Oh. Oh, my. That wasn’t as awful as she’d thought.
Everything altered at once. Her blood changed seasons from frosty winter to molten summer, swimming in her veins and pooling low. Her limbs went from stiff to suddenly boneless. In fact, the only substantial part of her was where he touched her face, his thumb lightly stroking the sensitive valley between her mouth and chin. Her lips became plump, ripe and aching. And when he leaned in, she was sure they might combust from anticipation.
“But I cannot risk giving in to temptation,” he whispered.
Then he released her, turned and left.
She sagged against the doorframe, too overcome by the tumult inside her to be cross with him. Besides, that was, quite possibly, the best kiss she’d never had in her entire life.
It was a shame, too. This was her last day in Paris, and she would never see him again. Well, not unless happenstance brought him to Germany, which was where she and the aunts were headed to in the morning. But the likelihood of that was next to impossible.
Nevertheless, she had enjoyed the practice of flirting with that irritating man.
Chapter 9
The Good, the Bad and the Cherry
Orchestrating Lady Avalon’s residency at the hotel where Lucien stayed had taken careful maneuvering—not to mention, a good deal of coin—but it had served him well in the end.
The concierge had been exceptionally helpful, informing him of every coming and going of zee three Misses Parrish, including precisely when they were departing to continue their supposed holiday. And the moment their hired coach had driven away, Lucien and Pell had set off in pursuit.
Leaving France, they traveled over hills and dales, through vineyards and the forests that brought them into Germany. The land was green and abundant with cherry trees, laden with the red stone fruit, lining the narrow roads.
It had been days since his last encounter with Meg in Paris. Ten days to be exact, and Lucien was still no closer to discovering the whereabouts of his book than before.
All he knew was that, after a brief surveillance, neither Count Andret nor Colonel Whittingham proved capable of being the mastermind behind this plot. Erring on the side of caution, however, Lucien hired a man to follow Andret and report anything more interesting than mummified cats. He also sent word to his investigator to keep an eye on the colonel when he returned to England with his young bride, along with her cousin, Miss Hartley, whose close connection with Lady Avalon was still under suspicion.
He hated not having answers. It was taking far too long to unearth the name of the man that Lady Avalon was working for. Though, whoever he might be, he apparently did not live in France.
The Parrish women had been on a peculiar zigzag course into Germany. But they visited no jewelers, officers, heads of state or anyone he would consider the architect of this charade.
They’d paused for a brief stay in Trier to admire the Moselle from a hired boat for a few hours. Then they continued onward, making a point to stop at nearly every Gasthaus along the way, as if for the sole purpose of sampling the local cuisine.
It confused him exceedingly. Normally, he enjoyed a good puzzle, but he disliked when the pieces failed to fall in place.
What did these excursions have to do with the book she’d stolen from him? Or any of the other pilfered goods she’d taken over the years, for that matter?
He glowered through the window of his carriage, where it sat on an overlook shielded by bramble and coniferous shrubs. In the valley below, his quarry had been loitering in a quaint village square market for two hours and seventeen—eighteen—minutes.
“For a master of espionage, Lady Avalon certainly leaves loaves’ worth of breadcrumbs behind,” Pell said with a yawn from the opposite bench. “We’ve tracked her every step of the way through France and now Germany with minimal effort. At least on my part. I don’t know the lengths you’ve gone to with all your calculations and deductions. Then again, I’m not interested. Just wake me when they leave.”
As Pell eased into the corner of the carriage, arms crossed and hat tilted over his face, Lucien returned his gaze to the figure in the pink-striped dress as she idly twirled a frilly parasol and sauntered among the crowds with a basket on her arm. “Clearly, she is working with the older women. I hadn’t thought so at first. But after seeing the elder two steal away into the kitchens of coaching inns and through back doors of market shops, I’m sure they are part of it.”
“While Lady Avalon serves as a distraction,” Pell murmured groggily. “You’ve mentioned that before. You always repeat yourself when something doesn’t make sense to you. So they must be quite the clever team of cohorts.”
“But to what end?”
Lucien scrubbed a hand along his shaven jaw. Thinking back to a previous conversation with Lady Avalon, he recalled her mentioning that certain ingredients could only be found in specific parts of Europe.
So perhaps she was delivering the ingredients and the recipes at the same time. Which meant that the man she was working for was interested in complete authenticity. Hence, he could very well be a scholar of the ancient texts. And hadn’t his little wolf already confessed that her own father had known all the stories?
Perhaps the person he was looking for was in her own family, whoever that may be. He hoped his investigator in England would be able to unearth something more concrete than a list of thefts connected to her alias.
Lucien wanted to know more about her—who she was, where she came from, how she fell into this line of work and why she felt it necessary to seduce so many men.
Not that the last mattered to him. Not in the least. Her amorous escapades were none of his concern. Although, why she found it necessary to linger so long at the market stall with the burly chap in the lederhosen, he didn’t know. But when her parasol tilted enough to expose her beaming smile as she drank from an offered cup, a seething hot breath fogged up the window.
“You know,” Pell said as Lucien wiped his sleeve in a circle over the pane, “it is entirely possible that we have the wrong woman altogether.”
He shook his head in instant denial. Then remembering that his cousin had his eyes closed, he said, “No. If you’d spent any time alone with her, then you would know just how cunning she can be. It almost makes me feel sorry for all those other men she has duped.”
Even he had nearly been drawn into her trap. He’d thought that touring the hotel gallery while engaging in pleasant conversation would allow her to trust him and feel at ease. He should have known better. Instead, she’d beguiled him with those eyes and spoke of kissing, purposely drawing his attention to her all too tantalizing lips.
She was a master of her craft, subtly spinning a web around him. Before he knew it, he’d found himself ensnared and admitting things he’d never planned to confess. And when her lashes had descended over her eyes in a sultry, slumberous blink and her mouth parted on a sweet breath, it was only by sheer force of will that he’d been able to pull himself free.
When he’d walked away, he’d intended to leave temptation behind. It was a simple matter of mental fortitude, after all. He’d exercised those muscles often enough that he had no doubt of his success. And yet . . .
Because he was in pursuit of the book, and she was the holder of said book, it proved impossible.