Free French Leave by Maggie MacKeever Page A

fearing any moment to be clapped on the shoulder and arrested for debt! But I have told you I am done with romance, and I mean it, Mab. I’ll shed no more tears over any gentleman. And I still don’t understand why you should think I ran off with the Duc.” She glanced at the corner of the room where she had last seen the invalid. “Oh! The camp bed is gone.”
    Tibble attempted to break into the conversation. “The camp bed is in the closet,” he offered. “The Duc—”
    Barbary pressed her hands to her breast. “Gone! Oh, mercy! He’ll lay charges against us—against you, Mab!”
    “Against both of us, you mean,” Mab said irritably. “He’d be hard pressed to say which one of us is which, with you wearing my dress. Yes, and by the way, if you went out for food, where is it?”
    “You don’t believe me!” Barbary looked reproachful. “I’ll tell you what it is, Mab, you think I ran off with your beau. As if I would! And do not remind me yet again of that accursed hussar, because that was all a very long time ago. Think, Mab, if you will! Had I gone off with your Duc, I would hardly have come back here, would I?”
    Mab had to admit that such an action hardly seemed sensible. “He is not my Duc. Then who have you been talking about if not him?”
    This was certainly a difficult conversation. Barbary unstoppered her vinaigrette and inhaled. “Conor, of course! I encountered him in the Jardin des Plantes. I did not bring back food because I became quite lost, and Conor brought me home. Except that he didn’t know it was me, he thought it was you, and so you must remember that you have already met him, should you encounter him again.”
    “You told him—” Mab stared. “Of all the beetle-headed things to do!”
    “I had to tell him something, didn’t I?” retorted Barbary. “And don’t suggest I should have told him the truth, because I would never dream of doing such a thing.”
    Tibble was still waiting patiently for an opportunity to speak. He cleared his throat and said, “The Duc hasn’t gone anywhere. I moved him to the divan.”
    The ladies rushed simultaneously to the divan. There, indeed, slumbered the missing Duc. Barbary touched his forehead. “His color is considerably improved.”
    “At least, for the moment, we needn’t fear he will lay charges against us,” Mab scowled. “What do you mean, should I encounter your husband again?”
    Barbary looked apologetic. “Well, Conor does know where you live. He appeared rather taken with you, I might add. Yes, and now I think of it, for you to say unkind things about me and accuse me of dangling after your Duc is for the pot to call the kettle black!”
    How had Mab come to be in the wrong? She didn’t recall having accused Barbary of any such thing. “What are you talking about?”
    Barbary moved to the end of the divan and arranged a blanket more carefully over the Duc’s feet. “Conor, of course. He was very interested in his wife’s cousin.”
    Definitely Mab’s cousin was a madwoman. “I have never met the man.”
    “Yes, you have!” Barbary abandoned the Duc and gripped Mab’s arm. “You must remember that! I shall describe him to you—he is tall and dark-haired and damnably attractive in a certain arrogant style.” She looked pensive. “I think he may also be a bit of a rogue .”
    Mab didn’t doubt it for a moment. Her life was not already complicated enough, now Barbary must attract for her the attention of a rogue . This discussion of a gentleman she had not met recalled to her one whom she had. “Your husband is the least of our worries,” Mab said, and recounted the appearance in Maurice’s studio of lnspecteur Ollivant.
    “The police!” breathed Barbary.
    Mab nodded. “I don’t know what we should do.”
    Nor did Barbary, beyond the immediate moment. “You need food! We all do. I shall go to the store again, but this time I promise I shan’t get lost.” Before Mab could protest, Barbary wrapped the