Overhearing Pasha's hushed words, Mme. Ormand reassessed the sumptuous blond woman. Was she truly an innocent? And if so, where had Pasha found her in his profligate world?
The private room was even more elegant than the reception area, the sense of luxury profound. The ceiling was draped in gold tissue, the walls covered in aquamarine silk, the carpet awash in pale yellow roses, the whole perfumed with the heady scent of jasmine. The delicate rococo furniture was scaled to feminine proportions with the exception of an oversize sofa in tasseled, fringed brocade the color of a muted sunset. Trixi could almost envision harem houris lounging on its sumptuous cushions.
Interrupting her musing, Mme. Ormand offered her a small pamphlet. "We have these gowns ready as models for our patrons. Might I suggest number six as particularly fine with your coloring. And we have additional sketches for your perusal," she went on, indicating a pile of watercolor pages on a nearby table. "Milk or lemon with your tea?"
At Trixi's answer, she bowed herself out of the room to arrange the showing.
"This is overwhelming," Trixi murmured, leafing through the score of sketches spread over the table, each gown lavishly designed, only a few suitable for day wear.
"Just pick the ones you like."
"They're all gorgeous."
"Better yet. Any in violet?" Pasha lazily inquired.
"I don't see any." Trixi glanced through the small pamphlet now. Looking up, she smiled at Pasha. "But this is a lovely experience, gown or no. I've never seen anything like this room. Is it supposed to resemble a harem or is my imagination overactive?"
"Looks like a harem to me," Pasha returned, smiling faintly.
"That sofa seems to fit you." She took in his lounging form sprawled across its length.
It did, he knew from previous visits; it actually fit two very nicely, but he only said, "That other furniture would break if I sat on it."
"I suppose men aren't frequent visitors here."
That need for omission again since Mme. Ormand catered to women who required rich men to keep them, whether in or out of marriage. "This room does have the look of a woman's boudoir."
"Something you're familiar with?" Trixi noted with a mischievous grin.
"I suppose as a bachelor I've seen one or two."
"I feel very wicked, being here with you."
"How nice," he said, smiling. "Should I lock the door?"
"Don't you dare," she quickly retorted. "I was just teasing."
"It wouldn't take long… as I recall," he softly said. "Or are you more restrained in daylight?"
"Hush," she insisted, blushing. "Someone might hear."
"I could lock the door, you know. No one would interfere."
"No, good God, no. Don't move." She nervously straightened the pile of sketches on the table before her. "I couldn't bear the thought of everyone's eyes on us as we left. You're much too licentious and—"
"Shameless?" he finished with a grin.
"Yes, exactly. I warn you, Pasha," she quickly went on as he shifted, "I'll scream if you get up from that sofa."
"That would draw a crowd."
"I'll leave."
"In that case, I'll behave." He wanted her to have some new gowns.
And he
did
behave, his conduct so out of character, Mme. Ormand scrutinized him with a searching gaze on more than one occasion. Familiar with his normal insouciance, the young modistes carrying in the gowns cast smiling glances his way, but received no response. His attention was solely on the woman he'd brought with him at an ungodly early hour, and they wondered what hold she had over him that he was so devoted to her interests.
While Mme. Ormand described each gown to Trixi, Pasha listened attentively, occasionally offering his suggestions, always deferring to her judgment. He even drank tea. Unprecedented to date. And if someone had asked him why he was behaving as he was, he wouldn't have had an answer.
But he wished to.
It gave him pleasure to see the muted glow in Trixi's eyes, the excited animation as she surveyed the beautiful gowns.
"What do you think of this navy silk?" she asked him, delicately stroking the lace-trimmed collar of the day dress.
"I like it," he pleasantly said. "You could go calling in that, or see the vicar."
"Do you have vicars?" Her voice was teasing.
"I don't think so, but I'm afraid I'm no authority," he amiably replied. "Do we have vicars, Madame Ormand?"
"Only the English do, sir."
"You'll have to introduce me to one, dear," he playfully murmured.
Trixi blushed furiously.
And everyone's gaze flickered next to him, waiting for his reaction. "Forgive me, darling," he said, genuinely contrite. "I didn't mean to embarrass you." How different she was, he thought, from all the frivolous, mannered ladies in his life.
