A Daring Passion

“Seurat?” The elderly man muttered a string of curses. “Do not speak of that loathsome wretch.”

A flare of sharp satisfaction raced through Philippe. Thank God. He could not deny that deep part of him had feared he had been chasing shadows while Jean-Pierre faced the gallows.

“So you recognize the name?”

“How could I not?” The elderly man abruptly turned to stare into the fire, a fine tremor shaking his frail body. “He has plagued and bedeviled me for years.”

Philippe frowned at the husky confession. “What has he done?”

“Nothing that can be proved.” Mirabeau held his hands toward the flames. “The windows of my home have been broken on countless occasions, my collection of Grecian friezes was destroyed while they were on display at the Tuileries, even my carriage has been run off the road.”

“And you believe it is the work of Seurat?”

“I have seen him,” Mirabeau rasped. “Standing in the shadows. Always in the shadows.”

Meu Deus. To have tormented this poor old man for years. The bastard was clearly insane.

“What connection does he have to my family?” he demanded.

“I…cannot say.”

Philippe reached out to grasp the man’s thin shoulder and tugged him around to meet his fierce glare. He might feel pity for Mirabeau, but his brother’s life hung in the balance.

“Do not play games with me, monsieur,” he warned in silky tones.

“Your father has sworn me to silence.”

“As usual my father is not here to clean up the mess he has created. You will tell me everything you know before my brother is sent to the gallows. Do you understand?”

The wrinkled face paled. “So the rumors are true? He has been arrested?”

“He faces the hangman unless I can find Seurat and force him to confess that Jean-Pierre is innocent.”

Mirabeau licked his thin lips. “Mon Dieu, this is a disaster,” he muttered. “I warned Louis. I told him that he was courting trouble to betray Seurat, but he would not listen to me.”

Philippe’s hand dropped as he frowned in sudden confusion. “Betray Seurat? What the hell are you rambling about?”

Clearly shaken, Mirabeau returned to his chair and dropped onto the cushions.

“We were in Egypt.”

“Who?”

“Your father and I.” He shrugged. “I believe that Stafford was there, as well. And, of course, the ridiculous army of servants you must hire when you travel through the desert.”

Philippe returned to the desk to pour himself a measure of the cognac. He had a sense that he was going to have need of the potent spirit before the interview was done.

“Do you speak of the occasion when my father discovered the Egyptian tomb?” he demanded as he returned to stand before the seated gentleman.

“Oui.”

“And Seurat was there, as well?”

“Your father had hired him as a guide. He was French but he had lived in Egypt for years.” Mirabeau gave a short, humorless laugh. “We were warned that he was…unstable, but he was reputed to be the best guide in the entire country.”

“And my father would demand the best,” Philippe said dryly. At least Louis would demand the best so long as Philippe was footing the bill.

“As you say,” Mirabeau agreed.