Undercover Cavaliere Page 6

  He decided to take a stroll over to the Champs Élysées. With nothing to do until dinner, he welcomed the opportunity for solitude and fresh air. There probably wouldn't be too many such opportunities while he was in Paris.

  A childhood spent in the solitude of Idaho's mountains, where hours might pass with no sound but the chuckle of a lively creek and the occasional high keen of a hunting hawk had been poor training for the life he'd led the past few years. Lately he'd been feeling imprisoned, as if the narrow streets and crowded plazas of the cities in which he worked were iron bars locking him away from the wide spaces he'd left far behind.

  Or maybe Jon was right. Maybe he had lost his thirst for adventure.

  He ate a light meal alone in the hotel dining room, then retired to the lobby to await the man who claimed to have the merchandise he sought. As he waited, he kept an eye on the people who passed through the large room. Some of them he recognized as fellow-guests. But there were others, not so well dressed, not so at home in this gilt-and-velvet environment, who aroused his suspicions.

  I'm being watched, he decided. Evaluated. They can't decide if I'm to be trusted.

  A small frisson of alarm snaked up his spine, again setting the hairs at his nape on end. Was his cover broken? Had he been recognized as an agent of the Coalition?

  Not a chance. I'm a total stranger here.

  He let his fingertips drift across his waistcoat, making sure the small two-shot Derringer was in its concealed holster. His boot knife was in place, as was the one in his left sleeve. Perhaps he should have carried his other knives as well, but this was Paris, not the wilds of Persia.

  No. He was well-enough armed. The furtive men had disappeared, apparently satisfied that he was indeed waiting where he'd said he would be. Gabe watched the entrance, waiting for the flesh merchant.

  "M. Basilio, have I kept you waiting?"

  The accented English words came from behind him, causing Gabe to curse his inattention. Making assumptions had gotten better men than he killed. Of course the bastard wouldn't come prancing in the front entrance, for all to see. He stood and turned slowly, unwilling to let his surprise be apparent.

  "Not at all. I was enjoying the sights. So many beautiful women passing though. It is a feast for the senses." He lowered his eyelids in the hint of a leer. "As a man who loves the fairer sex in all its variety, I could think of no more entertaining way to pass the time."

  "Come. Let us drink together before we do our business." Without waiting for a reply, the fellow led the way into the small bar off the lobby. He chose a table far in the back, where the light was dim and no one was seated nearby.

  Gabe was forced to take the chair with its back to the room. He moved it as far as he could around the table, being deliberately clumsy as he fumbled with his cane and the chair, and managed to end up with a partial view of the entrance.

  "You are seeking certain, shall we say uncommon, merchandise, correct?"

  "Ignore me, monsieur," he said, deliberately choosing the wrong word. "I have little French. Do you speak Italian, perhaps? Or English?"

  With a sneer, the man switched to heavily accented English. "As you wish. About the merchandise you seek..."

  "Before we speak of business matters, perhaps you would give me your name. I do not care to deal with...strangers."

  The fellow's eyes narrowed, then he stretched a hand across the table. "Ah, of course. I am Fabrice Heureaux, wine merchant."

  Gabe shook the hand that lay in his like a dead fish. "A pleasure. Your wines? Are they French?"

  "Ah, they are, but we also sell English wines, and an occasional vintage from the Low Countries. The whites are popular, you understand, especially the young, sweet ones."

  "Most wines improve with age."

  "And some are best when fresh and naÏve."

  The code words having been exchanged, both men relaxed, or pretended to. They settled down to dealing.

  "Let me understand this," Gabe said, some time later. "You're asking a thousand pounds each? Sight unseen? That is exorbitant."

  Heureaux lifted his shoulders in a very Gallic shrug. "It is the going price, monsieur. My expenses, they are high. Sometimes problems arise in transportation. Occasionally the supply falls short of expectations."

  Leaning back, Gabe forced his face into thoughtful lines. "What if I were willing to wait a few days? Will you give me a volume discount? Say five for the price of four?"

