The Paris Affair (20 page)

Malcolm cast a glance at him.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured. “For a moment I saw a ghost. Cordelia last night, with Edmond Talleyrand.”

Malcolm and Harry proceeded across the room. The dragoon leaned forwards to make his play. Christine straightened up. Then she turned round, quickly but still with grace, and looked Malcolm directly in the eye. “Not that I don’t enjoy being looked at, but I confess I’m a bit curious as to the reason.”

She had a low, musical voice with the resonance of a trained singer. “We haven’t met, Mademoiselle Leroux,” Malcolm said. “I trust you will forgive the informality of the introduction. My name is Rannoch, Malcolm Rannoch. My friend Harry Davenport.”

Christine Leroux regarded them from beneath artfully darkened lashes. She had a thin, fine-boned face, dominated by a pair of wide, expressive brown eyes. “What may I do for you gentlemen?”

“Perhaps we could talk somewhere quieter?”

She gave a throaty laugh. “About?”

“I believe we have an acquaintance in common,” Malcolm said. “Or rather had.”

Her brows lifted, darkened and strongly marked. “Oh?”

“Antoine Rivère.”

For a moment Christine Leroux’s face went still. Faint lines stood out about her eyes and mouth beneath carefully applied paint. “Yes, I knew Antoine. The Comte de Rivère. A bit. It was tragic what happened to him.”

“So it was. We are endeavoring to learn the truth.”

“He died in a tavern brawl.”

“It may have been more complicated. Perhaps if we could go to another room?”

Christine Leroux cast a glance at the dragoon, who had won the last hand, and gave a quick nod. She led the way across the room, drawing a number of glances, and down the passage to a small sitting room hung with cream-colored silk. She swept forwards, leaving it to them to close the door, and took up a position in front of the unlit fireplace, where the light from the two braces of candles fell at a flattering angle across her face. Every movement carefully controlled, an actress setting the stage. She was only an inch or so over five feet tall, but she dominated the scene. “The champagne in the cooler on the table should be chilled. Perhaps one of you gentlemen could pour us all a glass? I don’t know about you, but I find myself in need of fortification.”

Malcolm uncorked the bottle—which was indeed well chilled—and filled three glasses, while Harry leaned against a chair, his gaze on Mademoiselle Leroux. Mademoiselle Leroux held her position. She might have been the lady of the house, waiting for her footmen to serve her.

“I assume you mean to explain further,” she said at last, when Malcolm put a glass into her hand.

“Colonel Davenport and I found your name in a letter in Rivère’s rooms.” Malcolm carried a second glass over to Harry. “It appears you were more than acquainted.”

Mademoiselle Leroux studied him for a moment, then gave a faint smile. “Surely you realize there are different degrees of acquaintance, Monsieur Rannoch.”

Malcolm returned to the table and picked up the third glass. “As a friend, I’m sure you wish to learn what happened to him.”

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes that might have been grief. “Of course.” She took a sip of champagne. “But I don’t see how I can help you.”

Harry turned his glass in his hand, studying the play of candlelight on the crystal. “In this letter, Rivère makes certain comments about his future. About a fortune he expects to come into.”

She kept her gaze steady on his face. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“You didn’t know he was a blackmailer?” Malcolm asked.

Mademoiselle Leroux twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Rather a harsh word. If you mean did I know he made use of information, yes. Most people do. A way to help one’s self to a role, a preferment. To solve an investigation.”

Malcolm took a sip of champagne. It was a superb vintage, dry and yeasty. “Point taken. Had Rivère’s use of information made him any enemies?”

Mademoiselle Leroux gave a low laugh. “Does anyone get past the age of eighteen without making enemies? At least anyone whose life hasn’t been a complete bore.”

“Any enemies who’d have wanted him dead?” Harry asked.

She frowned in apparently genuine consideration. “His cousin wanted the title. But he was going to have Antoine denounced, not killed. Though it might well have led to the same thing.”

“And so Antoine was going to leave Paris,” Malcolm said.

Mademoiselle Leroux took another sip of champagne. “Was he?”

