For the Love of Lila (12 page)

“All clear?” his voice whispered through a crack of opening.

“Yes,” she hissed, her answer coming quick with relief for more than one reason. As he entered, she gushed, “I’m glad you’re back. I mean, after what you said about hotel rooms...”

He scowled and turned his back, shrugging out of his

jacket and tossing it on an armchair. “You may want to avert your eyes. Or not. Consider it your choice.”

Her cheeks heated, and she was glad the dimness of the room would hide her embarrassment. Rolling over to face the wall, she tried not to picture him unbuttoning his waistcoat and pulling it off. Likely, he would follow that with his shirt, she thought, recalling that he’d slept without one the first night they had spent together. She had no idea, however, how much clothing he had left
on
that night. As she listened to one boot thump on the floor, then the second, she wondered if he would strip off his breeches or not. More rustling sounded, but still not the creak of the bed. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

“I believe I will stoke up the fire before turning in,” he said. “Give me another minute, if you will.”

Her respiration resumed, shallow and fast. He could have stoked the fire before undressing! A suspicion crept up on her. Had he simply not thought of the fire until now, or did he
intend
to tantalize her like this?

She waited, biting her lip, through endless minutes of stirring, pops and crackling, and hoped he would think she had fallen asleep.

At last came the sound of hands brushing together and the patting of stocking feet progressing toward the other bed. “Well, that should do. I will be retiring now...unless you require anything, Lila?”

Indeed, he drew this out purposely to tease her!

“Such as what?” she snapped, vexed into speaking.

“Hmm...a goodnight kiss?”

She opened her mouth to tell him to take his clothes and go sleep in the barouche, but the image of the flirting maid flashed again in her mind.

No, she would not chase him out of the room. As a matter of fact, she believed she would call his bluff.

“Very well.” She rolled back over to face him.

He had frozen in the middle of turning down the covers on his bed. She noted that he had retained his breeches, thank heavens. His bare chest gave her quite enough to resist ogling.

Looking up to his surprised face, she pushed herself up on one elbow. His gaze dipped downward before ricocheting back to her eyes, reminding her that her nightrail revealed more cleavage than any of her gowns.

A lump of reservation rose in her throat.

He dropped the counterpane and moved toward her.

She stiffened and pulled the covers up to her neck. “
Only
a kiss, mind you.”

But instead of trying to slip between the sheets with her, he stooped beside the bed, reaching out to take her chin.

“Only a little kiss at that, I think,” he whispered, and bent to brush her lips with his own.

She barely had time to register what had happened before he had backed away again. Dazed, she watched him climb into the bed across from her.

“Goodnight, Lila.” He curled up under the covers, his back toward her.

She dropped back down on the pillow, fending off a preposterous disappointment.
Blast it!
She had once again let herself slip into wanting what she could not have.

Even without a thunderstorm to agitate her this evening, she lay awake well into the night.

* * * *

Tristan rose before Lila and managed a basic toilette without waking her. Her presence alone, even asleep, gave him a sense of pleasure. What man didn’t like having a beautiful woman in his bedchamber, under any circumstances?

These circumstances, however, could land them both in trouble, so he wanted to smuggle her out of the hotel as early as possible. When he had finished dressing, he woke her gently and told her he would be downstairs for an hour, exhorting her to make good use of the time. He made sure he got her to sit up, still yawning, before he headed for the hall.

 On opening the door, he nearly collided with a man poised to knock.

“Monsieur Wyndam!” The Comte D’Amiens, a colleague of his father’s, slapped him on the shoulder. “How good to see you again. I hope you don’t mind my having the maid direct me to your room. I know you are an early riser.”

“Er, yes. Well, I am always pleased to see you, my lord.” Trapped on the threshold, Tristan pulled the door up against his back, which still left a gaping opening. “Would you mind if we spoke in the dining room? My chamber is in no state for receiving callers.”

“By all means. I expected to find you there anyway—ah, but I believe I see why you have slept in this morning.” He stretched his neck to look past Tristan. “
Bonjour, madame!
Please, don’t let me disturb you.”