  For a moment Heureaux regarded him through the rising smoke from his cigar. At last he said, "Five for four thousand, five hundred pounds." He closed his eyes, pursed his mouth. "I would also accept American dollars, say $18,000."

  "I have no access to dollars," Gabe said, a chill knot in his stomach. Does he suspect? "Four thousand, two hundred pounds for five."

  After extended dickering, they settled on �4,350 for five "cases of young white wine" and once again shook hands. Gabe resisted the urge to wipe his on his pantleg.

  * * * *

  Paris was everything Regina had dreamed. Even with her two charges whining of sore feet and a surfeit of art, she was enjoying herself. Only two more days, and she would be free. If only the Tomlinsons were arriving tomorrow instead of the day after. She imagined they were just as interested in celebrating Bastille Day without the burden of two very young ladies as she was.

  Pamela dragged at her arm. "Miss Lachlan, can't we stop for something to drink? I am parched."

  The sidewalk café they were approaching looked clean and respectable, so Regina agreed. In a few moments she and the girls were seated under a bright, striped umbrella, watching what seemed like the whole world pass by.

  "I don't see why I couldn't have wine," Minerva, grumbled. "Mama and Papa always let me have it."

  "When you are with your parents, you may have wine. Today, however, you are still in my charge, and I don't believe you are old enough to drink alcohol." Regina felt like a perfect ogre as she spoke. Her parents had given their children watered wine with festive dinners from the time they were about ten years old. Pa believed that learning how to handle spirits was part of a good education. Uncertain of either girl's parents' opinions on the topic, she was playing safe.

  "Oooohh! Look at that beautiful man." Minerva cried, pointing toward the street.

  Pamela half stood. "Where?"

  "There. No, over by the haberdashery. The tall man with no hat. My word. I've never seen such broad shoulders." Her heartfelt sigh was both eloquent and theatrical.

  "Where? Oh, yes, I see him. Look, Miss Lachlan. Isn't he just about the most handsome man you've ever seen?"

  Despite herself, Regina looked where Minerva had indicated. She caught a glimpse of dark, wavy hair, broad shoulders, and a rich, maroon coat, but could see nothing of the man's face. Nevertheless, he seemed heart-stoppingly familiar. It's the shoulders, she told herself sternly. Few men have shoulders like that. Gabe is nowhere near Paris. Besides, surely she'd have recognized Maggiore Masuccio.

  "Sit down Minerva, and remember that you're a lady," she said, more sharply than she'd intended. The arrival of the waiter, with their tea and croissants, distracted the girls.

  Chapter Six

  Regina's mother had surprised her with a new dress as a going-away gift. So far she hadn't worn it, thinking it too frivolous for her role as chaperone. The bright sunshine, the prospect of being free tomorrow, and boredom with her sensible wardrobe prompted her to choose it on the morning of Bastille Day. The royal blue poplin would undoubtedly wrinkle badly in the heat, but so what? She liked the yellow, green and red striped sateen underskirt and matching trim that formed a sash with its hanging ends making a faux bustle in back. She wouldn't have to wear even the small bustle frame today, a definite plus in the summer heat. Of course, the sheer white organza ruching around her neck would be wilted by noon, but such was the price of fashion.

  Briefly she considered wearing her low-heeled sandals, but knowing they would be walking somewhere--the girls still had a long
list of places they wanted to see, many of them unsuitable--she chose her high button shoes with the sensible heels. After picking up the matching parasol, she decided that it would be just one more thing to fuss with, and laid it on her bed. Minerva and Pamela were quite enough to worry over, thank you very much.

  After a quick glance to assure that her hair was decently tucked under the matching bonnet, she picked up her gloves and tapped on the door to the girls' bedroom. "Are you ready?"

  A giggle, a squeal and the door popped open. Minerva's dress was lawn, spring green over a pale green, abundantly lace-trimmed underskirt. Pamela had chosen a rather tailored summery dress of golden-yellow dimity with a darker woven-in stripe, worn over an underskirt of deep gold muslin. Their bustles were, as a result of her putting her foot down before their departure, sensibly small. Both wore wide-brimmed, plumed hats in the latest fashion, and neither, thank goodness, carried a parasol.

