The Blue Diamond (21 page)

It spoke in rapid, fluent French—a woman’s voice. Mademoiselle spoke in English to himself, but he was sure it was her voice. “Quick, I think I was followed,” she said.

An ungentlemanly curse rent the air, uttered by a man, also in French. “What the devil do you want? It’s dangerous to meet like this.”

“There is some trouble . . .”

Moncrief edged closer to the corner of the building, hoping for a view of her companion. He saw a tall, dark shadow of a man walking quickly away with the girl. An open courtyard gave him no concealment to follow, and worse, they might enter one of the doorways, to be lost to him. They were speaking, their voices both angry, but no words were distinguishable. Suddenly, the words became angrier, the voices hot with fury. The man raised his hand and struck her a blow across the cheek.

In a flash, Moncrief darted forward, impelled by instinct. The two flew apart, the girl emitted a low scream, and then from behind, someone, a third party, struck him a blow on the side of the head that sent him to the ground. It was a few moments before he came to, to sit up on the cold cobblestones, to put a hand to his head. A thin trickle of blood ran down his temple. The pain eased from a sharp stab to a dull ache.

His first thought was for the girl’s safety. The row of dark doorways told him clearly enough it would take a whole night to find her. Behind any of them a man might be waiting, with a gun or other weapon. Further hazy considering told him she had come voluntarily to meet the person, therefore there was no real concern for her life—a luxury he could not share. He staggered to his feet, listened in the cold darkness for a moment, examining the doorways for motion, then went back through the alleyway, checked the name of the street, memorized sufficient details that he could return in daylight. He hailed a passing hackney and climbed in, gingerly placing a handkerchief to his bleeding temple.

The route back to his own rooms took him past Mademoiselle’s apartment. Glancing up, he saw lights burning. On an impulse, he went to her door and was told by a perfectly placid housekeeper that Mademoiselle was home, and would see him.

To his considerable surprise, Mademoiselle entered smiling and unperturbed by any sign of her recent activity. As she took up a seat beside him, however, she saw the traces of blood on his temple and a few drops on his cravat. Her eyes opened wider in surprise and horror, while her white hands flew up. “What happened? Oh, was it you, milord?”

“I’m glad you aren’t planning to deny it,” he said. “Who was it you went to meet?”

“You followed me?” she asked, examining him closely.

“You were aware of it, I think. I heard you mention it to your friend.”

“Friend?” she asked with a disdainful stare. “If you heard what I said, then no doubt you saw what happened as well. One’s friends do not strike one.”

“Who was it?”

“A business associate,” she answered vaguely.

“His name, if you please.”

“There is no reason to tell you that. The name would mean nothing to you."

“When I have been attacked, the name means something to me, whether I have heard it before or not.”

“You may count yourself lucky you weren’t killed,” she said, suddenly throwing off her assumed indifference. Her eyes flashed, her color rose, and she was either angry or frightened—it was impossible to tell which.

“You have dangerous business associates. I wonder that you go to meet them alone in dark alleys.”

“If I had suspected for a moment it was LaR . . . that particular gentleman, you may be sure I would not have gone. Not alone, in any case. Why were you there? Why were you following me?” When he made no reply, she continued, “Hager put you up to it, didn’t he?”

He said nothing, but his expression did not deny her statement. “I suppose it was his idea for you to invite me to English headquarters as well.”

“No, that was my idea. You expressed a desire to emigrate. I wanted to help you.”

“You wanted to get me out of Vienna you mean.”

“Cut line, Cécile. We both know you went to visit the Bonapartists tonight. We both know as well it had to do with selling the Blue Tavernier to my cousin. What I have not figured out is why your friends should attack you, when it seems to me you are doing them a great service.”

“It wasn’t my friends who attacked me! It was all a trick of Chabon’s to get me out in the open, unprotected.” she said, with a wild, distracted note creeping into her voice. “He means to kill me, don’t you see?”

“Oh hardly kill you! He means to prevent your selling the diamonds, no more.”

“He has succeeded in hoodwinking you, as well as the others, I see,” she said, in a hard voice. But the woman standing before him did not look hard. She looked small, and very frightened, with her eyes so dark in her pale face, and her little white hands fluttering helplessly.

