swirls of violet. The buildings of Paris, tinged a soft pink at this time of day, were even more beautiful than in the brightness of a noonday sun. London at dawn would seem a dark maze of streets and shops.
And Calcutta... Calcutta, the city of Oliver’s birth, defied description, except in words whispered in memory—Hindi words.
Oliver struggled to remember those steaming, fragrant, exotic days of his childhood and the smiling woman swathed in brightly coloured silks holding him in her arms and calling him her pyaare bete, her sweet boy.
In the quiet of dawn he could bring it all back. He feared forgetting even more than the depths of depression that followed. Lately his decadent lifestyle provided no ease from the blue devils.
He’d crafted his life to distract him from the sadness of loss. What better setting than a gentlemen’s club devoted to pleasures of the flesh? Oliver was one of the owners of Vitium et Virtus—Vice and Virtue—the exclusive gentlemen’s club he and his three friends started when they were mere students at Oxford. Vitium et Virtus specialised in decadent pleasure, whether it be beautiful women, the finest brandy or a high-stakes game of cards.
To think he’d just left a Parisian club that made Vitium et Virtus look tame. This club featured sexual gratification through pain, whether self-inflicted or inflicted by another. Vitium et Virtus included some fantasy games with one of their tall, beautiful, dark-haired women playing dominatrix, but this French club went way beyond, so far Oliver nearly intervened to stop it. He knew some people found pleasure in pain, but these Parisians flirted with death. He had no intention of bringing those ideas to their club.
His mind flashed with an image of a nearly naked man swallowing a snake. And another man running over hot coals.
Memories from India again.
A cry jerked him back to the present near-dawn morning. In the distance a swarm of street urchins accosted a woman, pulling at her clothes, their demands shrill in the early morning air. He’d seen street urchins in Calcutta rush a man and leave him with nothing, not even the clothes on his back. The dark rookeries of London posed similar dangers.
Oliver sprinted to her aid. ‘Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Stop! Stop!’
The woman lifted her arms. ‘No! No!’
The children scattered.
When he reached her, she placed her hands on her hips. ‘Look what you’ve done!’
‘You are English?’ He was surprised.
She merely gestured in the direction the children had disappeared. ‘They’ve run away.’
‘They were attacking you.’ At least that was what he’d thought.
She gave him an exasperated look. ‘They were not attacking me. I was giving them money so they might eat today!’
‘Giving them money?’ He turned to where he’d last seen them and back to her. ‘Is that wise?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Wiser than having them starve or be forced to steal.’
He could not argue with that. ‘Forgive me. I thought—Can you call them back?’
‘No, they will be too frightened now. They are gone.’
He shook his head. ‘I am sorry.’
She frowned. ‘Another time—tomorrow—I will be back.’
She turned to walk away.
‘Wait.’ He strode to her side. ‘What is an Englishwoman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’
Now mischief sparkled in those dark eyes. ‘Why, I was giving coins to street children until you chased them away.’
She was lovely! Those beautiful eyes were fringed with dark lashes, and her brows, delicately arched. An elegant nose and full, luscious lips adorned her oval face. Her bonnet covered her hair, but as the sky grew lighter, Oliver saw her dress was dark blue and her hair a rich brown.
‘What is an Englishman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’ she asked, mocking his tone.
Oliver smiled. ‘Attempting to rescue damsels in distress.’
She laughed. ‘You must keep searching, then. I assure you I am not in distress.’
‘But I am at your service.’ Oliver bowed.
She kept walking, and he kept pace with her.
She finally spoke again. ‘Enjoying the delights of Paris now that the war is over?’ Her tone was a mockery of polite conversation, but at least she’d not dismissed him.
‘Actually a bit of business.’ Although his business was pleasure. ‘And you?’
‘Moi?’ She fluttered her lashes. ‘I live here.’
He was pretty astute at perceiving the character of a person, a skill he’d honed so he’d know right away the degree to which a person might accept him as an equal or as a lesser being. She was guarding her own privacy, not giving him any information at all.
He pretended to peruse her. ‘I would surmise there is quite a story about why an English lady such as yourself lives in Paris.’
She looked suspicious. ‘Why do you say I am a lady?’
His mouth widened into a smile. ‘It is not difficult. The way you carry yourself. The way you speak.’
She shrugged at that. ‘Well, I am not telling you anything.’
And he would not press her. He understood the need to keep one’s privacy, but he also did not wish to say goodbye to her. The sky had lightened, turning the water blue and the stone path to beige. He suspected she would soon leave this path and be gone.
‘I have a proposal,’ he said impulsively. ‘Eat breakfast with me.’
She laughed derisively. ‘Why would I do that? I do not know you.’
‘Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am Oliver Gregory. My father is the Marquess of Amberford.’ He never explained further. People who did not already know his father usually assumed he was a younger son. ‘Now you know me.’
She laughed again, this time with more humour. ‘I know your name. Or at least the name you deign to give me.’
‘I assure you it is my name.’
Her brows rose and she nodded with exaggerated scepticism.
He spread his palms. ‘I am telling you the truth.’
She cocked her head. ‘It does not matter.’
‘So,’ he tried again. ‘Will you have breakfast with me? I promise to be amusing. We can sit in the open at a café if that will ease your discomfort.’
Her expression sobered and she stared at him for several seconds, as if deciding how to respond. ‘At a café?’ she repeated.
‘Wherever
