Heiress in Red Silk by Hunter, Madeline (best mystery novels of all time TXT) 📗

scooted over several times, it seemed to her that he deliberately sprawled in a way that imprisoned her against the window.

She might have suffered that as mere rudeness, but it was right then that he emerged from whatever thoughts had occupied him thus far and turned his intense attention on her. In the best of times that was disconcerting but cramped in that carriage his scrutiny felt relentless. It got much worse when he voiced his thoughts.

“How old are you?” he asked. “I’m guessing perhaps two and twenty.”

“You guessed wrong. I am almost twenty-four.”

She received a small frown for that. “Then you have been living independently for some years.”

With that his curiosity became annoying. “I was in service up until fairly recently.” She glared down at his legs. “I realize coaches are not built for men of your size, but you are taking more than your share of this one. Would you kindly move your knee?”

With a faint smile, he rearranged his limbs.

“How long until we reach Paris?” she asked.

“It will be evening when we arrive.... So you were in service, then opened your shop in Richmond?”

She could all but hear him doing calculations. “In between, I worked for a milliner in the City.”

“Then you have lived independently for two years or so.”

If she had known that Paris was a whole day’s journey from the coast, she might have hired her own conveyance so she could be spared this interrogation.

“Why are you asking me these questions? Are you still worried about some fortune hunter turning my head?”

“Fortune hunters will be interested no matter your age. You could be sixty and they would still dance attendance.”

In that case, perhaps he was just bored. Apparently he had run out of brilliant ideas to contemplate. When he did not seem inclined to talk further, she retreated with relief into thoughts of Charles, and the anticipation of their reunion. After all these years, she tried to imagine seeing him again. He would look a bit older, of course, but she didn’t expect any significant changes. He would greet her with a hard embrace and deep kiss, then laugh with happiness. She could imagine his broad smile and sparkling eyes while he looked at her running into his arms—

“I am trying to decide if you are an innocent.”

His calm statement put an abrupt end to her fantasy. “If I am a—Excuse me?”

“You asked why I was asking about your independence. That is the reason.” He looked over, as calm as could be. “And are you?”

“I can see why your family finds you so hard to bear. What a question to ask! Rude, inappropriate—”

“It is a very simple question.” He settled his head against the back cushion. “The entire idea that there are topics a man can’t discuss with a woman is ridiculous. One wonders who came up with these stupid rules. Probably women like my aunts.”

“More likely women like me who find them far too personal.”

“You only thought it too personal because you thought your answer would put you in a bad light, when in truth you merely confirmed my own conclusion, and in no way changed my opinion of you.”

He closed his eyes and folded his arms then, presumably to return to whatever else filled his head this day.

“I have not confirmed your conclusion because I did not answer your question,” she said.

“Of course, you did.” His eyes opened halfway and he looked at her through the slits. “If you were still an innocent, you would have said so. ‘How dare you suggest I am not, sir.’ Something like that. ‘I am unmarried. Of course, I am untouched. You are an inexcusable rogue to imply otherwise.’ Or, perhaps, ‘To address such a subject is beyond indelicate and an insult. I must demand you leave this carriage and ride up with the coachman.’”

She felt her face growing hotter with each response she had not given. Perhaps he saw that, because he unwound himself, sat upright and leaned toward her. “As I said, it in no way alters my opinion of you. My conclusion was a logical one, owing to your person and manner, but one never knows, what with the peculiar ideas the world has on such things.”

“It is of absolutely no consequence to me how you feel about whatever erroneous conclusions you may have drawn from this extremely odd conversation.”

“Not so odd.” He looked her right in the eyes. “After all, a woman of some experience presents no conundrum, but an innocent—I wouldn’t begin to know what to do then.”

Now, on the terrace, when she repeated his word “privacy,” he looked back to the gardens, a slow smile forming on his lips. “We will meet with Monsieur Forestier soon. Hard decisions will have to be made then. Those conversations should not happen in public.”

“Of course not. And I have many things I want to do here. I want to see the better shops, and observe the ladies’ fashions. I don’t suppose anyone speaks English?”

“The French assume that anyone who matters will learn their language.”

“Which your sort do.”

He not only spoke French, he spoke it in a long, unbroken, rapid, and incomprehensible melody.

“I am going to be helpless here, aren’t I?” She folded her arms in front of her to warm herself a little. The sun was setting in the west, casting long shadows. Paris seemed colder to her than London. The breeze carried a bite when it flowed from the north.

“I will escort you wherever you need to go so you don’t get lost.”

She could hardly have him escort her when she sought out Charles. However, if she spent a day traversing the city first, she could probably learn enough to tell the hotel where she wanted to go, and have them find her a carriage.

“Why don’t you visit the Palais-Royal tomorrow?” he suggested. “There are fine shops there, and you will also get a good look at current fashions in the garden. As for now, join me for dinner. I’ll explain the food