Page 276 of From Rakes to Riches

It would have offended her, were she not so relieved. It was as if she’d disappointed him, somehow.

As if he’d been looking for someone else.

He produced thin metal instruments from his coat and deftly—for a man with hands as large as his—went to work at the lock on his brother’s manacles.

Mercy could count on one hand the times she’d been rendered speechless.

Gabriel Sauvageau had picked the padlock of a police vehicle and slid insidewhile it was movingwithout raising the alarm or even alerting the drivers.

How was this done?

While he worked to free his brother, he muttered in barely perceptible French, his voice a rasping whisper that hinted at a baritone as dark, deep, and smooth as moonlight over marble.

The very devil might have a voice like that.

Mercy had always been a terrible student. She wiggled too much, her brain pinging from one thing to the next until so many of her thoughts threatened to tumble everywhere like a litter of unruly puppies.

But she’d retained a rudimentary understanding of French.

And if she wasn’t mistaken, Gabriel had said something to the effect that they’d rescheduled a meeting at the zoo to the following Wednesday at...three o’clock?

“You’re being unspeakably rude,” she admonished them, hoping to hide that she comprehended their conversation.

Well... sort of comprehended it.

Raphael had the decency to look chagrined. “In this case, I must beg your forgiveness,mon chaton, as my brother speaks very little English.”

“Why do you call heryour kitten?” Gabriel asked in French.

“Because I like her claws.” Raphael replied with a look at his brother that ended any further discussion on the subject.

Gabriel freed one hand and went to work on the opposite wrist. “What happened with Mathilde?”

Raphael flicked her a glance and narrowed his eyes as if assessing how much she understood.

A certain level of fluency was expected from educated women of her class.

Mercy found something fascinating on her own manacles, refusing to look up at him.

After a pregnant pause, he said. “We will discuss it later. Where do we meet Marco?”

“By the Loo.”

Mercy searched her French vocabulary for the word loo and found nothing. Did they mean the washrooms? She wrinkled her nose. Did they say that for her benefit? To throw her off maybe? The toilets were not a very fitting location for high-brow clandestine intrigue to take place.

But then, who was she to tell criminals where to convene?

“We have to go, we’re almost to the bridge.” Gabriel freed his brother’s other wrist.

“You go. I’ll lock up.” Raphael motioned for the padlock, which Gabriel tossed to him before sliding out the door just as smoothly and silently as he’d arrived.

The springs depressed just slightly when the cart was alleviated of his weight. The Goliath of a man stepped off the tallcarriage with the same grace a dancer would stride away from a curb onto the cobbles.

The ceiling of the cart was too short for Raphael to stand, so he stooped toward her as he reached his long, muscled arms out to the side in the stretch of a free man.

“Here.” Mercy lifted her wrists. “Release me!”

Instead of taking her manacles, he gathered the hands she offered into his large, rough palms, his thumb running over wrists made raw by her struggles.

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