Part 6 (1/2)

”No,” Colin agreed, ”it's not.”

”I have rarely seen a woman with such yearning in her soul. Although I watched her as you did, she did not take note of my interest, only of yours.”

That was his fault, he knew. Repeated glimpses of her profile had only whetted his appet.i.te to see her directly. Look at me, he'd urged silently. Look at me!

And she had, unable to resist when followed with such ravenous attention.

The eye contact had cut him to the quick, piercing across the distance between them and stabbing deep into his heart. He'd felt it, the yearning Jacques spoke of. That longing elicited a primal response in him to deliver it, whatever it was that she wanted. Whatever she needed.

”You could take her from the other man,” Jacques said.

He knew that, too. Had felt the wavering in her as they had danced and then again when they had kissed.

”I wish I 'd never followed Cartland that night!” Colin growled, the frustration inside him a writhing, powerful thing. ”Everything would be different.”

She would be in his bed now, writhing and arching beneath him as he rode her hard and deep, awakening the wanton he sensed was waiting just beneath the surface. In his mind, he could hear her voice hoa.r.s.e from crying out his name, her satin skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

He would push her beyond reason, take her body places she never knew it could go...

”The twists in our lives happen for a reason,” Jacques said, returning to the desk and sitting across from him. ”I could have lived the whole of my life without leaving France, yet I was destined to follow you here.”

Colin pushed the lewd images from his thoughts and opened his eyes. ”You are a good man, Jacques, to carry your debt beyond the grave.”

”Monsieur Leroux saved the life of my sister and with her, the life of my niece,” he said quietly. ”I cannot proceed knowing his murderer has not paid for the crime.”

”And how do we make him pay?”

The Frenchman smiled, bringing warmth to his hard features. ”I would like to kill him, but that would put you at a marked disadvantage. With me as your only witness, you would find it extremely difficult to prove your innocence.”

Colin said nothing to that. Jacques had already helped far beyond what he had any right to ask.

”So he must confess.” Jacques shrugged. ”I will take what pleasure I can from doing whatever is necessary to garner that confession.”

Nodding, Colin looked toward the window. Night had fallen hours ago. Shortly, he could leave and make discreet inquiries in his efforts to find Cartland before the man found him. But first, he would need some rest. ”I will retire for a few hours, then set out and see what I can discover.

Someone will have a loose tongue, to be sure. I just have to find him.”

”Perhaps you should contact the man you worked for here,” Jacques said carefully. ”The one who directs Quinn.”

Colin had never met Lord Eddington, never exchanged a word or correspondence. All communications pa.s.sed through Quinn, and as far as Colin knew, Eddington was unaware of the ident.i.ties of the men working under Quinn. There would be no way to prove that he was a confidant. ”No.

That is not possible,” he said grimly. ”We do not know one another.”

The Frenchman blinked, apparently so taken aback by the news that he lapsed into his native language. ”Vraiment?”

”Truly.””Well, then...that rules out that course of action.”

”Yes. Unfortunately, it does.” He pushed to his feet. ”We will talk more when I awake.”

Jacques inclined his head in agreement and waited until Colin had left the room. Then he moved to the desk, where he opened a drawer and pulled out the white half mask.

Colin would not be attending any b.a.l.l.s or masquerades, so his continuing possession of the mask betrayed its sentimental value. Jacques had watched his new friend with Miss Benbridge and knew the woman meant a great deal.

So he would watch her when he could and keep her safe, if possible. I f G.o.d was kind, Jacques would finish his task, Cartland would have his comeuppance, and Colin would have the woman he loved.

As a child, Amelia had learned how to socialize with giants.

Of course, at that time, they had been imaginary. The man standing before her was quite real, but she knew he was the same sort of giant as the one in her mind-gentle and kind beneath a gruff, formidable exterior.

”This is extortion!” Tim cried, looming over her.

Amelia set a hand at her neck to rub the ache caused by craning so far back. ”No,” she denied. ”Not really. Extortion gives you only one choice. I am offering you options.”

”I don't like yer options.” He crossed his great arms over his barrel chest.

”I do not blame you. I don't care for them very much either.”

She moved toward the nearby padded window seat. The upper family parlor was packed with people, all employees of St. John. Some played cards, others talked and laughed boisterously, and still others napped where they sat, exhausted from running errands all day long.

”I t would have been much easier for everyone if the man had simply stated his intentions directly.” Amelia shook out her skirts of yellow shot silk taffeta and settled as comfortably as possible in her evening attire. ”But he did not, and so we must guess. I am not very good at guessing, Tim.

I haven't the patience for it.”

Looking up at him from beneath her lashes, she smiled prettily.

Tim snorted and scowled. ”Don't you 'ave something else to worry your 'ead o'er? Wedding gowns and such?”

”No. Not really.”

She should be consumed with the planning of her forthcoming nuptials. From waking to sleeping she should have no time for anything else. I t was the most antic.i.p.ated match of the Season and, if she maneuvered well, it could be a wonderful launch for her new position as a future marchioness.

Instead she was consumed by thoughts of her masked admirer. She was tenacious when intrigued and told herself that if she could only discern the man's motives, she would be free to concentrate on more pressing matters.

I t was prewedding nervousness. The need for one last peccadillo. A farewell to childhood whimsy.

She shook her head. There were a hundred names she gave to why she was so distracted by the masked Montoya. But the reason's true ident.i.ty eluded her.

”Well, yer not doing any searching,” Tim grumbled. ”Not on my watch.”

”Fine,” she said agreeably. ”Just inform me when you find him.”

”No.” Tim's jaw took on that obstinate cant that was more bark than bite. He wore green wool trousers this evening and a black waistcoat trimmed with green thread. I t was the most colorful ensemble she had ever seen him wear. His coa.r.s.e gray hair was restrained in a braided queue, and his Vand.y.k.e was neatly trimmed.

Amelia adored him for the effort, knowing the care he displayed was due entirely to affection for her. He wanted to make her proud while he was following her about at the Rothschild ball this evening. He would not be attending, of course, merely watching from the outside perimeter, yet he'd taken pains with his appearance.

She was proud of him, regardless.

”Very well, then.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. ”I shall search for him myself and drag you along with me, since you are to be my nursemaid.”