Adele Ashworth (22 page)

“We discussed you, Jonathan,” she revealed sweetly.

“Did you?”

She knew he was more than intrigued, though unwilling to admit it or pry for answers.

“Actually, Madeleine seems to like you, as all women apparently do.” She shot a quick peek at the gilded ceiling, forehead creased in recollection. “Together we decided you are charming and quick-minded, self-confident, and agreeable to look at.”

Her eyes returned to his face, and he was smiling fully, whether because these were positive traits or because he simply enjoyed being discussed by women, she wasn’t sure. But she refused to stop there.

“I also said I thought you were a bit too sportive and frivolous with your wealth, roaming the world at your leisure for nothing more than little bits of unimportant items and the opportunity to play. But then Madeleine defended you by insisting you have more depth than I give you credit for.”

“I do,” he stressed with a sudden serious air, smile fading just enough to imply he was no longer being quite so whimsical with her.

Uncertainty hit her in a dousing wave. It wasn’t jealousy she felt exactly, but a kind of mild resentment that the Frenchwoman might be more closely acquainted with him than she was. And it made her hot with anger that she should feel this way. Curtly she said, “I wonder how she knows this, Jonathan.”

“Her eyes are open, Natalie,” he returned baldly.

Somehow that was the most hurtful thing anyone had said to her in a long time, and he knew it affected her that way, too. She could see it in his now-penetrating stare, his rigid brows, the tightness of his jaw, and his thinned lips—not quite smiling anymore, but daring her to respond with a wry, almost noticeable smirk.

“Perhaps you’d like something to eat,” he said as a statement of fact, releasing her as their second waltz together came to an end.

Before she could respond, he took her by the elbow and guided her through the crowd toward one of the refreshment tables. Madeleine stood beside it, tall and elegant in her beautiful gown, conversing congenially with a middle-aged gentleman. Several feet from Madeleine, also next to the buffet table, stood Annette-Elise, eating chocolates with dainty fingers, her stepmother and father beside her, and all of them surrounded by four or five acquaintances of the local affluent class, either discussing the emeralds or perhaps guarding them. Stealing them like this, from around the lady’s neck and in front of hundreds of people would be an incredible feat. For the first time, Natalie felt a shred of doubt in the Black Knight’s abilities.

Madeleine turned to them as they approached. “How was your walk?” she asked with genuine interest.

“Lovely,” Natalie replied levelly.

“But of course too short,” Jonathan added without hesitation, tightening his grip on her elbow. “All alone as we were, I think my wife would have liked to . . . linger.”

She couldn’t believe he’d said that. Her cheeks warmed again, and she opened her fan, desperate for air movement, unable to look at him. She didn’t need to when she felt his burning gaze on the side of her face.

“And a most romantic setting for lovers,” Madeleine offered with a slight twist of her mouth. Then she tactfully dropped the subject, turning to the gentleman standing on her left. “Monsieur et Madame Drake, may I present Monsieur Jacques Fecteau, a longtime acquaintance of my late husband, Georges. He is a jeweler from Paris, traveling through Marseilles on business. I haven’t seen him in, oh”—she looked at the Frenchman—“five years?”

“At least that long,” he confirmed brightly in excellent English. “But now we meet again. What coincidence,
non
?”

Natalie offered him her hand. The man was about Madeleine’s height, stout yet expertly clothed in a dove-gray frock jacket and trousers, white shirt, and black cravat. He sported thick side whiskers and oiled hair the color of wet bark, a large jovial mouth, and eyes that crinkled in delight when he smiled. He gave her his full attention as he clasped her fingers with his palm, lightly kissing her knuckles.

“Madame Drake. A pleasure.”

“Monsieur Fecteau.”

He glanced up at Jonathan. “And Monsieur Drake, Madame DuMais has told me of you already, and your interest in European estates. Are you enjoying your stay in Marseilles?”

“Oh, indeed, Monsieur Fecteau. And you?”

