Undercover Cavaliere Page 7

  Regina lost sight of her. "Minerva, stand right here. Don't move." She squeezed between the same two women, but could go no further. No one would give way for a tall, mature woman as they had for a tiny, pretty girl. "Pamela!" Her cry was lost in laughter. The monkey had all the crowd's attention.

  She pushed harder, and was able to break through far enough that she could see Pamela. She called again, and this time the girl heard.

  "Come here," Regina called, and beckoned.

  Pamela shook her head, pointed to the monkey, which was now scampering from shoulder to shoulder, holding out a tin cup into which people were dropping small coins.

  Regina stood on tiptoe and looked back to where she'd left Minerva. Yes, she was still standing next to the light standard. She turned back in time to see the monkey drop onto Pamela's shoulder. The girl petted it, but gave it nothing.

  The monkey scolded and refused to move on until the fellow next to Pamela dropped something into its cup.

  "Pamela! Come! Now!"

  The girl obeyed this time. She followed Regina as they pushed their way to the outside of the crowd. "Minerva's just over there--"

  But she was not. The light standard stood alone, with no pretty young American girl beside it.

  * * * *

  The air crackled with excitement. Gabe strolled along the Champs Élysées, wondering if General Boulanger would appear, or if this was just more propaganda from his supporters, bent on selling the general as the next premier. The people crowding the boulevard were in a festive mood, ready to celebrate Bastille Day in any loud and boisterous manner they could think of.

  He was keeping his eye on three women, one of whom should have had better sense. He'd spotted Regina as she and two girls crossed the Place de Concorde, and had followed, keeping his distance and taking a meandering path. Little fool. I told her--

  A hand gripped his shoulder. Quelling his instinctive reaction, Gabe turned slowly. For a moment his mind was blank, then he recalled the man's name. "Bonjour, M. Heureaux." He let his voice tell the other just how unwelcome this meeting was.

  "I went to your hotel," the other said, without returning Gabe's greeting. "They tell me you 'ave gone out, to view the celebration."

  Gabe answered without breaking stride or looking at the man. "Indeed. I could hear the noise from my room and decided to discover the cause." He craned his neck, peering over the heads of the crowd, but the three golden heads were gone. Damn! "Such an excitement. Have you any notion of its cause?"

  Heureaux waved a dismissive hand. "Some politician, I believe. Or a war hero. It does not matter. My suppliers have assured me that your order will be ready for you tomorrow. Five cases of white wine, packaged for shipping."

  "That's correct." Once last look along the boulevard, and he gave his full attention to Heureaux. "Let us remove ourselves from this mob. I cannot hear myself think." He was taller than most of the crowd, and his height, coupled with frequent use of his cane against shins, got him to the edge quickly. He pointed toward the arch. "Shall we stroll?"

  It would never do for Regina to spot him. She was apt as not to come right up and say hello. He forced thoughts of her from his mind. After all, Alastair was watching her. She and her young charges would be fine.

  After a short walk, they turned onto an uncrowded side street. "Now then, Heureaux, let us be frank. I am contracting with you for five women, all blonde. There will be no hue and cry for them. Are we agreed?"

  "As you say, monsieur. We cannot guarantee that no one will seek the women, but we have ways of, shall we say, distracting any searchers."

  "Excellent. It would be most inconvenient to find myself the object of official scrutiny." Great God, is he saying they have a spy in the police? "One more small thing. I'm inclined to be selective. I want no coarse peasants, no soiled goods. While I do not insist on physical proof, I want your assurance that they are unused."

  "We cannot guarantee a lack of purity without physical examination, of course. If you require such proof, there will be an added cost. My suppliers, however, are selective and have much experience in choosing women likely to be...inexperienced, if not untouched." Heureaux paused to light a slim cigarillo. "I am sure you will be pleased with the merchandise."

  Gabe had to fight an unreasoning urge to smash the fellow's smiling face.

  * * * *

  Regina stood on tiptoes, which put her higher than most of the men in the crowd. There! That bright head of golden hair. It had to be Minerva. Clutching Pamela's wrist tightly, she plowed through the crowd, aiming at where she'd seen the blonde girl.

