Dancing With A Devil (30 page)

Paris, France

After six months in France of trying to discover if Gwyneth was dead or alive Trent was on the verge of securing his answer, he hoped. He peered out the window directly to his left and stared at the blue waters of the Seine. He counted the many boats navigating down the river, but the ritual did not calm him as it had many times before. Needing an anchor of peace, he wandered his gaze across the stone Pont Neuf bridge. The beautiful construction of the bridge filled him with wonder as always. He tried to imagine how long it must have taken the workers to build the five arches that joined the left bank to Île de la Cité and the seven arches that joined the bridge to the right bank of the city. And how they must have agonized to create the perfectly jutting bastions.

Clanking glasses broke his concentration and stole his peace like a swift pickpocket. Tension once again coiled through him. The sun faded fast in the bright orange sky and cast lengthening shadows through the windows and into the pub. Shadows were good, though. The corner table he had chosen at L'abreuvoir now sat in near darkness. A pub girl came around to light a taper, but he shook his head and with a smile she moved away. Smoke lay heavy in the pub’s air, which suited him perfectly. The haze of grayish white made seeing difficult and helped to disguise him, though he’d taken pains since the moment he set foot in Paris to mask himself. He had taken even longer with his disguise today, since Gwyneth’s brother, Pierre, would soon be here and he didn’t want Pierre to recognize him.

At this moment, he would have given a week of his life to rid himself of the lengths he’d gone to in an effort to mask his appearance. The full beard covering his face bothered him like an itch he couldn’t get to, even after three months of it being completely grown in. He smelled of fish, which he’d never cared for and liked even less now that he’d rubbed the slimy things on his body to attain the stench of a seaman. The wool coat, its collar high and pressed against his cheek, irritated him, but that could have been his damn surly mood.

Paris stunk and he was sick of French accents. He longed for London and the clipped tones of his family and friends. Audrey’s image swirled in his head as it did every day since he’d been gone, but he forced it away. Now was not the time to allow his focus to waver. He took a large swig of ale to keep up his pretense of a sailor on a mission to get deep in his cups. His hair ended up in his mouth as he drank.

Damnation. He gripped the large mug of ale in an effort to quell his instinct to put the long hair that hung around his face to order. After years of wearing his hair much shorter, having it touch his neck rankled him but served the purpose of further shielding his face and most importantly his scar. He covered it every day with the makeup Claudia, a theater girl he had met when he arrived here, had given him when offered the right amount of money to do so without questions. Unease danced over his skin. Under the clump of cream, he could detect the raised line that was uneven with the rest of his skin. If he could distinguish it, then so could Pierre, and Gwyneth’s brother discovering he was still alive would be tedious and potentially dangerous, considering the man wanted him dead possibly bad enough to follow him to London and put his family in danger. It was much simpler for Pierre to continue to think Trent had died trying to escape France.

“
Did you hear me, Monsieur Bernard?”

Trent jerked with the belated realization that he was being spoken to. God, how he’d grown soft. He would have never failed to respond immediately to his cover name before. He set his mug down and flicked his eyes toward the table directly to his right and within easy hearing distance. “Non. Pardon me. What did you say?”

From the creaky wooden chair she sat in, Bridgette Morel gave him an irritated glance that made her so startlingly resemble Gwyneth, Trent was robbed of the ability to speak for a moment. His mind turned like a slow crank, foggily reminding him Bridgette was not Gwyneth, but the younger sister he’d never known existed.

Bridgette shook her head and muttered something about Englishmen Trent couldn’t quite make out. She cleared her throat and cocked her head. “I said it shouldn’t be long now.” Even when she spoke English, her heavy French accent made her hard to understand.

Trent nodded. Five months of research had uncovered the very well hidden, seemingly harmless Bridgette, who was a poor seamstress struggling to make ends meet. It hadn’t been hard to convince her he was a former discarded lover of Gwyneth’s who was still desperately in love with her and wanted to find her. It had been even less difficult to convince Bridgette to help him after she’d seen the full bag of coin he offered to pay her to contact her brother and find out for certain where Gwyneth was.

