Читать книгу Much Ado About Rogues - Kasey Michaels, Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 10

TESS PACED THE drawing room, twisting the wineglass between her fingers. He was late. Jack was never late. He was doing this deliberately, delaying his arrival, drawing her nerves taut, making it clear to her that he had the advantage over her in every way.

Which he did. More than he could possibly know.

She’d never forgotten him, saw his face every day; he was always with her.

When he’d gone, she’d believed it would be forever. Black Jack Blackthorn didn’t grovel, didn’t bend. Would never beg. She’d handed him back his ring, the one she’d worn on a thin ribbon around her neck, hidden away from her father’s eyes until this one last assignment was over, and exchanged it with the locket closed over the miniatures of her mother and brother. She’d replaced one lost dream with two lost souls.

He’d been wearing the ring today; she’d seen it on the index finger of his right hand. Heavy gold, with a large, flat onyx stone engraved with a B. For Blackthorn. For bastard. He’d said he had never known which, as the gift had been from his mother. But, although she’d encouraged him to enlarge on that strange statement, he had instead diverted her with his kisses, and he’d never mentioned his mother again. There hadn’t been time. There had been their argument when he’d told her of the change in tactics that would put her in the background, away from any possible danger. There had been the mission.

And after that, there had been nothing left but the funeral.

And goodbye.

If only there was some way to go back, to change the past. But there wasn’t, and that meant the future couldn’t be changed, either. There was only the now, the mission—finding her father before he did something else that couldn’t be changed, fixed, mended. And this time, she wouldn’t be left behind, to wait, to worry… to mourn.

How she missed René. They’d shared their mother’s womb, they’d shared their lives, always together, living in one another’s pockets, clinging to each other through their papa’s frequent absences, vying for his attention when he was in residence.

Though Emilie spoke only French, their papa insisted his children speak only English in his presence. They were confined to the manor grounds, their only companionship each other and Rupert, their English tutor, who brought home his lessons with a birch rod. He’d most often wielded it on René, until the day Tess had jumped onto the man’s back and nearly bitten off his ear before he could shake her loose.

She’d been ten at the time. When her father heard of the incident it had been the very first time he’d ever complimented her.

But then he’d scolded René in that quietly destroying way he had, for having submitted to the rod so that his sister had been forced to defend him, taking all of the joy out of Tess’s victory. He’d then employed another tutor who was twice the disciplinarian as Rupert, and Tess’s education was turned over to a succession of English governesses.

Rupert’s replacement was discharged the day René had twisted the man’s rod-wielding arm behind his back and run him headfirst into the solid oak door of the schoolroom. He’d been fifteen, and it had taken all of those five long years for him to find the courage his sister had displayed at ten—which their father had been quick to point out.

There was no winning with the marquis. Fail him, and face his quiet disapproval that was ten times worse than any possible beating. Do something right, and hear nothing, or wait for the flaw to be pointed out to you as the stinging hook at the end of the faint praise.

Yet all Tess and René wanted out of life was to please the man. René pretended an interest in the lessons their father began with him after the tutor was sent packing, but it was Tess who showed the most aptitude when René would share what he’d learned with her. Her twin would rather read poetry; Tess would rather hold a book on military tactics up to a mirror, to practice reading backward. René enjoyed playing the flute; Tess practiced for hours with the slim tools René loaned her, until she could easily open every locked door in the manor house. After every hour spent at lessons with his father, René would spend two with Tess, teaching her everything he’d learned until she’d not only mastered each lesson, but outshone her teacher.

The marquis finally found her out the day René accidentally pinked her as they practiced with the foils and the button had come off the tip of his weapon without either of them noticing.

That was the second time the marquis had looked at her with something close to approval in his eyes, as he’d tied his handkerchief around her forearm and ordered her to borrow a shirt and breeches from René and report to him in the gardens. Then he’d tossed her back her weapon and grabbed one for himself.

She’d excelled; she knew it, even if her father never acknowledged any new skill she mastered over the next years. But she’d lost a part of her brother to her success, and to their shared strong desire to please the marquis. René never complained, never said anything, but Tess knew.

He tried, so very hard, but he had not been born to experience the thrill of clearing a five-barred fence, or find the center of the target with a thrown knife. And there was nothing of stealth about him, either in action or in his mind. He was his mother’s son, kind and gentle. She was her father’s daughter, quick of mind, fascinated by intrigue and all that went with it.