Natalie played her part well as they all exchanged pleasantries, learning the man had traveled extensively abroad for several years while mastering his trade, which accounted for his firm grasp of their language. But for all her effort, she had trouble focusing on the conversation, which, on the whole, seemed remarkably stilted and mundane, although Madeleine and Jonathan remained particularly attentive. For more than five minutes Jonathan stood erect at her side, hands behind his back, engrossed in Monsieur Fecteau’s account of what he described as a harrowing trip south the week before; something about his coach losing a wheel and plunging into a muddy embankment, forcing him and two ladies to wait in smothering heat for hours before they could continue their journey, one of the ladies fainting, which consequently forced their driver to revive her with a splash of cold water from a nearby creek.

It was the most out-of-place discourse going nowhere that Natalie had ever been a part of, and she wasn’t sure why. It just seemed so superficial to her. Contrived. They should have been dancing, mingling, drinking champagne, basking in the excitement, and still Jonathan and Madeleine nodded and commented accordingly, standing by the food table, listening intently to a Parisian discussing the differences between the dry heat of northern France and the moist heat of the south.

And then it happened. Madeleine stepped subtly to her right toward a plate of sweetmeats and nut bread, leaning ever so gingerly behind Annette-Elise who was now eating at her side, and Jacques Fecteau stopped talking in mid-sentence as he stared openmouthed at the emeralds, now quite plainly in his line of sight and only several feet away.

“Good heavens, that’s a marvelous piece,” he sputtered in awe, switching to his native tongue.

Silence fell around them while Fecteau moved closer, suddenly absorbed by the craftsmanship of the necklace, the glitter from the jewels and the luster of gold.

Natalie felt an immediate change in atmosphere. Music, dancing, and festivity continued around them, but none in their vicinity took notice. Jonathan continued to stand beside her, quiet and watchful. On her left, two feet away, stood a very tall man with unusually sensitive features, Michel Faille, vicomte of . . . something, she couldn’t recall, followed by Alain Sirois, vicomte de Lyon. She’d met both of them through Madeleine earlier that evening. The comte d’Arles stood between Alain and Claudine, his wife, who leaned one hand on the edge of the buffet table. And all were surrounding Annette-Elise and her priceless emeralds.

Fecteau moved closer, concentrating on the jewels, oblivious to everything else. “Stunning,” he whispered. “Excellent workmanship.”

Henri straightened, a boastful smile tugging at his mouth. “A family heirloom. We are quite proud that our daughter wears the emeralds so beautifully on this occasion.”

“Indeed,” Fecteau mumbled.

Henri’s eyes narrowed. “I do not believe we’ve been introduced, Monsieur . . . ?”

“Fecteau,” Madeleine finished for him, her voice and manner light and charming. “He is a former acquaintance of my late husband, Comte, and a jeweler from Paris. He arrived in Marseilles only yesterday, much to my surprise, and I asked him to escort me this evening.” She reached out and touched Henri’s arm, eyes sparkling with a delicate familiarity. “I hope you do not mind that we somehow missed introductions before now.”

Henri looked stumped, blushing and uncomfortable, yet enjoying perfectly the rather candid approach of such a lovely woman.

Claudine cleared her throat, returning brusquely to the point. “You are knowledgeable where
priceless
jewels are concerned, Monsieur Fecteau?”

“Oh, I’ve been in the business for more than twenty years,” he answered graciously, dismissing the note of doubt in her words and her indelicate manner. Then he looked back to the necklace, his eyes round pools of wonder. “My experience is in forgery—paste—and never have I seen a better one than this.”

Someone gasped, and Fecteau, without notice, looked directly at Henri for the first time, smiling confidently. “Outstanding work. You paid a great sum, did you not?”

Natalie’s first inclination was to applaud at the rejoinder, appropriate and tactful, and probably not something Claudine and her simple mind would even grasp without explanation. Then she felt an unmistakable shift in mood. Tension became a tangible thing surrounding them, hot and pressing, the reason unclear but unmistakable even to those innocent of its meaning.

She stood motionless, heart pounding suddenly, the moment becoming illusory like no other she’d experienced. For seconds nobody said anything. Then Annette-Elise went pale as she raised her fingers to her throat.

“Papa?”

Henri blinked quickly then seemed to recover himself. “You are mistaken, Monsieur Fecteau. Your experience is lacking. I assure you these emeralds are real.”

The orchestra stopped playing in that instant, turning small discussions above music in the ballroom into a level drone.

The jeweler seemed taken aback. “I-I am terribly sorry.” He licked his lips, eyes wide and confused. “I assumed you knew.”

