Page 14 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

His dear. She took that as her finest reward for today. But her abilities at mathematics conjured up her other challenge. She had found no news in gossip sheets or London newspapers of her young friend Cosette Lenoir, who had escaped Paris with her father. That man had become notorious in Parisian Society and had to flee Bonaparte or die.

In the moments when Zeph and Rafe spoke of their future move to London, she had begun to worry about finding Cosette at all. She had asked him if he knew a French banker who had emigrated to England. She couched her question amid a list of others who had fled France. Rafe knew a few, but not the banker named Lenoir—and that he found odd, because he said he knew most such men who had left France in disgrace.

She found it odd, too, that a man like Lenoir, so impressed with himself, would hide away in his new home. Particularly if he spent the wealth he had stolen. He was a frivolous man and had boasted in Paris of his association with Bonaparte. When he had been accused of the theft of military funds, he took his only family, his daughter, and ran.

“You are frowning, Zephora.” Rafe paused. “Why?”

She could be honest about her fear for the fate of her friend. “Yes, I worry that in the gossip sheets I find no reference to my friend, Cosette Lenoir.”

He arched a brow. “Oh. Why do you worry about her? I do believe she was among those about whom you asked me the other day.”

“She was. Her father was very proud of his status, his friends, and his work for Bonaparte. He was a banker, but he stole money allocated to buy arms. Do you suppose he is in hiding here in Britain? Might he even have changed his name?”

Rafe shot her a dour, dark look. “If he is smart, he has.”

She didn’t like that answer. “Why?”

“Zeph, he committed a crime against the French government. They will hunt him down.”

“Hunt him?” Why had she not thought of that?

“Of course—he took their money. I have heard rumors of one banker who had taken sums allocated for the rifle factory in Charleville in eastern France. I had forgotten his name, but I wonder if it is the man Lenoir whom you mentioned the other day.”

“And? What have you learned about the one who took money from Charleville?” She hated to ask and feared to learn.

“Nothing much yet, but I hope to. Yesterday, I wrote to Halsey and another colleague, the Marquess of Carlisle. We three are great friends and used to work for the previous prime minister.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Yes, it is true,” he said nonchalantly.

“You were not simply associates but friends with the Prime Minister of Britain?” No wonder Rafe had the means and connections to cross the Channel, ride through the French countryside, rescue her, then hide her and himself away in a seaside cabin near Bordeaux. Would she ever know all about this valiant man who had rescued her from hell?

“We three worked for him for years. He died very young. I think you were in the Conciergerie when he passed away.”

That could be true. She did not recall this news. “Did someone kill him?”

Rafe winced. “No. He died of a natural malady. But we liked him tremendously. He built the British treasury so that we could afford to fight the French for many years to come.”

He took her hand, something he rarely did these days. “Oh, my dear, I see you fear for your friend and her father, and you are not wrong to do so. Vaillancourt has most likely charged his French spies here in Britain with the task of finding Monsieur Lenoir and returning him home to the comforts of a Parisian dungeon.”

She halted. Her vision blurred. French spies?

“I am sorry.” He reached for her, and though they were in public, he embraced her, rubbed her back, and pulled away to smile down into her eyes. Two fingers to her chin, he smoothed his thumb along the corner of her lips. “I was brash to say that.”

Alarm drifted over her like a shroud. “Vaillancourt will look for me, too, won’t he?”

“He may, though I doubt it. He has more to think about than your transgression. Plus, you have already done the worst to him with the release of his betting book. I am sorry for frightening you.”

Frightened? She was terrified. She would not tell him why. After all, her little notebook might never have arrived in London. Cosette could have misplaced it or lost it. Furthermore, if Cosette had later learned that Zeph was sent to prison, the girl would think the book worthless. She could have thrown it away. To anyone who read it—or tried to—the book appeared to be a set of endless numbers. Gibberish. Silliness. Zeph’s translation of those numbers would be a project, long and hard, but only if she got the book back. Did indeed the sets of numbers mean anything at all? Yes, since they existed, since they had been in Vaillancourt’s desk, locked away, they were of great worth, weren’t they?

She felt the warm satisfaction prick her fear, even if it did not destroy it.

“Zeph, sweetheart.” Rafe’s tender words pierced her heart. “You are safe. You must not fear. I will protect you.”

She could not catch her breath. “Oh, Rafe.” She dug her fingernails into the lapels of his midnight-navy frockcoat. She had to have his arms around her. Now. Now! “I need you…but not here. Let’s go home.”

He cupped her cheek, shaken himself.