Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(110)

She made a slight sound and then closed her eyes, refusing to look at him any longer.

“You are thinking of her,” he said. “I know that you care for her. You did not mean to be cruel to her, but you were cruel, angel, in letting her think that she could be more than what she is. Teaching her English, showing her how to crook her little finger at teatime, giving her a nice dress . . . she has begun to dream your kind of dreams, and while they might have come true for you, they would never for her. Do you think any man would ever want her for something other than a night of whoring?”

More rivulets of water slipped from beneath her lashes, and she nodded defiantly.

“Then keep your eyes closed, jolie ange, for you are blind.”

He stood up and left her, pausing to murmur something to the Gypsy woman before opening the tiny door. Rosalie tried to scream as she saw the portal swing shut, but she could make no sound. Mutely she turned her head and was enclosed once more in darkness, to contend with her turbulent thoughts and her racing heart.

Mireille’s steps slowed as she returned from her unrewarding search for the purse. She knew exactly where the Gypsy wagon had been, but it was gone now. It had disappeared. Her sparkling coffee eyes narrowed in sudden confusion, and she walked over to the spot where the wagon had been located. There were fresh tracks in the ground left by the metal-rimmed wheels.

“Mademoiselle?” she spoke aloud hesitantly. “Guillaume?”

To her vast relief, Guillaume seemed to appear out of thin air. He looked tired, and a little angry. “I could not find the money,” she told him. “I am so sorry . . . I hope there was not much in . . .” Her voice trailed off into bewildered silence as she cast a quick glance around the scene. “Where is mademoiselle?” she asked. He did not answer, his face turning blank and expressionless. “Where is she?” Mireille demanded, panic seizing her quickly.

“She is well. Mira, calm down or I will lose my patience—”

“I have already lost mine! Take me to her!” “That isn’t possible. Now, come with me, and I will explain what happened. I have made some arrangements, Mira, and we are going to receive lots of money, enough money for you to have whatever you—”

“I don’t want money, I want to see mademoiselle. You’ve done something with her, haven’t you?” Mireille stared at him, her face looking sickly as all the color left her skin. “Oh, no, Guillaume . . . why?” She began to cry, and he darted his eyes from the right to the left in order to see if anyone was watching them. “Mira, shut up and come with me, or I promise before God that you’ll never see me again.”

“What good are your promises?” she sobbed, but dutifully she followed him until they were a great distance from the village square. Then he stopped to talk to her privately, cursing as he saw how red and swollen her eyes had become.

“Merde, don’t weep anymore, Mira! This is not worth crying over, unless those are tears of happiness. We are rich, do you understand?”

“Where is she? Did you hurt her?”

“No,” he said in disgust. “Do not worry over her.” Mireille could not seem to stop crying as she stared at him, although she put a small hand to her mouth and tried to keep her tears inside. She had never been afraid of her brother until now. Something inside her heart died as she realized what he had done, but some part of her still loved him, and another part grieved for him, for herself, and especially for Rosalie.

“You were the one in monsieur’s hotel room,” she whispered. “You were the one who cut him with the knife. I did not dare even think about it until now, but in my heart I was afraid it had been you.”

“I only used the knife because he was trying to kill me.”

“That was because you were trying to kidnap Rosalie!” she cried. “Why?”

“I have made some important contacts,” Guillaume said. “Very important, Mira . . . they have influence that reaches across the Channel. It was something that they told me to do, because they knew I had been working at the hotel and that Monsieur de Berkeley was staying there as well.”

“Why kidnap Rosalie? To hurt monsieur?” “No, no, no . . . what you don’t understand, Mira, is that they have both been lying to you since the beginning. Her name is not Rosalie Berkeley but Rosalie Belleau. I myself have seen proof of it, in a letter from her mother’s—”

Bewildered, Mireille shook her head. “She is not monsieur’s cousin?”

“She is the illegitimate daughter of Beau Brummell. Rumors about it have gone all through Paris and most of England. I’m not certain why someone wants her, but whoever it is has offered a staggering amount of money for her, and now you and I have a large share of it.”

“I don’t want any of it!” Mireille said fiercely. “You deserve most of it. I had no idea you were going to manage to get so close to her . . . or to Monsieur de Berkeley, for that matter. You’re invaluable, Mira.”

“How can you do this?” she demanded, her eyes wild. “How can you, when they have been so good to us?”

“Good to us?” Guillaume sneered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. They’ve offered us a few crumbs of benevolence and pity. But money, Mira . . . money will feed and keep us much better than the shreds of kindness they offered us.”