“Suppose you sit down and tell me what you are talking about,” he suggested in a reasonable voice.

She drew a deep sigh, then sat down with a hesitant, uncertain glance at him. “The thing is,” she said, choosing her words slowly, carefully, “he—Chabon—has everything on his side. Official position, friends in high places—everyone believes him, but he lies, milord. It is he who has the diamonds, not me. He means to turn them in and say he found them in my possession. You see what that means? I must not be alive to contradict him, and that is why he plans to kill me—or have me killed.”

Moncrief sat regarding her, wondering whether the reeling in his head was a result of his being hit, or the effort to make some sense of Mademoiselle’s latest version of the story. “You told me yourself, in this same room, you believed Napoleon had the jewels,” he reminded her.

“I thought so at the time. Certain things that have happened since have led me to believe otherwise. Firstly, my friends do not have any knowledge of the matter. Only a handful of them received any reward from Napoleon. Secondly, Chabon’s persecution of me, his insistence that I have the collection. That only confused me at first, until his attempt on my life. Yes, he has more than once tried to kill me. First it was poison wine given me by his friend, Kruger, then tonight . . ."

“You think that was Chabon then?”

“Not in person, no. He is too clever, or perhaps cowardly, to act for himself. It was LaRocque, a turncoat Frenchman who let on he was for Napoleon, but now works for Chabon. I received word from him of a meeting tonight, a very important meeting, which I must attend. He waylaid me on the way there. You must have seen the knife!” she said, regarding him intently.

“It was dark,” he answered. He then lowered his head, partly because it ached like the devil, and partly to allow himself time to consider Mademoiselle’s story. There was no reason he could see that she was not telling the truth. Chabon could as well have the diamonds as Miss Feydeau—but again, who had killed Eynard, and why? And why had Chabon had a copy of the infamous earrings made? There was no point to it. A man with two million pounds worth of gems to dispose of does not throw doubt on their authenticity at the beginning of his work. It still seemed desirable to search her apartment.

“Let me tend that wound for you,” she offered. Water and a bandage were brought. He leaned his head back, while she bathed his temple, making solicitous inquiries.

“Does it hurt? I’m sorry—I’m trying to be careful. What a nasty wound. They stop at nothing, these devils.” All the while her fingers gently stroked and bathed his forehead, while she hovered over him, her small waist and full bosom close enough to arouse an anchorite. He began to think, after a longish moment, that she prolonged the exercise on purpose. His hands went around her waist.

She looked into his eyes, softly saying, “No, please don’t . . ." in a voice that was full of invitation, nor did she pull away by so much as an inch. His arms tightened around her, pulling her on to his knee. He kissed her, reminding himself this was all business, but as her lips yielded to his, as her fingers went around his neck, moved with delicious teasing motions up into his hair while she turned on his lap to press her firm bosom against his chest, he found all thoughts of business slip from his mind.

“We mustn’t—this is madness,” she said, breathing into his ear with suppressed gasps, then she took a corner of his earlobe between her teeth and gave it a little bite. She was an expert. He recognized it, and wanted her the more for it.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “A friend of mine has a little chateau in the woods. We can spend a day, just the two of us—bring your chaperone along,” he added, remembering that he must somehow get away from her to search the apartment.

“Ah, not tomorrow,
ma mie
,” she said sadly, running one finger tip around his lips. “It must be tonight.”

A wave of suspicion welled up in him at this sudden burst of willingness. Desperate people were at work here. Someone had killed Eynard, and he had himself been struck that very same night. Her former protestations of innocence . . .

He was at once bitterly disappointed, yet relieved when the door knocker sounded. Mademoiselle hopped from his lap, the dragon’s tread sounded in the hallway, and suddenly Maria Kruger’s voice spoke. “I must see Cécile at once!”