But it was more than a simple love of the game, or even striving to please their father. René could never know it, but Tess felt it her responsibility to protect him, just as she had done years before with Rupert. More and more, she took his place on the marquis’s more minor missions, even being included in the planning of those missions that included all three of them, invariably casting René in a minor role, safely in the background.

Until Jack. His inclusion had changed everything. The marquis at last had the perfect pupil—talented, and male. Tess had hated him for his intrusion into their lives. She’d watched in disgust as he mastered in months what it had taken her years to learn, and then gone on to do as she had done with René: outpace the teacher with his ingenuity and skills. She’d envied the trust the marquis placed in him, suffered in silence as René seemed to turn their successor into some sort of hero to be admired, emulated.

She’d fought Jack for well over a year, until her fascination with this singular man overcame her resentment at being usurped in her father’s affection. She’d then begun to watch him, not with jealousy any longer, but with growing interest in Jack, the man. So darkly mysterious, so compellingly handsome, his rare smiles doing strange, delicious things to her insides. And, increasingly, he’d been watching her. For months more, they’d danced around each other, both of them knowing there was something unsettled between them, a growing hunger that sooner or later had to be fed.

And dear God, how they had feasted…

Tess took another sip of wine, hoping it would somehow settle her. The afternoon had dragged on seemingly forever, and over the hours she’d changed her mind about the white silk gown. Punishing Jack, punishing herself, made no sense. She stood in front of the glass over the side table and inspected her reflection as it was directed back to her in the candlelight.

Her gown was simplicity itself, even modest, save for the fact that the pale, unadorned orchid silk rather cunningly outlined her breasts and rib cage and slid smoothly over her buttocks when she walked, making it clear she wore no undergarments. Even the modest cap sleeves were fashioned of all but transparent veiling. She was more covered than she was in most of her gowns, and yet she might as well be naked to the discerning eye.

Jack had a discerning eye.

A triple strand of crystals hugged her neck, and she wore her blond hair loose, floating down over her shoulders. He had always liked burying his head in her hair, or fisting its length tightly as he tipped her head back, to nibble at the base of her throat. And lower.

She was making it easy for him, all but offering him a written invitation.

She couldn’t push Jack away and at the same time convince him that he needed her with him when he set off to find her father. No, what she needed even more than finding her father was to get Jack moving, get him gone, get the two of them as far away from the manor as possible, as quickly as possible.

She had her priorities straight now, and fighting Jack couldn’t figure into the mix, not when it was so important her father was found, that she was with Jack when her father was found. She couldn’t know how much her lover had changed in four years, if he would actually execute his old mentor on orders from the Crown.

What had shocked her most when she’d realized it was that she didn’t know what she would do if he tried. She no longer knew how she felt about her father.

Tess only knew that Jack couldn’t be left to his own devices. Where he went, she would go, or she would follow. He had to know that as well, so it only made sense that they travel together.

She’d make it worth his while. He wanted her; that was one thing that hadn’t changed in four years. She’d give him what he wanted tonight, and he’d give her what she wanted tomorrow when they rode away from the manor house.

The meagerness of his government pension had long ago caused the marquis to forgo the costly services of a butler, and since Jack never knocked, and moved with the stealth of a cat intent on bringing down a rabbit, she did her best not to flinch when he suddenly appeared in the room.

She’d expected his usual, impeccable London tailoring, but he had not bothered with the formality of town clothes. No, tonight Jack was the dark and dangerous pirate she’d seen many times before, all in black, his shirt collarless and discreetly ruffled, full-sleeved and open at the neck, his breeches showing the narrowness of waist and hip, the smooth muscles of his long, straight legs.

“Planning on breaking into the squire’s house tonight to recover Crown secrets, Jack?” she asked, indicating his attire with a sweep of her arm. “Or perhaps relieving some travelers of their prized belongings out on the highway as you were doing when Papa first found you, just to keep your skills sharp?”

He approached her without a word, walking in a full circle around her before coming to a halt, their bodies only inches apart. She could feel her nipples begin to harden under his hot gaze, pushing against the thin fabric of her gown. He didn’t touch her, but she could already feel his hands on her. “And you, Tess? You also look ready for a nocturnal ride. Are we dispensing with dinner?”

