Floats the Dark Shadow (4 page)

“Fear?” The resentment melted. Of all the reasons she had imagined, that was never one.

“You see very clearly.”

“I thought…” She had suspected him of gallivanting about the city with Casimir, drinking champagne and seducing actresses. But that had never been the most probable reason. “I thought you were remembering Jeanette.”

For a moment Averill looked utterly stricken. An instant later, he smiled ruefully but his gaze was shuttered. “I can never forget Jeanette.”

When Theo first met Averill, they were both coming out of mourning. Averill’s beloved younger sister had died a year before. His father had told the world her death was caused by a freakish carriage accident, but Averill had wormed a different truth from him—a truth Averill confided not to his mother, nor to his other sister, but to Theo. Jeanette had committed suicide. Last week was the anniversary of her death.

There was a painful silence. Theo knew she had overstepped some boundary, even though it was one he had opened for her to cross. Of late, the special rapport they shared seemed to have faded. When she chased after it, it only eluded her more. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, which covered both her sympathy for him and her own hurt.

He shook his head, then abruptly returned to their earlier conversation. “The fiacre will come for you at ten. That will give us time to tour the catacombs before the concert.”

She smiled valiantly. “I’ll be ready.”

He turned to go, then swiveled around. “I will keep my promise. Soon.”

“When you can,” Theo answered. Despite her yearning to paint him, she could not bear to push him.

Cupping her face tenderly, he kissed her on both cheeks. The first kiss was barely more than breath, the second warm, soft, and faintly moist against her skin. At each touch of his lips, a thrilling vibration played along her nerves. Drawing back, Averill smiled at her—that smile so full of secrets.

“I will see you tomorrow night,” he said, and then went dashing down the stairs.

Feeling dazed, Theo wandered back inside. “Tomorrow,” she murmured.

A sudden rush of sunshine poured into the studio. All around her, the walls she had painted wine red glowed in the afternoon light. She crossed to the windows, watching the grey rain clouds scudding across the eastern expanse of Paris, leaving pure cerulean sky behind. Montmartre fell away beneath her in a cascade of steep roofs, chimney tops, and trees frothy in their new spring finery of green leaves and creamy blossoms. Theo raised a hand to her cheek. The vibration of her nerves spread until her skin tingled everywhere. Her heart was thrumming from the softest brush of his lips. Each beat sounded a different emotion. Excitement. Apprehension. Sorrow. Hope.

She was in love.

How infinitely stupid.

Theo had been sure she was
en garde
. Safe from further hurt. Safe from broken promises and disillusion.

In California, with a dowry of money and horses promised her, there had been suitors. She’d known since she was little that she was a bastard. John Faraday, the man who’d raised her, the man she’d believed was her father, had called her a Faraday but never adopted her. His wife was concerned for her own two sons’ inheritance, so he put nothing for Theo in his will, not even her favorite horse. Then they were all dead in a train wreck, except for the wastrel youngest son who tossed her out on her ear. Theo had nothing left but the clothes in her closet, her paints, and her grief.

The suitor who had seemed most ardent came to see her after the funeral. She remembered her rush of gratitude when he appeared. Her world had been shattered. Emotional comfort and financial security would help mend that world, and Theo felt the promise of love like a rosebud ready to unfurl and open the tight clutch of her heart. But the ardent suitor did not offer marriage. Instead, he suggested a nice little house in San Francisco, where he would visit occasionally.

It was a hard lesson, being jilted and tossed on the rubbish heap. Nothing she had believed in was real. There was death, and after death, betrayal. Coldly, Theo decided she would never marry. A husband would believe he owned her. Intolerable. Nor would she make the daring leap of taking a lover—she might as well sell her heart into slavery. Loving her art would be enough.

But she had found art was an expensive
amour
, one she could barely afford. She’d developed her skill with pencil, with pen and ink, because tubes of paint were too dear. Sometimes she’d felt all the color had faded from her world. It was a miracle that she wasn’t still slaving at the Louvre Bar in the rough end of Mill Valley, thinking that was the closest to Paris she would ever come. But the miracle had happened. A lawyer climbed the rickety stairs to her room to tell her Phillipe Charron was her true father—an elegant French portrait painter who had seduced an American society girl. The lawyer adamantly refused to name her mother. But her father would bring Theo to Paris, if she wished.
Yes
. Theo wished.

So she sailed to Paris—and in Paris she once again had family. There was the new father she seldom saw, an invalid grandmother who spent all her time with her ancient poodle, an uncle she loathed, an aunt she pitied, an insipid female cousin she liked too little—and the male cousin she liked far too much.

Loved.

From the first, Averill had captivated her. His compassion had soothed her lingering pain and eased her still raw anger. Ignoring the turmoil churning inside her, Theo set about glossing her rough surface. She’d struggled to reclaim the finishing school polish that had become so tarnished, to transform her haphazard schoolgirl French to something approaching Parisian fluidity and her raggedy wardrobe into Bohemian chic. Averill had helped her with it all. Fellow artists, they quickly became fellow conspirators, fellow rebels, dearest friends. His morbid moods made her frightened for him, sometimes even frightened of him. But always she was fascinated. Averill was everything mysterious and seductive that was Paris to her—challenging, enticing, and forever elusive.