  The sidewalk was packed with people, shifting, swaying, trying to push through the mob around the street musician. A few were fair-haired, a few were young girls, but they were all Parisiennes. No bright-haired American girl, not anywhere.

  "Stay!" Regina told Pamela, pushing her into a building's recessed doorway. "Don't take a single step from here. I'm going to find Minerva."

  Pamela nodded, but Regina didn't trust the way her eyes kept straying back toward the musician and his monkey. "Pamela..." she warned.

  "I promise, Miss Lachlan. I'll stay right here. I won't move a muscle."

  There was a small sidewalk café just a few doors away. Regina climbed upon one of the chairs, showing an immodest amount of leg in the process. A young man at the next table made a lewd comment, but she heard only one word she recognized: putan. Didn't that mean whore? If she hadn't been so determined to find Minerva, she would have slapped the sneer from his smug French face.

  There. On the edge of the crowd, facing away, so all Regina could see was bright gold hair, falling about the woman's shoulders, and a green dress, the exact shade of Minerva's. A man's arm was around her waist and he appeared to be pulling her along.

  Someone stepped in behind the couple and she could see no more. After another quick and futile look around, Regina jumped from the chair and began pushing her way back toward Pamela. At least the woman in the green dress was going in the direction of the hotel. She could catch up with her. And if she wasn't Minerva, she'd check at the hotel. Surely the girl had sense enough to go there instead of wandering around in search of Regina and Pamela.

  The alcove where she'd left Pamela was empty. Or had she mistaken it? Her heart tight in her chest, Regina looked at the doorways to either side, but neither was recessed. And neither held a blonde American girl in a summery yellow gown.

  Panic-stricken now, she returned to the café, but there was no empty chair to climb upon. She pushed her way through the thinning crowd, in the direction she'd seen the girl in the green dress. At the cross street she paused, looked either way, but saw no spring green dress, no golden yellow one.

  The hotel. They must be at the hotel.

  Oh, please God, let them be at the hotel.

  Chapter Seven

  Gabe made sure Heureaux was out of sight before crossing the street to where Bjorn awaited him. He paused on the curb and looked about him, as if undecided whether to turn right or left.

  Bjorn held up his Paris map. "Excuse me, monsieur," he said in broken French, "I am misplaced. May you give me the transport to the Jardin des Plantes?"

  Gabe looked at the map. It was upside down. Well, hell. Trouble. "Let me see." He took the map, turned it right side up. Softly, barely moving his lips, he said, "What's wrong?"

  "Alastair got caught in the mob and lost track of the women. Crowd was too thick. By the time we found them again, one was missing. Probably went back to the hotel, but Alastair's making sure."

  Holding back the curses that sprang to his lips took almost more will than Gabe possessed. Pointing at the map, he said, "There is the Jardin des Plantes. Across the river." Under his breath he said, "Is Reg-- Miss Lachlan safe?"

  "Ah, I see. I am wishing for a wagon... Excuse me, a transportation to there." He took the map back. As he folded it, he muttered, "I was watching her, as you ordered. She told the other girl to stay put while she searched. When she got back, th
at one was gone too. I followed her as far as the corner near the hotel, and handed off to Alastair."

  "You don't know if the other girl was at the hotel?"

  "Merci, monsieur. I am promised to you." Bjorn shook his head in answer to Gabe's question. "That is not right, is it? My French is weak."

  Gabe clapped him on the shoulder. "You're doing very well. Just keep working on it." Bjorn was new to the game, but eager and careful. At least he'd seen that Regina got back to the hotel safely. She'll find the girls there, safe and sound.

  He had to believe that. His duty lay elsewhere, no matter how desperately he wanted to go to her.

  As he strode along Rue Royale, he couldn't help but count all the unforeseen complications in this operation, the most serious being Regina. If those girls had truly wandered away, she wouldn't stay safely in the hotel. She might call the police, but she'd be out scouring the streets for them.

  All he could do was trust Bjorn and Alastair. He had work to do, and couldn't let himself become distracted.

