Pale Moon Rider (18 page)

The sheet slipped unnoticed from her hands as she gaped at him. “You would do that? You would go through with the robbery anyway?”

“Why not? They
have
gone to a lot of trouble to get my attention. And I would be a damned poor thief to let fifty thousand pounds’ worth of jewels go wanting. By the same token, I can understand why you would want no further part in it.”

“I have to think of Antoine’s safety,” she whispered.

“Of course you do.”

“If it was just me …”

“You would don a greatcoat and tricorn and rob him yourself?”

The teasing note of mockery was back in his voice, but Renée did not care. He could laugh out loud at her cowardice and she would not care.

“Roth will be furious.”

“Furious men make careless mistakes.”

“And you never do, m’sieur?”

“Oh, I make my share of mistakes, mam’selle. I am only human, after all.” His words faded to a murmur as his gaze strayed to the pale mounds of her breasts. The extremely human part of him wanted to reach out and take her into his arms again, but that would be breaking nearly every hard and fast rule he had set for himself, prime among them being to encourage no emotional attachments. Friendship, affection, obligations, ties of any kind, were dangerous things, best avoided. And to that end, he was glad the fire had faded and the light was gone, for he had the very real sense, looking into her eyes, that a man could drown in their depths and never even know he was even sinking until it was too late.

“Well, mam’selle,” his voice was brusque and businesslike again as he pushed away from the bedpost. “As I said, the decision is yours whether you stay in the game or not. If you choose not to, I would suggest you finalize your plans to leave here as soon as possible. If you run into any difficulty, you might want to remember the name I gave you the other night: Jeffrey Bartholemew. Aside from writing letters for the post, he also owns a small livery. He was an old shipmate of mine and while he is not much younger than your Mr. Finn, he is a hapless witling when it comes to beautiful women. For the promise of a smile, he will get you safely—and discreetly—to
London
, or anywhere else you care to go. To that end, I wish you the very best of luck in your future endeavors.”

Renée watched him tuck his shirt in his breeches and pull on his waistcoat and jacket. His movements seemed to be less precise than before, as if he was in a sudden, pressing hurry to get away.

“M’sieur?”

Tyrone was in his greatcoat and halfway to the window when her voice stopped him. He heard the drag of bed-sheets as she stood up and brought them with her, using the linen to shield her nakedness. It was such an innocently modest gesture, he almost groaned and banged his head on the wall.

“I would like to wish you the very best of luck
aussi”
she whispered.

He looked down at where her hand was suddenly resting on his sleeve. Pale and white, the fingers were so long and delicate and soft, his flesh surged again at the memory of them exploring the shapes and textures of his body.

He dug his boot
heels into the floor and moved purposely forward to the window.

Renée watched as he unlatched the pane and swung it open. He settled his tricorn firmly on his head and glanced back one last time, and while he looked as if he wanted to say something more, he did not. Without a further word or glance he swung himself over the sill and was gone, vanished into the cool night air.

CHAPTER TEN

A
n hour later, when the utter blackness of the night began to give way to a watery pink dawn, Renée was still standing by the window. She had been there, wrapped in the bedsheet, since Tyrone left, only vaguely aware of the light growing stronger, giving shape to the trees and fields, burning away the wispy layers of mist that hovered over the ground.

He had not even kissed her goodbye. She had not expected him to, of course. He had taken what he wanted from her and now it was back to business. The business of robbing coaches and waylaying travelers, of living by his guns and his wits, flaunting danger, defying fate and death and anything else that appealed to his macabre sense of humor. He was going to rob Edgar Vincent whether she helped him or not, and she was going to have to get away from here whether she had the means and motivation to do it or not. And the sooner the better before Roth or Vincent or her uncle—or all three—began to suspect her of dealing
with
the enemy, not against him.

A faint buzzing sound drew her attention to the top of the eight foot window where a fat, green fly was beating itself into a frenzy as it circled the pane of glass looking for a way out. She would gladly have opened the window and chased it out to put it out of its misery, but she had no time for such small mercies as she hurried into the dressing room. When she emerged a few minutes later she had exchanged the bedsheet for a robe and tamed the wild tangle of her hair into a tail at the nape of her neck.

Kneeling in front of the hearth, she stirred the high mound of ash enough to uncover the red coals beneath. She lit an oil-soaked rush and touched the flame to a candlewick, then, as an afterthought, tossed some kindling and fresh wood on the grate to revive the fire. The warmth and languor she had been feeling a short time ago had vanished out the window with
le capitaine.
She was cold. Her body was beginning to feel more battered than deliciously bruised, and although she had been vigorous with the soap and washcloth, she still wore the scent of him on her skin like an emblazoned brand.

With the fire catching nicely, she took up the candle and went to the door, intending to go below and see if anyone was awake enough to bring hot water to her room for a bath. She was also, oddly enough, ravenously hungry and, because they had consumed the rest of the wine last night, thirsty for something that did not taste tepid or rusty—which ruled out any water left in her pitcher overnight.

The latch, when she twisted it, did not turn, and she remembered, after a brief flash of panic, that she had locked it herself and removed the key from the plate.

It had been clutched in her hand at one point last night, but then he had kissed her, and she had forgotten all about it.

She knelt and searched the area of floor where they had been standing. The candle, held high over her head, cast a wide enough halo of light that she found the key on the first pass. It was when she was gathering up her chemise and dress and stockings that a second wink of light caught her eye.

