Page 73 of The Spy and the Nightingale
A shudder travelled the length of his body.
“I trust you not to risk meunreasonably,” she whispered. She knew her point won when he pushed his hips forward.
Why am I crying?She wanted this, wholly. He angled his head back, hands framing her face. His thumb smoothed along one cheekbone.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. They hadn’t long, a few hours at most, and he needed to sleep for most of that if he could. But they had a little while yet for this. “Give me this,” she said.One last time.“Let me give you this.” She slid her arms along his rib cage, pulling him back down to her.
“Aye.” He kissed her, moving deeply.
At some point they readjusted onto their sides, facing, legs entwined. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the intimacy, until she remembered that this was the last time. She would gather the sweetness to her, then, while she could. She opened her eyes,looking fully into his as she arched against him, breaking to pieces around him.
He kissed her again with devastating tenderness and withdrew from her body, his muscles tensed to take him away from her.
She caught his wrist, halting him, and curled fingers around his cock. “Show me how you need it.”
His eyes blazed as he closed a hand over hers, guiding her fingers through the grip and rhythm. His throat worked as he tipped his head back, eyes closed. She watched his face through it, beautiful in its fierceness. Climax took him all at once, his hand tight overtop of hers.
He would sleep soon; she had not imagined the shadows of exhaustion on his face. She rolled to her back, tugging him with her.
“I’ll be too heavy for you,” he murmured, but his full weight was already relaxing onto her, his eyes half shut.
“No, you won’t.” She guided his cheek against her shoulder, wrapping arms around him to hold him fast. “I can bear it,” she added softly, although she thought he might already have been asleep.
After tomorrow, she would never see him again. There was no point in wishing it otherwise.
Chapter 21
Dubois sent a note instructing Nate to arrive at Cercle des Étrangers at eight o’clock on Monday night so that he might first dine with Dubois and Compton at a private members’ dinner before they enjoyed the high-stakes gaming.
The invitation-only nature of the salon meant none of his men could have entry. It was possible Baudelaire could have arranged for one of his own men to attend, but Nate didn’t know what purported relationship, if any, they might have established with Dubois given the scope of Baudelaire’s own work. It seemed wisest to go in alone rather than risk further elevating Dubois’s suspicions.
Thus, unlike Frascati’s, there would be no one else nearby should matters go poorly. He would have to trust his instincts and play whatever cards came his way, in every sense.
Dubois had thus far been the more overt threat, but it was Compton he was tasked with investigating. With careful maneuvering, he might manage a private conversation with Compton at some point in the evening.
Despite limited sleep, his nerves buzzed, his mind sharpening with the purposeful focus required when every word, every action, was of utmost importance.
Cercle des Étrangers was in quartier Chaussée-d’Antin in the Hôtel d’Augny. The last rays of an autumn sun turned the buff-colored cut-stone façade to gold. He gave his name at the door and was informed that M.Dubois and M.Compton were expecting him. A silent man led him up a grand staircase and into a sumptuous dining room. The long table in the center, covered with blindingly white linen, was laid extravagantly with sparkling cut glass and shining cutlery.
Patrons lounged in conversational groups at the perimeter of the room; Dubois and Compton were in one corner. Dubois noticed his entry first, inclining his head and offering a thin smile.
He nodded in acknowledgment, claiming a glass of wine from a passing waiter as he made his way to the men.
“Bonsoir, M.Beaumont.” Dubois’s voice was entirely neutral. He could equally be genuinely pleased or plotting Nate’s imminent incapacitation. “As you see, we have rid ourselves this evening of Baron Cuvelier. He is most useful with his money, but for matters more private, we find it best to leave him to his drink and hismaîtresse entretenue.”
A disdainful tone served. “I salute your wisdom in that, having met the man.” Better not to address Cuvelier’s mistress if Dubois was fishing.
“Cuvelier is very poor at gaming besides,” Compton remarked. “If he were playing at Hewards, I would be happy to encourage that tendency, but when house money does not benefit me, I find it merely tiresome to witness.”
“It is most fortunate for him that public gaming in Paris is now more moderate than under Napoléon,” Dubois added.
He’d heard anecdotes from both Amélie and Baudelaire aboutthe outrageous extremes during Bonaparte’s early rule. “I’ve heard interesting stories of Cercle des Étrangers in its heyday.”
Dubois gestured dismissively. “Excesses were celebrated, and many men—and women too—were in here ruined in a matter of minutes, on a single hand of cards or roll of dice.” Dubois caught his eye. “And many a seditious plot took wing here.”
He held Dubois’s gaze while sipping his drink. “Another avenue of ruination for the unwise.”
