e the title of Comte de Saint-Cloud, as well as that of the Duke of Sutherland. I merely prefer, when I am in France and in such places as the Fleur de Lis, not to flaunt the English title.’
It made a certain sense, Lisette conceded reluctantly; the war between France and England might be over, but in some quarters of France it would still be painting a target upon any man’s back for him to admit to being English. In a lowly French tavern such as the Fleur de Lis, it could have been lethal.
It might also be, she acknowledged grudgingly, that the Duke of Sutherland would not wish English société to know of his visit to such a bawdy establishment.
And yet...
Christian Beaumont—if that was even his true name—had never seemed to her the type of man who would come to the tavern in search of a willing woman to share his bed. Or possibly a man—since arriving at the tavern, Lisette had become aware of such relationships.
This man had drunk his share of wine that first evening, yes, and flirted a little with Brigitte and also with her, but it had not been an overt or predatory flirtation such as she had witnessed in the past of members of the aristocracy in search of a night’s bawdy entertainment.
Her mouth thinned. ‘You are English, then, rather than French?’
Another grimace. ‘I am, yes.’
‘Did Helene know this?’ Lisette now eyed him speculatively. ‘Is that the reason she pressed a pistol to your back that first evening?’
Christian would have much preferred to have had this conversation when he was not feeling at such a physical disadvantage. Although he acknowledged that might not be for some time, and Lisette was certainly entitled to some sort of explanation from him. An explanation he doubted she would take too kindly to.
‘I believe the lady to have stated at the time that her reason for doing so was as a warning for me to stay away from you,’ he answered mildly.
Lisette’s eyes widened before narrowing again. ‘You did not answer my question, Monsieur le Duc. Did Helene know who you were that night?’
Christian could have continued to avoid answering the question directly, but he knew by the angry glitter in Lisette’s eyes and the same flush of anger in her cheeks that it would not be wise for him to do so. Lisette might bear no physical resemblance to the woman who was her mother, but he now knew she most certainly shared the older woman’s fiery temperament. He might just find himself at the receiving end of another pistol if he continued to fob Lisette off with half-truths and lies.
He sighed deeply. ‘Following events would appear to indicate that as being the case, yes.’
‘Following—? Mon Dieu, Helene’s reason for sending her attackers against you had nothing to do with the attention you showed towards me,’ Lisette gasped in realisation, ‘and everything to do with her knowing you are an English spy?’
Christian shifted uncomfortably. ‘I do not believe I have admitted to being any such thing—’
‘You do not need to do so,’ Lisette interrupted in disgust as she began to pace the bedchamber restlessly. It all made so much sense to her now.
Helene’s warnings that night regarding associating with the Comte de Saint-Cloud.
Helene’s desire to have the Comte killed.
The fact that Lisette had found Christian lurking in a doorway across from the tavern later that evening.
He had not been waiting there for her, but spying on Helene and the people who entered the tavern after it had closed for the night.
Just as Helene had not been concerned for her welfare but instead attempting to keep her away from a man she knew to be spying on her and her associates.
It also explained the attempt of Helene’s cut-throats to kill le Duc in the middle of the street.
And their flight to England the following night.
It all made such sense to Lisette now.
Perfect—and humiliating—sense. She had thought—believed—that he had enjoyed and been as aroused by their kisses as she had, and all the time—
Christian winced as he had difficulty keeping up with—translating—the tirade in French that now followed his admission, Lisette’s accusations and insults flowing forth without pause from that highly kissable mouth. Obviously, not all of Lisette’s time at the French tavern had been wasted.
English bastard he understood. Followed by such a barrage of other insults and names he had no chance of deciphering one from the other.
Instead, he decided to lie back against the pillows and allow Lisette to give vent to her anger. He might not be able to keep up with those insults, but he did know he deserved everything she might accuse him of being.
Lisette’s shock and outrage were also further proof, if he should need it, that she really was everything she appeared to be—a young innocent caught in the middle of a dangerous game she did not know of or comprehend.