She longed to slap his handsome, grinning face. But she couldn’t blame him for attempting to get some of his own back after the way she’d treated him when he’d kissed her. She reached out boldly, cupped his sex. “Ah, yes, I suppose we are. You know the way.”

She watched as his eyes darkened and then let her hand drift across his lower belly and hip as she walked past him, heading for the stairs, her mouth dry, her heart pounding. He’d never forgive her if he found out what she was up to… but he’d never find out. It was imperative he leave here and never return. And when she cut him, dismissed him a second time after they found her father, faced him down and told him she’d been using him, he never would return. Jack was more proud than he would allow anyone to know. When this was over, they would be over, done. Again.

That’s the way it would happen. That was the way it had to happen. She wasn’t going to lose anyone else to Black Jack Blackthorn. Only herself.

Tess left the door to her bedchamber open behind her and went to stand in the middle of the room, waiting for Jack to come to her, take what he wanted.

What she wanted. She couldn’t lie to herself. Not as her breathing had already turned ragged, as her body tingled with the anticipation of his touch. He’d made her this way, showing her delights she’d never dreamed of, taking her places she’d never gone since, and longed to visit again.

She drew her breath in sharply as the door to her chambers slammed shut.

He came up behind her, took hold of her shoulders, and roughly whirled her about to face him. “You think I’ve grown stupid, Tess? That I’m some raw youth, to be happily blinded by lust? Come with me, lie with me, fall under my spell, do my bidding. Is that all we had between us, all that you remember of me? Jesus, woman, or are you that desperate?”

Tess raised her chin in defiance. “I thought you made it abundantly clear this afternoon what you wanted from me. And consider it a trade, Jack, not capitulation for either of us. I give you what you want, and you give me what I want.”

He dropped his hands to his sides. “And what do you want, Tess? What do you consider worth the trade?”

“I go with you,” she said, searching his eyes for his reaction. “I can help.”

“Help? Why do I doubt that, Tess? I haven’t forgotten that you were Sinjon’s tolerably efficient trained monkey. It’s your father I’m hunting, and I don’t intend to spend half of my time watching my own back, not even for the pleasure of putting you on yours.”

She ignored his deliberate crudity. “You wouldn’t kill him, not even on orders from your masters.”

“Wouldn’t I? Are you sure? Good, then stay here, and I’ll bring him to you.”

Tess backed away from him and walked over to lean against the side of the tester bed. She’d try another argument. “Let’s do this with gloves off, Jack, all right? I remember what was printed in the newspaper you took with you this afternoon. He’s after the Gypsy, and so are you. But you two aren’t the only ones with a score to settle with that monster. He killed my brother.”

Jack’s eyes went dark. “Really? I thought you and Sinjon had hung René’s death around my neck. Am I now absolved? How you ease my mind. Goodbye, Tess. Thank you for your kind offer, and curse you for your lies.”

She took a single step toward him. If he was on the road before she could follow, she might never be able to find him, or her father. She needed him gone, yes, but not alone. “That’s it, Jack, leave. It’s the one thing you’re good at!”

He’d already turned for the door, but her words stopped him, even as they backed her up against the bed, because she instantly knew she’d gone too far.

“I left, Tess, because you made it clear there was nothing for me here any longer. I left because you pushed me away. I left because you expected me to go.”

“I expected—? What do you mean by that?”

He was standing in front of her once again, effectively holding her in place without touching her. “You never thought there was a future for us, did you, Tess? That’s why you insisted we not tell Sinjon or René about us. I would leave you at some point, find a fault somewhere, become disappointed with you in some way. When René died you finally had your excuse to send me away, before I left on my own. You, and maybe your father as well, although God knows he had his own reasons. I couldn’t be allowed to stay because I’d failed, hadn’t I? Failed in our best chance to capture the Gypsy, failed to protect René. It fell on me, all of it, and I had to go. Admit it, Tess, if only to yourself.”

“That… that’s not true. I loved you.”

“And I loved you,” Jack said, his voice calmer now, almost gentle. “But it wasn’t my love you needed then, was it? You were still trying to win Sinjon’s approval, still needing him to be proud of you. Until you could gain his love, you weren’t really ready to accept mine, believe in mine. And that hasn’t changed, has it, Tess? Still hoping for that pat on the head, a word of praise, some acknowledgment of your achievements. But he didn’t trust you with his secrets, even after René died. He didn’t trust you with this damn mission he’s taken on. You were good, but never quite good enough. That’s how you see it, isn’t it?”

