The Fugitive Colours (Genevieve Planché Book 2) by Nancy Bilyeau

Author:Nancy Bilyeau [Bilyeau, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2022-05-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

I assume Thomas to be so deeply exhausted that he’d collapse minutes after Hervé Gaynard and Casanova left, but he says goodnight to George and Sophie, then checks on Pierre and still my husband is too troubled for rest. He sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

“It seems foolish to think they could persuade a rich marquise that you have the secret of immortality,” I say. “And to bring up that business of the soul transfer?”

“People are desperate and gullible,” Thomas says. “That is probably the one true aspect of what was said tonight.”

“So you think Gaynard was lying?”

“A mix of truth and lies,” he answers. “But I am certain of this – that Gaynard is part of a chain of people and that chain is responsible for creating the message mentioning me written in invisible ink, the one in the French ambassador’s letter.”

I am horrified it has come to this, two reprehensible men sitting in our parlour, spinning out their reprehensible offer.

“If I hadn’t met Gaynard at Joshua Reynolds’ house, how would he have entered our lives?” I ask.

Thomas shrugs. “Some other way would have been found.”

I take my husband by the hand. “But what a dreadful coincidence that this horrible man, who possesses knowledge of us, should be an acquaintance of Joshua Reynolds.”

“A coincidence,” he repeats and frowns, staring into space.

“It has to be. Mr. Reynolds has no part in this sorry business, you surely agree?”

Thomas says his brain is no longer able to generate theories, and we finally crawl into bed.

“At least it’s over,” I say. “We wondered what sort of overture would be made, and now we know.”

His voice thick with sleep, Thomas says, “I hope… that is… the case.”

Dawn arrives far too soon. When I push myself out of bed, I can barely walk down the stairs. My limbs ache with weariness. I splash cold water onto my face to jolt me out of my haze. I can focus now, not that there’s much to like about what lies before me.

My grandfather, bless him, was never one to spout empty bits of wisdom like everything always seems better in the morning. I can’t for the life of me think who told me that. I wish I could because then I’d have someone to blame. Things seem worse this morning than they had last night. Two men were able to talk their way into the house when we weren’t here and then subject us to an unpleasant conversation with frightening implications, one that had ended with a threat.

When George and Sophie arrive for work, I will make clear to them that this must never be repeated. I’ll take steps to make our home more secure.

Thomas looks ghastly when he awakens. His eyes are bloodshot, and his complexion is grey.

“Please stay home and rest, surely the lessons can be suspended for one day?” I plead.

“No, no,” he says. Thomas resists giving in to his bouts of illness. But a moment later, I know that even he realises rest is desperately needed when he makes a suggestion.

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