Page 17 of The Spy and the Nightingale
He tapped his thumb several times against his thigh. “Amaison de tolérance. Do you know the meaning?”
She shook her head. She comprehended the words—house of tolerance—but did not understand the term.
“It is a licensed brothel, registered with thepréfecture de Police de Paris.”
“And your— This is a friend of yours? Who runs a brothel?” And he was leaving her there? Had she misjudged him after all? Misplaced trust in him?
She sat, boneless, in one of the chairs.
Nathaniel moved carefully, stopping an arm’s reach from her before crouching down. “It is nothing like Les Moineaux, nor amI anything like Compton. My friend, Amélie Laval, owns and manages L’Orchidée. She will care for you as a guest.” Nathaniel held out his right hand to her, palm up. “I know of nowhere else in this city where you will be as secure while we sort things through. She is someone safe in Paris, someone I have trusted before in dangerous times. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Yes.An oblique confirmation that he was involved in some sort of undercover work. Amélie Laval as well, in some capacity.
He’d trusted her with that knowledge. Her heart calmed a little, although her pulse still roared in her ears. She nodded her head shakily.
“I understand you’re apprehensive, but I mean you no harm. No matter what I implied last night, I don’t hurt women. I won’t hurt you. Can you trust me that far?”
His hand was still extended, palm up. His fingers were callused, a fresh ink-stain across two of them. A faded white scar ran the length of his smallest finger and disappeared into his palm.
She sought out his tiger’s-eyes once more. His hand was warm when she placed her own in it, his fingers strong as they enfolded hers.
“Yes, I’ll trust you that far.”
Nate had conferred with Amélie many times in her private sitting room and did not require her maid to show the way. As he pushed open the door, Isobel drew and released a deep breath, but her steps didn’t falter.
Amélie was seated at an embroidery frame, backlit by the late morning light that poured through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a tiny garden enclosed by a fence. The light made a halo of the cornsilk-blonde hair braided and coiled elegantly at her nape.
She rose gracefully upon hearing their entry, a smile lightingher face as she extended her hands in welcome. “Nathaniel,mon cher,how glad I am to see you this morning,” she said in French, placing her hands in his and leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “And you are Mrs. Graham. Nathaniel has sent ahead only the shortest of notes that I might expect a guest.”
“I apologize for the intrusion, Mme Laval.” Isobel’s formal French was even, but her eyes revealed her nerves.
“It is not truly Madame, for I have never been married. You must instead call me Amélie.” Amélie, smiling, drew Isobel’s hands into her own.
Isobel gave a small smile in return. “Then you must call me Isobel.”
Despite Isobel’s understandable reserve, Amélie would undoubtedly soon win her over; Amélie’s warmth was entirely unfeigned. She had always been a bit of an enigma: She was one of the main points of contact in Paris and as a result held more than her share of secrets capable of determining the fates of France and Britain alike—probably a score of other nations besides—and yet she remained one of the most genuine women of his acquaintance.
“Come, Isobel, and sit.” The tilt of an elegant wrist indicated a grouping of furniture between the windows. “Has Nathaniel fed you this morning,ma chère? No? That is most inhospitable of him, but I am sure he had his reasons, among them that he, himself, does not eat enough. I am certain for you I can do better than this.” She maneuvered Isobel towards the most comfortable of the chairs.
“She’s had little to eat in recent days,” he cautioned.
Amélie’s eyes were shrewd. “Then you must eat slowly to start. Coffee?Chocolat chaud?”
“Coffee, please. Thank you.”
“And for you,mon ami?”
“Coffee,”he replied.
“You will pardon me a moment?” The scent of roses trailed Amélie to the small side door.
He took the chair opposite Isobel’s and leaned forward in it, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. He waited until she looked at him to quietly say, “You will not only be safe with Amélie, she has knowledge and resources I don’t. You can trust her. You can be completely honest with her. And you need not fear her.”
“You trust her this much, yourself?”
“I have put my life in her hands.” While war still raged on the Continent and his work in France was decidedly more precarious, Amélie had ensured his survival more than once.
“Then I will place my trust in her, too. Not, you comprehend”—Isobel’s dimple showed briefly—“that I find myself with any great alternative in the matter.”
