The Sheik's Son(62)

Sophie looked at him and nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“And yet still you write.”

She jerked her chin up at him. “Yes.”

“I thought to warn you, to keep you safe, but you seem quite intent on ruining yourself.” He looked at her, willing her to see the great folly of this path she was on.

“Ruining myself? Why? Because I write the truth? Because I want others to know the truth?”

“You love to hide behind your books and words,” Sebastian told her. “But these words are dangerous. And France is in a dangerous time.”

Sophie turned from him. “I can’t refrain. I wish this door hadn’t been opened. Ever since Madame Necker’s salon, all I do is read and realize how different things are from what I thought they were.” She almost pleaded with him.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said sincerely.

“No. I’m glad. I would rather know than be ignorant.”

“And you must write?” he asked.

“Yes. Don’t you see? I was enlightened, and now I may enlighten others.”

“At risk to yourself, Sophie.” He almost whispered the words.

“They won’t find me, Bash. My maid’s nephew delivers to the printer and he thinks it’s a male cousin who writes the pamphlets,” she said with certainty.

Sebastian shook his head. She was so naïve for all her learning. “Sophie.” He absently touched her face, even as he felt himself in turmoil. “They’ll find you. It’s what they do.”

She tried to stop the wave of desire that threaded through her as he touched her skin. She shook her head. “I will be safe.”

Sebastian felt sick to his stomach. Sophie was throwing herself into the fire and he couldn’t save her. He watched her walk back inside the theater and couldn’t stop the growing sense of unease that filled him.





Chapter 17

The inspector had made several inquiries and had narrowed down his search to a printer named Monsieur Blanche who was known to be sympathetic to the people. He had watched the printer for a week and had seen one young boy enter the premises, which seemed suspicious. A child would enter a printer’s shop only if it was on an errand for someone else. Perhaps this someone else wished to remain anonymous and so sent the boy instead. He had been told by several street vendors that a young maid named Marie visited the shop periodically.

But when he saw the young boy enter the printer’s shop, his interest was piqued and he thought perhaps this boy might lead him to the writer. Once the writer was found, she would be stopped. For the consensus was that the writer was a woman, and a lower-class woman at that. He rubbed his hands together. Inspector Alain Vennard was young but known to be ruthless and cunning when required.

He would track down the little upstart and make certain that these pamphlets would cease. He was not above using violence and it would be enjoyable to break the spirit of a young woman who obviously had foolish ideas of women’s equality.

Alain might have been called handsome, for his reddish, gold hair and small mustache were meticulously cultivated. But his blue eyes were ice cold, which matched his distant personality. He was of medium height but was able to blend in to any scene required. He could become a working man, able to follow a suspect to a tavern, or attend the opera if need be. His ability to blend in was an asset.

The young boy was followed home and it was determined that no woman by the name of Marie lived with his family. But further questioning of the servants found that he had an aunt named Marie who was maid to a prominent home in an upscale neighborhood in Paris.

Alain smiled. He was getting closer. Perhaps the writer was a governess or maybe Marie herself. He had trusted his instincts and they had been proven right. He must move carefully now.

***

Sebastian watched the rain pour down upon the Paris streets from the window in his office. The duke had returned to England for a family emergency and he was alone in their office. Besides opening mail, receiving visitors and attending events on the duke’s behalf, there was little to do.

He had not been keen to return to his duties after the conversation he’d had with Sophie. He was growing more concerned about her and knew that she was putting herself in danger.

These inspectors were assigned a case and would ferret out information accordingly. Sometimes a case of great importance could make or break a career. An Inspector worth his salt would easily find the writer and bring her in for interrogation. Though she was well educated and her father was powerful, it would only take one night of questioning for an unsavory fellow to beat and even rape Sophie.

The inspector might be charged or commended but Sophie would be completely destroyed.