Page 40 of The Art of Theft
“Or that they were on the far side of the chapel from you.”
“They were chasing something. Neither dogs nor people run like that unless they have a goal in mind. But I never saw what they were chasing.”
“How can you be sure they weren’tbeingchased?”
He stumbled over the question, the toast halfway to his mouth forgotten. Only after a few seconds was he able to say, with some certainty, “They weren’t being chased—they never looked back.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“You can deduce that even with logic,” he said. “The pursuers can see the quarry. The quarry must look back to gauge whether his pursuers are gaining on him, whether more are joining from different directions, whether they have firearms and are willing to use them. The men and the dogs I saw were pursuers.”
She nodded. “I trust you to know the difference.”
He exhaled and finished his toast. She came out of her seat and leaned over the bed. He again forgot about his food, but she only pilfered a slice of bread, spread it with a bit of butter, and took a bite.
At least once in his life, he would like for her to look at him as she would a morsel of fine French pastry. Or a slice of Victoria sandwich. Or even a humble piece of buttered bread.
Something came over her when she relished her food. At afternoon tea parties, when she was still an eligible young lady, she frequently ignored the gentlemen in favor of a plate of miniature iced cakes. And the gentlemen, subtly or unsubtly, from every corner of the room, would peer at her, sometimes over the shoulders of young ladies they were ostensibly talking to, because of the unabashed desire on her face—and the potent pleasure she emanated in consuming those objects of desire.
“I’ve never seen you take so little butter,” he said.
“I shouldn’t have any butter at all. But it is high misery indeed, to be battling Maximum Tolerable Chins in France, of all places. A little butter eases the suffering.”
“You look fine to me.”
Everything about her was slightly fuller—her bodice, most notably. It was a test of his own self-control not to let his eyes stray to her bosom, to those few buttons that seemed to be in imminent danger of popping open.
“Alas,” she said lightly but firmly, “in this case, I am the only one who can judge whether and how the battle should be fought. But by all means rain down further compliments, while I order my troops and weigh my strategies.”
She was only a fraction as vain as she was perceptive. But given her tremendous perspicacity, her concern for her appearance was no insignificant matter. He sighed in resignation.“Oui,mon général.”
She glanced at him. Her eyes were her best features, wide set, thickly lashed, and deceptively transparent, hinting at a guileless sweetness antithetical to her true nature.
Silence. Only the barely audible flickers of the gas lamps reached his ears—and the sounds of her soft breaths.
He found himself staring at her lips. Her lips were decadent. All of her was decadent. She leaned closer, her pupils turning dark. And he was only hunger, only need.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I do believe you are quite all right. I have some matters to see to. Shall I send Forêt up?”
?Mrs. Watson, sitting on an opulent, canopied bed, could not stop herself from shaking, not even in front of Miss Charlotte. Every time she thought of poor Mr. Marbleton, of how ice-cold and confused he had been, fresh tremors would seize her.
Miss Charlotte had informed her that Lord Ingram did not appear to be suffering any lingering effects from his unplanned nightswim. And that Mr. Marbleton, too, had awakened and dined, and was now luxuriating in a bath with a French novel that Miss Olivia had selected from Hôtel Papillon’s library.
Still...
“My God,” Mrs. Watson murmured to herself. “But what if we’d been less fortunate? What if somethinghadhappened?”
She’d been repeating those questions—and using the Lord’s name in vain—for goodness knew how long. Miss Charlotte had asked whether she wished to see the gentlemen for herself. But how could she face them again, after having put them in such danger?
And she was so cold, almost as if she, too, had fallen into that frigid lake. She pulled the covers more tightly about herself, but she knew it wouldn’t help, not as long as a glacier of fear and guilt advanced inexorably inside her.
After a while Miss Charlotte left. Mrs. Watson, at first relieved to no longer have an audience for her wretchedness, soon felt bereft, her misery doubling, tripling.
But two minutes later her young friend returned with a knitting basket and retook her seat near the foot of the bed. She didn’t say anything, only knitted.
At an extraordinarily even tempo. One could keep time by counting the unhurried clicking of her needles.
Gradually, the gentle rhythm mesmerized Mrs. Watson. And gradually, she, who had not slept in more than thirty-six hours, closed her eyes and lost herself in welcome oblivion.
