Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

“Let’s see. If that was the Rue Saint-Honoré we passed back there, this must be the Rue de Rivoli coming up. There’s sure to be a lovely little café or something looking out on the Tuileries. I’d knock my own mother over for a decent meal and a pot of tea right now. Let’s go this way.”

She tugged him along, determined to put some space between them and the Place Vendôme. Surely the whole of Paris couldn’t be bugged. As Dexter had insisted on checking each item of their clothing, they could also be reasonably certain that any surveillance at the moment consisted only of somebody following them.

“Tea and a meal, my sweet little éclair? I thought the fashionable French stuck to coffee and pastries in the morning.” Dexter was talking with one eye on the crowd, as well. Charlotte would have to remember to discuss subtlety with him. His vigilance was far too apparent.

“Oh, hang fashion. It was a long trip and I’m famished, my Adonis.”

“Good one. I rather like that.”

“You would.”

Charlotte was actually running out of ridiculous endearments, a circumstance that annoyed her as Dexter seemed to have a constant supply. It was easier thinking up sugary nicknames for ladies, she thought. One could hardly call a man honey muffin or cream puff .

Resolving to spend some time later that evening thinking up more treacly soubriquets—perhaps in French, everything sounded like an endearment in French—she marched ahead, practically dragging Dexter in her wake.

She wanted to get to the restaurant before they discussed any more serious matters. It was past the usual breakfast hour, so it would be more unpredictable, and anybody who tried to finagle a seat near theirs would be easy to spot if there were few other patrons.

“Not outside?” Dexter asked, as they were taking their seats near the back of the bistro they finally selected.

Charlotte shook her head. “It’s nice and quiet inside, I prefer it.”

When the waiter departed to allow them time with the menu, Charlotte leaned over to speak quietly, turning her head away from the window as she did so. “Too many variables outside. Too many places to hide. And there’s always the possibility of a lip reader.”

“Really? That never even occurred to me.”

“Or,” she said, “there may be other surveillance devices in play. Long-range lenses, even directional microphones like the one on my airship. Being inside will make it harder for them to get a bead on us.” An idea was trying to shape itself in the back of her mind, poking its way through. She couldn’t quite catch hold of it, though.

“So no matter where we go, we’re never really safe from observation. Is that what you’re telling me?”

For a moment, Charlotte felt sorry for Dexter. For the necessity that had gotten him involved in this. For the relative innocence he still held, that she herself had lost years ago. The underbelly of politics was an ugly thing, and those who never saw it were undoubtedly much happier for that particular ignorance.

“That’s been the case since before we left New York, mon cher .”

A smile won through his somber expression for a moment, then faded as he contemplated the reality she had presented him.

“How do you bear it?”

“We’ll learn together, I suppose.”

They ordered food, and when the waiter was back out of range they covertly assessed the other customers and discussed what to do upon their arrival back at the hotel. Charlotte must play the flighty, adoring young bride again. Dexter must be the brash entrepreneur, bent on gaining all the business knowledge he could out of the trip, honeymoon or no, while still taking time to woo his pretty wife.

And they must steal away from the hotel, always, before talking about their plans for the day, or discussing anything about the mission.

“Tomorrow you’re planning to visit Murcheson’s factory in Gennevilliers, yes?”

Dexter nodded. “We’re going to discuss the requisition process before I proceed to Nancy. He’s gathering some glassmaking prospects for me as well.”

Charlotte glanced around the room, allowing her gaze to linger for a moment on the elderly couple seated near the door. That pair and a trio of young matrons were the only other customers, and none of them looked in the least suspicious. But Charlotte had learned never to trust appearances. Very few people, if any, were what they seemed.

“You haven’t mentioned what you plan to do, to keep yourself occupied while I’m there.”

Turning back to Dexter, she gave him a simpering newlywed smile, just in case. “That’s right. I haven’t.” And then, god help her, she batted her eyelashes at him most shamefully.

She felt her heart skip a beat when his eyes flashed and narrowed, turning predatory as he leaned across the table toward her and captured one of her hands in his. And then that traitorous organ started to beat a furious tattoo as he stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb, never dropping that carnivorous gaze.

“Perhaps I shall try to coax it out of you later. We won’t be doing much talking at the hotel anyway, will we, my delectable little crème brûlée? I believe I’ll enjoy having you for dessert, Charlotte.”

She had been about to tell him her plans, having never really meant to keep the information from him, as her intention was merely to shop. Now she bit her tongue, wondering how he would coax it from her. Charlotte blushed, feeling the lurid pressure of delightful shame in her cheeks and down to her breast as the waiter approached, bearing food and tea.

Much as she wanted to give in to that feeling, wallow in it and in Dexter’s attention . . . part of her kept scanning the room, the windows and the street beyond, wondering who else might be witness to their conversation.

THEY SPENT THE day as highly visible tourists. After dinner, Dexter had made good on his affectionate threats, and Charlotte seemed to let herself disappear into the role of giggling, besotted bride for a few hours. It was easy enough, and very little talk was required. They devoured one another and lay dozing afterward, limbs wound together and tangled in the luxurious sheets.

He felt her stirring first and tightened his arm around her, not yet ready to lose the feeling of warm, loose-limbed Charlotte snuggled against his side and chest.

“Mm. No, don’t go.”

“I’ll be right back, silly.” She pushed at his chest until he relinquished her, and for the next few moments he had the pleasure of watching her as she walked about the room, finding their various pieces of discarded clothing and draping it all neatly over the back of a chair. He was less pleased when she pulled a night rail from the wardrobe and disappeared into the bathroom.

He pouted when she emerged. “You’re even more enticing with that thing on, you know,” he lied. “All it does is make me fixate on what’s underneath. You’d be better off without it.”

She just smiled and turned the lights down completely, then slipped back into bed again. “I don’t want to scandalize the maids in the morning. Poor things, they have enough to worry about.”

“I’m sure they’ve seen it all before, and far worse,” Dexter countered.

“Yes, but they haven’t seen it from me. Nor shall they.”

He grumbled a bit more, but his heart soared when she returned to the crook of his arm and nestled against him again.

“So tomorrow, my silly noodle, I must go pay a visit to Murcheson’s local operation, northwest of the city. Oh, I know,” he said, hoping he sounded as though he were quelling some gestured objection, “but it can’t be helped. I really must see more of the small parts works. And also the direct sales outfit. He does a land-office business out of that factory, he claims. I could do with expanding that way, I think.”