Ryan's Bride (6 page)

“And that was where you heard about Francois DeNeux? In Brittany? That’s a long way from Blois.”

“As I keep telling you—people talk. I listen.”

“And you also heard them talking about Anglo-Arabs? What did they say?”

“Only that they are nice horses,” she lied again. Actually, she probably knew as much about the breed as he did, but it would seem far too bizarre that a fisherman’s daughter would be knowledgeable about such expensive horses. Only the wealthiest could afford them, and they were not found around fishing villages.

She maneuvered to change the subject. “That’s all there is to tell about me. As I said before, I’m an orphan, and I have no family. So can we talk about the trip to America? What will it be like?”

“We’ll be sailing on the Black Ball Line from Le Havre. It’s a steam packet called the
Victory
, the same one my cousin and I came over on.”

“And what’s a packet?” She knew, but again wanted to appear ignorant of such things.

“A packet carries mail, goods, and passengers. It’s comfortable. I think you’ll like it. I’ll go by the Black Ball office this afternoon to see if I can get a cabin for us. My cousin and I slept in berths in a dormitory coming over. Ladies had a separate room. I’ll see what other accommodations are available.”

She felt her cheeks warm to think about sharing a room with him and ducked her head to eat her soup.

“The crossing should take around three weeks, a bit faster than the trip over.”

“And why is that?”

“Owing to westerly winds, the eastward trip is usually made in shorter time than the westward. We should have good weather, too, so you probably won’t get sick.”

She felt a twinge of worry. “Why would I?”

“I thought you said you were raised in a fishing village. Surely you know how the roll of the sea can make you nauseated.”

She took a gulp of wine, because she could feel herself tensing, afraid to say the wrong thing. “I never went out in a boat. I don’t like the water.”

He grinned. “But as you keep reminding me, you hear people talk.”

She shook her head and forced a smile, then gulped her wine again. “No. Sorry. I just hope I don’t get sick and become a nuisance to you.”

“You should be fine. I didn’t have any trouble coming over, and neither did my cousin.”

“Was he the man with you the day you caught me?”

“Yes. His name is Corbett. I hope the two of you will get along. He and his wife live in the house with my father and me.”

Angele wondered how big the house was. The manor where she had grown up had over a hundred rooms. She could never remember exactly.

“They have a son,” Ryan went on. “He’s a bit spoiled, but then so is Clarice—that’s Corbett’s wife. But don’t worry, she’s also French, so the two of you should get along quite well.”

Angele certainly hoped so. She didn’t want any problems.

Ryan Tremayne was offering her a whole new life, and while she still couldn’t quite grasp the reality of it all, she knew she wanted it more than anything. He seemed kind and good and generous, and she dared believe they might be happy. She certainly intended to do her part to make it happen.

Ryan nodded to the empty soup bowl, bread plate, and wineglass. “Would you like more?”

“No, but it was all wonderful. Thank you.”

“Well, we’ll see to it you get something more substantial for dinner. I just didn’t want to shock your stomach right now by letting you eat too much.”

He left her to find the waiter and pay the bill, remembering his promise of generosity to the maître d’. When he returned, Angele was asleep, her head resting on the table. He gently touched her shoulder.

She bolted upright, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I guess it was the wine.”

“No need to apologize.” They went outside, and he suggested, “Maybe I should take you to my hotel and let you get some rest. I can have a boutique send over something suitable for you to wear for dinner. I think I can guess your size.”

“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “I mean, to go to your hotel…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get your own room for you. I do that for all the girls at my bordello.”

Angele laughed, confident he was only teasing.

They began walking, and she tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, carefully avoiding the curious stares from those they passed.

The desk clerk’s brows crawled into his hairline when Ryan asked for a room. “Sir, I don’t think—”

But Ryan cut him off. He hadn’t liked the stares, either, and was tired of all the scrutiny. “The young lady needs accommodation, and since I’m staying in one of your most expensive rooms, I would appreciate your taking care of her.”

The clerk pursed his lips. Ryan had made his point. As one of the house’s best-paying guests, his demands were not to be questioned. “As you wish, sir, but at the moment I have nothing. However, I do have a couple checking out of a room just down the hall from you, but they’ve asked to be allowed to stay until six o’clock.”

“Fine. I won’t be back before then. She can stay in my room. Have someone take her there. I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He turned to Angele. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more tonight…get to know each other better.”

He turned to go, but Angele called to him. “I just want to say thank you…for everything. You won’t regret any of this.”

He smiled and kept on going.

The afternoon was passing quickly and Ryan had much to do. First, he went to the nearest boutique and told the proprietor what he wanted—a gown fit for a princess to be sent to
Mademoiselle
Angele Benet at the Le Pierre Hotel. He didn’t care what it cost. He left a large deposit and said he would pay the balance the next day.

His next stop was the office of the Black Ball Line, where he was told there were no cabins available. The agent asked if there was any reason he was dissatisfied with his accommodations on the voyage over.

“No. But circumstances have changed,” he revealed. “I’m getting married, and my bride will be traveling with me.”

“I understand, but let me explain the situation.” The agent took out a diagram of the ship and unrolled it on the counter. “As you can see, the
Victory
only has dormitories. No cabins. Now I can put you on the
James Munroe.
It’s about four hundred tons, one hundred feet in length. It has six cabins that will hold two passengers each and room for a dozen men and women in steerage dormitories. There’s also a smoking salon for cabin passengers—which we consider first class, a sewing room for the ladies, and a nice dining room. I think you and your bride would be quite comfortable.

