The Bookseller (14 page)

“Maybe later, I should not ignore my guests for too long. Please sit.” Roussillon gestured toward an undersized chintz armchair.
More for decoration than comfort
, Hugo thought, but he sat anyway. Roussillon unpinned and slid off his cravat, then took off his sweater and dropped them both on his dressing table. He opened a mirrored closet and inspected two tuxedo jackets. “I do have a penchant for white tails. People never seem to wear those any more, I don't know why.”

“Monsieur.” Hugo knew little and cared less about the fashion habits of the elite. And he certainly didn't care to watch them undress. “I am a little confused as to why you invited me.”

Roussillon unbuckled and kicked off his pants, revealing plum-colored, silk boxer shorts over thin, white legs. He turned and looked at Hugo. “You Americans are known for speaking bluntly. We, and even more so the English, tend to say in a paragraph what can and should be said in a sentence. So you will not mind if I speak openly and honestly with you?”

“I would prefer it, actually.”
And I'd also prefer you to be in pants
, he thought.

“
Bien.
This discussion requires, I think, that we arrive at a clear understanding.” Roussillon turned back to his closet and pulled out a black tuxedo. “You are a behavioral scientist, yes? A profiler?”

“I was, yes. For the FBI.”

“You consider yourself good at reading people, then.”

“A misconception,” said Hugo. “I consider myself good at reading crime scenes.”

Roussillon turned and held Hugo's eye. “Then it will come as a surprise to learn that I am gay?”

“This whole evening,” Hugo said with a smile, “is turning into a surprise. That isn't one of them.”

Roussillon chuckled. “Monsieur Marston. My daughter is a desirable woman, attractive, and intelligent. All of her life I have guided and helped her, provided for her basic needs. Are you with me so far?”

“I think so.”

“What am I telling you, Monsieur Marston? I am telling you that I am very careful about who I let near to my daughter. I do not mind if she has boyfriends or girlfriends, but I do not like her to fall in love with any of them.” He looked at Hugo. “And I do all I can to discourage them falling in love with her.”

Hugo raised one eyebrow. “I thought Paris was the city of love.”

“
Mais non
.” Roussillon's tone lightened. “The city of
loving
is more accurate.”

“Either way,” Hugo said, stretching his legs out, “I have known Claudia for less than a week. Love is not an issue, believe me.”

“Good.” Roussillon slipped on a starched white shirt. “Understand that my protectionist concerns aren't merely those of a fussy father. Claudia is, in my view, particularly susceptible to a damaged heart.”

“How do you mean?” Hugo asked.

“Did you know she has been married before, yes?”

“Yes, she told me.”

“And did she tell you how it ended?”

“None of my business,” Hugo said.

“Maybe not. But I'll tell you anyway.” He turned his cool eyes to Hugo. “They were very much in love. He was a policeman, a young detective, handsome and clever and on his way up. On the way up until he was shot by the same type of people that Claudia is writing about now. They'd been married less than two years and she hasn't, to my knowledge, dated anyone since. Your name is the first she has mentioned to me, that much I can say.”

“I didn't know any of that. And I'm still not sure it's my business.”

Roussillon smiled. “And even knowing this, you think it strange that I vet the men in my grown daughter's life?”

“I am not a father, Monsieur de Roussillon. One of the reasons for that is my job, the things I have seen, the things I do, and the people
I meet. If I haven't had children because of the way the world is, I can hardly fault you for protecting yours so carefully,” Hugo said. “And as I told you, we've known each other less than a week. You don't need to worry about it being love just yet.”

“You have been married before?”

“Yes. Twice.”

“Of course, you are from America, where marriage is like a fine suit. You wear and enjoy it for a while, then discard it when it becomes worn or uncomfortable.”

Hugo clenched his jaw but kept his tone even. “My first wife was killed in an accident. And my second decided she didn't like the French enough to stay married to me and live here.”

Roussillon turned and looked at Hugo. “
Je m'excuse
. I should not have assumed the worst. Forgive me.”

Hugo nodded. “As I said, you are a father. I don't blame you for being protective. Even if she is a grown woman.”

“Not to me.” Roussillon smiled, then turned and went back to buttoning up his shirt. “She didn't tell you about me, about being a Roussillon?”

“No. And I confess the name would not have meant much to me anyway.”

“That is often part of the problem, from where I stand. We do have to be careful, you know, because the name, the title, they can attract a certain sort of man.”

