Last Chance for Paris: Tales from the Grand Tour, #3

By Merry Farmer

Revenge is an unlikely path to love…

Miss Solange Lafarge has spent the last three years seeking revenge on the man who destroyed her family. Her mission has brought her to Paris as a companion to Lady Roselyn Briarwood, one of the infamous McGovern clan. But the McGoverns have no idea who she really is or what her intentions are. And the last thing Solange expects is to fall in love with the man she has sworn to kill.

Lord Louis Sinclair has been seeking to avenge his mother's untimely death for years, and at last, his goal is in sight. At least, until the unlikely distraction of the mysterious and fiery Solange makes him rethink everything. He and Solange discover they have more in common than they ever could have expected, but will that draw them together or push them apart?

When the fate of the McGovern clan itself hangs in the balance and a dark family secret threatens to be exposed, Solange and Louis must work together to save their friends from ruin.

TALES FROM THE GRAND TOUR is a steamy, light-hearted Victorian series, set in the 1890s, that follows the wild, unconventional, often scandalous McGovern cousins as they make their way through Europe and beyond.

PLEASE BE ADVISED – Steam Level: Five-Alarm Fire with a few F-bombs. Don't say you weren't warned. 

Tales from the Grand Tour:

THE DUKE OF PARIS

RENDEZVOUS IN PARIS

LAST CHANCE FOR PARIS

• Language: English
• Publisher: Merry Farmer
• Release date: Feb 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393251682

Merry Farmer

Merry Farmer is an award-winning novelist who lives in suburban Philadelphia with her cats, Torpedo, her grumpy old man, and Justine, her hyperactive new baby. She has been writing since she was ten years old and realized one day that she didn't have to wait for the teacher to assign a creative writing project to write something. It was the best day of her life. She then went on to earn not one but two degrees in History so that she would always have something to write about. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

Paris – Spring, 1890

The Moulin Rouge was a swirl of sound and color, light and laughter. On the stage at the front of the grand theater, a dozen young women kicked up their skirts, showing their stockings and more to the ribald crowd of men and women that made up their audience. The music was loud, alcohol flowed freely, and barely-controlled chaos reigned.

It was the perfect environment for Solange Lafarge to commit a murder.

Solange moved carefully around the outer edges of the cabaret hall, keeping to the shadows and doing her best to blend in with the wallpaper. Compared to the majority of the patrons, she was dressed modestly, wearing dull colors and a bodice that buttoned all the way up to a high collar. She’d almost chosen to dress as vibrantly as any of the chorus girls and whores that moved through the crowd, teasing and entertaining men, enticing them into spending money for a few minutes alone, or picking the pockets of gentlemen who were too inebriated to notice and too rich to care if they lost a few francs. In the end, she’d decided that her dark skin would be too much of a draw and that modesty was best.

She slipped a hand carefully into one of the pockets of her skirt, closing her fingers around the handle of the small pistol she kept there. It was loaded, but not cocked. She was ready to use it, but wouldn’t until she had her target firmly in sight. He’d arrived half an hour ago, heading straight to the box where her other target—a man who deserved far worse than a quick death—always sat. The two of them sat there, high above the noise and heat of the floor, engaged in an intense discussion.

Solange narrowed her eyes at her target, Lord Louis Bramwell, Earl of Sinclair. She tightened her grip on her pistol, wanting to draw it from her pocket, aim, and get the dirty work over with. Everything about the man filled her with rage, from his too-handsome face to his broad shoulders and athletic build to the finely-tailored suit he wore. That suit was paid for by the sweat and blood of her family, of her people. She remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on him, three years before in Côte d'Ivoire, the moment she’d made the connection between Lord Sinclair and the man who had ruined her life. She’d vowed then that she would use him to exact her revenge on the man who had destroyed her life before it began.

Do you plan to stare the man to death?

Solange flinched and sucked in a breath as a middle-aged woman dressed all in black stepped up behind her, speaking in French. Madame Boucher, you startled me, she said, drawing her hand out of her pocked and clamping it over her heart.

Madame Boucher grunted and looked Solange up and down. You’ll never be able to do what you need to do if you stand there, looking guilty as sin.

Solange pressed her lips together, feeling that guilt in her gut and resenting the fact that she felt guilty at all. I can do what I have to do, she said, wishing it didn’t feel as though she were convincing herself.

It was Damien McGovern and Lord Gregory’s fault that she felt guilty about the one thing she’d believed with absolute certainty for three years. Everything she’d done since arriving in Paris—every clandestine mission into the city while her mistress, Lady Roselyn Briarwood, enjoyed the company of her cousins, every bribe and blackmail she’d been forced to pay, and every moment of danger she’d put herself into—had been cast into question, and all because Damien McGovern had told her she was better than murder. No one had ever told her she was better than anything before.

