The Art of Seduction (31 page)

“You've got Duval behind you and Hank and all his men in front of you. So what are your options? We could jump off and let the train keep going, but that would kill Hank and destroy the paintings. You could stop and Hank would kill me, but at least he and the paintings would be safe. He'd have them, but they'd survive. So what's it going to be, Richard? You don't have much time.”

His jaw clenched, he glanced in the direction of Hank and the stationary train, which they were rapidly approaching, then back at her again.

“
You
did this.”

“Yes, I wired Hank and gave him the idea.”

“So I would…have to make a choice between you…and the paintings.”

She nodded, her lip trembling.

For an instant, she feared he might hit her. She couldn't help remembering that he'd never forgiven Emma for destroying the Poussins. But these—her own paintings—meant so much more to him. Could he do it? Finally let them go?

He was glowering at her, his hands clenched into fists. The seconds ticked by…the trains were getting closer…

Then, very slowly, his dazed, angry face relaxed into a smile of admiration.

He turned to the two Apaches, and said, “Everyone off. Go back and tell the others to jump. Now. There's no time to think about it.”

“Jump?” they cried in unison.

Returning his gaze to Mason, he widened his grin. “That's right, lads. We're going to abandon ship.”

They scrambled back to the compartment, frantically calling out the orders. The passengers, seeing the obstacle ahead, instantly obeyed.

For a moment, Richard just stood there, smiling at Mason. Then he shoved the accelerator all the way forward, gave her a kiss, grabbed her hand, and together they leapt from the speeding train.

A few hundred feet away, Hank, still gazing through the binoculars, couldn't believe what he was seeing. The train was speeding up and its occupants were jumping from it like grasshoppers from a hot grill.

Orlaf sneered contemptuously, “
‘I know my man!'
”

It was the last thing he ever said. An instant later, the trains collided with a massive impact, followed by a ripple of explosions as each of the boxcars ignited in a chain reaction.

Rising stiffly to their feet, Mason and Richard stood hand in hand, watching the fireworks color the midday sky like a Monet poppy field.

14 July, 1889
Bastille Day

“O
h, isn't that one spectacular?” Mason marveled. She and Richard were standing on the Pont de l'Alma, gazing up at the Eiffel Tower and the fireworks that illuminated the night sky. In the distance, in every direction, the bells of the churches of Paris were pealing nonstop. This was the climactic moment of the grandest celebration in the history of France. A commemoration of its glorious past—its commitment to liberty, equality, fraternity—and an affirmation of its rebirth and determination to be a beacon of the future.

For Richard and Mason, it was a celebration of their own union and freedom from the trials and dangers that had begun six months earlier on this very bridge. But as the crowd around them spontaneously began to sing “La Marseillaise,” they, too, were caught up in the irresistible patriotic sentiment. The song was picked up by those in the fairgrounds, echoing through the night, a chorus of hope and pride. Mason, in particular, felt moved and appreciative. She'd come to this nation as a refugee and exile, and it had made good on its promise, giving her, ultimately, everything that was missing in her life.

With tears in her eyes, she said to Richard, “I love this country.”

 

It had now been more than three weeks since the two trains had collided in a Normandy field, and they'd stood watching the explosions as Duval's train had arrived and he'd taken them into custody.

But Richard, unfazed, had said to him, “In a bit of a pickle, aren't you, old chap?”

“You are going to wish you had never been born,” Duval had threatened.

“I suppose it does look rather grim for us,” Richard had conceded. “But it looks even worse for you, doesn't it?”

Duval had glared at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it. You've allowed a notorious murderess to escape. You've let an irreplaceable collection of paintings be stolen. And now, through your negligence, they've been destroyed. Not exactly the accolades one cares to read about one's self in the press.”

“Or much of a recommendation for the Legion of Honor,” Mason chimed in.

Duval flinched. But he rallied, saying, “My consolation is that the two of you will spend the rest of your lives in prison.”

“And how will
you
spend the rest of your life?” Richard persisted.

Mason, seeing the color drain from Duval's face, answered for him. “Disgraced. Dismissed. Reviled forever. A humiliation to the Sûreté and an embarrassment to France. Not to mention what it will do to poor Madame Duval and her delicate health.”

“Wouldn't you prefer being the conquering hero instead?” Richard offered.

“Hero?” Duval blinked.

