Dane (10 page)

Likely over a dozen ElseWorld species had gone into the witch‟s brew that had spawned her.

Then had come the return of the two little girls who‟d admitted him to the garden to begin with. They sat together on the carpet now, the older one sketching, and the younger one playing with a toy steam locomotive and making soft chugging noises.

And finally he‟d been confronted with this mysterious woman—

Mademoiselle Evangeline Delacorte, she called herself. The matchmaker.

Seated opposite her with a desk between them, he studied every detail of her person without appearing to. A trick he‟d learned in Special Ops.

She resembled an ancient Egyptian scryer, with kohl around her eyes, rings on every finger, and bangles thick at both wrists. What sort of female wore a provocative ball gown to conduct business, other than a courtesan? A tangle of necklaces draped her opulent bosom, an aspect of a woman that he was particularly drawn to. He shifted in his chair, causing its leather to creak, and looked away. Were he to become too enchanted with her charms, it would be tantamount to an outright invitation to Dante to join him in his skin.

The moment she‟d come into the room, the matchmaker had ducked her head and quickly located a gauzy veil, which she‟d draped over her head and shoulders. While it was transparent and did almost nothing to obscure her features, some form of magic had been woven into it, for he found that when he looked away, he couldn‟t recall her face. But stranger still was the fact that her scent was so elusive that he couldn‟t quite make out her species. This above all piqued his curiosity. In ElseWorld, his ability to distinguish one scent from another was legendary. However, something within him—Dante, perhaps—was purposely impeding his ability to read hers. Why? She and her entourage presented a puzzle.

Something he‟d never been able to resist.

“You‟ve come to me seeking a bride?”It was the second time the woman had asked him the same question. It was rhetorical. The scroll the Council had sent to his brothers lay on the desk before her, bristling with ElseWorld magic and her address upon it plain to see. Her fingers stroked its edges restlessly. She was nervous. Which usually meant someone was hiding something.

Dane crossed one booted ankle over his opposite knee and crossed his arms. “No, I come to you seeking a foreman for my grove.”

The older girl glanced up from her drawing. “But Mademoiselle doesn‟t locate foremen,” she informed him with a seriousness that sat strangely on one so young. “She finds brides.”

Mimi, who‟d driven her train beneath the matchmaker‟s desk, peered out at him and nodded. The serving woman squirmed on the corner chair where she sat with her mending. The girls‟ precocious behavior irritated her, and it was clear to him that she had no great affection for them.

“Then I suppose I‟ll have to settle for a bride instead.”He looked directly at the object of his interest then, determined to learn more of her.

“Tell me, “he asked the mademoiselle, “what sort of credentials does one require to become a matchmaker?”

“Marital Broker,” she corrected. “As was my mother and her mother before her, I‟m a fey-human blend. Certified as predominantly fey.

Mine is an inherited talent, and the Council wouldn‟t have sent you to me if I weren‟t good at my job.”Her tone held a note of challenge as if she assumed he‟d refute some or all of her statement. Curiouser and curiouser.

The pixie, who sat perched on a high stool before a scrivania, paused in his scribbling. “She‟s the best.”

Mademoiselle Delacorte reached over and patted the diminutive man‟s arm, bestowing a fond smile on him. “Why thank you, Pinot.”

The older girl had moved to sit in the window seat and continue her drawing where the light was better. The younger one still played under the matchmaker‟s desk, peeking out at him when the mood struck her.

Now and then the matchmaker would absently stroke the child‟s hair, and she would preen under the attention. The old woman silently glowered, and the pixie hunched over the notes he was taking of their meeting, his eyes studying Dane like a hawk‟s.

To most, it would have been an unnerving scene. Yet Dane found something compelling and comfortable about it. Though they were an odd assortment, he sensed they were a family. The other four people in the room revolved around this veiled woman as if planets basking in the warmth of a feminine sun that held them all together with its gravitational pull. He felt an odd sort of yearning to join in their orbit of her. To have those soft fingers caress him as well. Shrugging off the foolish notion, he asked, “How do we progress? Do you have a catalog of female prospects I might peruse, or—?”