She shifted in place, fighting the well of nerves that rose through her. You are certain he is Lafarge’s son? she asked Madame Boucher, hating the uneasiness that roiled through her gut.

What, him? Madame Boucher nodded up to the box where Lord Sinclair argued with a silver-haired gentleman, Monsieur Lafarge. She laughed. I’m certain of it.

But how do you know? Solange asked. He is an Englishman. His surname is Bramwell, not Lafarge. He is an earl.

Madame Boucher shrugged. The name he has and the rank he inherited are a matter of legality. We all know the truth. His mother was Lafarge’s mistress, and Lord Sinclair was born on the wrong side of the bed.

Solange nodded, forcing herself to accept the explanation. She knew it was true. Why else would Lord Sinclair leave his comfortable home in England to travel to Côte d'Ivoire, spend months under Lafarge’s roof, and leave wealthier than when he’d arrived?

Quick, Madame Boucher whispered to her. While the music is still loud. You can make your way up to the balcony and shoot him from that box nearby. She pointed to an empty box only a few feet away from the one where Lord Sinclair and Monsieur Lafarge sat. Though if it were me, I’d save time and shoot both of them.

No. Solange shook her head. I want Lafarge to suffer. I want him to know what it feels like to lose a son, just as my father— She snapped her mouth shut over her words, not wanting to reveal more. I want him to grieve first, to lose everything. Then he can die.

Madame Boucher laughed. Such a bloodthirsty little savage.

The comment rankled Solange’s nerves, as did the way Madame Boucher clapped her back before stepping away to go about her business at the cabaret. If there was one thing Solange despised more than anything else, it was being called a savage, simply because she was African. Her father was a leader and a wealthy man. She was raised in a grand house with servants, given the finest education money could buy, and trained in music, dancing, and art. She was every bit as refined and accomplished as the aristocratic ladies she had spent the last few years with. But they didn’t see that. They saw a dark-skinned savage.

She clung tight to that anger, moving out of the shadows and making her way to the nearest door that would lead her to the stairs up to the balcony level. She would have her revenge. She would avenge her family in the process. And then she would try to assemble some sort of life from the ashes.

Determination filled her, but it was dashed to pieces in an instant by a cheery voice just on the other side of the doorway. Before she could duck into a corner or run away from the door, none other than Lady Roselyn came bursting into the cabaret hall, followed by two of the younger McGovern cousins, twins Heather and Sage McGovern.

Of course Asher will never approve when he hears that we’ve abandoned touring old churches to come here, Roselyn was in the middle of saying over her shoulder to the twins. But personally, I think he is cruel to insist we miss out on a spectacle like this, and—oh! Solange. Is that you? What are you doing here?

Solange’s jaw dropped and panic tightened her throat, but she managed to say, Lord Addlebury insisted I keep an eye on you.

It was a lie, but Roselyn blushed and looked like a child who had been caught stealing cake from the kitchen all the same. Oh, Asher, she said. He does like to fuss. But we’ve only come here to see what all the hubbub about this new dance, the can-can, is all about and—oh dear heavens!

Roselyn burst into laughter as she turned to gape at the stage full of flashing skirts and stockinged legs kicking. Solange let out a breath, glad that she was no longer the center of attention, but dreading what might happen next. Miss Heather and Miss Sage had their arms looped so tightly together that they might have been conjoined twins. Their eyes were huge as they took in the spectacle.

This is absolutely splendid, Roselyn went on, grabbing Miss Heather’s arm with one hand and Solange’s with the other and dragging them deeper into the hall. This is magnificent. I wonder how they do that.

She cut through the audience, garnering more than a few appreciative looks from red-faced gentlemen with ill-fitting trousers as she went. Someone grabbed a handful of Solange’s backside, and judging by the high-pitched squeal from Sage, she’d received the same treatment. But Roselyn pushed forward, apparently wanting to reach the stage itself.

Solange glanced over her shoulder, up into the box where Lord Sinclair and Monsieur Lafarge were still engaged in conversation. Her pistol was heavy in her pocket, just as her heart was heavy in her chest. There was no way she would be able to shoot from the center of the crowd of gawping spectators without being caught in an instant. And as much as she wanted Lord Sinclair dead, she would rather die herself than do anything to cause the McGovern family more scandal and harm than it had already fallen into.

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I will not leave here until you return what is mine, Louis growled, leaning closer to Lafarge.

His nerved bristled with fury. Blood pumped hard through his veins. He had to ball his hands into fists to keep himself from lunging toward Lafarge and