Malcolm knew gesture as prevarication when he saw it. “Did you know Rivère was meeting me the night he was killed?”

She opened her mouth as though to deny it, then gave a sudden laugh. “There’s little point in denying it, is there? For what it’s worth, he told me you were clever. I suppose he told you he wanted safe passage out of France?”

“Was he planning to take you with him?” Harry asked.

Her gaze shot to him, bright with amusement. “Antoine? Take me off to England to live in luxury off the charity of the British government? Hardly. There are all sorts of lovers. That isn’t the sort we were. It’s not even as though I was his only—”

“His only mistress?” Malcolm asked.

“Any more than he was my only lover.”

“Did you know the names of the others?”

“There was a dancer at the opera—Ninette. A bit annoying that he chose someone so close to home. And . . .” She hesitated a moment, then shrugged, fluttering her gauze scarf over her shoulders. “I don’t know why I feel any particular reason to protect another woman’s reputation. Antoine was involved in an affair with a married lady. Lady Caruthers.” Her gaze flickered between them, taking in their reaction. “You already knew.”

“As it happens, yes,” Malcolm said. “What did you know about the affair?”

“It seemed to amuse him. He said dallying with married women could be dangerous, but fortunately she took it no more seriously than he did. Than I did. The secret to a successful love affair, don’t you find?”

“But he confided in you,” Malcolm said.

“A bit.” She moved to a gilded chair and sank into it, still commanding the room.

Malcolm dropped into a chair across from her. “Why was Rivère so convinced the British would support him in luxury in England?”

She twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Surely he told you when you met the night he was killed?”

“Mostly he made vague threats.”

Mademoiselle Leroux leaned back in her chair. The silk of her gown slithered over her legs. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“We want to learn why Rivère was killed.”

She tilted her head back. “No matter where it takes you?”

“You intrigue us, mademoiselle.” Harry moved to a third chair at the table. “I think you’d best elaborate. Rannoch and I promise not to faint with shock.”

She gave a reluctant smile. “There was some past scandal. To do with Lady Caruthers’s cousin. Bertrand Laclos.”

“So Rivère told me,” Malcolm said. “What did Rivère tell you about Laclos?”

She hesitated, weighing the value of information. “That his death wasn’t what it appeared.”

“Who did he say was behind Laclos’s death?” Malcolm asked in a casual voice.

“He didn’t.” She shifted in her chair. “Antoine talked to me, perhaps more than he should. But he wasn’t a fool.”

“What else did he say he had to bargain with?” Harry asked.

“Who says he told me anything?”

“He couldn’t have conveyed such confidence based on something so vague.”

Malcolm could see the carefully masked calculation in Mademoiselle Leroux’s eyes. Then she smiled and held out her half-empty glass. “A refill?”

Malcolm crossed the room, took the champagne bottle from the cooler, and refilled the glass. Mademoiselle Leroux smoothed a crease from her glove. Harry leaned back in his chair and kept his gaze on her.

“You’re very obliging, Monsieur Rannoch,” she said when Malcolm brought her the refilled glass. “I can only wonder what you’d do for a woman with whom you were intimately involved.”

“You flatter me,” Malcolm said as he put the glass into her hand.

“But then of course I’ve learned men are generally obliging when they want something from one, one way or another.”

“What else did Rivère have to use against the British?” Malcolm asked.

“He knew something about you.” Mademoiselle Leroux sipped her champagne. “I suppose he told you?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said, his gaze steady on her. He could feel Harry looking at him. “But he was too astute to think any hold he had on me would guarantee his safety.”

“He said you always underestimated what you could accomplish,” Mademoiselle Leroux murmured. “But no. He did have more information.”

“About?”

She tilted her head back. “How much do you know?”

“Enough prevarication, Mademoiselle Leroux.” Harry clunked his glass down on the table. “What did Rivère have on Wellington?”

CHAPTER 16

The smell was instantly recognizable as Suzanne stepped through the stage door. Greasepaint, smoking oil lamps, sweat, dust, and excitement. The smells of backstage at the theatre, the smells of her childhood. She nodded at the porter. In a plain dark blue dress and gray cloak, a blond wig over her hair, a basket on her arm, she could pass as a seamstress come to assist Manon Caret’s dresser. The porter jerked his head to the right.