  Damn her. Why'd she have to pick now to come to Paris?

  * * * *

  Although she peered each way at every crossing between the café and the hotel, Regina saw no sign of either girl. Growing more anxious with every step, she was shaking when she finally approached the grand entrance of the HÔtel de VendÔme. A few paces short of it, she found her way blocked by a short, wide man in a dark, well-tailored suit. She stepped to the side.

  So did he.

  "Pardon, monsieur," she said, again stepping to the side.

  At first the tight grip around her wrist seemed just one more irritation, but the next instant she realized she was being held fast.

  "Bonjour, mademoiselle. You will accompany me, n'est pas?"

  His accent was pure Parisian, cultured and elegant, but his words made no sense to her. "Let me go!" She tried to jerk her arm free, but might as well have been pulling on a fencepost.

  "Ah, non, mademoiselle. You must come. Your young friends will be distrait if you do not."

  "What are you saying? Let me go!"

  The hold on her wrist was like an iron manacle. Regina cried, "Help me! Please, help me!"

  Half a dozen people turned to stare, including the elaborately uniformed hotel doorman. Some laughed, some frowned, but no one responded. "He is kidnapping me. Please, call a policeman." Several people nearby shook their heads. Oh, God, they don't speak English.

  A second man appeared and took her other arm.

  "Socorro, por favor!"

  Her captors lifted her and carried her along the sidewalk, feet dangling just above the pavement. The wide man had turned and was speaking to the doorman in French too rapid for her to understand.

  "M'aidez, si'l vous plait. El homme sont ...uh...sont apphrehendous moi..."

  A few people turned to stare, but the wide man said something that brought grins to their faces, and they just shook their heads.

  She screamed then, from the bottom of her lungs.

  Only once. A fist slammed into her middle, knocking all air from her lungs. She fought to inhale, but could only gasp. She felt herself losing consciousness as they carried her around the corner and out of sight of the hotel entrance. No one followed, no one raised a cry of alarm.

  Someone slapped her on the back, and suddenly she could breathe. Before she could scream again, the man on her right struck her chin with his fist. Casually, as if he was unconcerned that anyone would see him beating her. For the first time, she was afraid. Petrified, with belly-clenching fear.

  Halfway down the block a carriage stood, its windows curtained. A scar-faced man, who would make even her tall, strong godfather look puny, held the door open. "Please, what are you doing? I am an American citizen, but I am not rich. Kidnapping me will do you no good."

  His gap-toothed smile was about the scariest thing she'd ever seen.

  The wide man stepped into view. "Oh, yes it will, mademoiselle. You will put many gold coins into our pockets. And your young ladies will put even more." He pulled her bonnet loose, taking no few hairs with it, and tossed it inside. The small pain was nothing to that in her throbbing jaw. His free hand went to her temple and speared into her hair, tightened. "There is a market for women with hair of gold. A good market." He smiled pleasantly as he twisted her head this way and that. "You would be wise not to draw attention to yourself," he said, and slapped her. "Put her into the carriage."

  Scar-face grasped her around the waist and tossed her into the black maw of the carriage. She landed on something soft, and it squealed.

  A familiar squeal. "Minerva? Minerva, is that you?"

  Hands clutched at her, pulling her braids free of their moorings, "Oh, Miss Lachlan, you're here. Please, take us away. This is..."

  "Hush, Minerva. Pamela, are you here too?"

  A soft sob answered her.

  "Pamela?"

  "Yes, Miss Lachlan, I'm here. Oh, please, I want my mother!"

  The door had slammed as soon as Regina was inside and the carriage had jerked into motion. Only a pale bar of light showed under one blind. The other windows were completely covered.

  "Is anyone else here?"

  A moan from her left was the answer.

  "I think there's one other girl," Minerva, whispered. "When they threw me inside, I...I landed on her."

  Feeling her way cautiously, Regina managed to situate herself on the forward-facing seat. She'd kept hold of Minerva's wrist as she climbed onto the cushion, and now she pulled the girl beside her. "Stay." she commanded. Just then the carriage swerved around a corner and she went lurching across the carriage and landed atop a warm, limp body on the opposite bench.

