Page 68 of Miss Desirable
“Thurlow,” Fournier said when they turned onto Park Lane, “I believe Miss Fairchild left her whip behind. Perhaps you’d retrieve it for her?”
“Good heavens,” Catherine said. “I’d not even noticed. Please do fetch the whip, Nevin. Franny is regaining her former condition, but a fashionable lady ought not to be seen on the bridle paths without the proper accoutrements.”
Nevin tugged his cap and steered his mount back the way they’d come.
“I did not forget my whip on purpose,” Catherine said.
“Of course not.” Fournier directed Bertold through the open gates. “The sight of me in all my equestrian finery turned your head. Bertold and I do cut a dash. One must acknowledge the obvious.”
Catherine had not missed Fortescue Armbruster. She’d cursed the day she’d met him, cursed the evening she’d let him kiss her. Invoked foul imprecations in several languages upon the night she’d allowed him under her skirts.
If she parted from Xavier Fournier—and part from him she must—she would miss him for the rest of her life.
Last night had proven that, if there’d been any doubt. “You cut a dash wearing nothing at all, Fournier.”
“The sunshine is more golden, the birdsong sweeter because you think it so. I have news to convey to you that is not in the least sunny or sweet.”
Catherine steeled herself to remain composed. She was good at remaining composed. Could make small talk while her heart was breaking, could smile politely when she wanted to be sick. Fournier had not used a single endearment with her on this outing. The news must be quite dire—or perhaps, in a backhanded way, fortuitous.
“Say on, Fournier. Nevin will come trotting along eventually, or we will run into some Dorning or other out to prove they’ve finally recalled the meaning of family loyalty.”
He turned Bertold down a leafy bridle path. “Would you miss me if business required that I return to France for a time?”
“Yes.” The horsesclip-cloppedalong, and a rabbit loped across the path. “I missed you last night. I fell asleep in your arms and woke wondering if I’d dreamed you in my bed.”
“Last night was lovelier than any dream, Catherine.”
Last night was how it should be with a woman and her lover, all except for the part about Catherine being desperately upset and Fournier stealing away when she’d drifted off. Fournier deserved to know about the note, deserved to know that Catherine’s enemy—or enemies, plural—were preparing to tarnish her good name in earnest.
Or blackmail her, which amounted to the same thing.
“Share your news, Fournier, because I have some news for you too.”
“You will tell me that our idyll has come to an end,” he said. “Tell me that the time has arrived to put our pleasures in the past.”
How could he know that? “Why would I make such an announcement?”
“Because some fine London gentleman is spying on you. Nevin is in his employ, and Deems might be as well. Your house is watched by Deems, at least, and this fine gentleman has been noting the addresses from which you receive regular mail.”
Without Catherine willing it so, Franny stopped in the middle of the path. “Ibegyour pardon?”
“Bad news, but we are honest with one another,non? Colonel Goddard provides room and board to a host of children who would otherwise be at large on London’s streets. Among their number is the crossing sweeper working the intersection nearest your home. I teach him the occasional word of French.”
“I know Victor. He has permission to sleep in the mews, and he’s done the occasional errand for Harry. We used to feed him regularly, but he seems to have come into room and board elsewhere.”
“The colonel has taken an interest in him, as have I. Victor has seen Nevin meeting at The Boar’s Bride with a fine gentleman, the same gentleman who bribed the appropriate parties to share with him the address on your regular epistles from Cahors.”
Catherine felt a constriction of the lungs, as if her riding corset had been laced too tightly, but that wasn’t the case.
“Tell me the rest of it, Fournier.”
He regarded her with such patience, such gentle reproof that Catherine nearly started bawling. “I believe the rest of it is for you to tell me.”
He was angry. In his calm, reserved, gentlemanly way, he was angry. Well, so was Catherine. “Please get me off this horse.”
He complied—no hands lingering at her waist—and tied the reins of both mounts to a low branch of a maple sapling. “We will walk and be assured of privacy.”
“Until I start screaming. Deems is spying on me?”