“The only thing is,” he continued, “you will have to leave a week later.”

That was no problem. He needed the extra time to go to Blois and find Francois DeNeux. If he went home without the horses, his father would be upset, and he didn’t want that, not when he was bringing home a wife. “All right. Change my reservation to the
James Munroe
and book two cabins—one for me and one for my cousin, Corbett Tremayne.”

The agent leafed through his book and frowned. “I’m sorry, I only have one left, but I can put your cousin in steerage.”

Ryan groaned to think of how Corbett would react to that. Then the thought struck that maybe he would want to go back as scheduled, which would be much better. Having him around Angele might prove awkward. “Reserve the cabin on the
James Munroe
, but hold back on changing my cousin’s ticket from the
Victory
till you hear from me.”

As soon as Ryan left, he wasted no time in getting to the office of the commandant général, the person he knew to be in charge of the city jails. The hour was growing late, and he did not want the sun to set on another day in the hellish prison run by Captain Duclos.

He told the story about how a
friend
of his had endured unspeakable horror at Duclos’s jail, as well as being coerced into agreeing to sell herself into prostitution in order to be freed. The commandant général was not only appalled—he was furious. He assured Ryan he had not known what was going on and that Duclos would be dealt with severely. It would never happen again. Apologies were offered. Ryan said it was not necessary. He just wanted to make sure that no woman would ever suffer again as his
friend
had.

As he walked back toward the hotel in the gathering dusk, Ryan thought of the word he had used to describe Angele—
friend
. It was a very important word, perhaps even the key to a good marriage. They had to become friends. Maybe they would never love each other, but they had to make people think they did, otherwise there would be gossip and speculation, which he did not want. That meant he would have to talk to Corbett and see that he kept his mouth shut. But there was a chance Corbett might not even recognize her once she was cleaned up…dressed up, especially if he made up a story about having met her when Corbett wasn’t around. He would think of something. He
had
to.

And, if Corbett sailed a week earlier, it would really be a blessing.

Ryan quickened his pace as the idea of keeping Angele’s true identity a secret took hold. He would not take her out to dinner that night as planned, because Corbett would see her. Instead, he would have a tray sent to her room, then move her to another hotel first thing in the morning. She could spend the next two weeks being fitted for her wardrobe while he went to Blois. And when he arrived in Richmond with her later, dressed in her finest and tutored in the finer graces as much as possible during the crossing, Corbett would never recognize her as the thief from the catacombs.

He passed a clock as it struck half past six and breathed a sigh of relief. Angele would be in her own room by now, and Corbett would be in the hotel smoking parlor, passing time till dinner.

There was nothing to worry about.

Corbett stood outside Ryan’s door, reeling a bit from side to side. He knew he’d had too much to drink, but the stuffy old fart he’d been talking to in the bar was willing to pay for his drinks as long as he listened to his stories. They were as stale as the cigar he smoked, but Corbett didn’t care. He never turned down free whiskey, because he seldom had money to buy his own. That irked him deeply, because whenever he needed anything, he had to go to his uncle Roussel and ask, which he felt was humiliating. He should have an allowance, damn it.

But all that would change, he was sure, once Ryan married Denise. She and Clarice would run things like they wanted and see to it that he had money.

Corbett pounded on the door. It was time, by damn, for Ryan to go home and make wedding plans. He had been acting strange lately, and Corbett had thought he was missing Denise. But when he’d said something about her, Ryan had blinked like he didn’t know who he was talking about. So something was gnawing at him, and the sooner they left Paris, the better.

He knocked again, louder. Ryan was probably sleeping. He hadn’t seen him all day. In fact, he had been keeping to himself since they had returned from Touraine. But he always joined him for dinner, and tonight Corbett planned for them to have a serious talk. He had passed a jewelry store down the street, and there was a dazzling diamond necklace in the window. He intended to convince Ryan to buy it for Denise as an engagement present and propose again as soon as he got home. Corbett was sure she’d say yes this time.

“It’s all quite simple,” he chuckled to himself as he knocked harder, making the door rattle in the frame. “Just let Cousin Corbett take care of things, and it will all work out…”

He fell silent as the door opened and he saw the girl standing there, Ryan’s silk robe wrapped about her. Then he came alive to bellow, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

Angele clutched the robe to her neck with trembling fingers. “He…Mr. Tremayne…he sent me here.”

“Like hell he did.” Corbett looked her up and down. Then, despite the webs of whiskey lacing his brain, comprehension dawned.

“You,” he whispered, reeling. “You’re the girl from the sewer.”

Chapter Five

Angele tried to close the door but wasn’t fast enough. Corbett threw his shoulder against it and shoved, knocking her to the floor. He yanked her up, and the delicate silk of the robe tore, revealing she was naked underneath.

Pulling the robe around her, she backed into the room, angry but also fearful. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m warning you to get out of here this instant.”

Following her, he kicked the door shut. He was able to speak French, because Clarice had taught him. “Not till you tell me what the hell you’re doing in my cousin’s room.”

Angele’s eyes went wide.
Cousin.
So
that
was how he knew who she was. Ryan had said his cousin had been at the
abbaye
that day. “You’ll have to ask him,” she retorted hotly, figuring it wasn’t her place to explain anything.

He towered over her. “Well, I’m asking
you
, and you’re going to tell me if I have to shake it out of you.” His hands clamped down on her shoulders and squeezed.

Angele ground her teeth against the pain. She was not about to let him know he was hurting her. “You’ve no right to ask me anything.”