“I can imagine,” Hugo said.

“And forgive me for appearing to be rude, but I had imagined my daughter marrying a man of…well, a Frenchman, anyway.”

“A man of what?” Hugo knew the answer and was amused at this glance into social elitism. He also felt a slight jolt of surprise that marriage would even occur to Roussillon at this stage because neither he nor Claudia had broached the subject of exclusivity, let alone matrimony. And he doubted it was something she'd gone to her father about for discussion or advice.

“Of nobility. Of a certain class.” Roussillon grimaced. “Someone who recognizes the family name, at least. You find all this amusing?”

Hugo stifled his smile. “I'm sorry, really. But hearing you espouse a very traditional view of marriage is, you have to admit, a touch ironic. And, I have to say, a little preemptive.”

“Maybe, but such things are nevertheless important to me.”

“Are they as important to Claudia?”

“I can hope. I had thought so.” Roussillon turned to him again. “And since you touch upon the subject, you are not wondering how a gay man has a daughter?”

“Again, that's hardly any of my business.”

“No, it is not. But I want you to know that she is my flesh and blood. As a straight man can experiment, so can a gay man, especially when one is told that straight is the only way to be.” Hugo didn't respond, and Roussillon asked, “You will continue to see her?”

“Normally I'd say that it's none of
your
business. But since we are sharing…” He shrugged. “If she wants to, of course.”

“Yes? She will not be disappointed.”

“But you are.”

“We shall see. I suspect she will be disappointed with me for interrogating you.” Roussillon wagged a finger. “And that will not do at all.”

“That's between you and her,” Hugo said, standing. “Now, if we're still speaking frankly, I could use a drink.”

Roussillon picked up two boxes containing cufflinks and made his selection. “I am a terrible host, Monsieur Marston. Word will spread at the embassy about such rudeness. Forgive me for not offering before.”

“No problem. I can find my way downstairs.”

“I will be right down, monsieur. I trust we will have a rewarding evening together.”

Hugo nodded. Rewarding? And a look in Roussillon's eye told Hugo that their conversation, one way or another, would be continued.

 

 

He found Claudia beside the walk-in fireplace, a glass of champagne in her hand and a worried look on her face. When she saw him, she started forward. “Hugo, I'm so sorry, are you angry?”

“I haven't decided,” he said with a frown. “But I'm sure as hell thirsty.”

Claudia glanced over his shoulder and, with a slight inclination of her head, summoned a waiter. “Champagne?” she asked Hugo.

“Scotch,” he said, then looked at the waiter and spoke in French. “Large. I do not have to drive myself home tonight.”

“
Oui, monsieur
.” The waiter smiled. “We have Laphroaig, fifteen years old, or a Talisker, I think twenty-one years.”

“Either will do fine. Perhaps whichever is fastest. And no ice.”

“Right away, monsieur.”

The waiter turned and slalomed his way through the room with his head down, avoiding eye contact with, and thereby interruption by, the other guests.
Nice work—shame the French don't tip
, thought Hugo. He turned back to Claudia.

“So Ms. Roussillon, were you going to tell me?” He kept his voice light, amused rather than annoyed.

“Hugo, of course.” She was having trouble meeting his gaze. “I should have told you right away, I am sorry. I want to know if you are upset.”

“For humble roots, I wasn't expecting this,” he said, gesturing to the room. Forty men and women, mostly middle-aged or older, stood holding drinks and napkins, some nibbling delicately at the corner of various hors d'oeuvres that Hugo couldn't recognize. Mostly things
wrapped in pastry. All of the men wore bow ties, and most in tuxedoes, but a few wore tails. The women, as rich women do, looked comfortable in their tight-fitting dresses and heavy jewelry. But this wasn't just the rich set, Hugo saw, it was the rich and beautiful set. The conversation bubbled all around them and Hugo was aware that Claudia kept her distance from him. Roussillon's friends may know about his homosexuality, they may even keep it secret, but Hugo guessed that they'd still love to gossip about his daughter and an American.

“Believe it or not, this place
is
humble to some of these people,” Claudia said, as if reading his mind. “And I think you'll like them, too.”

“I have no reason to doubt it. I'm curious about your father, though. He could have stopped by my apartment to give me his little speech.”

“That's not his style.” Claudia shook her head, smiling. “And yes, he is a good man, too. But he does like to impress. I think he wanted you to know that he is important.”

“Influential, you mean.”

