Page 60 of A Night of Secret Surrender
‘The rot in an apple is never skin deep.’
He had laughed at that and she had seen again a marked resemblance to Summer.
‘And you will stay safe?’ She had not wanted to utter this, but she had to know. If he died because of her, there would be a new darkness settling around her heart.
‘I am a wounded chameleon, but a dangerous one. Do not worry for me. My hands are clean of the Dubois scandal, merely an interested observer for the Ministry of War.’
They had had only these two minutes alone and she had passed him a blade which he had secreted into his pocket in the blink of an eye. Then the Frenchman had been taken away and she had not met him again.
Benet was dead, the small Dubois children’s death avenged along with their father and uncle. She hoped Caroline Debussy had been honest in her pledge to help the rest of the family.
Caroline. She had made certain not to visit her, but a letter had come nevertheless, delivered by a street child.
Go to Rome.
Find Monsieur Christian Blanchard in the Piazza Navona.
But she had not imagined she could even complete such a journey with the nausea and weakness she was now afflicted with and so had turned north instead. She had marked a small sheet of paper to keep track of the days as she travelled for time seemed inconsequential and nebulous. Only sunset and sunrise.
Sometimes, though, when she’d lain down to rest she’d had the quiet feeling that she was no longer alone. Sometimes she imagined Summer Shayborne’s hand in hers, solid, strong and warm. Almost as though he was there with her.
Chapter Nine
It was getting colder, the summer running down into autumn, the trees in the London parks changing colour. Russets and oranges, reds and browns, the edges of the pathways strewn with leaves.
Lian had accompanied him today on a walk around Hyde Park for it was so much easier to talk there where they were away from listening ears.
‘You finally seem to be limping less, Shay. Is the injury easing?’
‘My physician says that it is. He said by Christmas I should barely notice the sting of it.’
‘So then you will rejoin the army?’
He shook his head. ‘The title has made it difficult to simply be up and off as a soldier and Jeremy’s wife, Vivienne, is still far from well.’
‘The woman I saw you with last week? The one with the brown hair and sad eyes?’
‘Melancholy is hard to shake, I suppose, though sometimes...’ He stopped.
‘You wish she might be braver?’
At that Shay laughed. ‘What of you? It seems you are back in England every month these days. Are you still very much involved in things in France?’
‘In quieter ways than I was. More in the shadows than the light. The identity card of Brigitte Guerin was found at the edge of the Seine along with some clothes just this summer past. Did I tell you that?’
Shay frowned, not trusting himself to speak.
‘Perhaps I should also tell you that Madame Caroline Debussy does not believe Celeste Fournier is dead.’
‘You know her? Madame Debussy?’
‘She is one of my many godmothers.’
‘The sticky web of Parisian society is never simple. What makes her believe this?’
‘The girl’s forte was deceit and she was an expert in getting people to believe in things that weren’t true. She has used up all her lives, Madame Debussy thinks, like a cat, and so she has become someone else entirely to begin anew.’
‘And gone where?’
