table out of sight of the main door. Henry fussed over Marianne, getting her settled before taking his own chair.
They ordered tea and a plate of assorted cakes and pastries. Despite how busy the place was, everything arrived quite promptly, and Henry watched in amazement as Marianne worked her way through a canelé, a conversation, and a Charlotte russe.
“You didn’t used to even like sweet things,” he said in amazement.
“I know!” she exclaimed, blue eyes wide. “But ever since the sickness wore off, I’ve been gorging on them.” She sighed and took another spoonful of thick Bavarian cream, before adding, “Can we get some more tea?”
“Of course,” Henry said, swivelling in his chair. He looked for the young woman who had seated them earlier, but instead an older man, scanning the tables with the air of a proprietor checking on his customers, caught his eye.
Henry’s immediate impression was of a tidy, alert fellow with a pleasant expression. His next thought was that the man was oddly familiar. And then, as the man began to move towards their table, a polite smile on his face, Henry thought…
…That’s Jean-Jacques.
Years before, this man had been a beautiful, lissom boy, all black hair and gleaming eyes and pouting lips—very popular at the Golden Lily, the brothel where Henry had met Christopher. Henry had been Christopher’s protector then, and Jean-Jacques had been Christopher’s closest friend.
Now Jean-Jacques must be around forty years old. He was still handsome, but the extravagant beauty of his youth had faded to something less eye-catching. Now he was a nice-looking, respectable sort of gentleman. Was he the proprietor of Mercier’s, or the manager perhaps?
Actually… Mercier. Was that not Jean-Jacques’s name? Jean-Jacques Mercier?
Henry saw the moment that Jean-Jacques recognised him in return, a brief flicker of shock, quickly veiled. The smoothing of his expression to blankness.
“Monsieur?” he said smoothly when he reached the table. “How may I help you?” Astonishingly, his accent was as thick as ever.
Somehow Henry managed to ask for more tea, and amazingly, the voice that came out of his mouth was calm and certain. But even as he placed the order, his mind was racing. Was Jean-Jacques still friends with Christopher, he wondered? Might he have news of him?
Would Henry even want to know if he did?
Jean-Jacques glided away, and Henry watched him go, his heart thudding hard.
News of Christopher Redford was something that Henry had never permitted himself to seek out. Not on any of his rare visits to town, not by discreet inquiry, not by asking any former acquaintances who might happen to know.
After all, Christopher had signalled quite clearly his lack of interest in Henry.
Nevertheless, Henry had always wondered. And now, seeing Jean-Jacques here—well, it was tempting to take the opportunity to find out the answers to all the questions that had plagued Henry for so long. How had Christopher’s life proceeded after Henry left? Was he well? Happy? Had he retired from his old profession, as Jean-Jacques appeared to have done?
Christopher would be forty—no, one-and-forty—now. So many years had passed that it was entirely possible Henry would walk past Christopher in the street without knowing him.
Perhaps he already had.
Yet he had known Jean-Jacques. Known him in an instant.
“Papa?”
Henry started at Marianne’s voice. “Sorry,” he said, dredging up a smile from somewhere. “I was miles away. What were you saying?”
She began talking again, imparting some family news from Mathilda that Henry nodded along to without quite taking it in. As hard as he tried to listen, his attention was fractured.
The tea, when it arrived, was brought by the same young woman who had shown them to their table before, and when Henry discreetly glanced around, he saw no sign of Jean-Jacques.
Eventually Marianne set her cup down on the saucer. “As much as I should love to eat that last canelé, I shall resist. I am fit to burst.” She sent him an accusing look. “You hardly ate a thing.”
Henry glanced down at the barely touched choux pastry on his plate. “I wasn’t very hungry.”
Marianne sighed. “I see that.”
Henry turned his head and caught the young woman’s eye, signalling that they were finished. She nodded and turned away, then returned to their table with a neatly written receipt on a small silver tray. Henry paid their bill, adding an extra coin for the young woman, who smiled brightly in thanks.
“Everything was delicious,” Marianne said. “Please do pass on my compliments to the kitchen—is the pastry cook French?”
“My mother is the pastry cook, ma’am,” the young woman