Page 41 of Unearthing the Smuggler's Heart
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Jade tookexceptional care getting dressed that morning. She wore her prettiest frock, a white tea gown made of muslin and lace, and after deliberating for a while, chose a lilac ribbon from the gifted bunch that still lay on her bed, next to the envelope. She had decided to wear her hair down, the way she knew he liked it, with only a bit at the side pulled back over her ear and secured by the ribbon.
She examined her reflection closely, a desire that had never overtaken her before suddenly pushing its way into her mind. She wanted to look beautiful today. For him.
She sighed, a secret smile spreading across her lips at the memory of what had passed between them. It almost startled her how her reflection changed when she did that. But, short of a quick double take, she only took delight in it, and found herself giving a quick flit about the room before taking up the leather-bound book that she'd never even gotten the chance to open, and making her way to the ground floor for breakfast.
She practically pranced down the stairs, enjoying the way her skirt belled out around her ankles as she did so, and greeted Mr. Petetti, who looked as though he was just now shaking off his own grog from a hard night's sleep.
In halting English and with a sheepish smile, he said, "Breakfast soon. Not yet."
She nodded, and in equally uncertain French, she replied, "Pas de problème," which (she hoped) meant it was no trouble at all.
The French called breakfastle petit dejeuner—little dinner. She thought it very queer and charming. Perhaps she stood a fighting chance at fluency after all, if she actually devoted herself to her studies. After all, she had been offered tutelage by a Frenchman, once upon a time, and now she thought it a rather appealing idea, for many, many reasons.
She chose a seat nearest to a bright shaft of sunlight from the gradual appearance of the sun. It was a large tabletop where she could spread the papers out that were held in the leather book. She thought about going back to her room to retrieve writing materials of her own, but found herself opening the front cover before she could do any such thing. And just like that, she was rapt.
So rapt, that she did not notice the minutes ticking by, and did not hear as Mathias appeared behind her. She remained ignorant of his presence until he had bent forward at her ear, right near the lilac ribbon, and whispered in a warm breath of air, "That was a dirty trick you played, sneaking out this morning."
She startled, whipping around to shoo him away before someone overheard, but he only laughed, catching her face as she turned and kissing her quickly on the lips.
"Captain!" she scolded as he slid into the chair next to her, adjusting the seat so that their legs brushed.
"What?" he asked with that cheeky grin of his. "It's early. No one's about yet. Even if they were, I'm not sure anyone would mind."
She considered this, tilting her head to the side. She supposed it was true. Still, though, it felt reckless, impossible to kiss Mathias Dempierre in full view of the world. She realized that it hadn't been so terribly long ago that everything felt reckless and impossible. After the fire, every day in Zelda's little flat had felt a little bit like a trap, like at any moment a guard would pop out and lambast her for presuming her freedom.
Eventually, that had gone away. Eventually, she had learned that she deserved freedom. Perhaps she deserved this too?
"Do it again," she said, scrunching up her brow, her lips tight together at the remembrance of these things.
He laughed. "Only if you look less vexed about it."
This only made her worry lines deepen, and with another chuckle he leaned forward and pressed another sweet kiss to her lips, stroking her cheek with his thumb.
"Good?" he asked, a breath away.
"I don't know."
She shook her head, turning away from him, and stiffly gestured to the documents on the table. "I've been reading," she said, her tone as brisk and businesslike as she could make it. "I have found quite a lot already. There are deed papers and several references to a villa in Spain where Gerard and Pauline intended to live out their golden years. That is likely where they've gone with my parents."
"Yes, I know the place," Mathias replied with a raise of his eyebrows, touching the deed she had set apart at the very edge of the table. "It's always been empty. We used it as a storehouse for many years. I suppose it was never needed back then as a home."
"Indeed not." Jade reached into the pile of papers and removed a set of inky letters, many dated several years into the past, and each addressed to Diane Ferris from Pauline Olivier. "I was wondering why she never posted these letters. They are mundane enough that they would have reached my mother without issue, and she needn't have signed them with her true name, but as I read them, I realized that in essence, they are all exactly the same letter, recounting exactly the same events as though they occurred just that week before Pauline sat down to record them."
"Well, that is curious," he agreed, reaching out to take one of the letters from the stack, his amber eyes looking positively translucent in the morning light as they scanned over the lines. "Perhaps it was just a very good week."
She huffed, nudging him with her elbow. "It is code, obviously. I will attempt to match it to the fans once Isabelle awakens, and if that fails, I will attempt some of my mother's other ciphers. God willing, this repeated letter will give us at least one or two answers about why we're here. I think it is safe to say that my inheritance is not this book, nor any of its loose pages."
"No," he agreed, "and it most certainly was not in the trunk. I imagine whatever it is was purchased alongside most of the furniture when the house went to auction. Although I suppose you could always claim those old dresses and call it a success."
"Do you think my inheritance can be recovered if someone purchased it legally?" she asked with a frown, searching his eyes. "Surely any reasonable person would understand our dilemma."
Mathias grimaced, setting the letter gingerly back on top of the stack of papers. "Any reasonable person likely would," he allowed. "Sadly, a reasonable person did not buy that house."
"Oh? Who did?"
"The captain of the port authority," Mathias answered with a note of strained apology in his voice, "the one Isabelle clocked in the head with a jar of cherry jam. Louis Dumand."