  They took the elevator to the lobby, where they sat to discuss their plans for the day. The excitement in the hotel and the clamor from the street were difficult to ignore. After hearing bits and pieces, the girls were beyond curious. Finally Regina agreed to ask the concierge what all the fuss was about.

  The usually composed gentleman kept forgetting his English, but at last she was able to elicit enough information to create a more or less coherent whole. She drew the girls to an alcove off the lobby and pulled a heavy drapery across the entrance. It muted the buzz of conversation enough that she could speak in a normal tone.

  "A famous general is expected to parade on the Champs Élysées today. He's very popular, but I'm not sure I understand why. The concierge kept slipping onto French and speaking far too rapidly for me to understand him. I did gather that the general is handsome and dashing and has an impressive war record."

  Pamela jumped to her feet, bounced on her toes. "Oh, Miss Lachlan, may we go to see him? I've never seen a war hero."

  "Please, Miss Lachlan," Minerva said, hands clasped under her chin. "We've seen all the museums in the world and we've not complained very much about going to the places Papa wanted us to visit, and this is our very last day with you. Oh, please?"

  "There's apt to be an enormous crowd. I don't know..." Both girls had a regrettable habit of wandering off when her back was turned and neither of them spoke French well enough to make herself understood. Like so many tourists, they seemed to believe that if they spoke loudly enough in English, everyone would understand them.

  "We'll be ever so good," Pamela said, her blue eyes wide and pleading. "We won't ever go more than two steps away from you."

  "It's only a little way to the Place de Concorde," Minerva pointed out. "Even if we got separated, we could always find our way back here."

  Regina couldn't argue with that. "Oh, very well. Don't take your parasols or your reticules."

  She had neglected to pass on Mr. Tomlinson's warning, and sure enough, on their first day in London, someone had snatched Pamela's reticule. It had held nothing more than a few pence and a postcard showing the Tower, but the girl had been devastated, claiming it was her very favorite. Since then Regina had carried their funds, keeping them in a pouch which she wore inside her bodice, something her sister-in-law, an experienced traveler, had suggested. She kept only a few coins in the pocket of her walking skirt, no more than she was willing to lose.

  She followed the girls into the elevator, wondering if she was making a mistake. Today she would have to keep track of them while holding onto her own strong desire to fight her way to the nearest open space. Large crowds always made her feel trapped.

  "Do not go more than two steps away from me," she warned as they walked toward the Place de Concorde. "If we get separated, make your way back to the hotel immediately. Don't look for me, don't try to find each other. Just come back here as fast as you can."

  "I promise," Pamela said.

  "And I," Minerva agreed.

  A crowd was definitely gathering. As they approached the open Place, she had an irrational urge to grab the girls' hands and drag them back to the hotel. Instead she let them lead her along the edge of the wide boulevard, toward the Arc de Triomphe. They made slow progress because every minute brought new waves of people, until the pavement was so packed there was no room for a carriage to pass along it. Most of the people, she noticed, were of the merchant and laboring classes, and men were far more abundant in the crowd than women. She hoped she and the girls wouldn't attract unwanted attention with their stylish garments.

  The noise increased, with occasional shouts rising above the general clamor. People pressed close around her, pushing her toward the street. She caught Pamela's wrist, grabbed a handful of Minerva's skirt, and hung on for dear life.

  The crowd held her immobile for what seemed like an age, and the noise grew until it took on a life of its own. Eventually the crowd swayed forward, no longer made up of individuals, but was a single enormous entity, moving a composite body on thousands of feet. The sound separated into words, became a chant. "Boulanger. Boulanger. Viva le General. Viva Boulanger. Boulanger."

  She lost her grip on Minerva's skirt, but the next instant felt the girl clutch at her forearm. She looked down into her frightened face and saw Minerva's lips move, but had no idea what she'd said, for her words were drowned in the crowd's clamor. She pulled Pamela closer.

  There was no way to break free, so she concentrated on holding tightly to both girls. Even when hands explored her hips, clearly seeking pockets holding money, she kept her grip. A tall, swarthy fellow with a patch over one eye grabbed Minerva and kissed her wetly, and let her go immediately. Regina smiled to herself when the girl wiped her hand across her mouth with a grimace of distaste. That won't be remembered as her first kiss, I'll wager.