Bathing in the sunshine, Theo lifted her hands to cup her face, fingertips curved to her cheeks, where the sensation of Averill’s kisses still lingered. The throb of excitement pulsed through her once again, hot and sweet. Her heart and her body were at war with her mind.

There was knocking at the door. She spun around eagerly, even as she realized the quick barrage of taps wasn’t Averill’s. She went and opened the door. “
Bonjour
, Matthieu.”

“
Bonjour
, Mlle. Faraday,” he said politely.

He was a beautiful boy, with curling light brown hair, and large expressive hazel eyes. But not just beautiful. Her first painting had not captured his energy or his impish curiosity, his secret seriousness. The portrait now on her easel overcompensated, gaining vitality but forcing a hard look onto his face. That tough little urchin wasn’t Matthieu any more than the dreamy pastel princeling had been. He was everything she’d tried to capture in both paintings, but everything all at once. She determined to do a portrait worthy of him.

“Maman saw you return, mademoiselle, and she would like to invite you for dinner this evening, at seven.” He lowered his voice and confided, “She is making her
cassoulet
.”

“Delicious,” Theo said with a smile. “Thank her and tell her I will bring wine. Is there something you would like?”

“
Éclairs
?” he asked, almost breathless at the thought.

“Oh yes, I love
éclairs
, too!” Theo exclaimed.

“At seven then, Mlle. Faraday.” He waved and dashed off, rather like Averill had earlier.

Alone again, Theo took out her old sketches of Averill and spent more than an hour sifting through them. Remembering what they had talked about as he posed, she was filled with a sweet nostalgia, but none conjured the lovely surge of creative passion that would send her rushing to her easel and stop her brooding.

They did not capture what she felt now.

Theo sighed with frustration. It was growing late. If she left now, there would be time to explore the streets for a possible landscape as well as for tonight’s dinner offering. She would return to the cherry trees in the Bois de Boulogne, but she wanted to find something closer to hand as well. After locking her door, she descended the stairs and went outside, setting off up the street toward the Place du Tertre.

There was a man in the rue de la Mire—not really a street, but a long set of stairs descending the hillside, narrow as an alleyway. Theo watched him for a moment, not sure why he had captured her attention. He didn’t look at all like a bum or a ruffian, but neither was he a workman or businessman going about an errand. He was exploring. But why? She liked his attentiveness, however mysterious, and the way he moved, with economy and grace.

Almost instantly, he was aware of her watching and turned. He paused, then climbed the steps toward her. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle.” His manner was serious, his voice low and quiet. “I’m Inspecteur Devaux of the Sûreté.”

“What are you investigating?”

“The disappearance of Denis Armand.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, feeling sadness take hold of her again. She remembered how sweet the little boy was and how grief-stricken his mother. Theo had helped organize one of the many searches for him. “Is there any news?”

“No. I am looking at his neighborhood again. He would have passed this way on the night he disappeared.”

The other policeman she’d talked with hadn’t told her that. Theo was appalled that Denis might have been taken right beside where she lived. There were bushes to one side where a kidnapper might lurk. Chills trickled down her back.

The detective perused a list. “You are Mlle. Theodora Faraday, the American?”

Theo nodded. “Is it so apparent?”

“Your French is excellent,” he answered in careful English. Surprised, she smiled encouragement, but he returned to French. “I saw the drawing you gave the police. It was skillful.”

“But not much of a likeness—so small. His mother was the centerpiece.”

He nodded. “Still, it is good to have anything like that during an investigation.”

“He has been missing over a month.”

“I do not expect to find him alive,” the detective said bluntly.

“Do you expect to find him at all?” Theo prickled, but she did not think Denis was alive, either. There was a kind of emptiness around his name now.

He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

Theo felt a chill of premonition. “Has another child disappeared?”

His face became more expressionless. He didn’t answer her question, but instead asked, “What can you tell me about Denis?”

“Very little. He used to come with Jeanne to collect the laundry.” Theo was disturbed. The detective’s refusal was an admission. She must warn Matthieu to be careful. “Sometimes, his mother would send Denis alone to fetch small bundles.”

“What about his mother? Her character?”

“Jeanne is extremely devout. She named Denis for a saint and told stories about them—and about Jeanne d’Arc, her namesake.” Theo paused, remembering how avidly the little boy had listened to those tales. “Denis was very impressionable. I think he might be more susceptible than other Montmartre boys to being led astray by some romantic story.”

“Do you remember what you were doing that evening?”

“Yes, I went to tea with a friend at Ladurée.” Casimir had taken her there for a treat—her favorite chic spot when she felt like being elegant.

“Would you give me her name—or his?” he asked.

“Surely he can’t be a suspect?” Theo heard her voice growing sharp. The police intruded everywhere.

He did not react, simply said, “I do not even know if I will question him, mademoiselle, but perhaps he glimpsed something, or someone, that evening.”

The detective was only doing his job, and perhaps some small piece of information would lead to Denis being found.
“Casimir Estarlian, baron de la Veillée sur Oise,” Theo said, a bit smugly.
The whole title sounded so elegant. Suddenly, she wondered if the detective would assume she was Casimir’s mistress. It was just the sort of thing a policeman would think. Blushing did not help, nor did staring at him defiantly. Nor did fighting off laughter at the ridiculousness of her response.