirts again and did her best to run down the stairs without tripping over her own feet and gown.

Once she neared the foyer, her heels clicked frantically against the wood floors in a half-run as she drew closer to the parlor. Slowing her steps, she dragged in a calming breath, lowering the cane to the ground again and swept into the doorway with sashay worthy of more than a courtesan.

Gérard casually sat in one of the chairs. Upon seeing her, he uncrossed his leather riding boots, but otherwise did not rise.

Their eyes collided across the distance, making her throat tighten as the unnerving tingling in her stomach melted away all the years of angst she thought would never go away.

She barely managed half-breaths.

It was like returning to their days in the forest.

His face was, as last time, hidden beneath a well-fitted black velvet mask. Only those piercing blue eyes and the lower portion of his mouth and shaven jaw peered through. The visible marring of puckered skin on the left side of that jaw below the tied mask hinted at the damage hidden.

They stared wordlessly at each other in the pulsing silence.

Her hand gripped the cane hard in an attempt to even her breathing.

Gérard shifted his jaw beneath the mask and rose to his imposing height, clothed in all black, right down to his leather boots. That over-muscled physique appeared even more impressive than she had remembered. It hinted he had spent countless hours perfecting every muscle he had. That silvery-steel hair, which had been swept back from his forehead made him look all the more debonair.

Adjusting his black leather gloves in the manner of a duelist, he strode toward her, his booted steps steady and determined. He paused directly before her.

The scent of leather and expensive cologne wafted the air between them. She swallowed, fighting the tremor of her body. All the years of carefully cultivated poise evaporated. Every moment that she had laughed when she felt like crying, sighed when she felt like screaming, or climaxed with another man’s name on her lips was gone.

She was a courtesan no more.

In his presence, as it had been then, she was nothing but a woman who wanted to belong to only one man. Him. Only him.

Widening his muscled stance, Gérard gruffly announced in English, “We will speak in English for the duration of this conversation. Because all things French are dead to me since I left Paris.”

It was no surpise. Fortunately, her English was now as good as his.

She inclined her head toward him, her eyes never once leaving his masked face or the edges of that marred skin that peered out from beneath the velvet. Her chest tightened.

What had been done to him? Had it happened before he left Paris? Or after?

Gérard squared his jaw. “I am here because I wish to see my granddaughter. I wish to have the sort of relationship with her that you never allowed me to have with my son. I know I am asking for a lot, given how we parted, but I believe I have long since grown as a man and am worthy of that honor.”

His words were surprisingly gentlemanly and kind. More than she would have ever hoped for. Unable to contain her joy of knowing they were in each other’s lives again, she announced breathily, “I never thought I would see you again.” She searched his masked face, wishing she could remove it. “You look well for yourself.”

Gérard snorted and leaned in. “Oh, come, my dear. You need not lie. In answer to the question you have not asked, beneath this mask, half my face is gone.”

She stilled, sensing the marring of his face bothered him more than he wished to admit. Why else would he wear a mask? What he didn’t realize was that he would always be the dashing man who swept her into his life and onto the stage she had never quite left.

Gérard cleared his throat and tugged on his coat. “Can I meet my granddaughter? Is that at all a possibility?”

She brought her hands together, touched by the fact that he wanted to get to know Maybelle, and softly said, “Maybelle has left London with her husband.”

His full lips parted below the mask. “She is married?”

“Yes. She married quite recently.”

“And is she happy with the union?”

This was so strange. To be talking to him like this. About their granddaughter. “Yes. Very.”

“Ah.” He half-nodded, no longer meeting her gaze. “I am glad to hear it.” He hesitated. “Who did she marry?”

She wanted to grab for him and embrace him and thank him for being so darling and downright charming given how they last parted. “His Grace, the Duke of Rutherford. They are currently on tour and will be visiting every city in Europe before travelling into Egypt. They are not expected to return for another eight months. When she does arrive back into London, you may call on her. I have no doubt she would want to meet her
grand-pére
. As such, I will…I will gladly notify you the moment she returns into town.”

A breath escaped him. “I would appreciate that.”