“Thank you,” Suzanne said, her voice roughened into the accents of Montmartre. “I know the way.”

She turned to the right and started down the maze of passages. Raised voices sounded as she neared the wings. Sonorous, rolling, intense. Racine.
Baj a zet
. A French play that made her think of her mother performing in Spain.

A stagehand leaned against the wall nearby. Bearded, potbellied, smelling of tobacco. Suzanne skirted a basket of swords and shields, which forced her to nearly brush against the stagehand. He didn’t move out of her way.

“Men have it easy,” she murmured. “A beard hides so much.”

“A woman’s hair color makes for a great change,” Raoul returned, in a Breton accent. “Two of Fouché’s agents are at the stage door,” he continued in the same tones. “And two more at the front of the house.”

“Are you telling me to go home?”

“On the contrary. You know I never indulge in regrets in the midst of a mission. And your help is more vital now than ever. But go carefully.”

“I always do.”

He gave a snort that could pass for the stagehand making a flirtatious pass at the seamstress. He hesitated a moment, as though debating the wisdom of further speech. “I was at the Salon des Etrangers before I came here.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “Did you see Malcolm? He was going there tonight with Harry Davenport.”

“I saw them both. I also broke up a fight between a British lieutenant and a former soldier of the Empire.” His mouth twisted. “Not that I don’t understand the impulse to lash out at the victors, but there’s been too much death as it is.”

His gaze held ghosts. Suzanne scanned his face. “It was good of you to save the combatants from themselves. If perhaps not wise to draw attention to yourself.”

“I can’t abide waste. Malcolm said I’d make a good diplomat. Of all the names I’ve been called, that’s perhaps the most unusual.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment, again in a gesture that could pass for flirtation, though the current that ran between them held no echo of romance. “I’m glad you’re too young to remember twenty years ago. This is closer to the Terror than anything I’d have ever wanted you to see.”

A bitter taste welled up on her tongue. “But I’m one of the victors.”

“For which I’m eternally grateful. You should be as well, for your son’s sake if not your own.”

“I try. In between bouts of self-disgust. Which is why I’m here.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder. “Look after yourself,
querida.
”

Suzanne nodded and moved on down the passage. Actors in gaudy robes and seamstresses and dressers with arms full of costumes brushed past her. Strange, from her few visits to the Comédie-Française the direction was imprinted in her memory. But then she had a good memory for direction. It was a survival skill. She reached the door, rapped once, and turned the handle.

Manon Caret’s signature scent, tuberose and violet, greeted her, along with the smells of face powder and greasepaint. Manon herself was not in the dressing room. A brace of candles flickered on the dressing table. A blue silk dressing gown edged in Valençiennes lace had been flung over the dressing table bench. An elaborate cloth of gold gown lay on the sofa. More costumes hung from strings of clothesline from the ceiling. Paste jewels spilled from a box on the dressing table. Wigs stood on stands round the room. Masks hung from the wall. Trunks and hatboxes were stacked indiscriminately about the room. Programmes and playbills adorned the walls. A stack of scripts stood on a spindle-legged table.

A light shone from the open door to the adjoining sitting room. Suzanne glanced through and met the gaze of the tall woman with honey-colored hair standing there. Berthe, Manon’s dresser. Berthe inclined her head. A small blond head showed on the arm of the sitting room sofa. That must be Clarisse, who would be four now. She’d been a baby when Manon came to Suzanne’s rescue. Roxane, who must be about seven, sat in a worn damask armchair, white-stockinged legs crossed at the ankles, a book in her lap. She looked up at Suzanne, leaned forwards as though to spring to her feet, then at a look from Berthe bit her lip and waved silently. Suzanne waved back.

For a moment she was a girl again, falling asleep on a sofa in her mother’s dressing room or on cushions on the floor, the sounds of actors’ chatter, the rustle of silk as her mother swept in and out of the room, the jangle of jewels, the stir of a quick costume change all round. Her father poking his head in to confer with her mother about how the performance was progressing. It had been so much a part of her life, she had dozed through the noise and commotion, secure in the happy, chaotic world of whichever theatre her parents’ traveling company was playing in.