That she came pelting in with such a lack of ceremony, calling Miss Feydeau by her given name, indicated she was on easier terms than he had thought with the French. He listened, hoping to hear her message, but she was soon at the doorway into the parlor, staring to see him there with Mademoiselle. He was aware of his disarray, the tousled hair, the very act of his running his fingers through it causing a flush of embarrassment and anger. Her breeding caused her to feign a disinterest in the irregular goings-on that she was far from feeling, but everywhere she looked there was some surprise for her. The plaster on Moncrief’s temple, the pan of water, Cécile's dress all turned crooked on her. An infant could see there was something unusual afoot.

Cécile spoke up quickly, taking charge in a manner that indicated some acquaintance with such goings-on. “Girl talk, Moncrief. Pray excuse us a moment. Come into my bedroom, Maria.” Maria followed her out, everything under control but her eyes, that looked at Moncrief, questioning, accusing. What the devil did she have to accuse him of? Why did he feel like a lecher, and a fool?

“Poor Moncrief was attacked by footpads, and came running to us for help,” Cécile explained glibly, yet Miss Kruger could not but think her own door was as close, and he had not come to them. “What is it, my dear?”

“Chabon is at the house. He plans to take you to Talleyrand’s palais tomorrow. I thought I would give you a word of warning. You and your chaperone. I don’t know what you are doing, Cécile, but I suspect it is something Talleyrand will dislike, as you are so fond of Bonaparte.”

“
Mon Dieu!
They mean to expel me from the country. Send me away, and I this very day turned down an offer from Moncrief to go to England. Perhaps it is not too late . . ."

“Moncrief offered you that?” Maria asked sharply.

“Yes, to arrange papers for me. Call him in, will you.”

“It would not be proper for him to come into your bedroom, Cécile. At least not while I am here,” she added pointedly. "Where you entertain him while I am away is up to you. I must leave now. You can see him privately in the parlor.”

“Thank you for coming. You are the only friend I have,” Cécile said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it.

“You will hurt Moncrief’s feelings to say so,” Maria said, and left, her walk a great deal stiffer then when she had entered. At the archway to the parlor, she turned and said good night stiffly to Moncrief, who was standing. He bowed formally.

“What was that all about?” he asked Cécile when they were alone.

She regarded him a moment in silence, then said, “Chabon has arranged to have me interrogated by Talleyrand, at French headquarters.”

“You think there’s some danger in it for you?”

“No—any accident he arranges will not occur at the palais, of that I am sure. It is the safest spot for me in town.”

They looked at each other, he wondering if he was expected to resume the lovemaking, and the lady waiting to see if he would. After a moment, he said, “I am overdue at the Hofburg. Shall I come back later?”

“No, you had better not. Talleyrand will be having me watched. You won’t want to be mixed up in this. We shall meet again soon, I hope?”

“Very soon, Mam’selle,” he promised, and was aware of a feeling of relief. He kissed her fingers gallantly, and left.

Chapter Twenty

Maria was unaccountably angry when she ducked around the corner into her own front door. She was a fool. A fool to worry about Cécile, when it was perfectly clear she was able to take care of herself. A fool too to think Moncrief had been a suitable confidant. What had he done since she told him? Nothing. He had come once to talk to Papa, and made not a whit of difference. Papa was still in Chabon’s pocket, still grinning like a man who had some great secret, still rude to Tante Hermione, and still spending money as though it were water. She half wished someone would ship Cécile back to Paris, where she belonged.

She received a scolding from her father for keeping him waiting.

“I thought we were to wait for Chabon to come back from Mademoiselle Feydeau’s,” she said.

“No, we will meet him at the Hofburg. I wonder if Moncrief will be there,” he added, with an impish smile at her. “I think you like him better than Chabon, eh?”

“I find them both equally repulsive,” she replied coldly.

“Still thinking of Anton,” he said, smiling.

“You men are extremely vain, to think ladies are always thinking of you.”

“Now what has got you in a pucker, eh? Very well then, I tell you a surprise I was saving for tomorrow. You recall the dashing dark green riding habit with black fur you have been craving these two months? The one like Sagan’s blue with silver fox fur?”

“I don’t require a new riding habit, Papa. Thank you very much.”

“Your eyes fill with longing every time you see la duchesse. It will be yours. Call the modiste. Have her come and choose your material.”