“
Il est ici,” Bridgette murmured.

Trent took in her flared nostrils and tightened features.

His entire body tensed as he pushed his chair farther into the shadows. Without moving a muscle, he scanned the room. “Where. Where do you see your brother?” he asked low enough only she could hear.

“
At the bar,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

Trent searched the row of men at the bar but did not see Pierre. He slowly retraced the men once more. Too short. Too tall. Bald. Pierre had a thick head of hair. The bald man lifted his hand and waived at Bridgette.

“
Mon dieu,” Bridgette murmured, raising her hand and waving back. “Pierre looks terrible.”

Trent squinted through the haze of smoke at the bald man weaving his way toward Bridgette. Once the man was near enough to see his face, a cold knot formed in Trent’s stomach. He’d recognize Pierre’s slanted cat like eyes anywhere. Automatically, Trent hunched over his table, affecting the look of a man deep in his cups and pulled the hat on his head down farther to make it impossible for Pierre to see his eyes.

If Trent didn’t hate Pierre so much he’d pity the man. He’d been robust and healthy last time Trent had seen him. Now he was a hollow-eyed skeletal figure with a sallow complexion. Pierre was sick. Fate had found Pierre and dealt him the cards he so richly deserved.

As Pierre walked slowly past Trent’s table, a sneer twisted the man’s thin lips while he briefly took in Trent and dismissed him in the same instant. Trent held in a snort. Pierre clearly still considered himself better than most men. Blithering fool. Trent’s fingers twitched with the need to grasp the pistol hidden under his coat. He remained still, not breathing until Pierre stopped in front of Bridgette.

For a long moment, there was an awkward silence, and then Pierre leaned forward, appearing as if he would embrace his sister, but right before touching her, he awkwardly stopped himself. Trent frowned. It was as if Pierre had remembered something. He spoke with a scratchy, strained voice in rapid French. It took several seconds for Trent to start to translate fast enough to understand their conversation.

After saying hello, Pierre eased himself into the seat across from Bridgette. Bridgette was smiling, but her nostrils were still flared, her shoulders held rigid and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Damnation.
Don’t come apart, Bridgette.

Keeping up his charade, he took a sip of the bitter ale in front of him and swiped his filth-covered hand over his mouth. The scent of fish nearly gagged him. If he could stand this, then surely Bridgette could remember to pretend she was here to reunite with Pierre and Gwyneth. Trent knew she would have never agreed to meet her siblings and get the information he sought if she didn’t so desperately need the money. After tonight, he’d supply Bridgette with enough coin to move far away to a much cleaner, nicer place where Pierre and Gwyneth, if she was alive, wouldn’t find her, if she wished it.

Where was Gwyneth? He scanned the room and as he did, Gwyneth’s name being spoken in conversation caught his attention. He abandoned searching for her and concentrated on the conversation going on at the table beside him. As if Bridgette had read his thoughts, she voiced the same question to Pierre. Gwyneth’s brother shook his head, his face falling. “Morte.”

Dead
. Trent leaned forward, his pulse quickening. There was no reason for Pierre to lie to Bridgette. Still, Trent wanted to hear the details, watch Pierre’s expression and discern his voice to judge the truth of the matter. Then once he thought he had heard the truth, he would meticulously check what he had heard. Bridgette knew this. She unclasped her hands and swiped at the moisture pulling in her eyes. “
Comment est-elle morte?”

Trent listened intently as between bouts of coughing Pierre’s voice hitched and wobbled while he described Gwyneth’s death from consumption and Pierre standing with Nicolaus Comier, the priest who had blessed Gwyneth, read the last rites to her and stood with Pierre as they burned her body for fear of the consumption lingering and spreading. Trent’s gut twisted tighter with each gritty detail revealed. She had wasted away day by day, coughing up blood and shrinking to nothing. Icy pinpricks danced across his skin. Pierre took a shuddering breath, grew quiet and then coughed violently into a handkerchief. He was young, but a stranger would never know it by glance. His sallow skin clung to his bones. When his coughing bout was over, Pierre laid the wadded linen square on the table, the crimson clots of blood against the cream easily discernible.

