The door opened. The steps went down. She rearranged her shawl and, side by side, she and Kevin entered the restaurant.
* * *
Women ate with men in the good Parisian restaurants. Nevertheless, Monsieur Forestier had taken a private dining room for their meal. It had windows that looked out over the Île de la Cité and the apse end of Notre Dame. Rosamund went to those windows immediately and stood in the golden light heralding the end of the day.
Monsieur Forestier joined her there. He pointed out this building and that. He smiled. He flattered. Kevin watched, deciding whether to mind or not.
He had introduced Rosamund as his partner in the enterprise. Forestier had looked as if lightning had struck him when he saw her. When Forestier gave him a sly, quizzical look, the meaning of which any man would know, he had given one back that was equally eloquent. No, she is not my lover. Damn, but he was more than decent, being honest like that. He had really wanted to send a dangerous glare that said Touch her and we will duel at dawn.
Now Forestier appeared to be cultivating the garden beyond the gate that had been left open. It didn’t help that women probably found Forestier handsome. He was in his thirties, dark of hair and eye, and very Gallic.
Rosamund, to her credit, did not encourage it. Kevin wasn’t convinced she even realized their host was flirting. Forestier spoke English, but haltingly, so his intentions might have been interpreted as nothing more than graciousness.
The restaurant owner arrived at the door. Their host went to speak with him. Rosamund sidled close to Kevin.
“I’m not sure what I expected, but not such a young man. He can’t be more than thirty-five.” Her gaze assessed Forestier from the distance. “I suppose he is handsome in a French sort of way. I wonder why he did not bring his wife this evening.”
“I didn’t realize he was married.”
She nodded. “I asked him, indirectly. He pointed out a school, and I asked if his children attend it. He was obligated to say they attend one near the university.”
“He teaches there.” Not sure that she comprehended how things worked in France, he added, “Wives do not stop French men from pursuing women. It is commonplace to have a mistress here.”
“As it is at home.”
“Less discreet here.”
“The discretion at home is recent, I’ve been told. Ah, here he comes. When will we talk about his enhancement?”
“When he chooses. After dinner, I expect.”
The dinner was delicious. Rosamund tried everything without even asking what she ate. She gave Monsieur
Forestier all her attention. It wasn’t until the main course that Kevin realized she was plenty aware that Forestier was flirting with her and permitting the man to think she found it flattering.
Perhaps she really did.
Jealousy had simmered all evening, but now it flared into something more. He regretted not responding to that silent male query differently.
When the plates were cleared and cognac was served, Forestier appeared content to drink on with a lovely woman and to hell with business. Kevin could tell that Rosamund grew impatient. Finally, she stood.
“I find that the wine has tired me. Mr. Radnor, perhaps you will bring me to the carriage. Then you can return and finish this fine meal.” She gave Forestier a dazzling smile. “Your hospitality will long be remembered. It is one of the most wonderful experiences of my first visit to your city.”
Forestier looked sad to see her go. Kevin escorted her down to the main salon, then out to the carriages.
“He would have talked about nothing all night if I remained,” she said. “I am annoyed he will not discuss business in front of a woman, especially when it is her business, but better if I retreat so progress can be made.”
He handed her into the carriage. “Tomorrow I will tell you what happened.”
“Not until late afternoon. I have some place I intend to go earlier.” She gave him a sharp glance. “I hope that you will come to an agreement with him tonight.”
* * *
Rosamund sat in the hired carriage she had asked the hotel to procure for her. The street looked to be a fine one, much like the streets in Mayfair. The homes appeared of similar size to those in that neighborhood too, only they had a different style. They had very steep roofs, for one thing. The long windows appeared similar to the kind the hotel had, ones that swung out to open instead of rising up.
The coachman had asked her twice already if all was well because she had remained in the carriage so long after it stopped. She kept watching a door on one of the houses, wishing it would open and Charles would step out. How much easier this would be if she could simply come upon him while he walked along.
It was not to be. She steeled her courage and rapped on the little window. The coachman climbed down and came to help her out. She took stock of her ensemble and made sure her bonnet was not askew. Stomach churning with excitement and trepidation, she walked to that door.
An old man opened it. She handed him her card and asked to see Charles Copley. She imagined Charles’s surprise when he saw the card, and not only because she had called. Charles would probably be astonished to see that she even had a card, let alone one with that street on it.
She waited for the rush of steps coming toward her and Charles bursting into this reception hall and his happy surprise in seeing her. She had seen this day in her mind many times, like a play unfolding on a stage. Now she was here, and she almost wept with her relief that the long wait was over.
Steps. Not rushing, but measured and slow. The older man reappeared. He gestured for her to follow him.
They walked through the house, past a dining room and
