Dangerous to Know (2 page)

From the beginning of our marriage, I had taken much pleasure from sharing daily routines with Colin. Dressing for dinner, for example, had become a time during which, once we'd shooed away our servants, we could discuss, quietly and in private, the events of the day. Often my husband dismissed my maid, Meg, before I was quite done with her, so he could help me finish fastening laces or buttons or jewelry. The only area into which he would not stray was the taming of my hair. Tonight, our rituals were the same, but I could not stop my hands from shaking long enough to put on the dazzling diamond earrings he had given me for a belated wedding present.

“It's possible you've reached your physical limits, Emily. Now is not the time to be pushing yourself.” He took the dangling jewels from me and pulled me up from my seat in front of the vanity.

“Don't be ridiculous,” I said. “My only problem is that I'm embarrassed and disappointed in myself.” With gentle hands he turned my face to him and carefully snapped each earring into place, then kissed my forehead.

“I've seen men with greater experience and stronger stomachs than yours have more violent reactions than you did today. But I do worry, my dear.”

“And you worry me. You promised you wouldn't try to keep me from working when opportunity presented itself.” I leaned towards the dressing room's mirror, biting my lips to give them color. I'd chosen a gown of shell-pink satin with a delicate moiré in a darker shade, hoping the hue might enhance my complexion, which looked unnaturally drawn and faded.

“I wouldn't dream of stopping you. But now is not the time—”

“How can you say that?” I asked, pulling one of my hairs from the sleeve of his perfectly cut cashmere jacket.

“First, because you're still recovering from your injuries. Second, there's no reason to think Gaudet needs any assistance. He seems competent.” He stood behind me, checking his appearance in the mirror.

“How can you say so? He hardly even interviewed me.”

“He didn't want to push a lady in your condition.”

“I'm not in a condition anymore.”

Silence fell between us. Colin put his hands on my shoulders, bent down, and kissed me. “Forgive me. I didn't mean—”

I reached up and squeezed his hand, watching him in the mirror. “I know.” We did not speak much of our loss. It was too depressing and filled me with guilt.

“We don't have to go down to dinner tonight,” he said. “I can have a tray sent up to us here.”

“No, your mother would never forgive me for ruining her plan to introduce us to the neighbors.”

“Given the circumstances, she would understand,” he said.

“She would take it as further proof of my inadequate constitution.”

“She doesn't mean to be hard on you.”

“Of course not.” I sighed, the damp air that had crept into the ancient house chilling me to the bone. “But she's certain I'm not nearly good enough for you.”

“My dear girl, in her mind, no one could be good enough for me.” He kissed me again. “Thankfully, I've never been one to give the slightest heed to other people's opinions. I think you're absolute perfection.”

“I shall have to content myself with that. Your mother is a force nearly as unmovable as my own.”

“Give her time, my dear, she'll come around. As I was the only bachelor brother, she's come to depend on me since my father died.”

“I don't want that to stop,” I said. “She should be able to depend on you.”

“And she will, but she'll have to get accustomed to sharing me. She's used to having me all to herself much of the time. I admit I thought she'd adjust more readily and am sorry her reaction to you has caused you grief.”

“It's not your fault,” I said. “Come, though. If we don't head down now, we'll be late, and that will only serve to put her off me all the more.”

He took me by the hand and led me to greet his mother's guests. The oldest parts of her house dated from the fourteenth century. Built in traditional style, the low ceilings and beam construction on the ground floor made for cozier surroundings than those to which I was accustomed. The space was warm and welcoming. Long rows of leaded glass windows lined the walls, letting in the bright summer sun. The surrounding gardens were spectacular, bursting with blooms in myriad colors, and enormous pink, purple, and blue hydrangea popped against the estate's velvety green lawns.

Halfway down the narrow, wooden staircase, Colin stopped and gave me a kiss. “I suppose it is for the best that you decided not to take dinner upstairs,” he said. “As I do have a surprise for you. Coming, I think you'll agree, at a most opportune time. She's likely not only to cheer you immensely, but also to terrorize my mother into accepting you.”