With a quick glance backward only long enough to take in Lila’s ballooning eyes, Tristan pushed his way into the hall and yanked the door shut. “I am afraid she doesn’t wish to be made known. The lady is not...this is not as it appears. She is a respectable woman. We are not—”

“Say no more, my boy! Your private affairs are none of my concern.” D’Amiens winked at him. “
Quelle bon fille!
”

Tristan place a hand on the man’s back and steered him toward the stairs. “My lord, I cannot express how important your discretion is in this matter.”

“
Mais oui
. My lips, they are sealed. Now tell me how your father does these days.”

“My father?” The thought of the viscount nearly caused him to miss a step and tumble down the stairs. “He is well, very well. Should you correspond with him, I am sure I, er, needn’t ask you to omit mentioning my lady friend.”

“Ha ha!” The comte slapped him on the back. “His lordship is not precisely one for the ladies,
n’est—ce pas
? Nor is your brother, the vicar. Thank goodness there is one real man in your family. But it is also true that your
pere
might think differently.”

The men reached the dining room and seated themselves, Tristan asking a serving girl to bring strong coffee. He turned back to his companion. “I am pleased to report that the last of your West Indies ships reached Portsmouth a fortnight ago.”

“Again ahead of schedule.” D’Amiens had found yet another reason to bestow his broad smile. “The West Indies voyages have been the best your father has yet recommended. Tell me, what cargo does he suggest we invest in for the year ahead?”

Tristan spent a quarter-hour offering his father’s insights with only half a mind to the task. At the end of that time, he promised to bring further details to the comte later in the week.

“You are certain you cannot join my family for dinner tonight?” D’Amiens asked as they rose to say good-bye.

He shook his head. “I have urgent business that may take a few days to resolve, if I succeed at all. I need to track down the address of an Englishwoman who has been living in Paris. I have no idea where to start.”

“An Englishwoman—of the gentry?”

He nodded. “But perhaps fallen on hard times.”

“Too bad.” The comte stroked his chin. “Still, your task may not be as difficult as you believe. The English gentry in Paris tend to keep together, and I am acquainted with many of them. What is your friend’s name?”

“Actually, she is not a friend of mine. She is...” He stopped, thinking he should probably drop the subject altogether.

“A friend of the lady upstairs?” D’Amiens grinned. “No, do not answer. What is the woman’s name?”

Again, he hesitated, but a slim chance at a lead was better than no lead at all. “Felicity Childers.”

“Madame Childers!” The comte laughed.

“You know a woman by that name?”

He gave a shrug. “We are acquainted, well enough that I can tell you Madame has recently taken up residence in Rue Nueve de Berry. I am not certain of the house number, but you should be able to locate her with very few inquiries.”

“Nueve de Berry?” Tristan asked. “You are sure this woman is named Felicity Childers?”

He smiled. “Quite sure. Now go upstairs and tell your lady friend. Perhaps she will show her appreciation, eh?”

For a moment, Tristan stood stunned as the comte walked away. He composed himself, however, and hurried after the man, following him out to the street. “My lord! About my friend—please don’t mention anything about her being here to Madame Childers, either. ‘Tis of the utmost importance.”

The comte stopped in front of a waiting carriage. As a liveried footman stepped around to open the door for him, he said, “What is it you English say? ‘Mum is the word.’ But, Monsieur Wyndam, compared to what you are accustomed to, I think you will find Parisian society more broad-minded. And I include the circle Madame Childers frequents.”

With a bow, he climbed into the carriage and leaned out the window. “I shall see you soon—the day after next perhaps?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, and Tristan watched with uneasiness as the equipage pulled away. The comte’s parting comments had done nothing to reassure him about the safety of Lila’s reputation. On the contrary, they had only made him wonder what sort of people Felicity called her friends.

CHAPTER NINE

“Here we are: Number six.” Tristan pulled up in front of the address he had pinpointed after a few inquiries that morning. He took in the brownstone townhouse with a more lucid mind than he’d had on his first attempt to deliver Lila to her cousin. This time around, he would usher her inside so he could meet Felicity and try to learn what had caused the rift between her and her landlady. If she indeed owed money, he didn’t want to leave Lila with her. And if Lila insisted on staying, he planned to visit her again before quitting Paris. Maybe within a week’s time, she would change her mind about going with him.