Several observers' mouths were actually agape at that point.
Pasha Duras wasn't one to appease.
"I think I know what I want now," Trixi quickly said, a sudden need to escape all these avid spectators overwhelming.
"Then we're ready, Madame Ormand," Pasha declared, promptly rising from the sofa.
"I'll take the navy silk." Trixi's voice was tight with constraint.
"And the yellow pongee, the green riding habit, both the morning gowns, and three or four others you think suitable," Pasha briskly said to the dressmaker, curtailing Trixi's argument with a shake of his head. "As soon as possible," he charged.
"Yes, sir, it will take only a few minutes," Mme. Ormand replied. Ordering her minions from the room with a brisk sweep of her hands, she followed the group out.
As soon as the door shut behind the dressmaker, Trixi took issue with Pasha. "You're
not
buying all those dresses."
"Why don't we discuss it later," Pasha murmured, casting a glance in the direction of a young modiste still folding gowns.
"Very well,
later
," Trixi said in a heated whisper, "but discuss it we
will
."
"Pasha, help me!" The cry exploded into the hushed, silk-hung room.
Swinging around, Trixi stood transfixed, her gaze on the pretty, dark-haired modiste dashing across the room. Throwing herself at Pasha, the woman wildly exclaimed, "Please, Pasha, I'm desperate!" She clutched at his arms, her eyes wet with tears. "You said… you'd… help me… if I ever needed help! You said you would," she sobbed.
Speaking to the woman in an undertone, Pasha tried to calm her.
"You know her!" Trixi blurted out, all the feminine giggles and whispers, the sidelong glances from Mme. Ormond's minions suddenly crystal clear. "You know
all
these people here!"
Pasha's head lifted. "I can explain."
"Don't bother," she snapped, outraged by the subterfuge. "I'm not in the mood for any more of your duplicity." Everyone knew, she furiously thought, everyone in the entire establishment. "I hope you were all amused by this charade," she rapped out, stung by the deceit. "I didn't realize I was playing to such a knowing audience. If you'll excuse me now," she said, her voice suddenly ice cold. "You look as though you're busy."
Pasha's dark brows instantly came together in a scowl. "It's not what you think."
"I don't care what it is, Pasha. I didn't even know you yesterday, so none of this really matters." Angered, embarrassed, hurt, reminded afresh of the treachery of men, all she wanted to do was get as far away as possible.
"Pasha, please!" the modiste interposed, wailing afresh, tears pouring from her eyes, her petite form draped in a half-swoon against Pasha's tall, powerful body. "You have to do something right now or I'll die!"
The lurid vision struck Trixi with ominous foreboding—a cast-off lover, grief-stricken and in distress—a presage of her own future if she stayed with Pasha. Men of his ilk never offered more than transient pleasure, and while she'd understood that, she'd rashly chosen to overlook the bitter consequences. Turning from the appalling scene, she dashed from the room, the young woman's laments following her, ringing in her ears.
Deceit, lies, deceit, lies, everywhere in Paris—everywhere she turned in Paris. Deceit, lies—the litany cycled through her mind as she ran through the reception rooms without a care for the employees' startled looks. Jerking open the glass-paned door, she fled into the cool morning air, wanting only to forget the hideous, wretched scene, the crying woman, Pasha's disgusting involvement.
Swiftly moving toward the carriage, she lifted the cover on the luggage compartment, pulled out her valise and, ignoring the driver's anxious queries, raced away.
She'd recognized from the beginning that Pasha's style of man—handsome, wealthy, prodigal—was without conscience, for all his charm. She should have known better than to become involved, she reflected, hindsight always keen and clear. Run, run, it's not too late, her inner voice urged. Run, run… run.
The streets in the affluent arrondissement surrounding Mme. Ormand's shop were quiet at that hour of the morning, the inhabitants of the opulent homes not yet about their activities of the day.
Putting distance between herself and the shop as quickly as possible, she hoped Pasha might consider himself well rid of another troublesome woman and not follow her. Pray that were true, she thought, hastening past the fenced and gated properties lining the street.