Trent’s stomach clenched with a strange mixture of emotions. Bitter sadness, disbelief and pity squeezed his chest. No matter what Gwyneth had done, he wouldn’t have wished such a slow, torturous death on her. Pierre coughed again.

Bridgette swiped at the tears coursing down her face. “Et vous?”

Pierre nodded. He too had consumption.

An hour later with Pierre freshly departed, Trent stood alone in the bitter cold and dark with Bridgette. She took his hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry you never got to see her again, but I fear it was for the best. She had an unkind heart.”

Trent nodded. He didn’t want his voice to betray to Bridgette how much he agreed with her. There was no point causing her unnecessary pain.

Bridgette sniffed as she took the blunt and coin and then her eyes widened considerably as she counted the money. “Monsieur, this is not what we agreed on.” She held some of the money out to him.

He shook his head. “Take it. Move away if you wish. Buy a new life. You seem a nice woman. Give yourself the chance your sister never got.”

Bridgette sniffed again. “Thank you,” she whispered and then looked up at him with tears shimmering in her eyes. “What will you do now? Go home to England?”

First he would double-check what Pierre had told Bridgette and speak to the priest who had delivered Gwyneth her last rites, but he would not tell Bridgette any of this. Trent nodded. “Yes, home to England. Shall I fetch you a carriage?”

“
No. I’ll walk to clear my head. Part of me wants to flee this place immediately but part of me feels obligated to care for my brother since he’s dying.”

Trent wanted to encourage her to flee Pierre, but he kept his silence. It was her decision to make and Pierre was so sick now, Trent didn’t think he could gather enough energy to harm anyone. Besides, why would the man harm the sister he seemed to love? “I need to be going.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “Au revoir. I hope you meet a nice Englishwoman to fall in love with.” She pulled her coat closed and walked in the opposite direction he would be going.

Trent fought memories of Gwyneth and Audrey as he waited for a hackney to pass by that he could wave to him. All he needed to concentrate on now was the task at hand. After a few moments, a hackney rattled down the cobblestone street and pulled up to him. He directed the driver to the small church that had been near where he and Gwyneth lived for the short time he thought they were happily married. If that was not Nicolaus Comier’s parish, perhaps someone there would know of him and could point Trent in the right direction.

As the hackney rattled across the bridge he studied Notre Dame Cathedral, determined not to think on his future but simply the architecture, yet all he could think was he would love to bring Audrey here and roam the streets of Paris, filling her inquisitive mind with the rich history of the city. He balled his hands into fists. If he received the needed confirmation of Gwyneth’s death from the priest, he intended to head home and see if he could convince Audrey to marry him, if she still hadn’t met anyone else.

His desire for her burned no less than the day he last saw her. In fact, it was like a disease consuming him. If he could have her in his bed, the ache for her, the need to be near her, see her, touch her, hear her, would go away. Or lessen to a dull roar he could live with. It had to.

The hackney jerked to a halt and Trent descended, gave the man some coins and strode into the tiny white chapel not three streets from where he and Gwyneth had lived. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he strolled toward the front of the chapel where a priest, dressed in his robes, stood lighting candles. Trent quelled the anticipation building within him. Likely, this would be the first of many chapels he had to visit.

The priest looked up as Trent neared the front of the church. He blew out the candle he held and walked down the steps to Trent. The man was young with kind blue eyes and a bulbous nose. He smiled, showing rather brown teeth. “Puis-je vous aider?”

Trent certainly hoped the priest could help him. And in English preferably. “Parlais-vous anglais?”

The priest broke out into a grin. “Yes, but of course. What can I do for you?”