“I think
this
might sound better. The American swindler Hank Thompson and his fiendish Russian accomplice stole the paintings and were racing to smuggle them out of France. Both the artist's sister and myself were trying to stop them. We managed to do that and justice was done; but, unfortunately, in the process, we crashed our train into theirs and the paintings were destroyed.”

Duval's eyes remained steady. “Where was I during all this?”

“You weren't here because, in the meantime, through your clever detective work, you discovered that Mason Caldwell's death was, indeed, a suicide, and the conspirators Thompson and Orlaf were attempting to frame the brave and innocent Lisette Ladoux. You couldn't get here in time to save the paintings because you had to go out of your way to rescue the poor wronged victim—such a favorite with the crowds of Paris—from losing her head. When the chips were down, you chose the life of a beautiful young woman over a batch of lifeless oil paintings. A difficult choice, but the only one for a man of character. What Parisian would not applaud you for that decision? Why, my eyes water at the thought of it. Let me shake your hand.”

Duval's eyes had grown vacant as if he might be reading the news story in his mind. Finally, he said, “Yes…That was a heroic choice, was it not?”

“When we return to Paris, we will no doubt be met with legions of reporters. The late artist's sister and I intend to sing your praises to them as if you were Charlemagne, St. Louis, and Sherlock Holmes all rolled into one.”

Just then, Duval's assistant Daniel came rushing up with handcuffs and said, “I think you will be needing these, Inspector.”

“Handcuffs?” Duval cried. “Imbecile! Get my two compatriots something to drink. They will be meeting the press soon and will need their strength.”

“But, Inspector—”

Duval cut him off. “Your incompetence never ceases to amaze me. Did you never even suspect that these two innocents were, in reality, my allies, working undercover to foil the scheme of the American villain and his Russian cohort? Really, Daniel, if you are ever to make detective, you are going to have to show more perspicacity than you have thus far demonstrated.”

Back in Paris, after praising Duval to the heavens for more than an hour at a Gare Montparnasse press conference, they'd finally arrived back at Richard's suite in the Grand Hotel. As the door closed them off from the world, Mason was feeling relieved and excited, yet strangely apprehensive. Richard had made the ultimate commitment to her, but once the dust settled, would he come to regret it? Had the slate really been wiped clean, or would there always be a slight doubt, a nagging holding back?

The moment of truth was upon them.

They stood looking at one another. Their eyes locked, her heart beating fast, Mason asked, “Are we all right?”

He didn't answer. He just crossed the distance between them with two determined strides and pulled her to him. He held her for a moment, his arms strong and warm about her. She could feel the beating of his own heart thundering in his chest. He held her as if holding on for dear life, and she felt tears of relief and joy well in her eyes.

But there was no time for tears. He moved away slightly, just enough to dip his head and kiss her. Kissing her as he never had before—deeply, wondrously, cherishingly. His mouth still moving on hers, their tongues entwined, he lifted her up into his arms and carried her through the sitting room to the bedroom beyond. He laid her gently on the bed, then kissed her again and began to undress her, slowly, taking his time, relishing every moment.

“I have this extraordinary feeling that I'm doing this for the first time,” he told her, smiling down into her eyes.

He removed his own clothes and joined her on the bed. He kissed her again, long and hard, holding her head in possessive hands. Then he began to move, trailing her with passionate kisses, her chin, her neck, the back of her ear, moving ever downward to her collarbone, her breasts. He feasted on her as his skillful hands ignited her with a passion that felt new and fresh and deeply moving.

“You're trembling,” he noted.

“I'm a little frightened.”

“I am, too, a bit.”

He put his hand on her breast and kneaded the nipple between this thumb and finger. Then he reached down and licked it with his tongue. A thrill shot through her. She realized that all the other times they'd made love, there'd been some barrier between them, some secret, some doubt, some unanswered question. But those barriers had blown up on a field in Normandy. She could feel his energy flowing into her in a way it never had before. So powerful, so unrestrained, so utterly committed. It ennobled her, buoyed her, filled her completely.

When he entered her, he'd never seemed harder, more forceful, more confident. He held her in his arms, thrusting into her deeper and harder, merging himself with her, giving the totality of himself with reverence and devotion, like an offering to a goddess. She felt reborn in his arms, newly risen from her self-made ashes, clean and gloriously whole. Truly alive for the first time.

