A Daring Passion

“Thank you, no.” Philippe leaned forward, his entire body humming with a coiled tension. “What have you discovered?”

Clearly sensing that Philippe was in no mood for casual chatter, Belfleur crossed his hands over his stomach and regarded his companion from beneath his half-lowered lashes.

“One of my boys claims that he has worked for a man calling himself Seurat.”

“Did he say what he looked like?”

“A small, twitchy man with a limp and a scar on one cheek. He also mentioned that the man had a strange habit of muttering to himself.”

“That is him.” Philippe’s fingers bit into the leather arms of the chair. “What sort of work did the boy do for him?”

“He was paid over the past few years to keep an occasional eye on a cottage in Montmartre.”

“Jean-Pierre.” Philippe’s breath caught in his throat. The bastard had been stalking h

is brother. Hunting him like a predator until he had at last moved in for the kill.

It was little wonder Seurat had known when Jean-Pierre would be traveling to England. And how he had so easily set the trap that had landed the young, foolish man in jail.

Holy hell, it made his blood run cold just to think of how easily the madman could have killed Jean-Pierre. If not for his deranged lust for revenge, Philippe would be visiting his brother in the family crypt.

With a sudden surge, Philippe was on his feet and pacing the small Oriental rug.

“Damn the bloody bastard. I will see him in hell.”

“A charming notion.”

“Where do I find him?”

“A difficult question.” Belfleur toyed with the heavy gold ring on his finger. “This Seurat would approach Georges on the street and offer little information beyond telling the boy where to go and when to meet him for payment.”

Philippe clenched his jaw in disappointment. Of course it could not be simple. Chasing Seurat was like stumbling through a maze.

His only consolation was the unwavering certainty that he would have his hands on the man. And on that day he would take out his frustration in blood.

He came to a halt in the center of the room. “Georges is a pickpocket?”

There was the faintest pause before Belfleur gave a nod. “Among other things.”

“What street does he work?”

“The one just outside my shop.”

Which meant that he had been plying his trade long enough to have worked his way up the criminal network. And that he was wise enough to not try to sell Belfleur counterfeit information. It was an unhealthy occupation.

“When was the last time he caught sight of Seurat?”

“Not for several weeks, I fear.”

Not surprising. Seurat must have traveled to England before Jean-Pierre arrived there.

“Could he tell you anything else?”

Belfleur pressed his considerable bulk from the chair. “Non, but I believe he must have rooms close to my shop. There are boys to be hired on every street—why would he go there unless it was convenient?”

“All evidence does come back to that particular neighborhood,” Philippe agreed, recalling the clothing they had found abandoned in the alley. “Still, it will take time to search through every building.”

“I will have my boys keep a close eye on the cafés and markets. He must get his food from somewhere.”