Page 87 of Lord Ashley's Beautiful Alibi
He laughed at the ceiling. “I doubt it!”
“So do I. But I appreciate the gesture.” She glanced around. “Did you bring my knitting up here?”
“Hell no. You do that when you’re nervous. You won’t be here.”
“I agree on that.”
“I did have the maids set out your drawing pens and pads.”
“You think I might like to draw in between…?” Her eyes went round.
“Perhaps. I have a few tasks I must complete now that we’re in Paris, and so I thought you might appreciate your items.”
She went to him then. “As long as you promise to come back to me.”
“My darling, I’m never going far from you ever again.”
*
Their honeymoon wasan idyll—and neither spoke of an ending. They took their meals in the master suite, conversed, and laughed. They played chess and, with the loss of each piece, lost an article of clothing. Not that either had much to lose from the beginning. But the bet produced as much delight as the win…or the exciting loss.
Servants came to bring their meals at appointed hours. They also changed the linens for bed and baths daily. None of them ever saw their mistress. Occasionally, Kane used the bellpull to summon Corsini. Once a day, he left their rooms and descended to his library or study to work. The first day he had to leave the house, he planned to meet with avendeurof corn. Excess supplies lay in French ports, so said one Paris newspaper. Kane sought to buy it and ship it to England. The next day, he changed from his own carriage to a hired fiacre so that he might meet discreetly with two whom he wished to recruit to work for his network. That same afternoon, he met with a new man whom Scarlett Hawthorne had recently sent to Paris.
Later that day, Corsini knocked and told him he must come to the salon to meet with one of the staff. The man who appeared was the one who had followed them to Reims and Varennes. He apologized for his failure to protect them. He had fallen ill from what he suspected was spoiled food.
“I know not,Monsieur le Comte, but I suspect that I was discovered by one of Vaillancourt’s men and fed bad food. I was so ill I could not travel until a few days ago. Forgive me.”
Kane quickly absolved him of any wrongdoing. “I am glad you have recovered and returned to explain to me what happened. I worried about you.”
He returned upstairs to Gus, and much like other times, he found her playing the pianoforte in the mistress’s sitting room. He sat down beside her, and they played together. One day, he played a piece by Bach. Gus frowned but complimented him on his expertise. She claimed she played that man’s works only when she was upset and needed to bang at the keys. Mozart was her favorite. Kane sought to learn the pieces she adored and tried to provide accompaniment. But often he simply sat, marveling at her skill, his hands in his lap until he could bear them empty no longer. He would draw her against him, lost in her generous affections.
A few days after their marriage, Gus told him that the next day she had to go to the bathhouse in St. Denis. Her contact would be there, and she would not fail him. At first, Kane objected. She told him point-blank she had her duty. She would do her work, even though she had no means to convey to Amber any information her contact would give her.
Kane knew he had to divulge a secret to her. There was nothing for it—and she might recoil at what he had to say. “I must tell you, Gus, I know the man you intend to meet.”
She was aghast. “No. How…how can you?”
“I know Luc Bechard. He is a friend. A lifelong friend.”
“But… You did not tell me when I mentioned his name.” She rose. On her face, disappointment mixed with anger. “How could you not?”
He took her hands. Fearful this would destroy their new-found pleasure, he blurted a response. “Our friendship was young. I wanted you to learn to trust me.”
“I did! Still you did not tell me.” She broke away to walk the floor. “How could you do that?”
“In honesty, my darling, I forgot. We had other issues that occupied us…and now, we are married and—”
“And fully engaged in that, aren’t we?” She had one hand on her hip.
“Gus, please. I did not mean to hurt you or your work. I would never tell anyone and betray you.”
She frowned at him, wary. “Not even the person to whom you report in London?”
“No. My actions are my own. I send no written descriptions.”
“Why not?”
“Letters can be stolen. Destroyed.”
