Portrait of a Scandal. ANNIE BURROWS
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the trees which provided welcome shade, but also there were stalls selling everything from lemonade to toys. There were street entertainers every few yards, as well: jugglers and acrobats and even a one-man band. Sophie was particularly taken with the man who professed to be a scientist, demonstrating the amazing hydraulic capabilities of water. What he actually did was squirt it at unsuspecting passers-by through a variety of ingenious contraptions, to the delight of his audience.
Eventually, just as her feet were beginning to feel rather too tight for her walking boots, and Sophie’s energy was visibly waning, Monsieur Le Brun indicated a café.
‘Tortoni’s,’ he said. ‘It is, at night, the most fashionable place to be seen after a trip to the opera. But it also sells the best ice cream in the world. Mademoiselle Sophie will love it.’
Amethyst bit back the urge to enquire how he knew the ice cream was the best in the world, since she was perfectly sure he’d never travelled that far, for Sophie’s tired little face had lit up at the mention of ice cream.
And today was all about Sophie. She would do nothing to mar her enjoyment.
She was glad she’d kept her tongue between her teeth when Monsieur Le Brun promptly secured them a table in a very good spot, in spite of the popularity of the café.
‘This is lovely,’ she therefore said, as they took their places at a table which had a view over the bustling Boulevard.
He almost dropped his menu.
Amethyst couldn’t help smiling. He’d got so used to her sniping at him over every little thing that he didn’t know how to handle a compliment. She just couldn’t resist the urge to shock him even further.
‘You have made Sophie very happy this morning. Thank you, monsieur.’
His cheeks went pink.
Dear Lord, she’d actually made the poor man blush.
She gave him space to recover by helping Sophie choose what flavour ice to have.
And when she next looked up, it was to see Nathan Harcourt making his way across the crowded café to their table.
What was he doing here?
She took in his unkempt clothing, the satchel over his shoulder, and put two and two together. Since this was a fashionable place for people to gather, he was bound to pick up custom here.
Yes, that explained his presence in Tortoni’s. But why was he coming to her table? What could he possibly want?
And then she noted the determined jut to his chin as he stalked towards them.
Well, she’d wondered how he would react to being given the equivalent of a year’s wages for a drawing that had taken him ten minutes, at most. It looked as though she was going to find out.
From the light of battle she could see in his eyes as he drew closer, she’d achieved her aim of humiliating him by highlighting the difference in their stations, just as he’d done to her ten years ago.
Only he wasn’t going to crawl away and weep until there were no more tears left, the way she’d done. He looked as though he was going to attempt to get even for the insult.
Well, let him try. Just see how far he could get, that was all. She was no longer some starry-eyed débutante, ready to believe glib flattery and vague half-promises. She was a hardheaded business woman.
And she never, but never, let any man get the better of her.
* * *
Indignation carried him all the way across the crowded café to her table. How dare she send her lover to his rooms with all that money?
The Frenchman had been every bit as condescending as he’d expected. The only thing that had surprised him was how early he’d called. Nothing would have dragged Nathan out at that ungodly hour if he’d had Miss Dalby in his bed.
Nor would he have stumbled to the door this morning if he’d had any idea he would have come face to face with the sneering Frenchman, rather than one of his neighbours.
And if he hadn’t been so fuddled with sleep he would have refused every last sou. Though it had only been after Monsieur Le Brun had sketched that mocking bow and he’d shut the door on him that he’d opened the purse and seen just how great an insult the man had offered him. Without having to say one word.
Sadly for him, he’d given himself away. The moment he’d bowed, Nathan recalled why his face had looked so familiar. So now he had the ammunition to make his stay in Paris extremely uncomfortable, if he chose.
He was here to deliver a warning of his own.
Get out of his city, or by God he would shout the Frenchman’s secret from the rooftops.
What a pair they were for secrets. Though it didn’t look as though she was trying to keep her secret hidden any more. The proof that she’d lied to him ten years before was sitting openly at table with her. Digging into her bowl of ice cream with a rapt expression, her little feet tucked neatly onto the top rung of her chair. Enjoying the simple pleasure with the total concentration of the truly innocent.
He snatched off his hat and thrust his fingers through his hair. She wasn’t just ‘an illegitimate baby’. She’d grown up, in the years since he’d learned of her existence, into a very real little person.
And no matter how much resentment he bore the mother, only a blackguard would expose a child to danger by telling the world the truth about its mother’s lover.
The child noticed him staring at her and looked straight back at him with unabashed curiosity.
He couldn’t see anything of Miss Dalby in her features. Nor her colouring. She must take after her father, he supposed.
Her father. He sucked in a sharp breath.
Of course the child had a father, it was just that he’d been too angry, before, to think of anything beyond the way Miss Dalby had deceived him. The night Fielding had told him about the rumour he’d heard about Miss Dalby’s having an illegitimate baby, he’d felt as though he’d been robbed at gunpoint. Those words had stolen his whole life from him. The life he’d planned on having with her. The house in the country, the children he’d imagined running about in the orchard where chickens scratched among the windfalls. Gone in the blink of an eye. He’d been incapable of thinking about anything beyond his own loss.
But she hadn’t come by a baby on her own. There had been a man. A man who must have had fair hair and blue eyes.
And no conscience whatsoever.
Damn it all, Miss Dalby had only been seventeen when he’d started to think he was falling in love with her. So she could not have been more than sixteen when...when some rogue had seduced and abandoned her. Nor made any provision for his brat, if she was obliged to hire out her body to men like this one.
He glared at her French lover again, though his anger was veering wildly from one player in the drama to another with confusing rapidity.
Her parents, for instance. They’d brought her up to London for that Season. They must have known. She couldn’t have hidden a baby from them. They must have told her to pretend to be innocent. At that age, and after what she’d already been through, she wouldn’t have dared defy them. Besides, properly brought-up girls did not set up their will in opposition to their parents.
No more than sons of the same age. He’d only been in London himself at the express command of his own father. Forbidden from exploring his talent as an artist, he’d been pretending to think about choosing some other, respectable profession, whilst really trying to work out if there was any honourable way he could break free from family expectations.
For his father wasn’t a man to cross, any more than he guessed the Reverend Dalby had been.
It had only been last night that he’d started to wonder what had become of her all these years. Before that, he’d refused to allow his thoughts to