Tess didn’t answer him. She didn’t need to say a word in order to agree with him.

He tipped up her chin. “Look at me, Tess. Look at me. Sinjon’s a hard man, there’s no denying that. Demanding, difficult to please, impossible to fully understand. I know you and René suffered for that. But you’re a grown woman now. How long are you going to punish yourself for his failings? Because that’s what they are, his failings. Not yours.”

“He left me nothing, Jack,” Tess said quietly. “Knowing what he knows, he left us with nothing. How could he do that?”

“I told you, Tess. He knew I’d come.”

“You don’t understand…” she said, and then let her voice trail off. She’d left it too late, years too late. And she’d done what she’d done because her father had said it was for the best, and she’d been too devastated to think clearly. “Take me with you, Jack. Don’t leave me behind again. I have to see him, I have to talk to him, I have to know why.”

He looked at her for a long time, and then nodded. “Maybe it’s time you learned who Sinjon Fonteneau really is. Let’s go downstairs. There’s something I need to show you.”

Tess nearly threw her arms around him, but held back in time. “Thank you, Jack.”

“Don’t thank me, Tess. You’re not going to like it. I’m about to turn your shining knight into a rogue.”

JACK LED THE way back downstairs to Sinjon’s study. He’d shown Tess the hidden room, but had not disclosed all of its secrets to her.

He handed Tess the brace of candles and opened the glass doors of the cabinet holding the few pitiful ancient relics the marquis kept on display; the collection of a man who couldn’t afford to indulge his love the way he had years ago, in France. Or so it would seem to the world. The Marquis de Fontaine had never shown his real face to the world.

Jack had heard the story only a few weeks before René died. He’d found Sinjon in his study after midnight one night, sloppily drunk and embarrassingly maudlin on what he said was the twentieth anniversary of the death of his wife. He’d been both intrigued and flattered when the man motioned him to a chair and began to speak—and, in the end, he was appalled.

He doubted Tess and René had ever been privy to what had really happened, who their father was and had been, why their mother had died, what had brought them to England, what drove Sinjon to offer his services to the Crown against France.

The Marquis de Fontaine was a man of varied background and myriad talents. He’d prided himself on his knowledge of Greek, Roman and Egyptian antiquities; indeed, he’d devoted the first nearly fifty years of his life to amassing his collection, traveling the continent in order to add to it. Until he’d met his Marie Louise. He’d been amazed at the birth of the twins, slightly bemused as to what the fuss was all about, but they seemed to please Marie Louise, and he was free to go back to what he called his studies.

And his other pursuits.

Then came 1797, and suddenly Sinjon, whose facile use of a loyalty that seemed to bend with the prevailing wind had miraculously kept him safe in Lyon, was faced with the possible loss of his way of life. The worst of the Terror might be behind them, but the Revolutionary Army was becoming too powerful, thanks to the success of General Louis Hoche and some upstart Corsican named Bonaparte. Of the three, the Directorie, Hoche and Bonaparte, he feared the Corsican most, recognizing a lean and hungry ambition when he encountered it. Sinjon began working in secret with other Royalists to bring back the Ancien Régime and all the privileges of rank that went with it before it was too late for any of them.

But it had already been too late. He should have seen the signs, made a decision as to what was most important to him, and taken his wife and children to safety. Instead, he and his band of compatriots goaded and pushed the Directorie at every turn. Employing a plan devised by Sinjon, they nearly succeeded in an attempt to assassinate several of its leaders.

And that, to Sinjon, had been his single biggest mistake. The Directorie retaliated with all the might still at its disposal, hunting down and disseminating their opposition. While Sinjon and his men hid in cellars, not knowing what was happening, his adored Marie Louise had become one of the casualties of his folly.

He’d cried then, great blubbering drunken sobs. Jack sat silent, as there were no words that could comfort the man, heal his guilt and his loss. At that moment, no matter what Sinjon asked of him, Jack would do it. Because he was looking at a beaten old man who had lost everything; his wife, his country, his fortune. Here in England he lived in genteel poverty in a run-down manor house, employed by the Crown but never quite trusted.

Genteel poverty. Forced to plot and often kill, not only to exact justice for all he’d lost and rid the world of that upstart Bonaparte, but also to save a prime minister from scandal, find a way to disgrace those whose voices in Parliament didn’t agree with the Crown, employ his skills to clean up the many messes those in power made with regularity. He’d no choice.