She nodded, hoping this meant he would be staying in London. “Where shall I send the missive when she arrives, Gérard? So she might call on you in person?”
She
wanted an address.

He lowered his chin. “I am living at Thirty-two Belgrave Square. I ask, however, that you do not address me by my birth name. It would give me too much hope.”

A warming glow cheered her as her breath hitched. He wanted hope. Maybe there was a possibility for them to begin again. Maybe she only needed to give him the invitation he required.

Gérard set his shoulders and after a few pulsing moments offered, “I thank you for your time, madame. It was an honor to see you.”

“And you.” She lingered, hoping he would ask to see her again. She held his gaze.

He inclined his head. “I wish you a good-day.” He rigidly rounded her, still holding her gaze in turn, and purposefully brushed past close enough for his entire frame to drag against hers. His hand grazed her skirts.

She almost staggered and sensed it was his way of silently prodding her into action. As if he were waiting for her to make the next move.

Tears stung her eyes. She prayed none of this was a game.

Disappearing out into the corridor, he called out, “Levin, in case you have not noticed, I am leaving.” Swinging open the entrance door, Gérard walked out, leaving the door wide open.

The afternoon summer air and wind blew in.

Thérèse glanced toward the gentleman he had come with, tears blurring her sight. She pursed her lips in a noble attempt not to cry.

In an accent that hinted he was from one of the Slavic countries, Mr. Levin offered in English, “He needed to see you. He was sitting in a carriage outside your window every night for weeks.”

Weeks? No. She knew it had been months given how long it had been since she had glimpsed him. That night that punched the breath out of her. It was obvious he was still struggling with whatever had happened to his face. It might have been the reason why he had stayed away despite being in London.

She set a trembling hand to her face and blindly attempted to use the cane to walk to a chair knowing he had been suffering and lingering outside her window all along. A sob escaped her.

Mr. Levin darted toward her and grabbed her hand and her corseted waist. He turned her and gently eased her into the nearest chair.

Heavens above. That gesture made her feel old. Eck. She was anything but.

She swiped at her tears with one hand, her manicured fingers trembling. She grabbed that arm, searching that youthful, rugged face. She needed to know the truth and this man, who was with Gérard, would know. “Where did the scarring come from? The ones hidden beneath the mask? What happened to him?”

“He never told me. But he mentioned it happened whilst trying to escape France. After you arranged transportation for him.”

Her hand jumped to her mouth. Dearest God, she had failed him. She should have never left him that night. She closed her eyes, letting another tear slip down her cheek and said through her quaking hand, “Leave me.”

Mr. Levin seated himself in a chair beside her. “I will leave once I am assured you are less distressed.”

“Whilst kind, that will take more time than you have.”

“I have time, madame,” he gently offered. “Do you require anything? Shall I call for one of your servants?”

The whipping club and Mrs. Berkley aside, it gave her comfort knowing Gérard had surrounded himself with what appeared to be good people. “No. Thank you.” She lowered her hand and sniffed softly. “Might I ask who you are to him?”

He inclined his head. “I am Mr. Levin. I am a friend.”

“How long have you known him?”

“A few months. Though most of it was never in his presence.”

“You have a heavy accent.” Her eyes cut to his. “Are you from Russia?”

“Yes.”

Oh, how she wanted to go. If only to see all the places Gérard had been to.

“I wish to assure you that in my country, Andelot is well-known for being everything a man should be. He is a legend in Moscow and is a patron to the poor and all things good. He is incredibly generous. Overly generous. To me and to everyone.”

Her Gérard, in many ways, had remained the same. He was still a good man. Which was more than she could have ever hoped for. She reached out and delicately touched the man’s arm. “Care for him, Mr. Levin. He needs a true friend. The sort he has never had due to his status and upbringing. Promise me you will be a good friend to him.”

He hesitated. “I will ensure he stays out of trouble.”

“
Merci
.” She removed her hand. She hesitated, having no doubt Gérard had probably heard about her entanglement with Hughes. Hughes was intent on proving to her he was worthy of her hand. And in some way, he was. He had been an incredibly good friend to her.