A giggle came from below the desk and Mimi‟s eyes popped up over the edge, laughing at him. The matchmaker shook her head. “It doesn‟t proceed in that way,” she said. She seemed to be gazing past him—above his head, then to each side of him. It was a peculiar thing to do, but there was something uncannily familiar about it.

“How, then?” he asked, wanting to hear her voice again. There was something familiar about that as well.

“First, you‟ll provide information to help me form a profile of the sort of lady who‟d suit you as wife. Later, I will select and recommend several eligible candidates. I‟ll arrange for you to meet them. Together, we‟ll ascertain which lady among them is most appropriate for you and your situation in life. You‟ll woo her and then wed her. Does that sound agreeable?”

Dane frowned. “It sounds complicated. How long will all this take?” He had more important things to do with his time—like finding his younger brother.

“It‟s difficult to say. But the sooner we begin, the sooner all this will be done.” Before he could respond, she sat back in her chair with the air of someone who was about to tease him and was feeling pleased about the prospect. “To begin things, my girls have some questions,” she informed him. “Lena?”

The older of the two girls paused in her sketching and looked up at him. “Do you prefer rice pudding or chocolate?”

Mimi came to lean against the arm of his chair, staring at him with great concentration. The pixie held a pen over his paper, preparing to record his forthcoming reply as if it were of great import.

They were ridiculous, the lot of them. Yet he found himself answering gravely, “Chocolate, absolutely.”

Lena almost smiled, but then seemed to remember herself and simply nodded before returning her attention to her drawing tablet.

“Merci, cherie. And now, Mimi?” the matchmaker invited warmly.

The younger girl leaned closer to him, her scent redolent of perfumed powder. Her brown eyes were so clear and sweet that it almost hurt to look at them. Had he ever been that innocent? “Do you prefer thunderstorms or sunshine?”she demanded.

“Some of each. But what has this to do with anything?”

“Do you prefer puzzles or paints?”she persisted.

He glanced at the matchmaker, suspecting ridicule.

“If you like puzzles, you might wish to wed someone complicated and intellectual,” Eva explained calmly, as if the child‟s questions were the most sensible in the world. “If you like paints, you might be more suited to someone with a sedate, creative disposition.”

“Puzzles, then.”

“Do you prefer kittens, children, horses, or ladybugs?”the little girl enquired.

“For lunch or for breakfast?” he returned with a straight face.

Mimi gasped in horror; then realizing it must be a joke, she burst into giggles, bumping her small fist against his shoulder.

“Mimi!” This sharp scolding issued from the serving woman, her first word in his presence. But the irrepressible girl only shot him another grin and then skipped off to stack various items on the matchmaker‟s desktop in what appeared to be the beginning of some sort of childish construction project. Meanwhile, Lena drew ever more furiously as if fearing inspiration would depart before she could finish.

“Exactly how do you go about choosing a wife for a man you don‟t know?” he asked the matchmaker. “I mean, what are the mechanics of it that make you better able to select a suitable mate for me than I might choose on my own?”

Mimi looked over from her building and piped up. “She watches to see which lady jumps at you.”

Again, he looked to the matchmaker, a brow raised in question.

“She‟s describing the nature of my gift,” Mademoiselle Delacorte told him. “You may not be aware of it, but every species has a sort of glow around their body, like a large halo or outline.” She waved her hands toward him in a vaguely circular fashion to indicate his periphery.

“They‟re called auras, and like my mother before me, I‟m one of the rare people who can read them.”

“Meaning?”