“Cécile!”

“Mais oui,”
he said.

I'd met Cécile du Lac in Paris, where I'd traveled while in the last stages of mourning for my first husband. An iconoclast of the highest level, she was a patron of the arts who'd embraced Impressionism when the critics wouldn't. She'd had a series of extremely discreet lovers, including Gustav Klimt, whom she'd met when we were in Vienna together the previous winter, and considered champagne the only acceptable libation. Although she was nearer my mother's age than my own, we'd become the closest of friends almost at once, brought together by the bond of common experience. Like mine, her husband had died soon after the wedding, and like me, she had not been devastated to find herself a young widow. Of all my acquaintances, she alone understood what it was to spend years pretending to mourn someone. And even when our histories diverged, it did not drive a wedge between us. When, at last, I came to see Philip's true character, and found my grief genuine, she accepted that as well, even if it was due to empathy rather than sympathy.

Had Colin not informed me of her arrival in Normandy, I would have guessed in short order, as the yipping barks of her two tiny dogs, Brutus and Caesar, greeted us at the bottom of the stairs. Cécile patently refused to travel without them. I rushed down—realizing full well the hem of my dress was about to be the victim of a brutal attack—and reached for my friend.

“Chérie!”
She embraced me and kissed my cheeks three times. “It is unconscionable that you have made me miss you so much and for so long. Paris has been crying for your return.”

“I'm beyond delighted to see you,” I said, squeezing her hand and then tugging at my skirt in a vain attempt to remove the two sets of teeth bent on destroying it.

“They are terrible creatures, are they not?” She picked them up, one in each hand, and scolded them, Caesar, as always, receiving the lighter end of her wrath. Cécile viewed preferential treatment of his namesake the only justice she could give the murdered emperor. “Ah, Monsieur Hargreaves, is it possible you have become even more handsome?” She returned the dogs to the floor so Colin could kiss her hand while she glowed over him.

“Highly unlikely, madame,” he said. “Unless you can see your own beauty reflected in my face.”

She sighed. “Such a delicious man. I should have never encouraged Kallista to marry you without first trying to catch you for myself.” Soon after we'd met, Cécile had adopted the nickname bestowed on me by my first husband, making her the only person who'd called me Kallista to my face. Philip had used it only in his journals, and I'd not known of the endearment until after his death.

“You flatter me,” he said. “But truly, your timing could not be more flawless. I can't think when we've needed you more.”

“I've been waiting for the invitation.” We had not seen Cécile since our arrival in France. When the
Orient Express
dropped us in Paris, my health was not so good as it was now, and I'd been in too much pain for even a short stay at her house on the Rue Saint Germain. “You are pale, Kallista, but that's to be expected after what Madame Hargreaves tells me you've seen today.”

My mother-in-law entered the corridor, a bemused look on her face. “Are you planning to stand out here all night? Do come sit, Madame du Lac,” she said. “I'm longing to improve our acquaintance.” She looped her arm through Cécile's and led her into a large sitting room, where the rest of the party waited for us. The furniture reminded me of that in Colin's house in Park Lane—functional yet comfortable, elegant in its simplicity. The silk upholstery on slim chairs and a wide settee was the darkest forest green, blending beautifully with the walnut wood of the pieces.

Mrs. Hargreaves made brief introductions—her neighbors, the Markhams, a handsome couple, had already arrived—and dove into eager conversation with Cécile. As they were of an age, it did not surprise me to see them quickly find common ground. I hoped their new friendship might distract her from criticizing me. Colin pressed a glass of champagne into my hand then crossed the room to bring one to Cécile and his mother. I took a sip, but could hardly taste it, still feeling more than a little disjointed, off-balance, after the events of the day. Mr. Markham came to my side.

“Do you find this all quite nonsensical?” He was English, but looked like a Viking—broad shoulders, blond hair, pale blue eyes. “Someone was murdered today and we're all to stand about acting as if nothing's happened? Drinking champagne?”

