look of determination on Helene’s face when she had said he would not be returning to the tavern. Such certainty of purpose could surely mean only one thing? Nor did Lisette make the mistake of underestimating Helene’s ability to carry through with that purpose; many of the men who frequented the tavern, hard and callous men, were obviously in awe of the Fleur de Lis’ patroness.
Lisette could not bear to think of the handsome Comte’s lavender-coloured eyes closing forever.
Just as she could not continue to stay here in her bedchamber, acting the coward, when even now Helene’s cut-throats might be closing in for the kill.
Lisette’s spine straightened with a resolve she could not allow to waver as she pulled on her black bonnet and gathered up her black cloak—mourning clothes for the uncle she had never met—before quietly opening the door to her bedchamber and peering out to ensure that the hallway was empty. Assured it was so, she quietly slipped from the room and down the stairs. With any luck she would be able to find and visit the Comte’s home, issue a warning and return to the tavern before Helene was any the wiser.
If not...
Lisette did not care to think of what might happen if she was too late to warn Monsieur le Comte.
Or of Helene’s fury if Lisette did not return to the tavern before her absence was discovered.
* * *
Christian stood in the shadows of a doorway, a safe enough distance from the Fleur de Lis, but close enough that he was able to see the dozen or so gentlemen and two ladies, who had entered through the back door of that establishment during the past half an hour.
He was under no illusions as to the reason for their clandestine visit, knew that he must have stumbled upon one of the secret meetings of Helene Rousseau and her co-conspirators.
Stumbled, because Helene Rousseau was not the reason Christian had come back to the tavern tonight.
He had returned briefly to his house by the Seine after leaving the tavern earlier, going inside to his bedchamber so that he might change into dark clothing, before going out again. He had ordered his groom to wait with the carriage several streets away from the Fleur de Lis, before wrapping his dark cloak about him to move stealthily through the pungent and filthy alleyways to the doorway across and down the street from the tavern.
The tavern was in darkness apart from a single candle burning in one of the bedchambers above, which, from the slightness of the silhouette of a person he could see pacing back and forth past the curtained window, might possibly be the bedchamber of the lovely Lisette.
When even that candle was extinguished just minutes later, the tavern was left in complete darkness.
And Christian with a feeling of disappointment.
It had been too much to hope for, of course, that Lisette would change her mind and join him for a late supper. She did not know him, nor did she seem the type of young lady who would sneak out of her aunt’s home in the middle of the night with the intention of dining alone with a gentleman. Even without her eagle-eyed aunt acting as her protector.
That look of innocence, and the tears that had shone in those huge blue eyes earlier when Lisette had told him she had ‘nowhere else to go’, could all be an act, of course. Nothing more than the clever machinations of an innocent-looking whore in search of a rich protector. Christian was sure he would not be the first gentleman to fall for such an act.
Yet there had been a sincerity to Lisette Duprée. An indication, perhaps, that her innocence might be genuine.
And Christian could just be the biggest fool in Paris for giving that young woman so much as a second thought. Indeed, Helene Rousseau’s warning earlier, in regard to his staying away from her niece, might all be part of the ruse to pique and hold his interest, rather than the opposite.
There was also that disturbing moment to consider when Helene Rousseau had initially spoken to him in English. A test, perhaps, to see if he would respond in kind? Or possibly because she already knew he was not the Comte de Saint-Cloud?
If that was the case, then Christian’s presence in Paris was a complete waste of time, and he would learn nothing. Except perhaps to feel the sharp end of a blade piercing his back when he least expected it.
Even more reason for Christian to concentrate on the meeting now taking place within the tavern, and the identity of the people present.
Rather than, as he had been doing, imagining how Lisette would look as she lay in her bed...
Would she be dressed demurely in a night-rail, or did she sleep naked?
Would her breasts be tipped by rosy nipples or darker plum-coloured ones?
And would the silky thatch between her thighs be as vibrant a red as the curls—?
‘Monsieur le Comte...?’
It would be an understatement, considering the direction of his thoughts, to say that Christian was startled to hear the sound of Lisette’s soft and huskily enquiring voice beside him.
Startled and not a little annoyed with himself for being so distracted by thoughts of this beautiful young woman that he had not even noticed her leaving the tavern, let alone approaching him. Such inattentiveness could easily get a man killed.
Christian gathered his thoughts as he turned to face her, approving of the fact that she at least wore dark clothing, as he did, the hood of her cloak pulled up over her bonnet, hiding the brightness of her hair. ‘I am gratified to see you have changed your mind about joining me for supper, mademoiselle,’ he answered her flirtatiously.
‘We cannot stay here, where we might be seen at any moment, monsieur,’ she came back urgently.
‘No, of course not,’ Christian readily accepted as he took a firm hold of her arm. He might now have to abandon his interest in the identity of the people who had so recently entered the tavern so surreptitiously but he had the next best thing: Helene Rousseau’s niece. ‘My carriage is waiting for us—’
‘Oh, no, monsieur, I cannot come with you. I wished only to—’
‘Hush!’ Christian warned sharply as he pulled her into his arms and pressed her back into the shadows of the doorway, having noticed that several cloaked figures were now leaving the tavern.
‘Monsieur!’ Lisette protested indignantly.
‘Hush—’
‘Monsieur, I must protest—’
Christian could think of only one way he might prevent Lisette from alerting others to their presence here with her verbal indignation at his manhandling of her.
He took it.
Lisette’s protests died in her throat, to be replaced by surprise and then pleasure, as the Comte took masterful possession of her lips with his own.
She had never been kissed before, nor had she ever dreamed that her first kiss would be with such a man as the handsome Comte de Saint-Cloud.
That he was an expert in such things came as no surprise to her; he was at least a dozen years her senior, and there was about him an air