Her gaze moved back to Roxane. She’d been just about that age when her mother died giving birth to her sister. Her life had begun to change, though even then the security of her theatre family had continued for some time. Until she was fifteen and her father’s and sister’s deaths had changed everything.

She set down her basket, perched on top of a brass-bound chest, and waited.

 

“What did Rivère have on Wellington?” Harry asked.

Christine Leroux met his gaze. “Ah. I should have realized you knew. Though I’m rather surprised you’d discuss it with me.”

“I told you,” Malcolm said. “We want the truth.”

She tightened her gloved fingers round the glass. “A brilliant man, they say, your duke. A number of my countrymen and women will never forgive him, but I can’t but admire the man who brought down the emperor. But then I’ve never been one to pay much attention to politics.” She gave an elegant shrug and sipped her champagne. “I sometimes wonder what Napoleon could have accomplished if he’d been able to avoid some of his unfortunate entanglements. Though your Duke of Wellington seems to share the failing. She’s quite pretty, I admit, in a rather insipid way, though it’s a bit odd, as she’s only recently given birth to a baby. And apparently her husband is not precisely compliant.” She set her glass on the table with care. “Antoine had come into possession of an indiscreet letter the Duke of Wellington had written to Lady Frances Webster.”

Malcolm suppressed a curse while a part of his mind screamed,
Of course,
and another part darted over myriad disquieting questions.

“Do you know the exact contents of the letter?” Harry asked in a tone that told Malcolm his reaction was much the same.

Mademoiselle Leroux shook her head. “But I know it was enough to convince Antoine he had a strong hold on the duke. And to render the duke extremely angry.” Her gaze darted between Malcolm and Harry. “The duke is a powerful man.”

“Wellington isn’t the sort to be driven by personal motives,” Malcolm said.

“All men can be driven by personal motives when it comes to questions about women. And honor.” Her mouth curled round the last word. “I suppose this rather changes your quest for justice.”

“On the contrary, mademoiselle,” Malcolm said. “Davenport and I are determined to learn the truth wherever it may lead us.”

She regarded him for a moment. “Do you know, Monsieur Rannoch, I have the oddest inclination to believe you. Which no doubt means I am a fool.”

“Did Rivère quarrel with anyone else recently?” Harry asked. “Or was there anyone else he was blackmailing?”

“Isn’t this enough?”

“We need to explore all options.”

“And you’d like your duke not to be guilty of murder.”

“We’d like to be certain.”

Christine Leroux frowned for a moment, fingering a fold of her silk gown. “About a week ago. I passed a man on the stairs when I was going to Antoine’s lodgings. He was storming out, and he looked angry. I asked Antoine if this man owed him money. Antoine merely smiled.”

“This man is a gamester?” Malcolm asked.

“He’s here nearly every night. Including tonight.”

“Then you must know his name.”

“Gui Laclos.”

Malcolm exchanged a quick glance with Harry. “Rivère had a distinct interest in that family.”

“So he did,” Harry murmured.

“I did wonder if the quarrel was about Lady Caruthers,” Mademoiselle Leroux said. “Antoine said no, but I couldn’t be sure. Laclos doesn’t look the sort to fuss about those things, but gentlemen can be funny when it comes to their sisters.” She took another sip of champagne and set her glass down. “I’ve enjoyed our tête-à-tête, gentlemen, but I fear I should not be gone from the salon much longer. It might be considered rude.”

They returned to the passage to the sounds of an altercation from the open door of one of the salons.

“Take your hands off me, you damned frog!” a British voice yelled. “Can’t you accept that you lost?”

“You mistake,” another voice replied, in English with just the faintest undertone of French. “My family have spent the past twenty years in England. So we considered Waterloo a victory. And I fear my frog blood runs pale.”

Malcolm, Harry, and Mademoiselle Leroux stepped through the open doorway to see a dragoon major pushing a dark-coated civilian away from him.

