Larcenous Lady Read Online Free PDF Page A

a niece, she’d be a pattern card for some man.”
    “That’s right,” Pronto said. He found it expedient to agree when Dick was in this mood. “Charney says ‘Jump,’ and Deirdre says ‘Which way?’ Jumps like a rabbit. No backbone.”
    Dick clenched his lips more tightly and increased the length of his stride. No backbone, but such a face! He was ambushed by a host of memories. As long as he didn’t see Deirdre in the flesh, he could go on being furious with her. One glimpse and he was undone by those stormy, speaking gray eyes that went right through his flesh and touched his heart. Such long lashes, fanning her cheeks. Such sweet lips, quivering in emotion. Her face reminded him of a porcelain statue, a clear, translucent white, tinged with pink on the cheeks.
    A muscular spasm moved at the back of his jaw as he firmed his resistance. She knew exactly where he had planned to go—with her. It should be Deirdre beside him now, not that chattering idiot, Pronto. Damme if he didn’t feel a tear sting his eyes. He blinked it away and said in a rough voice, “It’s colder than Réal’s Canadian arctic here. I’ll be glad to get to Italy.” Of course it was the cold that made his eyes water.
    “Cold?” Pronto complained. “The sweat’s pouring down my spine. Can’t you slow down to a gallop? I’m winded.”
    Belami slowed down, but it didn’t stop the wind from stinging his eyes. It didn’t ease the angry hammering of his heart or dim the image of Deirdre Gower that was burned into his mind.
     
     

Chapter Three
     
    Belami’s trip to Paris was a virtual dash. His proud “I won’t vary my itinerary one iota” was soon revised to “There’s no point dawdling in little villages.” He stopped at Amiens long enough to peep into the cathedral, but of the ramparts, the wall, and the five gates he had only a glimpse in passing. Pronto didn’t even get to see the head of Saint John the Baptist in the church, which he’d been looking forward to with keen interest.
    The whole flat plane of northern France passed in a blur. Belami didn’t know what route Mrs. Sutton meant to take, but he knew she would stop at Paris. Belami’s groom, Pierre Réal, was in alt. Here he was in the home of his fathers, with a better grasp of the language than his master. He was not only permitted but actually urged to set a hot pace. To add to his joy, he was told to keep an eye peeled for Sutton’s carriage. He never did see it, but any time twelve miles an hour became too slow for him, he could whip up the team and let on he had.
    They arrived at the city gates in the fading light of day, fatigued and bounced to a jelly from their mad dart. Belami directed the carriage to the Hotel d’Orleans in the Faubourg St. Germain. As he signed the register, he quickly ran an eye up the list of patrons. His quarry had not registered, but they would be spending some time in Paris, and the Orleans was a good central base from which to operate.
    Belami continued to profess the greatest aversion to Miss Gower’s company, but Réal had soon weaseled his way into his master’s confidence. “You have the little job for me?” Réal  asked archly. “Tomorrow morning you want I take a run around the hotels and see if la Mégère has arrived?”
    “If they haven’t, you might just speak to the clerks and cross their palms with silver. Ask them to notify me here as soon as they check in. It will not be one of the finer hotels,” he added, with thorough British understatement.
    Réal was a small, swarthy French-Canadian, sharp of eye, sharp of nose and tongue. “ La Mégère, she don’t spend l’argent freely.” He nodded knowingly. “The shrew” was his endearing sobriquet for the duchess. “De fait, she won’t put up at an hotel at all, melor’. It will be furnished lodgings and a public dining room for that one. This will be a big job,” he pointed out. Though a demon for work—the bigger the job the better—Réal was