“Knew?” bellowed Michel Faille, his full mouth thinning as the muscles in his neck strained against his shirt collar. “What we know is that these emeralds are priceless and that they once belonged to the queen of France. What we do not know is who you are, exactly, and what your purpose is in spreading false information regarding jewels about which you know nothing.”

His voice rose with each word, and Natalie recognized the growing offense taken by the jeweler in response. At that point other party guests in their immediate surroundings quieted and began to take notice of the exchange.

Fecteau raised his chin a fraction, inhaling deeply and eyeing Henri with conviction. “Forgive me, Comte, but I know my craft. I have been a professional jeweler for more than two decades, have myself made paste jewelry from originals for those of the middle classes as well as aristocrats, and I know forgery the moment I see it.” In a deep, solemn voice, he enunciated, “This necklace is a forgery.”

Natalie felt Jonathan take her hand, lacing her fingers in his, squeezing them gently, and her mouth went dry.

The blood drained from Henri’s face. “Impossible,” he said in a raspy breath. “It’s been locked in my safe for weeks.”

A heavy stillness spread over the room. Fecteau clasped his hands behind his back resolutely. “Then, Comte d’Arles, if you believed these emeralds were real, I submit to you that your safe has been compromised and you have been cleverly duped. If you will only take a knife or sharp object to the gold, you can scrape it off. The green is nothing more than glass.”

Alain began to sweat, his forehead beading profusely; Michel became red with rage; Annette-Elise clutched the emeralds, her ruddy complexion now white as graveyard lilies. Nobody did anything for seconds, then Claudine muttered, “The safe, Henri, check the safe.”

It was a useless thing to do, given that the jewels, if Fecteau was correct, were already stolen. But he turned and walked quickly to the ballroom door, then out into the foyer.

Everyone began talking at once—the noise a clatter, heat oppressive. Natalie stood silent, basking in the thrill of the moment as it coupled strangely with tension, knowing the Black Knight was there, probably watching. Jonathan ran his thumb back and forth along her knuckles, and she peeked up cautiously to note his expression of mild curiosity. He didn’t have to know the language well to grasp what was taking place, or the enormity of it all.

Madeleine began a fierce, animated exchange between the jeweler, Claudine, and the other two men, and Natalie felt Jonathan very casually pull her back a foot or two to the side.

“He did it,” she said softly.

“With his usual style,” he whispered in return. “But it’s not over yet.”

Seconds later, Henri reentered the room, and everyone turned, a hush falling over the crowd again as they witnessed the astonishment in his expression. He looked physically ill now as he stumbled back to the buffet table, skin pasty gray, dark eyes wide with horror, beads of perspiration rolling from brow to chin.

“What is this?” he demanded in a harsh, choked voice, holding out a black, velvet pouch with shaking hands. “What is this!”

Silence boomed. Movement stopped. Fecteau guardedly reached for the pouch, his countenance embracing a flat, knowing pessimism. With agile fingers he reached inside and carefully removed the contents.

“Oh, my God . . . ,” someone whispered.

Sitting daintily in his palm was a replica of the necklace, but made of black stones and cheap metal, and only about half the size. It was a demoralizing hoax; a mocking tribute.

Fecteau bristled. “This is a low-grade silver, Comte d’Arles, and the stones are black onyx. Semiprecious. Quite ordinary but a nice piece, and probably worth more than the emerald forgery.” He turned it over in his hands. “Unusual, really. One normally makes, oh . . . cameos from onyx.”

A gust of ocean wind swept through the opened windows for the first time that night, severing the collective shock with chilling reality. Then the low rumble began to ripple through the crowd again—outrage for those enlightened, whispered confusion and uncertainty for those still ignorant.

Suddenly Henri was red-faced and seething, fists clenched at his sides, eyes watering with a rage he couldn’t begin to place, his Adam’s apple convulsing as he swallowed, unable to speak.

Michel grabbed Fecteau by the collar, glaring at him, ashen but for bright red cheeks. “Did you steal them?”

“Monsieur Faille!” Madeleine gasped, moving between them.

He ignored her. “How coincidental that you are here tonight—”

“Shut up, Michel!” Alain spat, pulling at the tall man with quaking hands until he released the jeweler. “Unwarranted insults will only cause greater trouble and attract outside attention.”