  She caught a glimpse of a tall military hat, encrusted with gold braid, high above the crowd. By craning her neck, she could see the bearded face below it. The crowd shifted and she lost sight of him.

  "Did you see him? "Pamela demanded. "Wasn't he handsome? So heroic."

  "All those medals," Minerva said. "I wish I could have seen more."

  "His horse is just enormous. Like one of those chargers we read about in England, the ones that carried the knights in armor. And such a lovely, shiny black." This time Pamela's hands, clasped beneath her chin, were more expressive of adoration than pleading. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to meet a man like that? To dance with him?"

  "He's much too old for you," Regina said, but so softly that Pamela couldn't hear. Why destroy her illusions?

  The crowd was opening up, as some people followed Boulanger in his triumphal march down the boulevard and others, satisfied with one glimpse, departed, to return to their daily tasks. Regina began breathing more easily. At least she still had hold of Minerva, and Pamela had given up on the hero-worship and was clutching Regina's skirt in one fist.

  They drifted with the dissipating crowd, back toward the Place de Concorde and the café Regina knew was just beyond. After that little adventure, she needed a glass of wine. Or a cup of tea. Something calming.

  Once into the Place, the crowd broke into small knots of people. There were still enough of them that getting anywhere was a challenge, but at least she wasn't held captive as she had been earlier. She released Minerva. "Let's go find some tea and croissants. Stay close now. Pamela, you may cease wrinkling my skirt."

  As they crossed the place, the girls stopped clinging and drifted farther away. Regina felt a frisson of unease, for both were easily distracted. "Pamela, stay close, please. You are so short you'll get lost."

  A clot of men in work-stained clothing pushed between her and Minerva. Although none was overly tall, there were enough of them that she momentarily lost sight of both girls. Before she once again had them in sight, her heart had all but stopped beating. Great god! What if I were to lose them now, with only one day left?

  The café was crowded but fortune was with them. A table emptied as they approached, and Pamela dashed ahead to grab it. Th
e middle-aged Frenchman whom she cut out said something that brought a blush to her cheek, but she gave him a dazzling smile and he backed away with a snort.

  Service was slow, but at last their orders were set before them. Both girls professed to like the bitter French coffee, but Regina wanted her tea. The pastries were excellent, light, flaky, rich with golden butter. "No wonder my mother raved about French baking," she said, as she dabbed crumbs from her lips.

  "I'm sure my mother will too." Minerva giggled. "In fact, if I know her, she'll be begging papa to hire a French chef."

  "Would she really?" Pamela squealed. "Oh, will you invite me to dinner?"

  "I'll have a huge dinner party and invite everyone from school. Even the teachers," she added, with a quick smile in Regina's direction.

  "That will be nice. I'm sure--"

  Minerva jumped to her feet. "There he is again!" She pointed across the narrow street.

  "Who? Where?" Pamela also stood and hopped up and down, trying to see over the heads of the passersby. Given her height, a certain failure.

  Regina had long since given up hoping to maintain decorum. She merely said, "What man?"

  "The one you thought was following us in England. Don't you remember? You saw him twice in London and again at Bath? I'm sure I saw him the first day we were here, but I wasn't entirely sure. But yesterday at the Louvre I hadn't any doubt." Minerva resumed her seat. "Perhaps he followed us to Paris. He must have developed a tendre for me." She waved a languid hand, obviously trying for Gallic sophistication.

  "I just love a man who wears a derby." Pamela signed affectedly. "It gives him such an air."

  What are the odds...? No, It's simply coincidence. Jonathon would never send anyone to watch over us here in Paris. After all, sandy-haired and snub-nosed men are common. And how many men have I seen today wearing derbies?

  The streets were still unusually crowded when they were ready to leave the café. Again Regina warned the girls to stay close.

  They did, until they rounded the next corner where people were clustered around a street performer with a monkey. Pamela slipped between two large women and eeled her way closer.