“That too. You know, Hugo, he's only protecting me.”

“Because you can't do that yourself?”

“He's my father, reality doesn't enter that equation.” Claudia looked at him, serious. “I would like to talk about it,” she said, “sometime soon.”

“We can. We will.” Hugo's drink arrived on a silver tray. He took it with thanks and downed half the glass. The burn was less than expected, always the trouble with good whisky. “So did your gendarme friends find anything out today?”

“My…? Oh, that.” She looked disappointed. “You want to talk about that now?”

“Of course,” Hugo said. “Seems like a safe topic, no?”

“
Bien
.” Her smile was thin. “Well, they talked to Chabot and said they were pretty firm, pressed him for a while.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, but he told them the same thing he told you: he didn't know Max.”

“Did they ask how he came into possession of the stall?”

“I don't know, probably. They didn't tell me what his response was, though. If any. I'm sorry, they did try.”

Hugo frowned into his drink. If you want something done right, do it yourself. And he'd do just that tomorrow.

“So,” he said, nodding toward the busy room, “how does this work? Should I be meeting your friends?” The idea was less than attractive. He knew he had little in common with these people, none of whom probably worked for a living. He watched as a well-preserved woman in her fifties clinked glasses of champagne with a lookalike, their noses almost touching, an amusing secret just shared. The men in their black and white, the plumage on the women, and the little zookeepers in their white coats stopping to feed and water their charges all made Hugo feel claustrophobic.

But he was just a little bit curious. Curious about the relationship between Roussillon and his daughter, about the guests themselves. Claudia had said they were nice. Heck, maybe they were.

A handsome couple approached. The man was tall and strong, with black hair combed straight back, the confident smile of someone who knew that others wanted to meet him. His wife had once been beautiful but now wore the slightly stretched face that comes with cosmetic surgery. But the blue eyes were clear and the smile more genuine than that of her husband. Perhaps because of the sparkling rock on her wedding finger. Claudia made the introductions.

“This is Hugo Marston, head of security at that US Embassy. Hugo, meet Alain and Marie Mercier.”

Hugo shook hands with them both. “
Enchanté
.”

Claudia turned to Hugo and spoke in French. “The Merciers are old friends of mine. Somewhere along the line Marie and I are cousins, but I'm not sure how far back.”

“That's true of most Europeans, isn't it?” Hugo said.

The couple laughed gently. “
Alors
, Hugo,” Alain Mercier said, “how do you know Claudia?”

Good question
.

“The truth,” Claudia said, and leaned in close to Alain. Both he and his wife cocked their heads expectantly. “The truth is, I caught him fucking your wife.”

The French couple snorted delightedly and Marie put a hand on Hugo's arm, squeezing playfully as she looked at her husband. “If that were true, Alain, I would boast of it myself.” Alain smiled indulgently, a man confident that his wife would never do such a thing. In these circles, that was his role. Despite his reservations, Hugo warmed to the couple, enjoying their easy banter.

A gong rang out from the other end of the room and the crowd started to shuffle through a pair of double doors to the dining room. As they were siphoned through, Hugo stood aside to let a portly couple pass, and he lost contact with Claudia and the Merciers.

Inside the dining room he saw that place cards had been set up, the guests floating around and bumping into each other as the discovery process began. He was looking for his own card when a hand took his. It belonged to a redhead, a young lady of no more than twenty-five. Large blue eyes met his look of surprise, but any innocence in them was undone by her smile, replete with intent.

“I believe we are seated together, Monsieur Marston,” she said in English, her accent from somewhere south of Alabama. “My name is Jenny Reye.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hugo said, instinctively looking for Claudia. “Call me Hugo. And how do you know who I am?”

“I asked,” she said, as if it were a stupid question.

“Of course.” Hugo smiled. “I have no idea where we are, so I'll follow you.” Following was a pleasure, even though her dress was less fitted than that worn by most of the women there. There was a subtlety about the way she moved her hips, not enough to draw attention from the men around them, but just enough to let Hugo know that she knew he was watching. They rounded the head of the table where Claudia stood by her chair, waiting for her father. Hugo was surprised to see a look of puzzlement on her face, a look she transferred from the girl to Hugo with a raised eyebrow. Hugo smiled and shrugged as he passed.
Don't ask me
.

