As his cab slowly proceeded down the Boulevard des Capucines, Garrett searched for her in the pedestrian traffic along the sidewalks.
Perhaps an hour earlier, the man he’d had positioned across the street from the Jockey Club had tracked him down with the news that the woman had returned to the hotel. Garrett had raced there, charged up the stairs, and banged on her door. When there was no answer, he collared a bellman and forced him to let him in. She wasn’t there. He hurried back downstairs, where he learned from the doorman that she’d left the hotel just ten or fifteen minutes before. She hadn’t taken a cab. The doorman had seen her march down Rue Scribe and round the corner to the boulevard.
What the hell had happened?
Obviously, she’d tricked him and returned to the hotel to meet with Emma. Whether she’d done this out of jealousy or suspicion or greed, he didn’t know. He also didn’t know, because his man had stupidly left his post instead of sending a message, if the meeting with Emma had actually taken place. But he had to assume it had. Why else would she go to such lengths to elude him?
Just how dangerous was this to him? Probably not catastrophic. Certainly, Emma would try to put him in a bad light and might reveal some things, but she’d never give him away. She had too much in her own past to hide to flagrantly challenge him in the matter. There was an unspoken agreement between them: You protect my past and I’ll protect yours.
As his gaze roamed the faces of the strollers along the boulevard, the diners in the sidewalk cafés, the figures standing before shop windows or buying crêpes from street vendors, he thought once again of the telltale clues that had been stacking up.
Her unconscious response to a waiter’s question in effortless French the night of the Cuthbert dinner.
The curiously close friendship and camaraderie with Mason’s model and best friend, Lisette, on such short acquaintance.
The pigment he’d spotted on her hands beneath the mud in Auvers. The elaborate effort to hide it from him.
The faint tackiness to the touch of the “recovered” catacomb painting he’d held to the light.
The lack of a birth record for an Amy Caldwell in Boston, Massachusetts—indeed, no record of the Caldwell family at all.
None of this was conclusive, of course, and might be easily explained. Still, his instincts were on fire. Amy was Mason Caldwell. As incredible as it might seem, the certainty of it gripped him, surged through his body, electrified his senses in a way that was almost carnal.
But how to prove it? His mind had devised and discarded a hundred maneuvers. Then, that very morning, as he’d taken the self-portrait to show the architect, it had dawned on him. The birthmark. The heart-shaped mark on her flank in the portrait. Was it an affectation of the artist? Or was it real? Surely, it was real. And if so, the so-called sister would also have it…
Suddenly, he saw her. She was sitting by herself at a sidewalk café, a glass of cognac uncharacteristically in front of her, a dazed look in her eyes. He stopped the cab, told the driver to wait, and rushed over to her.
“Amy? Am I daft, or didn’t I just drop you off at Gare St-Lazare?”
She jerked at the sound of his voice. When she looked up at him, her eyes were hollow, a bit fearful, like a cornered hare. Stumblingly, she said, “I…felt ill.”
“Ill?”
“It came upon me all at once.” She was avoiding his eyes. “I left the train at the first stop and came straight back.”
She actually did look sick. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken and lifeless. He sat down at the small round table. “You poor thing. You should be in bed.”
She still didn’t look at him. “I needed some air.” Then, sharply, “What are you doing here?”
“It’s the most remarkable coincidence. I just happened to be passing by and looked over and there you were.”
Her eyes flicked to him; then she reached for the snifter and took a sip of the cognac, as if trying to steady herself. Her hand as it held the glass trembled slightly.
“I was afraid of this,” he told her. “This has all been too much for you. With all you’ve been through, it’s a wonder this hasn’t happened sooner. But not to worry. I shall get you to a doctor straightaway.”
“No,” she answered quickly. Then in a more controlled tone, “I don’t need a doctor. I just need some rest.”
“Let’s get you back to your rooms, then, shall we? We really must see that you take better care of yourself.”
“Please don’t concern yourself. I’ll be fine.”
He leaned toward her and put his hand to the side of her face, running his thumb along her cheek. “I know what you really need,” he said softly. “But I suppose that shall have to wait until you’re better. Come along, then. I’ll see you safely back to your hotel.”
He put a coin on the table to pay for her drink and helped her toward the waiting cab.
As he did, he watched her covertly. Her ashen pallor, the way she turned her shoulder to form a barrier between them. There was no question about it. Something had changed. She was slipping away from him.
He had no intention of allowing that to happen.
Once again, Mason stepped over to the glass French doors that looked out over the shallow wrought-iron balcony. She couldn’t spot him, but she was sure someone was out there, watching. Someone in Richard’s employ. Maybe several people. For the first time, she realized she was a prisoner.
When the duchess had so casually dropped her bomb, Mason had strained not to show its devastating impact. Instead, she’d feigned interest in the woman’s offer and ushered her out the door as quickly as possible. Then she’d turned to Lisette in shock.
A detective! A conniving flic!
Lisette seemed as confused as she. “Qu’est-ce que c’est un Pinker—”
“I can’t talk now,” Mason had cut her off. “I have to think.”
She’d reeled out of the hotel and several blocks down the Boulevard des Capucines, until she’d finally collapsed into a chair at the sidewalk café. Then…
Just passing by…
A remarkable coincidence…
It was insulting. Obviously, he’d had people watching every move she made.
That’s how he knew she’d gone to Auvers!
The sneaky bastard!
Ever since she’d heard those fatal words “Pinkerton Agent,” she’d been running the events of the past several weeks through her mind. Those two words had cast everything he’d said and done in a poisonous new light.
Who had hired him? Duval, most likely. Who better to help the French authorities ferret out the American fraud than a helpful, handsome art expert who spoke her own language?
But to go to this length of romantic involvement…Why? Was it, as Emma had said, to sweep her off her feet, catch her off guard in the hopes that she’d confide in him?
If so, it had almost worked. When she thought of how close she’d come to telling him the truth that day in Montmartre, it made her shudder.
But if that was the case, why had he pulled away? Making her believe his attraction to her was so frightening that he had to protect himself?
To make her chase him. It was actually easier that way.
The man was diabolically clever!
But could he actually fake that passion, the obvious attraction he showed for her? Could any man do that?
Again, she heard Emma’s voice: All of it…wealthy playboy…irresistible ladies’ man…it’s his cover.
Then she thought of the paintings, the understanding and appreciation he’d shown for them, the way they’d so powerfully moved him, his dedication to their posterity. Had he faked all that as well? He must have.
That hurt most of all.
She’d actually fallen in love with him. She’d thought he was the one man who could really glimpse her soul, could heal her wounded heart.
She’d been such an idiot. And because of it, she was in grave danger.
Good God, she could end up spending ten years in Santé Prison! Wouldn’t that be bitterly ironic? She’d come to France to exonerate her family name and she would end up disgracing it even more.
She could make a run for it. Try to get out of the country. But how could she possibly accomplish that when she was, as she now knew, being watched day and night?
And if she ran and by some miracle managed to get away, would the running ever stop?
The hopelessness of it all overwhelmed her.
She turned from the window. I can’t panic. I have to think clearly.
She fell into a nearby chair and willed her emotions to cool. There was still so much that didn’t add up, that she didn’t understand.
Who was this Hank and this Emma really, and how did they fit into the puzzle?
And this secret past of Garrett’s to which Emma had so enigmatically alluded, wouldn’t there be an advantage to her knowing what that was all about?
What she needed was information. And it suddenly occurred to her where she might find it.
Lisette.
Or more properly, Lisette’s spurned but undeterred lover.
Juno Dargelos.
The gangster king of Belleville.