“It's beyond astonishing,” I said, relieved to have the subject addressed directly.

“And you're the one who stumbled upon the body, aren't you?” he asked. “Forgive me. Have I made you uncomfortable? I've a terrible habit of being too blunt.”

“There's no need to apologize. Nothing you could say now would make the experience worse.” My stomach churned as I remembered the brutal scene.

“What are the bloody police doing?” he asked. “Will the inveterate Inspector Gaudet be joining us for dinner? Will he regale us with tales of his investigation?”

“George, are you tormenting this poor woman?” His wife, slender and rosy, appeared at his side and laid a graceful hand on his arm. He beamed down at her.

“You are unkind, my darling,” he said. “I wouldn't dream of tormenting anyone, let alone such a beauty. Lady Emily and I were merely discussing the way everyone is avoiding the topic much on all our minds.”

“I can't imagine the tumult of emotions throttling you at the moment,” she said. Her English was flawless, but made exotic by her thick French accent. “But I must admit I'm desperate to ask you all sorts of completely inappropriate questions.”

“I shan't allow that,” her husband said. “You, Madeline, don't need any fuel for bad dreams.”

“He's beyond protective.” She beamed up at him. “But so handsome I'm likely to forgive him anything.”

“She requires protection,” he said. “Anyone would, living where we do.”

“Are you afraid the murderer will strike in the neighborhood again?” I asked.

“No, one murder does not make me believe the area's entirely dangerous—not, mind you, because I have any faith in Gaudet's bound-to-be-infamous manhunt. Protection is necessary because the condition of the château in which we live would give Morpheus himself nightmares. Half the time I expect to wake up in the moat and find the entire building collapsed. The one remaining tower has grown so rickety I'm afraid we'll have to tear it down—it's unsafe.”

“My love, it's not all that bad,” she said. “Structurally you have nothing to fear. Aside from the tower, that is. But that hardly matters. What concerns me is our recent visitor.”

“Visitor?” I asked.

“Intruder, more like. We've received a rather unusual gift,” he said. “A painting.”

“And how is that unusual, Mr. Markham? Are you known to despise art?”

“Quite the contrary,” he said. “And you must call me George. There's no use in adopting airs of formality this far in the middle of the country. We're all stuck together and may as well declare ourselves fast friends at once.”

“A lovely sentiment,” I said. “Do please call me Emily. But why do you disparage Normandy? I can't remember when I've been to such a charming place.”

“It is too far from civilization,” he said.

“Which is why, perhaps, a kind friend thinks you need art brought to you,” I said. “After all, there are no galleries nearby.” This drew laughter from them both, and their happiness was unexpectedly contagious.

“What makes it strange, though, is that it was more like a theft than a gift,” Madeline said.

“A reverse theft,” her husband corrected.

“How so?” I asked, intrigued.

“The painting was delivered in the middle of the night and its bearer left evidence of neither his entry nor exit. He set it on an easel—which he'd also brought—in the middle of a sitting room.”

“With a note,” Madeline continued. “That read: ‘This should belong to someone who will adequately appreciate it.'”

“And this, you see, is why I have no confidence in Gaudet,” George said. “He's been utterly useless in getting to the bottom of the matter.”

“What sort of painting is it?” I asked.

“A building, some cathedral. Signed by Monet.”

“And what has the industrious inspector done on your behalf?”

“He questioned my servants, none of whom could afford to buy a pencil sketch from a schoolgirl, after which he declared himself sympathetic to my lack of enthusiasm for the canvas.”

“You do not like Impressionism?”

“No, Gaudet is simply incapable of reading a chap correctly. I adore Impressionism,” he said. “We have seventeen works in that style. I bought two of Monet's haystack series last year.”

“So the thief knows your taste?” I asked.

“Evidently.”

“We've no objection to the painting,” Madeline said. “But how am I to sleep when an intruder has made such easy entry into our home?”