The Black Hawk 4 by Joanna Bourne

Author:Joanna Bourne [Bourne, Joanna]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Regency, London (England), Fiction, Romance, Historical, General, Love Stories
ISBN: 9781101545577
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2011-11-01T07:00:00+00:00

Twenty-eight

JUSTINE HELD HER CUP AND CLOSED HER EYES, CONSIDERING and reconsidering each phrase of Monsieur Millian’s letter. She whispered, “‘La Dame est prête.’ The woman is ready.”

The day was warm. She sat in the shade of the huge arches of the Palais Royale. The Café Foy made the most lovely coffee, but she did not drink it. She only held it and let her thoughts finger first one phrase and then another from that letter. “What woman and what is she ready to do?” There were no obvious answers. Certainly none inside her. “If she is ready, why must they wait until August?”

“Because the fool hasn’t showed up yet.”

Hawker.

She jerked in surprise and opened her eyes. A drop, only, of her coffee spilled and fell upon the table.

Hawker stood beside her, casually inspecting the café and all within it. He laid his cane down, slantwise. It was elegantly black with a silver head, in the shape of a skull, which grinned in her direction, pleased with Hawker’s little triumph.

She would not be flustered. She had known Hawker would track her down and confront her. He had simply been very quick about it. The letter of Monsieur Millian mentioned the Palais Royale, where he had overheard the plotters. It was entirely predictable she would come here.

She hated to be predictable. “Go away. We should not be seen together.”

He did not leave. “And we never do anything we’re not supposed to.” As if fastidious, he inspected the chair, then lifted it and placed it just so. He settled himself, arranging his coat, lifting the fabric of his trousers to let it lie easily. A raised index finger signaled the waiter.

Anyone passing saw friends, meeting by chance at the Café Foy.

She said, “I suppose you are angry with me,” and did not look at him

“Why the hell should I be angry? I wake up and you’ve left me a damn letter saying you’re tired of me. Fine. Just fine.” The civilized veneer of Monsieur Adrian Hawkhurst was sometimes very thin indeed.

She said, “I did not say I was tired of you.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

“I said we will no longer be lovers.”

“You didn’t say it. You wrote me a buggering letter.”

She had seen Hawker truly angry only three times. He became incalculable and menacing when he was angry.

He did not dismay her in the least. “It was a gracefully written letter and took me considerable time to compose. We have been foolish. Now we will cease to be foolish.”

“Oh, right. We’re going to embrace good sense, you and me. We’re going to be prudent. Fuck that.”

“There is no need to be crude.”

Silence fell because the waiter was hurrying in Hawker’s direction to be attentive. This was the same waiter who had been leisurely in attending to her. Now, he chose to bestir himself.

She waited. Hawker ordered coffee and a carafe of water, taking his time. Maddeningly, taking his time. He saw there were pastries. Fresh? They had been made today? The waiter was quite sure? Then he would have one of those.

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