Page 40 of Misadventures with a Duke

“There are bears nearby? How do all the horseless wagons not hit them?”

Thankfully, I don’t get a chance to decide on a reaction to that. Someone’s swinging open the kitchen’s back door with comforting intensity. Never have I been more grateful to see Drue, but never has she seemed more wigged about seeing me.

“Whoa. What’s happened? You’re whiter than bleached cotton but more worn than this T-shirt.”

“Thanks,” I deadpan as she produces a massively sized souvenir shirt from Spiderman: Turn off the Dark. The garment is way more faded than it should be. “Okay, wow. That’s worth either ten thousand bucks or ten cents.” Inwardly, I’m leaning toward the latter. “I still can’t believe what you always find at that place. You probably forked up a twenty and walked out with change.”

She bites her bottom lip. “Hrmmm, not this time.”

“Wait. What?” My gaze bugs. “You paid more than twenty for this? On consignment?”

“No. I paid more than twenty for this.”

Her emphasis overlaps with my louder-than-acceptable gasp. Can’t be helped it. “Drue. Are you serious?”

She smirks. “Would you speak to me again if I left this behind?”

As I take the denim jacket from her, with its rear panel covered by a hand-painted Moulin Rouge windmill and the words Come What May in elegant lettering, I almost tear up. “Now I really officially love you.”

“I know.” She preens. “Especially because this should complete things perfectly.”

After she unpins the beret from her wig and hands it over, I tackle-hug her until we’re exchanging loony giggles. “Thank you, woman,” I say with soft sincerity. “This is going to help in more ways than one. I’m starving, so that means we’ve got to grab something on the way back to Allie’s place.”

It takes her less than three seconds to fully stiffen away from me. “Ah, no,” she says at once, earning my answering glower. “The more I think about it, definitely no. Logan has no way of quickly tracking Agents Lautrec and Degas, but how long before he wonders if this De Leon is related to the guy on the main marquee of the Hemline Studios building?”

“Shit,” I mutter. “I didn’t consider that.”

Bastien’s reaction is blessedly more reserved. “Maximillian,” he murmurs, seeming to connect more facts for himself. “So…he is here too? In this time period? Is he thriving?”

I reach for his hand, reacting to the stress it clearly took to get both questions out. “Yes to both. He’s happy and in love with our friend Alessandra.”

“The woman in the other images with him,” he supplies. “The ones that moved in that box.”

My double-take is instant—as is my new awareness of his fast-thinking mind on my too-damn-aware libido. “Yes,” I finally say. “The mini video keeper. Errr…” A new mini whiplash, though not with such pleasant effects on my crotch. “Wait. Holy shit. Bastien? What did you do with that? The video box? The one that you had when you first left the apartment?”

His brows push toward each other. “I…dropped it.” But he really gets me with his sharp blush. “And after that, it was crushed. My sincerest apologies, Raegan. I was guarding it like a treasure, but I heard a crowd yelling from below my feet and a massive crash. By the time I went down the steps to investigate, I was pushed forward and into another moving box. A much larger one. I was jostled, and the one in my hands fell somewhere into the tunnel…”

Forces stronger than stress are clearly taking over him now. I squeeze his fingers harder, hoping my reassurance helps. When he only swallows like there’s a grapefruit in his throat, I speak up.

“Bastien. Hey. Take it easy. The box is replaceable. You’re not.”

“Replaceable?”

I hear every drop of his continuing torment but can’t take the time for a full explanation.

Not when my epiphany of shock gains a mirror across D’s features. “Yo, Pompeii. Back up that lava spill. The loud sound you heard…was it more like grinding and screeching? Something like panicked reindeer in a raging snow storm?”

“Oui!” He regards her with half a smile and a lot more wonderment. “Those are quite accurate descriptors.” He regards her with new interest. “You would make an exceptional court spy, Mademoiselle Drusilla.”

“Now there’s a moonlighting goal,” D quips, though she’s not done riding her intel-gathering train. “So the big steel box probably had a number on its side. Something inside a colored circle. Do you remember what that was?”

“Indeed,” he states. “A six, emblazoned on a green circle. It was dazzling. I was puzzled about how the artist achieved perfect paint color for all of them and then applied it so smoothly.”

I give myself permission for a soft giggle, already seeing how D is using her sarcasm to battle her shock. Effective tactic, especially in light of what she says next.

“And when the train—errr, the big steel box—stopped again, why didn’t you get out of it along with the other people?”

Now he’s cocking a stare like she doesn’t comprehend the full scoop. “More people remained inside than out. And I was…curious.”