It was a jeweled cravat pin. Tyrone had not been wearing a cravat, but he had been dressed formally otherwise and might have removed it earlier, tucking the pin in a pocket or sticking it in a lapel for safekeeping. Consequently, it must have fallen or been sprung loose in the frenzied haste to remove and discard clothing.

She cradled the pin in her hand and examined it under the glare of the candle flame. It was no tinker’s piece, that much was a certainty. The shaft was gold and the head embossed with a crest and shield, the latter divided into quadrants with three of the four sitting diamonds no less than a full carat in size. The fourth held a sapphire. It was exquisitely detailed work and she had no doubt that if the light was stronger and her eyes less bleary, she could have read the tiny print in the motto scrolled along the lower edge of the shield. But it was the diamonds that caught and held her attention. They were of the very best cut and quality, the facets reflecting myriad brilliant points of light.

He had obviously stolen it from a very wealthy patron.

Her blood was coursing with decidedly more confidence as she secured the pin to the underside of her collar and hurried out of the room. The hallway outside was silent as a tomb and dark, save for the yellow circle of light thrown off by her candle. She went instinctively to Antoine’s door first, but changed her mind at the last instant. If he was asleep, she should leave him as long as possible. He would need all the rest he could get over the next few days.

Padding barefoot along the hall, she went to Finn’s room instead, and, after sparing a cautious glance along both ends of the hallway, tapped her knuckles softly on the door.

There was no answer, no light showing below the door, and no sounds from within as she knocked again and put her ear to the polished wood.

“Finn?
M’sieur Finn?”

Nothing.

She glanced over both shoulders again and turned the door knob, opening it just enough to press a whisper through the gap. “Finn?
Sont vous ici
?”

Pushing the door wider, she lifted the flickering stub of tallow over her head. The dull glow reached as far as the empty, rumpled bed, and she eased the door wider, slipping inside. Easily a quarter of the size of her own, the chamber and its contents were spartan and neat, like the man who slept there. The furnishings were plain, the bed narrow and utilitarian with a single flat bolster and a spare woolen blanket folded across the foot. One thin window was covered by a single panel of curtain, and a connecting door that led through the dressing room to Antoine’s bedroom allowed just enough space beside it for a sturdy armoire.

Like her own room, there were no personal touches. There were no family mementos, no cameos, nothing to indicate over sixty years of life, half of them spent in the most luxurious, decadent country in the world. It was odd, but until this very moment, Renée had not given much thought to Finn’s first thirty years. He was an Englishman, after all. Did he still have family on this side of the Channel? If so, had he tried to contact them at all since their return to
England
?

“Did you want something, mad’moiselle?”

Finn’s voice, coming from over her shoulder, nearly startled the candle out of Renée’s hand. As it was, the melted tallow came dangerously close to drowning the flame before it splashed over onto her fingers.

Finn stood in the doorway to the dressing room wearing only his nightshirt and cap. The shirt was shapeless and fell well short of covering his bony ankles and bare feet, the peak of the nightcap was folded over and hung in front of one ear. In his left hand he carried a tallow candle, in his right, a porcelain chamber pot.

“Is there something you require, mad’moiselle?”

She glanced over his shoulder. “How is Antoine? Did he sleep well? Is his cough any better?”

Finn arched a silvery brow. “His chest has been quiet tonight and he has slept the sleep of the innocent … something that, if I may dare to suggest, you have not?”

For the span of a heartbeat, she thought he was making a veiled reference to her late-night visitor, but with the next, she realized he looked too rumpled and sleep-creased for subtlety.

“I have not had much sleep, no,” she admitted honestly enough. “And … I have been thinking that I cannot go through with this. I thought I could, but I simply cannot go through with it.”

He opened his mouth to comment, but remembered the pot in his hand and turned aside to dispose of it. When he straightened again, she was no longer standing in front of him, but had crossed over to the window.

“Mad’moiselle—”

“I cannot do it, Finn. It is too dangerous. A thousand things could go wrong and Antoine would be made to pay for my foolishness.”

Finn’s eyebrow inched upward. “I gather you are referring to your arrangement with Colonel Roth?”

She nodded. “Yes. I have thought about it for two days, thought of nothing else, in fact, and—and I know I cannot go through with it.”

“Well, thank God for that, mad’moiselle!” His shoulders, his entire body seemed to sag with relief. “I know it is not my place to interfere, but I was truly beginning to fear I would have to do something drastic to bring you to your senses. Roth is vermin, not to be trusted, and this rogue highwayman is … well, he is a criminal. A thief and murderer and likely to end his days on a gallows if he is not shot out of hand first.”

“The good citizens of
Paris
branded my father a thief and a murderer. Does that absolve the man who betrayed him to the tribunal?”

“You must not confuse crimes invented by political zealots with crimes committed against the laws of God. This scoundrel steals honest coin from honest people— well, for the most part, honest people. He has multiple charges of murder laid against him, at least a dozen or more according to the latest warrant I saw posted.”

“And we both know English warrants contain nothing but the truth,” she retorted bitterly.

He frowned and compressed his lips into a thin line. “Has he said or done anything that would lead you to believe the charges are false?”

“No, he has not denied he is a thief.”

“A damned clever thief who has already been forewarned that a trap is being set. I dare say you have given him more than a fair chance to save his neck being stretched this time and that alone should clear your conscience of any culpability.” There was more than a hint of sharpness in his voice, for Finn had not been at all pleased to learn of the captain’s first visit to her room. What his reaction would be if he knew she had just spent the better part of the night in his arms did not bear speculation. “Moreover,” he was saying, “I should think that if he is fool enough to rendezvous on the turnpike tonight, he rather deserves whatever fate lies in store.”