A Daring Passion

“That is none of your concern,” he muttered.

Carlos gave a lift of his brows. “If you say so.”

Philippe grimaced as he stepped back and realized just how close he had come to planting his fist in his friend’s face. Meu Deus, he was truly losing his mind.

“Tell me what you discovered,” he demanded. “Was Seurat seen?”

“Yes, but the man is surprisingly cunning.”

“What do you mean?”

“He disguised himself as an elderly priest who seemed to be wandering aimlessly through the village. If the lads had not been watching for him he would easily have escaped notice.”

“Did you manage to catch sight of him?” Philippe demanded, wanting more than the word of a handful of boys who were anxious to be paid for their work.

“Sim. He hid behind the stables for nearly two hours before he at last slipped away.”

“Would you recognize him again?”

Carlos shrugged. “It would be difficult. He managed to keep his hat pulled low and most of his face was covered by a thick scarf. I can say little more than that he was a small man with a faint limp.”

Philippe did not miss the hint of smugness in his friend’s countenance. The man may not be able to recognize Seurat, but he did know something.

“What else did you discover?” he demanded.

“I followed him to Saint-Marcel. He must have rooms in the neighborhood.”

A flare of satisfaction raced through Philippe. He could always depend upon Carlos. No matter what he might ask of him.

“Saint-Marcel,” he said softly. “A nasty place.”

Carlos gave a slow nod, his expression somber. “Even nastier than usual. The mobs are growing restless and discontent beneath their new king. It is only a matter of time before the city erupts into riots.”

Philippe grimaced. He had sensed the same dark pulse that throbbed beneath the frantic gaiety of the streets. Despite the revolution and efforts to halt corruption, the disparity between the wealthy and masses of poor and immigrants remained unaltered.

For the moment the soldiers managed to keep the peace, but it would take only a spark to kindle the waiting bonfire.

“I intend to be far away by then. After I am gone they can tear the bloody city to the ground stone by stone as far as I am concerned.” Moving toward the horses that Carlos already had saddled, he vaulted on top of the black stallion. “Show me where you last had sight of Seurat.”

Carlos readily mounted his own horse and glanced toward Philippe. “Are we going alone?”

Philippe took a moment before giving a decisive nod of his head. “Yes. We do not want to startle him into flight. If we are careful I can have my hands around his throat before he ever realizes we are near.”

“Do not forget we desire him alive,” Carlos warned.

“Only until my brother is free. After that the man will learn what it is to threaten a Gautier. Let us go.”

AS USUAL THE STREETS OF Paris were clogged with pleasure-seekers strolling past the crowded cafés, the arcades and the theaters. The air was filled with the sound of their chatter and the incessant calls of the street vendors.

And that was not all the air was filled with, Philippe acknowledged as he wrinkled his nose at the pervasive smells of food and sewage and decay that were rampant in any vast city.

It was little wonder that he far preferred his pristine estate on the cliffs of Madeira.

A sense of longing for the untamed beauty of his home washed through Philippe. What would Raine think of the rolling hills that were covered with his vineyards? Or the tiny villages where the fishermen anchored their small boats and their wives waited on the shores for their return?

Would she be bored by the solitude as his father and brother were? Or would she sense the subtle charm that had enchanted him since he was a child?

“Philippe, you might wish to take heed.” Carlos abruptly broke into his musings, his voice dry. “This place is seething with pickpockets and cutthroats. You will not do Jean-Pierre much good if you end up floating in the Seine.”