“Perhaps an interpret is a better word for what I do. Your aura is like your signature. No one else‟s is quite the same. It‟s constantly changing shape and color as your mood changes.”She used her hands when speaking, and he noticed that whenever her bracelets separated, she kept repositioning them to hide her wrists again. “Your aura will tend to flare outward when a compatible partner draws near, almost as if to embrace her. A female‟s does the same in reaction to a potential male partner, though it‟s not as dramatic. Nuances in two auras upon their meeting indicate whether a particular combination will prove harmonious and fruitful.”

“Fruitful,” he repeated.

Lena looked up. “Whether you‟ll have babies,” she informed him.

The matchmaker shot a speaking glance at the serving woman, who immediately stood and clapped her hands. “That will be all, girls! Out to the garden. Now.” The two girls were summarily hustled toward the door.

“I thought we were going to the ruins today,” complained Mimi.

“Later, cara,” she was told.

“For you, signor,” the older one said on her way out, handing Dane the drawing she‟d been working on. It was a portrait of him, unfinished.

“Thank you,” he said in surprise.

“What a lovely gift, Lena,” the matchmaker told her. “And how thoughtful.”

“Your children?” Dane asked a moment later, nodding toward the door through which they and the serving woman had departed.

“Nieces.”The explanation fell easily from her lips. But at the same time she took hold of a snow globe, which had been serving as a paperweight on her desk, and placed it before her as a sort of barrier between them. An unconscious gesture that hinted at a lie. Definitely hiding something. “They‟re in my charge now that their parents have passed on. Lena‟s quite a good artist, n‟est-elle pas?”

“Quite.” But he wouldn‟t let her dissuade him from his questions.

Setting the drawing aside, he sat back to offer her the illusion of safety.

“You‟re French I gather. And recently arrived in this world. So how is it that you‟re already so well entrenched in elite Roman society that you are invited to gatherings where you might locate eligible partners for your clients?”

Her eyes narrowed on him for a long, considering moment. “You‟re a Tracker,” she accused slowly, as if only just realizing it. Her face drained of color.

He quirked a brow. “I was. Is that a problem?”

Her gaze flicked to the pixie and back to him again. “Why would it be?” Her fingers rose to fuss with the low neckline of her bodice, drifting over breasts that were smooth and full and perfectly rounded, with a deep shadow between. His eyes keened on the gesture, remembering it somehow. Suddenly, he wondered if he‟d met her before. She noticed the direction of his gaze and dropped her hand to her lap.

Sensing a weakness, he probed it. “Trackers make some people uncomfortable. Particularly those with something to hide.”

A flush of alarm filled her face. “I‟ve nothing to hide from you, monsieur.”

“Then why the veil?” he demanded softly.

“I always wear it to meet clients.”

Another lie. Her hands clasped together on the blotter and she leaned forward, wanting him to believe it. “Now that I know your occupation, I comprehend why your every statement has the quality of an interrogation. And I‟ll gladly supply you with whatever information is necessary to set your mind at ease, as long as it‟s reasonable and relevant to our negotiations. So, in the interest of full disclosure—I‟m the bastard daughter of a liaison on this side of the gate, but I was brought up in the Enclave a Paris in ElseWorld by my maman, Odette, and Pinot.”

“Which explains her accent,” the little man Pinot threw in.

She nodded, continuing, “I received a visa to cross through the gate into this world a few months ago and have matched numerous Else species to humans since then. I make it my business to infiltrate polite society for the benefit of my clients. Now, if that sufficiently satisfies your curiosity, may we continue?”

With her hands primly folded atop her desk, she‟d addressed him in the manner of a governess speaking to a schoolboy. She had a way of cocking her head and gazing at him through her lashes that rendered her every glance an unwitting invitation. It made him want her. Made him want to introduce an alternate scenario between them in which he might play schoolmaster to her schoolgirl, in games more intimate than this one.

His trousers suddenly seemed uncomfortably tight. He shifted in his chair again and glanced at the pixie. He was staring in his direction, at his crotch. Good Gods! When he saw that he‟d been caught out, the pixie only grinned and went back to his infernal note taking.

“I wonder at something,” Dane said, swinging his gaze back to the woman.