She leaned forward to look around him at the residence. “I hope this isn’t a boarding house as well. The street front is quite narrow. There cannot be much interior space.”

In light of his suspicions, Tristan doubted her cousin had the finances to live in a single home. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, climbing down from the box and circling the barouche to offer her assistance.

“I am glad you had me send a note over before we came,” she said, grasping his hand and jumping to the ground. “Felicity’s reply was so warm—and so prompt. I feel much better coming to her with an outright invitation.”

He bit his tongue again and let her lead him up the walk as she hastened toward the door. When she lifted the knocker, she smiled at him. “Thank you for coming in with me.”

Before he could respond, the door flew open, revealing a tall, slim redhead, likely in her early thirties. With one look at Lila, she squealed a greeting, extending her arms. “Lila, love! I would recognize those coal-nugget eyes anywhere. But, Good Lord, you have grown into a proper diamond.”

Lila rushed into her arms. “Felicity, you are a sight for sore eyes. Oh, I have missed you all these years!”

After a lingering hug, they stood back, complimenting one another on the changes—and lack of changes—in their appearances. Lila marveled over the elegance of Felicity’s gold-shot gown, while, privately, Tristan wondered at its expense. He also thought the
decolletage
cut rather low for day wear.

Perhaps sensing his scrutiny, their hostess glanced at him and back to Lila. “This must be the friend you mentioned in your note.”

“Yes, this is Mr. Wyndam.” She cleared her throat. “We were acquainted in England and, er, happened to be staying at the same hotel here in Paris.”

Felicity scanned the length of his body and refocused on his face, one thin eyebrow cocked. “How
fortunate
.”

“When I told him my problem,” Lila added, “he helped me discover your new direction and even offered to escort me here. He has been of great service to me.”

“Indeed.” The brow rose higher, accompanied by a sloping smile. She bobbed him a curtsy. “Well, I am delighted to meet you, sir. Thank you for bringing me my cousin.”

He bowed. “My pleasure.”

She swept her arm in an indication for them to continue in through the foyer. “Do come into the parlor with me. My dear friend and constant companion, Mrs. Stark, is already seated there. Tess! My cousin is here—and her friend, Mr. Wyndam.”

As they entered, a short-haired brunette, apparently close to Felicity in age, looked up from a basket of needlepoint. She had classic features, flawed only by a smirk-like smile and a modish canary-yellow gown that, like her friend’s, seemed somewhat excessive for an afternoon of netting. Tristan supposed Parisian fashions might be more flamboyant than those in London. Even so, he could not persuade himself that the manners of both Parisian residents did not betray a good deal of self-satisfaction.

“Tess and I are fairly joined at the hip.” Felicity swapped a smug glance with Mrs. Stark and looked back to her guests. “Please, have a seat.”

Lila followed her cousin across the room and joined her on a settee upholstered in red velvet. “What an enchanting parlor you have here. You have chosen such rich colors for the decor.”

“I am afraid we cannot take all the credit for decorating. The carpet and the drapes came with the house.” Felicity leaned over a silver tea service and lifted the pot. “But the furniture is all our own, is it not, Tess?”

“Mmm,” Mrs. Stark agreed, her lips clamped down on a netting needle.

Felicity filled two cups and passed one to her cousin. She held the other out toward Tristan. “Tea, Mr. Wyndam?”

“Please.” He accepted the cup and saucer, noting the china appeared to be a fine bone. Felicity and her friend did not seem to want for domestic items or clothing. Did they perhaps exceed their means in that respect and neglect to pay their rent? He sat down in an armchair facing the others and tried to sound conversational. “How long have you been living here, Miss Childers?”

“
Mrs.
Childers, if you please. I have been calling myself
Mrs.
—or
Madame
—for some time now. ‘Tis a useful little ruse. You would be surprised how much more respect a widow incurs than an unmarried woman.” She gave a dismissing wave of her hand. “But to answer your question, I should think we have been here, oh, all of two months, maybe three.”