The next two weeks were like a honeymoon. They made love for hours at a time. Richard always coming back for more. Asking her to put on that divine scent she'd worn the night of the opera, which, he admitted, “Seems to have a remarkable effect on my prowess.”

During the days they walked hand in hand along the Seine. Picnicked by the columned pond in the jewel-like Parc Monceau. Rode horses in the Bois de Bologne, where Richard showed her some of the roughriding tricks he'd learned back in his days in the frontier West, accompanied by Mason's appreciative laughter.

They went to the Exposition with Juno and Lisette, wandering through the exhibits, climbing the Tower and paying the two-franc fee to drop balloons to the delighted children below. Later, sitting crosslegged at dinner in the Moroccan café, Richard made an unlikely proposition.

“Juno, you're the best colleague I've ever had the honor to work with. So here's a thought. Pinkerton is planning to open a Paris bureau next year. How would you like to head it up?”

Dargelos chuckled. “Me?”

“You won't make as much money as you would in your current position. But you'll have just as much adventure, and you're likely to live longer.”

“And think of the respectability,” Mason seconded.

Dargelos angled a look at Lisette as she clapped her hands together like a little girl in excited encouragement.

“Hmmm,” he murmured. “Juno Dargelos, Pinkerton Agent. Wouldn't that make a distinguished calling card? And think of the look on Duval's face when I hand it to him! There we'll be, two men of the law, working side by side, selflessly serving the cause of justice.”

In gratitude for all they'd risked to help them, they invited Emma and her husband Smedley for an afternoon of racing at Longchamps. But instead, Emma insisted on taking them all to a performance of Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show. They were given Bill's personal seats, and later, backstage, reduced him to hysterics with their tale of how they'd impersonated him and his supporting players. To their surprise, the two couples got along famously, bonded by the duke's boundless enjoyment. Richard and Emma had actually embraced at the end, two old friends, their former grievances forgotten.

Best of all, during these weeks of bliss, Richard's nightmares had vanished completely. He slept with Mason enfolded in his arms, and if he woke in the night, it was only to make love to her again.

Mason had never been happier.

But gradually, she began to notice a subtle change in Richard's behavior. Sometimes, he would make some excuse and go out without her. When she asked where he'd been, he'd pointedly changed the subject. Once, she'd spotted him in the hotel telegraph office sending a wire. Another time, she'd caught him hastily shoving a reply into his pocket. This time, when she'd questioned him, he'd mumbled something about an “old bit of Pinkerton business” and left the room. Then someone had knocked on the door. He'd gone out into the hall, and she'd heard whispering. After all they'd been through, his desire to keep whatever it was from her troubled her and made her fear that their hard-won state of grace had been only temporary.

Then one morning, he'd told her, “I have to go somewhere for about an hour, and then I'll be back. I'd really like you to be here, if you could.” He'd seemed slightly edgy, almost nervous.

“All right,” she'd assured him. “I'll be here.” But inside, she was dying.

An hour later, he'd returned as promised. Somewhat more relaxed, he'd said, “I have a surprise for you downstairs. I hope it's a good one, but good or bad, I think it's a necessary one for you. Will you come down with me?”

His earnestness reassured her, but she was filled with trepidation. What kind of surprise might prove bad but necessary?

Apprehensive, she followed him to the elevator. They rode the four flights down, saying nothing. When it stopped, she started to step out, but he halted her with a hand on her arm. “I have to tell you now so you can turn around if you want to.”

“What is it? You're scaring me.”

“Your father.”

The earth moved beneath her feet. “My father's dead.”

“He's not. He survived the wreck of the
Simon Bolivar.
I was hoping he might have because I knew a number of the passengers originally reported dead actually made it to shore. It took some doing, but I tracked him down through the agency. He's been living in Brazil ever since he washed up there, mostly in the deep recesses of the Amazon. Do you want to talk to him?”

Her father? Alive? “Yes, I want to see him…of course…but…oh, God, Richard! I'm not ready…”

“You can't prepare yourself for something like this. That's why I didn't warn you. You just have to do it.”

“But…How do I look?…No, I can't…it's just too…” Her head was spinning around in circles. She took a breath and tried to think. Then, in a rush, she said, “Yes, I can. I want to talk to him. Where is he?”

“He's not the same man you remember. He's been working for a missionary society all this time. He's given away all his money and has spent the last several years helping people. It's a life that's given him peace, and he intends to go back to it.”