He held Jenny's chair for her and they sat down, Hugo suddenly grateful for the tedious lessons in etiquette the ambassador forced all of his senior staff to take when they joined the embassy. Faced with a dozen forks, knives, and spoonlike devices, plus four different glasses, the Texas Hugo would have been at once confused, irritated, and amused. The head-of-security Hugo, however, knew which glass was for what, and why he had a fork shaped like a spoon nestled among the knives. His new neighbor seemed less sure. He could see her eyes flicking around the table as other guests settled in for the meal, watching to see who touched what. Napkin unrolled now or later? Pour my own water? He could empathize.

“It's nice to be speaking in English,” he smiled. “Have you been here before?”

“No.” Her big blue eyes flashed and she waved a hand over the place setting. “And I can't figure out whether I'm going to end up gorging myself or starving to death from choosing the wrong tools.”

Hugo chuckled. “I know what you mean. I was always told to start on the outside and work my way in.”

“That so?” Jenny looked at him and smiled
that way
again. “Sounds like a good lesson.”

A young lady appeared behind them holding two bottles of wine, one red and one white. “
Mademoiselle
?” she said.

“Good,” she whispered to Hugo, “I'll let her figure out which glass I should use.” Jenny leaned into him, her bare arm brushing his jacket. She looked over her shoulder at the server. “
Blanc
,
s'il vous plait
.”

Hugo breathed in her scent and tried to place it, but couldn't. Soft and flowery, quite unlike the way she was behaving. He wanted to splash his face with water, grab Claudia, and get out of there.

Hugo's eyes trailed over the rows of silverware. Only one, two, three…six courses to get through. He felt a hand grip the back of his chair and he twisted to see a man of about eighty, as round as he was tall and with a giant moustache, tugging at the chair next to him. Hugo stood, pulled out the chair, and helped him sit.

“
Merci
,” the old man said. When Hugo told him he was welcome, the old man pointed to his ear, smiled sadly, and mouthed the word
sourd
. Deaf. Hugo smiled and nodded, then turned back to Jenny. “So what do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I work for the count,” she said.

“Doing…?”

“Books. I have a Masters in European Literature and worked for two years at Sotheby's selling musty old books. The kinds of books that he,” she thumbed toward the head of the table, “likes to pay way too much for.”

“I see,” said Hugo, noting another book connection. “That sounds interesting. Has he been buying lately? At auction?”

“Not that I know of, but sometimes he does his own buying without involving me. That's pretty rare, though. Why?”

“Just curious.” But Hugo didn't want
her
to be. “Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. You were saying that it's an interesting job.”

“Mostly, yes. I get to travel a lot, that's fun. I get paid well, too, and meet interesting people. What do you do?”

“I work at the US Embassy.” Hugo glanced down the table and saw Claudia watching them. “In the security section.”

Jenny ran a finger around the top of her wine glass and cocked her head. “American Embassy, huh? You carrying a gun?”

“Here?” He laughed. “I think we're all pretty safe here, don't you?”

“How about handcuffs?”

He was saved from having to reply by a sudden hush that ran around the table, the diners quieting themselves to a signal that Hugo had missed. Roussillon was on his feet, a relaxed smile on his face.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter, my chef, and I welcome you. We see you all so very rarely and I'm sorry I don't get to sit and chat with you individually. I've been wanting to say something and…” He paused and looked down, his fingers moving to a polished knife, which he turned over. His mouth opened and when he raised his head Hugo saw a look of surprise on his host's face. Roussillon looked at them all, studied them, then turned as his daughter took his hand. They smiled at each other and she half-stood to guide him back into his seat, pressing a glass of water into his hand. She stood and addressed the party with a smile. “My father usually likes to give thanks for his food. So please.” Heads bowed around the table and she said a quick grace. Immediately
after, the chatter resumed as though a dial had been turned and nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Throughout dinner Jenny continued to flirt with him, but the way a teenager would, full of innuendo and lingering looks, devoid of subtlety. Hugo didn't mind—after all, she was very pretty. And he was pleased, too, at the long looks Claudia was sending their way at increasingly frequent intervals, though she wasn't giving away much; her expression sat halfway between irritation and amusement.

The meal itself lasted two hours, and Hugo was experienced enough at the French table to pace himself and leave the bread well alone. Jenny fared less well, her sauciness diminishing as she filled herself with the quail, pastries, and cheese of the last three courses. At meal's end, via telepathy, it seemed, the men stood and excused themselves, moving back through the main room and into Roussillon's library, where three boxes of cigars lay on a table, flanked by decanters of port and brandy.