But short minutes later, Pasha's shout echoed down the boulevard and, fear gripping her, she glanced over her shoulder. He was running hard, his dark hair streaming out behind him, his great strides fleet, like a coursing animal after its prey.
An involuntary cry burst from her lips.
How could she possibly outrun him?
Her heavy valise struck her leg with every step as if to remind her of her physical limitations, her lungs were already burning from her exertions, and the street stretched limitless before her. She desperately needed concealment if she had any hope of escape. With her pulse beating in her ears, her breath rasping in her throat, she scanned the street ahead.
The morning sun shone brightly through the canopy of leaves, dappled light glowing in dancing patterns on the pavement before her, the brilliant spring morning unmindful of her wild, headlong flight. Forcing herself to pick up speed despite her flagging energy, she covered the next half block in record time, the gated mansions providently giving way at that point to elegant town
houses. Perhaps an alley or mews might offer her refuge now, she thought, urging herself on, and with her lungs laboring painfully, moments later, a narrow break in the elegant facades appeared. Swerving sharply to her left, she raced into a cool, shaded corridor, the sun abruptly eclipsed by the buildings, shadow engulfing her, and she felt a small hope. Panting, her valise dragging on her arm, she sprinted with the last vestiges of energy, searching the rear elevations for some sanctuary. Dare she knock on some stranger's door? Would she be in more or less danger? Panicked, near exhaustion, she came upon a small portal left slightly ajar, and offering up a prayer of thanks, she slipped inside.
Quietly closing the door, she found herself in a diminutive courtyard, her heart pounding in her chest, her face sweat-sheened. Hoping one of the rear entrances was unlocked, she hurriedly tried one, then another without success. Frantically, she pulled on a third door that suddenly gave way when she turned the latch and, with a gasp of relief, she leaped into a dim hallway. Her lungs heaving, she dropped her portmanteau and collapsed against the wall. Alert to danger, though, she gazed down the corridor leading into the house, listening. But only muffled noises were audible, the faint sounds apparently above stairs; blessed silence enveloped her. After a protracted interval her breathing calmed and her eyes became accustomed enough to the dark to recognize she was in a servants' hallway, with work garments neatly arranged on wall hooks, heavy boots lined up beneath them.
Feeling momentarily secure, she remained in her rustic asylum for some time longer, ever vigilant to intruders. But no one disturbed her and after a lengthy time—sufficient she hoped for Pasha to have given up his pursuit—she ventured a peek outside.
The courtyard remained deserted. Encouraged, she cautiously made her way across the worn paving stones, stopping at the doorway to the alley. Slowly opening the small painted door, she peered out. Not a sign of life met her gaze and, relieved, she adjusted her grip on her valise and stepped over the threshold.
"I thought you may have fallen asleep in there," a familiar voice drawled.
Swiveling around to her right, she gazed in the direction of the languid sound.
Pushing away from the wall, Pasha walked from the deepest shadows, his formidable size looming larger in the obscured light, his dark hair darker, his eyes shaded, only the white of his cravat a touch of brilliance in the gloom.
"How did you find me?" she exclaimed, peevish and fretful.
"Your scent." His smile flashed. "I'd remember it anywhere."
She softly swore.
"And the front entrance is securely locked, so I only had to wait. You shouldn't have run," he quietly added.
"Women never run from you, I suppose," she tartly noted.
One shoulder lifted marginally.
"I'm not like all the others, Pasha," she adamantly declared, deeply frustrated at having been discovered, resentful of his unruffled calm. "You're wasting your time."
"Let me be the judge of that."
"What of the sobbing lady? Have you discarded her so soon?" Each word was heavy with reproach.
"I wouldn't do that." He moved toward her. "Give me your valise."
Hastily retreating, she swung her valise aside.
Lifting his hands in a gesture of conciliation, he said in a mild, forbearing tone, as though she were a recalcitrant child, "At least listen to me."
"You needn't explain your bereaved lovers to me." Angry, affronted, she'd never forget the distasteful image of the pleading woman swooning in Pasha's arms.
"The woman at Mme. Ormand's is in love with one of my friends,
not me
," he softly emphasized. "Her name is Marie Sanserre and she'd just received word of her lover's capture by the Turks. So she was
understandably
distrait. Gustave's in prison in Greece. Would you like more details?"