The Orphan's Tale (20 page)

She abandoned herself wholeheartedly to the embrace, her hands moving eagerly over him, lingering, remembering.
"You have me at a disadvantage," she breathed against his lips after a moment.

His eyes flickered, but he drew back and said on the breath of a chuckle,
"That can be easily remedied, you know."

"
I know," she said as he started to unknot his cravat. She pushed his hands aside. "No, let me," she said. She was smiling as she drew out the emerald pin from the folds his cravat and set it aside on a nearby table. The cravat and his jacket joined the pin a moment later.

His eyes were fastened on hers.
He raised his hand to smooth the hair from her forehead and stroke her cheek. "I have always cared for you, Rose," he said.

"
Hush," she said on a quiver of laughter as her fingers plucked at the buttons of his waistcoat. "I know. I have always known." She pushed the waistcoat off his shoulders, watched it fall to the floor, and then smiled as she unfastened the buttons of his shirt and slid her hands inside, to savor the smooth, warm swell of his chest and glory in the swift beat of his heart beneath her fingers.

No regrets
, she thought. Not on the eve of her departure for England and marriage. No regrets ever, only happy memories...

"Y
ou're so beautiful, Rose..." he breathed. He caught her hand to his lips and then swung her up into his arms. She wrapped her arms about his neck and drew him down to her, to kiss him again and again until the room seemed to spin about them.

"
Rosette..?" his voice, alive with suppressed perplexity and amusement, eased the spell for a moment.

"
Mmm?" She traced the line of his lips.

"
You have changed things here: where on earth is your bedroom?"

She lay back in his arms and broke into peals of delighted laughter.

**  **  **

The firelight had sunk to a soft glow upon the hearth, bathing the room in warm, rosy light.
Rosalie paused in the act of brushing her hair to gaze back toward her bed and smile.

Malet was asleep, his firmly chiseled lips softened in a half
-smile, his cheek resting against his hand. Asleep, with his hair in his eyes and the austere lines of his face warmed and relaxed, he looked mischievous rather than heroic.

She turned and drew the brush through her hair once more, and then set the brush aside and braided the mass.
That done, she rose and went softly back to the bed and stood gazing down at him again.

She had eased the hurt for a moment and, she hoped, eased some of the pain she had caused when she refused him.
She wondered who the lady he loved was, and hoped, for his sake, that she would come to love him.

He stirred and shifted, but his eyes remained closed and the smile did not alter.

Her lips moved in an answering smile. She carefully eased herself into his arms and drew the covers up over her shoulder.

He seemed to feel the movement.
His arms tightened slightly; he drew a breath and expelled it in a sigh.

'Love must lie down with laughter', she thought, 'or it will make its bed in hell.' Now her heart was filled with laughter and warmth.
She settled herself against him, kissed the bandage on his left arm, and then raised her fingertips to stroke the smooth, heavy curves of his shoulder and chest.

By God he was a fine figure of a man, trim, well
-muscled and elegant, without an ounce of extra fat on him! She sighed and wished that the other men she had known were half as fine as him. How disheartening to reflect that so many men, in removing their jackets, removed their chests as well. What would men do without buckram and sawdust?

But there was no fear of that here.
She snuggled more closely against him, yawned and laid her cheek against his heart, and so drifted at last into sleep...

Five minutes passed.
The firelight glimmered beneath Malet's lashes. His eyes opened cautiously and he raised his head.

Rosalie sighed and murmured, then was still again.

He looked down at her sleek, dark head, and his lips moved in a smile before he looked toward the right, where his shirt lay half-draped across the corner of the bed. He cautiously raised his right arm and reached for the shirt, delicately searching for the breast pocket. After a moment he extracted his leather notebook and gold pencil. He brought the notebook to his left hand, lifted the pencil, and carefully advanced the lead.

And
then he paused to gaze down at Rosalie and smile. He hadn't meant for this to happen, but he had loved her once, and the memories had come flooding back now that she was going away forever.

Rosalie sighed his name and curled closer to him.

"I was telling you the truth," he whispered as he dropped a kiss on her forehead and carefully brushed a stray curl from her cheek when he saw that it threatened to fall into her eyes. "I did love you..."

Then he smiled, lifted the notebook and pencil, and began to write.
He would send some urgent inquiries to Burgundy and then speak with Inspector Gilles d'Arthez, one of his chief lieutenants, about going undercover the next day...

XXII

THE POLICE PRECINCT

AT THE RUE DES TROIS FRÈRES

RECEIVES A VISITOR

"
Good morning. Your card, please." The Officer of the Day took the round, glass-bound card, mechanically read the name, rank and age of the holder, noted them in his log, and gave the card back without looking up or even paying attention to the name on the card. It was morning, it took him a while to wake up, and no one important would be coming around to this sleepy little precinct before noon, anyhow.

He yawned and reached for the cup of coffee that sat at his elbow - and jumped as a well
-gloved hand whisked it away from him.

"
Wait a minute! What - " He looked up and stopped, the angry words dying in his throat as he encountered a glacial stare from the tall, well-dressed man standing before him.

The man smiled grimly, set the coffee down, and covered the last journal entry with his hand.

"What is my name, what is my age, and what is my rank?" he asked very gently. The inflection was the same one the O.O.D. used with his children when they were naughty.

He stared at the man.

"Come now, Constable," the man said reasonably. "You just wrote them down. I watched you do it."

"
I - I - " The man was flabbergasted. No one had ever done this to him before.

