Page 72 of Misadventures with a Duke

That relaxes his jaw but puckers his brow. “She who?”

“Magique De Lys.” I have to order my shoulders down from my ears before going on. “Just before Carl and Kavia found me and put me in the cabinet, she was murdered before my eyes.”

“Désolé.”

While I know he means it, the sentiment does not get completed in his eyes. His gaze rakes across the empty air, as if he is searching the invisible molecules for specific information. “Magique de Lys,” he repeats. “Was she not the Versailles salon servant with whom you were having a fun bit of bread and butter?”

“You mean the woman whom I asked to be my wife?”

At once, his gape grows. “Oh.”

That rings with more sincerity. I dip a nod of appreciation. Max had no way of knowing what Magique had come to mean to me. How much she still means, considering it has been impossible to forget her. These bizarre circumstances have given me no choice.

A predicament that Maximillian deserves to know in full.

“I was with her…minutes before Kavia put me into the wardrobe. But she was killed before my eyes. Taken by the blade of a Jacobin lunatic.”

He swears. I yearn to join him but must focus on holding back the additional part of the revelation. That the zealot was Magique’s own brother.

“I thought my own story had some insane parts.”

I flatten my spine along the wall. The reinforcement is needed now.

“And that is hardly not the end of mine.”

Another gritted swear word. “There is more?”

I steel myself again before going on. “Raegan Tavish…”

Despite how calmly I approach the pronunciation, the syllables are like sparks on my lips and tongue. More markedly, they ignite things in Maximillian too. Things that have my posture stiffer than the wall behind it.

“Is part of the team who saved my life,” he growls. “So just to be clear here, brother. If you have led her to believe—”

I pummel the wall with both fists. Just one pound. Fortunately, it is enough. “I have led her nowhere.”

The corners of his eyes tighten. “Meaning what?”

Another long inhalation. An exhalation that feels like hell. “She is a mirror image of Magique.”

I am unsure what to expect now. But Maximillian’s continued calm is not on that list.

“You are mistaken,” he decrees. “You must be.”

He is not the only De Leon with knowledge of quiet control.

“If Kavia reappeared and hurled you through time again, would you forget Alessandra’s face?”

His nostrils flare. He flicks a glance toward me—a silent and grudging touché. “But just her face?” he prods. “There is nothing below her neck to tell you—”

“I have learned enough.” While I know he will not press for every intimate detail behind that, I acknowledge he will not settle for four plain words. “The scar on her chest…it is the exact same location where Magique was stabbed.”

He believes me. I see it now. I just wish the confidence felt better, especially as he paces toward the other end of the awning.

Once there, he does not turn. One of his long arms extends over his close-coifed head, bracing to a support pole for the canopy. He looks up into the mist that clings to the air. The blue-silver light from the artificial lights traces an interesting line along his strong, determined profile.

“So you think they are connected somehow? Magique and Raegan?”

“Unsure.” I drop my stare back to the tops of my feet, hoping my tone conveys that sincerity. “But ever since I got here, there have been instances…”