  "Ow!"

  "Oh, hush, Pamela. If you can't say something helpful, just be quiet." She felt along the seat. Her hand encountered a mass of thick, long hair.

  "There is another girl here. Pamela, help me move her so you can sit."

  With both of them working , they managed to arrange the girl's limp body along the bench, with her head in Pamela's lap and her feet dangling to the floor.

  "Pamela, do you have your vinaigrette?"

  "Y-y-yes."

  "Give it to me. This poor girl has more need of it than you do."

  Pamela's hand was icy and shaking as she slipped the small glass vial into Regina's fingers.

  Uncapping it, Regina stuck it directly under the young woman's nose. A gasp, a cough, and the girl shook her head. Again she moaned.

  In the meantime, Minerva's sobs had risen in frequency and pitch, until she was gasping for breath. Pamela, bless her heart, was making soothing noises, albeit in a quavering tone.

  "Minerva, be quiet," Regina ordered. Just then the carriage swerved violently and she was tossed onto the floor again.

  Minerva let out a shrill squeal, Pamela gasped, and the half-conscious girl on the bench cried out.

  Climbing to her feet, Regina grabbed the strap beside the door. Tall as she was, she had to stoop, but at least she managed to stay on her feet as the carriage rolled rapidly along the cobbled street. I faced a mama bear once when she was protecting her cubs, and I face a parsimonious school board regularly. Surely I can deal with kidnappers. Her determined affirmation didn't do a thing for the knot of sheer terror sitting icily in her gut. "Minerva, will you cease that idiotic caterwauling?"

  The girl's hysteria slowly faded as Pamela spoke soft words of comfort. Regina knew the poor girl was just as terrified as her friend, but was making an impressive effort to be strong and brave. I'd never have expected it of Pamela. She's such a flibbertigibbet.

  In the meantime, she concentrated on reviving the third girl, who seemed more drugged than unconscious. At least she'd not found a lump or other evidence that the girl had been struck on the head.

  The carriage rattled on, around corner after corner, until Regina wondered if they were traveling in circles. She tested both doors, attempted to raise the shades, but had no luck. Eventually she sat beside Minerva and applied herself t
o her braids, which were free of their pins and dangling down her back. She knotted them together at her nape and hoped they'd stay in place. Long hair was too convenient a handle for those who wished to impose their will on her.

  At last the unknown girl stopped moaning and attempted to sit up. "No! I won't go with--" Even those few words were enough to show she was English.

  "Be still" Regina told her. "You're going to be dizzy."

  "Head hurts." The girl fell silent and seemed to have drifted back into unconsciousness. Then she clutched at Regina's arm and said, "He made me drink it."

  "Who did? Who gave you something to drink."

  "Handsome bloke. In a café. He said I was pretty. He wanted to show me Paris." The clutching hand tightened, then fell away as the girl laid her wrist over her eyes. "So nice. He bought me chocolate. And wine. I don't like wine, but he made me drink..."

  The carriage had slowed and seemed to be maneuvering through a narrow passage before the girl was finally able to tell Regina her name. "Marcy Gardner. I'm a ladies' maid, mum, to Miss Jane Pomeroy, of Bath.

  "'Twas me day off, and I had a mind to see Paris. This toff, he seemed like a gent, so when he asked me to walk a bit along the fancy boulevard, I didn't see no harm in it." She moaned. "Me mam, she told me to beware o' these Frenchies. Not to be trusted, she says. And ain't she right, then?" She clutched at Regina's hand again.

  "I want to go home."

  * * * *

  Regina knew the room they were herded into was enormous from the echoic quality of their captors' voices. Dim light came from four small rectangles high above her head, grimy windows letting in a pale imitation of the bright sunshine that they'd left behind.

  Docilely going where directed went against everything she'd ever learned. If they hadn't been outnumbered two to one, she might have attempted to rally the girls into resistance, but the eight men who'd stood silently along the corridor had been armed with both guns and knives. One had even worn a curious curved sword stuck through his belt.