Except that he did. He’d always had a choice. The man had been grieving? How much? Drowning his guilt and sorrows? Really? Jack knew he’d never know exactly where Sinjon’s clever mix of truth and fiction had merged that night, but only the reality of what he had seen. He had been the man’s audience, drawn in, made sympathetic to a supposedly sad and disillusioned wreck of a man. What had come next, his introduction to the second secret room, to the marquis’s secret life, would forever color his opinion of his mentor.

Now he would show Tess her real father, the damning part of the man that could readily be seen. A dose of truth couldn’t hurt her any more than the fiction she’d built up around the man, the fiction Sinjon had so cleverly encouraged.

“Give me the candles, Tess, and follow me,” Jack said, and then led the way down the steps and across the room to the stone he’d located earlier.

“There’s more to see?” Tess asked as he pushed on the stone and it pivoted easily.

Jack held the brace of candles at shoulder level as the cabinet holding Sinjon’s inspired arsenal slid aside. “Look at what’s there, Tess, and at what isn’t. As one important piece is missing.”

He stood back and allowed her to walk into the small chamber lined with shelves from floor to low ceiling on three sides. The only furniture in the room was a single chair placed directly in its center; where Sinjon would sit to admire his genius.

“To your left, the Greek. To your right, the Roman. Straight ahead, and most interesting of all for what isn’t there, the Egyptian. Your father’s treasures. Or should I say, your competition. What Sinjon loves most in this world. What he risked his family for, lost his wife for, sacrificed his children’s childhoods for, I suppose some may think. I know I do.”

Tess turned in a slow circle, the candlelight casting strange shadows on the rows and rows of artifacts, shining back to her from Roman shields and breastplates, dancing along gem-encrusted bowls, illuminating ancient busts, helmets, bracelets, necklaces… and reflected in the tears in her eyes.

Selling only a few small pieces would have provided more than enough to pay the village shopkeepers, repair the manor house, educate his son at the best schools in England, purchase a mansion in Mayfair, launch his daughter into Society.

If Sinjon could part with any of his treasures. If selling them on the open market wouldn’t mean the end of him.

“I don’t… I can’t… How, Jack? Why?”

“Let’s go back upstairs,” Jack said, taking the brace of candles from her and leading the way, holding on to her hand as they went. Her suddenly very cold hand.

He poured her a glass of wine and took it to her as she sat with exaggerated erectness on the leather couch, staring at nothing. She shook her head slightly in refusal so he downed it himself, and then positioned himself at the front of the desk, resting against its edge.

Jack would have spared her this if he could, but she’d made it impossible. Sinjon had made it impossible. The man she so admired, so longed to please, her so wonderful, perfect and heroic father. He wondered how long it would take her to understand the implications of what she’d just seen.

It didn’t take half as long as he’d thought. She’d always been very bright.

“He’s a thief, isn’t he?” she said finally. “My father is a thief.”

“I made that mistake myself, and was quickly corrected. He sees himself more as a private collector. A thief, you see, steals for profit. Sinjon was always most discerning, taking only the best and keeping it for his own private enjoyment. Your competition, Tess, the true loves of his life.”

Tess bent her head and began rubbing hard at her temples. “God. Oh, sweet Jesus…”

Jack pushed himself away from the desk and sat down beside her, taking her hands in his and lowering them to her lap, not letting them go. “It was easy in France,” he told her. “He had his title to protect him. Nobody suspected that the treasures he brought home with him from his travels were anything but the purchases of a wealthy man. He could display many of them openly, keeping only the most easily recognizable safely hidden away, where he could appreciate them. He was admired, sought after to speak about antiquities. An acknowledged expert, the so-fascinating Marquis de Fontaine. Nobody knew, Tess, not even your mother. That’s what he was trying to protect when he sided with the other Royalists. His way of life. His treasures. In the end, the new French government got most of them, so he came here, and started over.”

“Started over…” she repeated softly. “But… but he was working with the Crown.”

