Page 23 of Restored

The same young woman greeted him as last time.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any tables just now, sir,” she said apologetically.

“That’s all right. I’m actually here to see Monsieur Mercier. Could you let him know? He’s expecting me, I believe.”

She looked puzzled. “Oh, I see. Who should I say is asking, sir?”

“The Duke of Avesbury.”

Her eyes widened and she looked quite flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry! I had no idea, your—your—”

“Grace,” he supplied gently. “But don’t fret about it. It’s quite all right.”

She smiled gratefully and did an awkward bob of a curtsey. “If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll just fetch him, your grace. Excuse me, please.”

She hurried away, disappearing through the back of the shop.

A minute or two later, she reappeared with Jean-Jacques trailing behind her.

“Your grace,” he said, his French accent very pronounced. “Please, come this way.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Henry to follow and his daughter to stare after them, plainly astonished by her father’s barely concealed rudeness, towards a duke no less.

Jean-Jacques showed Henry into the same small office as before, closing the door carefully behind them.

“So,” he said. “You are back.”

“I am. Have you seen Christopher?”

“Yes.” Jean-Jacques’s tone was very flat and somehow quite final.

Dread seeded in Henry’s chest. He cleared his throat. “And what did he say?”

Jean-Jacques’s lips tightened and he looked away. “I’m afraid Kit sees no point in meeting with you. So many years, you know.”

Henry swallowed. “Did he have any message for me?”

Jean-Jacques met Henry’s gaze again. For a long time he said nothing, his eyes searching Henry’s face, then he sighed and said in a weary tone, “Kit said that you should send your servant, Mr. Parkinson, to do your dirty work instead of asking me.”

Henry stared at Jean-Jacques, shocked. At last he said carefully, “Parkinson?”

Jean-Jacques’s eyes glinted with anger. “Don’t you remember? He’s the servant you sent to throw Kit out.”

“Throw him… what? Out of where?”

“Where he was living,” Jean-Jacques snapped. “The house that you agreed to give him.”

Henry stared at the man in disbelief. His mind couldn’t seem to absorb the words, but his body was ahead of him, his heart suddenly racing and his palms sweating.

Parkinson.

Faintly he said, “I think you must be mistaken. The house you speak of belongs to Christopher, not to me. Or at least it did.”

Jean-Jacques’s expression, already unfriendly, darkened to anger.

“That is not the sort of thing a man makes a mistake over,” he said harshly. “And I can assure you, I recall those events very well myself. Your servant threw Kit out on your orders,your grace.” His nostrils flared with barely concealed fury. “At least have the decency to own your actions."

Henry closed his eyes for a long moment. He did not know what had happened—butParkinsonwas involved.