"
I see," said the man. "You never looked at me, you gave the card back without checking my signature, and you didn't have me sign the book in the first place. How do you know I am not an assassin?"

"
I am sorry - "

"
You'd be a good deal sorrier if I tried to kill you," the man said, pulling off his right glove. "Your sword's far away, you have no stick, and you carry no pistol."

He twitched the logbook toward him and scanned it.
"I see that no one signs in half the time," he said. "Very interesting." He took out a gold pencil from his breast pocket, signed the logbook, and said, "Where do you hold muster in the morning?"

"
The - the third room, there on the right."

The man returned the logbook.
"Thank you," he said. He removed his hat, pulled off his left glove, took up his silver-headed walking stick, and moved away.

The O.O.D. reached for his cup with a shaking hand.
He almost spilled the coffee when he looked down at the log. He had written, P. V. MALET, CH. INSP. "GE 45.

             
**  **  **

"
Bastian!"

"
Here!"

"
Bignon!"

"H
ere!"

The names continued one after another in the morning ritual of roll call, the owner of each name responding as his was called.

"Richard!"

"
Here!"

"
de Saint-Légère!"

"
Here." The voice answered before anyone could remind the head of the Precinct, Inspector Auguste Rameau, that Junior Inspector de Saint-Légère was on special assignment at the Bois de Boulogne. Now everyone turned to see who had spoken.

Inspector Rameau himself was not amused.
He looked up with a thin smile. "All right, then," he said, "What jok - " he stopped and swallowed. "Chief Inspector!" he said in a completely different voice.

He stopped and collected himself.
He was, after all, a good, conscientious man, and he knew it. Malet might be the acting Prefect of Police, but this was his, Rameau's territory! "Gentlemen," he said, "permit me to present to you M. Malet, Chief Inspector of the 12th arrondissement and Provisional Prefect of Police in the absence of M. Lamarque."

Malet's eyes lightened with amused respect even as he noted the uneasy expressions on some of the faces.
He inclined his head to Rameau and said, "Good morning, Inspector Rameau. Gentlemen."

"
And to what do we owe the honor of this visit?" asked Rameau.

"
I am taking an interest in a matter that M. de Saint-Légère brought to the Prefect's attention," Malet replied. "I thought to come by here and review his duties, if it is permitted."

"
There's no question of it being permitted," said Rameau. "Allow me to finish here, and I am completely at your service."

             
**  **  **

Inspector Rameau took Malet on an inspection tour of the Precinct and then gave him a write
-up of Saint-Légère's beat. At the last moment he said, "And M. Malet - ?"

"
Yes?" Malet looked up from the itinerary and surprised a wistful expression on Rameau's face. A nervous-looking young constable was standing beside him and kneading the brim of his bicorne between his fingers.

"
Pelletan here just started this week," said Rameau.

The young man attempted a smile.

"Could he walk with you today? Until, say, two o'clock?" Rameau asked.

Malet looked Pelletan over, frowning slightly, and then checked his watch.
He put the watch back in his waistcoat pocket and noticed that Pelletan was directing a longing look at the watch and chain. Malet smiled - and saw the young man's face light up in response. "It would be a pleasure," he said.

Two hours later Malet was frowning at the houses along the Rue Lepic, his eyes caught by one in particular, a tall, tan stone building with wide windows and a courtyard beside it.
This house belonged to Constant Dracquet, and it was part of Charles de Saint-Légère's beat.

The area was pleasant enough, but the beat was one that a rank beginner could handle and still be bored.
The only reason that the rank beginner who walked beside him was not bored was his very painful awareness of the identity of the man he was accompanying, as well as the fact that Malet had decided to make his visit a sort of training session.

They had strolled down steep, winding streets bounded by tall houses, returning the greetings of the residents.
They halted traffic once or twice to allow children to cross. Malet, who enjoyed teaching, had Pelletan do the honors while he offered suggestions.

Malet was patient and gentle, and by the end of an hour, though he was not aware of it, he had a wholehearted admirer who would cheerfully have died for him, and who raised no objection when he said,
"That place interests me: let's look closer."

They lunched at a tiny café along the Boulevard de Rochechouart, in the shadow of the butte, or summit, of
Montmartre. Malet listened to Pelletan's life story as he drank a glass of vin ordinaire and downed a fair-sized portion of roast chicken. It was 1:30 by the time they finished, and Malet was considering going back toward the Precinct.

"
M. l'Inspecteur..?" Pelletan was still a little shy.

"
Yes, Constable?" Malet said.

"
May I ask a question?"

Malet smiled as he drained his glass.
"By all means," he said.

"
Are you glad you became a Police officer?" Pelletan asked. "I mean, d-did you ever wonder if there was something else you could have done?" Seeing Malet's quizzical frown, he added, "It's so different from what I thought it would be..."

Malet smiled at the boy - really, he wasn't much more than that.
"What did you think it would be?" he asked. "Chasing murderers all the time? Cornering spies?"

"
I don't know," Pelletan said, shoving his hands in his pockets and stretching his feet out before him.

"
Listen to me, lad.  What we are sworn to do is to protect those who aren't strong enough to protect themselves. It amounts, quite simply, to that. I never looked for glamour or pageantry or gratitude. I only wanted the knowledge, at the end of the day, that the people around me are sleeping quietly and safely, and their safety is due in part to me. That's all. It is enough for me. Whether it is enough for you is something you have to decide for yourself. It's no shame to you if you decide that it is not."