“What better excuse to travel where he wanted, make use of secret channels of transportation, have access to ships, to the plans of the mansions of the wealthy, museums… palaces. There was a war going on, treasures were disappearing everywhere, for many reasons. Some say Bonaparte brought half of Egypt back to France with him. I think Sinjon hated him most for that, and that the Emperor had the treasures and he didn’t. But your father also did his job, Tess, and very well, to give the man the credit due him. And then, when the mission was complete, he’d reward himself by adding to his collection. But Sinjon isn’t a young man anymore. He could still choose the prize, formulate the plans, but it soon became apparent to him that he needed someone else to execute them.”

Tess had been breathing rapidly, but now she took a deep, openmouthed breath that was nearly a gasp. She was attempting to get herself under control. “René?” she asked at last. “Did he…?”

“I don’t think he knew, no. In any case, he hadn’t proved as talented as Sinjon had hoped. You, however, exceeded his expectations, and he’d every intention of introducing you to that room down there. Until I came along. You want praise from the man, Tess? I’ll tell you something he told me. You should have been born the son.”

Tess smiled ruefully. “How very like him. Every compliment has a hook on the end, one that digs straight into the flesh. Praise for me, at the expense of my brother. We were in a competition, weren’t we? One of my father’s deliberate making. The winner gets to collect for him. I think I’m going to be sick.” But then she rallied, as another question struck her. “Did you… did you steal with him?”

Tess knew what he’d done before coming to the manor house. How he’d played at cards, played at highwayman, played at most anything, running wild and angry, always searching for something, never knowing what that something was. Never knowing if he was running toward something, or away from himself. The bastard who belonged nowhere.

Sinjon must have thought the gods had personally delivered Jack Blackthorn to him.

Jack shook his head. “He said I wasn’t quite ready, and that robbing a few coaches for a lark wasn’t the same as what he needed from me. He said I’d never experienced joy of the sort I’d know when the prize was much more than some silly matron’s gaudy diamond necklace. The prize was one thing, and worth any danger, but the joy of the acquisition itself, knowing what you had in your hand was now yours and yours alone, was worth more than anything else. But first I had to learn a few rudimentary things about antiquities, gain an appreciation for them so that I’d treat them with the care they deserved as I was… acquiring them.”

He’d told her most of it now, but there was more. “I thought I’d found a home, Tess, a real purpose in government service. Sinjon had saved me from myself, and you’d given me a reason to believe I didn’t have to be alone. Once he’d told me his secret, I knew my duty was to turn Sinjon over to the Crown. Yet how could I do that, knowing it would destroy you and René? Selfishly, I put off making my decision until we’d completed the Whitechapel mission. I shouldn’t have waited, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“Whitechapel. Where René died. And I sent you away anyway. But you never reported Papa to the Crown. Why?”

“Sinjon was already seventy or more, or at least that’s the most he would admit to—definitely past climbing through windows or outrunning any pursuit. Without me, or someone like me, his collecting days were over. He’d lost. He’d lost his youth, his son and, when I walked away, his last chance at revenge. Because of you, I promised him I wouldn’t turn him over to the Crown, but that if he went back to his old ways I wouldn’t be held to that promise. And if he tried to recruit you, I’d know, and I’d kill him. He knew I meant what I said.”

“And he believed you,” Tess said quietly. “I would have.”

“He was a broken man when I left, Tess. I’d like to think the errors of his ways, and what those errors had cost him, had finally come home to him. Instead, the need for revenge must have been eating at him ever since.”

Tess shook her head. “Revenge? You mean on France, for what happened to my mother. But that was all so long ago.”

And here it was, the moment he’d been dreading more than any of the others. He’d never wanted her to know this particular truth.

“No, Tess. What I’m speaking of now has nothing to do with France or the war or any attempt to restore the monarchy. I doubt it ever was really about any of that, not for Sinjon. It was always about enlarging his collection. And remember this—he was already more than fifty years old when he came to England. I wasn’t the first pupil he trained to do his bidding. There was another, before me. An exceedingly apt and eager pupil, and quite ambitious. They worked together for years. Until the student, who saw profit where Sinjon saw beauty, eventually betrayed the mentor, striking out on his own, hiring out his unique talents for most any venture, any government, and taking his own rewards. You don’t know him, Tess, although you may have seen him here years ago. But you have seen his calling card. I’ve been hunting him for four years, ever since Sinjon told me exactly who he is.”

Her eyes were wide and shocked when she turned toward him on the couch. “The Gypsy. That’s who you mean, don’t you? The Gypsy. The man who murdered René. Papa trained him? And now he’s gone after him…”