Hugh studied his face, then he raised his brows. 'I see. Well, the picture's becoming clearer.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'Look at the facts: Madeleine's the first woman you've been with in God knows how long, and you canna stop thinking about her. After all the years you've wanted to kill Grey, now you never will be able to, and something like that would normally consume you. The fact that Grey bested you should rankle as nothing else, much less the fact thatJane shot him when you could no'. In the past, you would have made an attempt to thrash that MacReedy whelp even if you had to crawl to do it, but you canna be bothered about anything because all you want to do is get back toher .'
Refusing to be baited, Ethan said, 'I want to enjoy her for a few weeks. Nothing more.'
'I wish you all the luck in the world with that, brother,' Hugh said, then Ethan thought he heard him mutter, 'Welcome to the cult.'
Chapter Fourteen
This was where Madeleine Van Rowen lived?
Ethan gazed up at the six-story building before him. The dilapidated structure had obviously once been a mansion but now looked as if it would collapse if he put a shoulder to it and leaned. Most surprising, it was in the middle of La Marais, one of the worst slums in Paris.
Madeleine was believed to live on the top floor—usually taken by only the poorest, since continually carrying water and food up the stairs was grueling.
He climbed the front steps to the stoop, then wound around drunken men fixed there in varying stages of unconsciousness. But the door was locked. He'd have to wait her out, or wait for another tenant to open the door. Descending the steps once more, he dropped back to the closest corner. He leaned against a wall and drew his knee up, surveying the world she inhabited.
Men strutted by with machetes or guns visibly secured in their belts. Prostitutes actively solicited—then took their work into every alley. Children ran naked and grubby in the streets.
It reminded him of the rookeries in London, except this was more harrying, more chaotic. If Madeleine truly lived here, then every day she passed this madness, waspart of it.
He tried to picture her here among these street people, elegant and fragile in her blue gown, and he couldn't whatsoever. Nor could he believe that Madeleine had chosen to live in this place over the luxury of St. Roch. He could too easily imagine Sylvie hearing the rumors about Madeleine in London and punishing her daughter for failing to secure either Quin or the count. So why hadn't Ethan found Madeleine clawing at the door in St. Roch begging for entrance…?
Just this morning, Ethan had arrived in Paris, a full ten days after leaving the MacReedys'. Once he'd checked into a hotel, he'd begun his search for her in St. Roch, at the address Quin had given him.
Ethan hadn't wanted Sylvie to see him, so he'd asked around the neighborhood, to uncover if Madeleine was even in town, or possibly where her favorite haunts were.
No one had any idea who he was talking about until he'd described Madeleine.
A gardener thought she came by the house a couple of times a month. A groomsman had caught an omnibus with her a week ago. She hadn't gotten off at the last stop before the slums. He'd remembered wondering why a woman like her had continued on.
Ethan had recalled that Sylvie's former address had been in La Marais—and he'd discovered that, for some reason, it was Madeleine'spresent address.
Her trail had been easy to pick up here. It seemed everyone in La Marais knew 'MaddyAnglaise ' or 'Maddyla Gamine ,' and they obviously liked her, because they were closemouthed with information concerning her.
A group of older women sitting on a stoop had ignored him, smoking their pipes and chatting—until he'd flashed the diamond ring he'd brought with him in case Madeleine proved…averse. When he revealed his plans to wed her, the women couldn't seem to direct him to this building swiftly enough, and they only asked that Ethan remember their names so that Maddy would 'passez le gras,' or 'pass the fat'—give a kickback to the ones who'd assisted in securing her good fortune.
As Ethan waited, he mused that Madeleine might actually be persuaded to come with him. Even after she saw his face. Surely she'd be desperate to leave this place any way she could.
Madeleine Van Rowen beholden to me.He liked that idea—
Ethan tensed when he spotted the door to her building opening. A tall, gray-haired woman with a bucket emerged from the dark interior. She strode around the drunken men fixed on the stoop, seeming not to notice them, then made for a pump not a block away.
The door was easing closed behind her. Fearing Madeleine might have warned others about a tall Scot, he dashed for the entry, then slipped through the doorway. Inside, he made for the pitch-black stairwell, forced to use the rope banister as he climbed blindly. The steps were unsound, the corridor so tight he had to sidle up.
What if she was indeed upstairs? He could see her in mere seconds….
As he alighted on the sixth-floor landing a board groaned beneath him, and a blowsy woman shot out of her room—a whore, by the look of her heavily painted cheeks and lips. A glance behind her confirmed Ethan's guess. In a haze of cigarette smoke, a man lay tied to her bed and blindfolded, turning his head dumbly at different sounds.
Ten minutes in this neighborhood—not to mention in Madeleine's home—had certainly answered Ethan's question about how the lass had learned to fondle him so well. She must see men serviced hourly.
'I'm looking for Madeleine Van Rowen,' he told the woman.
'And who are you?' she asked, blinking.
Good, she spoke English. Ethan could speak French but preferred not to, outside of penalty of death.
'Are you the man from London?'
Had Madeleine spoken of him? If so, he couldn't imagine what she'd said. Still, he took a chance. 'Aye.'
'Which one? The first one or the second?' At his nonplussed look, she said, 'The Englishman or the Scot?'
Madeleine must have been talking about Quin. Still thinking about that bastard. 'The…Scot.'
She shut the door behind her, ignoring the man's protests, then clasped her hands, her mien delighted. 'Maddée told Corrine and me all about you! The masquerade,n'est-ce pas ?' She wagged her finger at him. 'You weretrès mauvais to our Maddée. But here you've come for her at last!'
Madeleine told her friends all about me?He couldn't imagine what she'd said, or what, in particular, they had deemedtrès mauvais .
She leaned in and said in a conspiratorial tone, 'You're just in time, too, with the debts coming due.'What debts? 'I'mBea .' Bea was simple, he realized. Kind, but simple. 'I'm one of Maddée's good friends.'
'Aye, Bea.' He feigned a look of recognition. 'I've heard much about you.'
She patted her hair, pleased. Then she frowned and pointed directly at his face. 'Maddée didn't say you were battle-scarred. From the Crimean War, yes?'
'No, no' exactly—' He broke off because she'd already shrugged and turned to another apartment door.
'Maddée's not here just now—out working.' She dug in her blouse for a ribbon around her neck with keys strung together. 'But I'll let you into her room to wait.'
'Perhaps you could direct me to her place of employment?'
'Who can keep up with her? The bridge or the corner. Different taverns and cafés. Who knows?'
He felt his face tighten. 'And what exactly does she do?' In the nearly seven weeks since he'd been with her, she'd become destitute. Who knew if she'd succumbed to her neighbor's profession?
At his expression, Bea cried, 'Oh, no, Maddée serves drinks or occasionally sells cigarettes.' She proudly added, 'Turkishones.' Then in a chiding tone, she said, 'Our Maddée's a good girl. Notpopular in that way at all.'
'Of course,' he said smoothly, relieved. 'I just doona like that she has to work.'
Bea's eyes lit up. 'Exactement!' she exclaimed, bustling to open the door. 'So, here is her room.' She smiled widely as she showed him in.
