A Dangerous Masquerade by Linda Sole Page A

them earlier that morning.  Did that mean that it was she being followed and not he?
                  He frowned as he stretched his long legs in front of him.  The excuse he’d given Constance for staying at her house was a weak one for the hotel would not have demanded payment from such a prestigious customer.  He had only to write a draft on his bank for the matter to be settled. Yet it suited his purpose to make her believe that he was penniless, at least until he could transfer funds.
                  Why had he persuaded her to accept him as a guest in her house?  Was it simply because he believed her in danger from Renard – or was she right to suspect an ulterior motive?
                  She was certainly beautiful and there had been moments the previous night when he’d thought of her lying in the next room and felt his manhood harden.  Had she been a different kind of woman – the woman he’d thought her when he discovered his purse missing – he would not have taken no for an answer.
                  Was she making a fool of him?  It was true that he’d seen the children for himself and Sister Helene had confirmed that she had been supporting them for several months.  However, that did not necessarily make the rest of her story true.  He could not be certain that she’d not taken advantage of the situation to steal the comtesse’s identity in order to acquire her jewels and possessions.
                  Was she actually a rather clever adventuress?
                  A smile touched his sensual lips as he recalled the way her eyes had taken fire that morning.  He found it amusing to fence with her verbally and realised that he enjoyed her company – more than he’d enjoyed the company of a woman for years.
                  There had been several women in his life.  He was not a saint and would never pretend otherwise, but he’d never taken an unwilling woman or deflowered a virgin – though certain people believed otherwise.  For a moment his frown deepened.  Whatever he said or did, he was damned in the eyes of certain of his erstwhile friends.  He had no intention of trying to prove his innocence.  Let them think what they pleased.  They had condemned him as a traitor when he’d been risking his life in ways they had no idea of – damn them!  His pride had made him become reticent and in time bitter.  There had been moments when he’d wanted to wipe the look of smug indifference from Pendleton’s face.
                  Pushing the angry thoughts to the back of his mind, he bent it to the task in hand.  If Renard was the man he thought him, he would not ignore the challenge Moraven had thrown down.  Once he returned to Paris and learned that someone had been looking for him, he would do something about it – which meant he might try to kill Moraven.
                  Was he risking Constance’s safety by staying at her house?  She was already in danger.  If she’d been followed from the nuns’ house it meant that they were aware of her and what she was doing.  While Moraven was in danger of a knife in the back or a ball through the head, Constance’s fate might be far worse.
                  She was too beautiful to dispose of – especially if she was a virgin, as she seemed to claim.  There were men who would pay a huge price to deflower her – and others who would use her again and again until she was broken in mind and body.
                  A shudder ran through him as he considered her fate.  He would die rather than let that happen to her.  She might be a thief, she might even be an adventuress – but the thought of men using her, breaking her pride little by little.  He wanted to take Andre Renard by the throat and choke the life out of him.  Men like that deserved to be hung drawn and quartered – and even that was hardly enough punishment