Page 4 of Miss Desirable
His gaze held only understanding, though handsome men who appeared kind were especially not to be trusted.
Catherine had taken only the smallest sips of wine, and yet, the drink abruptly sat uneasily. “I will walk,” she said, taking her bonnet from Fournier’s grasp. “Thank you for your time, and a case of the Cahors delivered by tomorrow noon would be appreciated.”
“You do not need a case,” he said, returning to the wine rack and taking down a dark green bottle. “You need only the one bottle and a hollow needle to inject the poison through the cork. The difficulty is that a competent butler will ensure the wine breathes, possibly as long as an hour. That is long enough that the poison can settle into the dregs. Unless you know your victim will consume the whole bottle down to the last drops, or a very small portion of poison will effect the desired result, a red wine does not promise your venture success.”
Catherine made a production of placing her bonnet upon her head, adjusting the veil, and affixing her hatpin, but all the while, her composure was draining away.
She’d had no intention of poisoning anybody. She’d simply wanted a particular French wine for her own enjoyment, and here was Fournier so gently implying she was capable of murder.
“The other problem with adding drugs to wine,” he went on, “is that some poisons work unpredictably when mixed with any sort of spirits. The result can be anémétique, to make one cast up the accounts, as the English say, and again, you have failure and, quite possibly, an angry victim determined on revenge. You must tread carefully, Madame.”
Catherine was sick to her soul with treading carefully. “Do all wine merchants have such an impressive command of poisoning techniques?”
“I am not merely a wine merchant, just as you are not merely shopping for a decent claret.” He wrapped the bottle in an oilskin bag—discreet of him—and passed it to her. “Let’s fetch your umbrella, though sending you out into this downpour offends my gentlemanly soul.”
“And accusing me of homicidal intentions does not?” A question that should have been aflame with ire came out merely curious.
“I have learned not to judge. I like you, and you need a friend.”
All three statements were possibly true, more’s the pity. Fournier accompanied Catherine back into the wineshop proper and retrieved her black umbrella from beside the door. He produced a card from his pocket.
“That is my private residence, and my staff is loyal. If you allow me the privilege, I will try to help.”
What on earth was she to say to that? “Your kindness is both appreciated and misplaced. Thank you for the wine, and delivery by the end of the week will do if tomorrow does not suit.”
He touched her arm, a presumption. “You want to know what gave you away. Not only are you not a good match for the Cahors, a confident specimen with no pretensions to subterfuge, but you would eschew the company of any man who finds that wine much to his taste. That wine is for young men enjoying a vigorous rural life on limited means, or for a hearty French farm wife indulging at the end of her day.
“Ergo,” Fournier went on, “the wine is for an enemy, and you were most particular about examining the appearance of the products offered and the color of the bottle. The Cahors is the darkest and most robust of the wines you sampled and the one I knew you yourself would least prefer.”
A backhanded consolation, that Fournier saw only the fine English lady in her mourning attire, not the Catherine Fairchild who’d been such a trial to her parents.
She tucked her umbrella under her arm and pulled on her gloves. “What an interesting imagination you have, monsieur. What sort of wine would I prefer?”
He smiled, the first true, open smile Catherine had seen from him, and the effect was devastating. The smile opened up a world of warmth and humor and created intimacy without speaking a word.
“Rosé, an underappreciated departure from the expected, delightfully agile and adaptable, far more complex than most wine drinkers will ever grasp. A carefully chosen rosé can be appropriate for nearly any occasion, but such vintages are seldom allowed to shine as they deserve.”
Good God.He was dangerous. Any other descriptions of him—charming, witty, articulate, friendly, shrewd, attractive, handsome—were of no moment beside the fact that where Catherine was concerned, Xavier Fournier was dangerous.
She passed him back his bottle of wine and departed the shop without another word.
CHAPTERTWO
“You glance to the left before you begin an attack,” Xavier said, tossing Sycamore Dorning a towel. “But for that clumsiness, your fencing skills show some improvement.”
Dorning blotted the sweat from his face. “If the habit is so obvious, why didn’t you offer that observation six months ago?”
“Six months ago, you were still trying to keep straight which foot is the left and which is the right. Your brother Ash has the natural instincts of a fencer, but you… The knives you love to play with have ruined you for finer pursuits.”
Dorning used the towel on an impressively muscular chest. “My lady wife does not consider me ruined. She likes my swordsmanship just—”
Fournier brought up the foil in his left hand so the untipped point touched beneath Dorning’s chin. “The Germans find facial scars attractive. Must we assay the fair Mrs. Dorning’s opinion on the matter? She would disapprove of your bandying her preferences about in a venue such as this—as do I.”
Dorning moved the blade aside with a cautious finger. “Point taken. My apologies. What has you in such a foul temper?”
Most days, Fournier enjoyed Sycamore Dorning’s company. Dorning, a rarity among his kind, could admit when he was in error and apologize for the mistake. Other days…
Dorning was like a British mastiff, a great, gamboling beast of a fellow who had no tact and was unswervingly loyal to those he cared for. This loyalty was a fine quality in a man with eight legitimate siblings—all married—and a growing army of nieces and nephews.