“I might have known it,” Mademoiselle Leroux murmured. “He has a temper.”

The civilian was Gui Laclos. His voice was steady, but his eyes were bright with one too many glasses of champagne or brandy.

“So you’re one of the émigré bastards who’ve been overrunning our country,” the major said.

Gui smoothed the sleeve of his coat with exaggerated care. “I assure you, we’re glad to be back in our own country.”

“Which far too many of my comrades died to get back for you.” The major eyed Gui as though he were something unpleasant he’d discovered under a rock. “While you sat snug in England, living on our charity.”

Gui’s mouth tightened. “I can’t claim to have fought myself. But my family—”

“You’re Laclos.” Another dragoon sprang to his feet. “Your brother’s the traitor who fought for Bonaparte.”

Rage flared in Gui’s eyes. “My cousin as it happens. And while his actions could be called misguided, I don’t believe fighting for one’s own country can be considered treason.”

“Might have known you’d make excuses,” the major said. “You pampered blighter—”

Gui’s fist connected with the major’s jaw. The other dragoon knocked Gui into the table. Cards thudded to the floor. A brandy decanter upended and crystal glasses smashed. The tension simmering below the surface, which O’Roarke had managed to defuse earlier, flared to the boiling point once again.

Even as a half-dozen other men sprang to their feet, a man in a superbly tailored evening coat moved between the combatants. “I think perhaps it’s time you left, gentlemen.”

The dragoons began to argue. Gui pushed past Malcolm and Harry and staggered into the passage. Malcolm and Harry followed to find him being sick into a Sèvres vase on a pier table. He spun round at the sound of footsteps and wiped his hand across his mouth. “Rannoch,” he said, as though confirming to himself that it was indeed Malcolm he was looking at. He seemed unaware of Harry’s presence. “Sorry. Not sure if it’s the drink or the disgust.”

“You had great provocation,” Malcolm said.

Gui’s mouth twisted. “Those bastards had a point. I didn’t fight at Waterloo. Or anywhere else.”

“Your cousins did,” Malcolm said. “Both of them.”

Gui gave a short laugh. “Bertrand—”

“Bertrand fought in his own way. You’re right, what he did can hardly be called treason.”

Gui regarded Malcolm for a moment, as though trying to blink him into focus. “You always had an odd way of looking at the world, Rannoch.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as—Oh, God.” Gui spun round and threw up into the vase again. “Sorry,” he said, breathing hard. “Usually have a better head.”

“It’s been a difficult few days,” Malcolm said.

Gui gave a crooked smile. “I hardly have a right to say so. My life is ridiculously easy.”

“How well did you know Antoine Rivère?” Malcolm asked.

Wariness shot through Gui’s posture for an instant. Then he relaxed into exaggerated insouciance, one hand braced against the gilded molding on the wall. “Rivère? The chap who was killed two nights ago? Is it true you were there—”

“Yes. How well did you know him?”

“Not at all. That is, I suppose we’d been at some of the same entertainments these past weeks, but one could say that of half of Paris.”

“Half of certain circles in Paris perhaps. You were seen storming out of Rivère’s lodgings a week ago.”

Gui drew a breath, then released it. “Walked right into that, didn’t I? But then I told you I’m not myself.” He glanced at the toes of his boots. “This isn’t the first night I’ve come to the Salon des Etrangers. By any means. I’ve lost rather a lot. A great deal of it to Rivère. My family may have a chance at recovering our estates, but we’ve hardly recovered our fortune yet. I couldn’t bring myself to go to my uncle once again. Rivère wasn’t inclined to be accommodating.”

“A simple explanation,” Malcolm said.

Gui met his gaze, his own unexpectedly steady in his ashen face. “Sometimes simple explanations happen to be the truth.”

“Sometimes,” Harry said.

Gui spun towards him. “You’re—”

“Davenport. Harry Davenport.”

Gui’s eyes focused. He stared at Harry for a moment. “Cordelia’s husband.”

“Yes.” Harry’s voice was scrupulously casual. “I understand you and my wife are acquainted.”