The Rich Shall Inherit (60 page)

“Ah-ha, Paris—the City of Light—and sin!” Charlie exclaimed happily. “I’ll bet there’s a pretty little wife waiting patiently for you back at that ranch, and three or four children by now—just like me. Still, that doesn’t stop a fellow having a good time in Paris, does it? After all, that’s what it’s for. And I’ll tell you now, Greg, that I know the best place for that. They say Numéro Seize, rue des Arbres, is unsurpassed in the sensual delights. What do y’say you and I go along there and have a little dinner and survey the scene? A bit of fun, eh, in the city of wine, women, and song?”

“Thanks, Charlie,” Greg replied coolly, “but I don’t know that I’m in the mood for a bawdy house …”

“Bawdy house?
Cut out your tongue, old fellow, this is no bawdy house!
You
practically need two sponsors and a banker’s guarantee to get into the place! Numéro Seize is like an excellent gentleman’s club, all elegance and refinement;
and
they say the restaurant rivals Maxim’s. So why don’t you and I dine and split a few bottles of champagne and see what it’s all about? I’m told if we require the company of a couple of charming girls to entertain us with a little feminine conversation, we can have that too.
You
want to doze by the fire in the library? Do so.
You
want to listen to Chopin or Liszt being played on the piano by a girl who’s a lot prettier than any concert pianist and who cares if she’s not quite as talented? A game of billiards? A business discussion? And upstairs, old fellow”—Charlie sat back, drawing in his breath appreciatively—“they say whatever tempts you, it’s yours.
And
the girls are the most elegant,
the most beautiful, and the most talented in town! Well? How can you turn it down?”

Greg laughed, relieved to be diverted from his own gloomy thoughts.

“Good fellow,” beamed Charlie, “there’s only one snag, though, the damned place costs a small fortune.” He winked. “Still, it’s worth it. And the other thing is that I’ve heard the madam is even more gorgeous than all of her girls, but she’s totally unapproachable. They say no one’s yet made it past
her
bedroom door.” He grinned as they walked from the bar into the rue Cambon and summoned a cab. “Who knows?” he said. “With our charm, Greg, you or I might be the lucky one!”

There were times these days when Simone Lalage couldn’t stand the company of “fashionable” Paris. She’d been part of it for twenty-five years and she told herself she was getting too rich, too comfortable, and too
old
to be bothered to make the effort to be charming and look her best, all the time, and so now, occasionally, she just liked to stay home. She would order her chef to cook a lavish dinner, and she’d banish all the gentleman callers who still sought her company, eager to say they’d had dinner with Simone and to spread the news of her latest witticisms and wicked verbal darts. The trouble was, though, that she soon became bored with her own company, and when that happened, she’d order her maroon limousine and ride in style the two blocks to 16, rue des Arbres, to take supper with Poppy.

Simone was drinking her third glass of exquisite Pol Roger champagne, and listening to Poppy’s starry-eyed stories of how wonderful Franco was and what a paragon of kindness and courtesy; how Franco made her feel like the most cherished woman on earth, and how ravishing and
ravished
he made her feel in bed; and she was fast running out of patience. “There’s nothing new you can tell me about what happens between the sheets,” she said tartly, “it’s the emotion involved that counts. I’ve only felt it for two men in my life and both times I’ve regretted it. As soon as they knew I really cared, they began to treat me differently. They kept me waiting, left me biting my nails and wondering where they were. Sometimes they wouldn’t come around at all, and I can tell you, Poppy, those nights are the longest in the world. They acted as though I
belonged
to them and even when my pride told me I’d had enough, I still went on taking it because I simply didn’t have the will to break it off. Oh, yes, even
me
, the
‘indomitable’
Simone Lalage. Of course, eventually
I came to my senses. I decided to put all that romantic nonsense behind me and settle for more comfortable relationships—ones where
I
kept the upper hand. Believe me, my dear,” she said, patting her hair that this week was hennaed a dark mahogany to match her limousine and her Burmese rubies, “it makes for a happier life.”

“But Simone, you are missing so much!” exclaimed Poppy. “I used to think that way, too, but it’s different with Franco, it’s
wonderful!
Just look at me!” She twirled in front of Simone, the skirts of her gray chiffon gown swirling around her pretty ankles, her champagne glass held aloft, and her face shining with vitality. “Don’t I look different? Hasn’t love changed me?”

Simone glanced at Poppy’s portrait, which Franco had insisted on moving from the library to her private apartment, then she looked at her friend. “You are a changed woman, I’ll admit that,” Simone replied, refilling her glass, “and I hope it’s for the better.”

“Oh, Simone,” Poppy cried despairingly, “how can I persuade you that love is worth everything? More than riches, more than fame …” Her face shone with sincerity as she added, “Being in love is life’s champagne, Simone; it’s to taste and get drunk on, and then … wheeee …” She flopped backward onto the blue brocade sofa, laughing.

Simone glanced at her shrewdly. “Isn’t it rather a long-distance affair, this love of yours? With Franco in Naples most of the time, and you here?”

“Franco’s so busy,” Poppy replied defensively, “he told me he has sole responsibility for an enormous business. That’s what’s put those lines of worry on his face. He’s only in his early thirties you know, like—” She almost said “like Greg,” but she stopped herself in time, and she wondered where that stray thought had come from. She hadn’t permitted herself even to think of Greg for years, or that other faraway world.

“And isn’t thirty the right age for marriage?” Simone suggested, watching for her reaction. For all Poppy’s newly sophisticated appearance, she was still naive and unworldly—though how she could run such a successful bordello and remain innocent, Simone didn’t know—nor how she could be so madly in love with Franco Malvasi and not know that he was one of the coldest, most brutal kings of organized crime. If she hadn’t been so sure that Franco really loved Poppy, she might have been very frightened for her safety.

“Maybe,” Poppy replied evasively, “but we have our little farm at Montespan, where we meet, and get away from all the pressures of
our work. It’s such heaven there, Simone, just fresh clean country air, and milk still warm from our own cows to drink; we have fresh butter and eggs that we have to search for in the hedgerows where the hens have laid them, and vegetables from the garden. And a big feather bed to sleep in. We’re like two simple country peasants when we’re at Montespan.”

“That’s what Marie Antoinette thought when she played milkmaid at Versailles, and look what happened to her,” Simone retorted acidly. “It sounds dreadful, Poppy—cow’s milk, ugh! Give me champagne any day!”

There was a knock on the door and Watkins appeared.

“There are two gentlemen in the dining room who would like to meet you, madame,” he told Poppy.

“Who are they, Watkins?” she asked, glancing at Simone with a sigh. “Can’t one of the girls act as hostess for them?”

“They’ve already dined with Veronique, madame. They are not our regular clients and one of them is, well, rather
noisy.
It’s he who is insisting on meeting you, madame.”

“Tell them I’m having dinner, Watkins,” Poppy said with a sigh. “I’ll try to see them later.”

“Big spenders up from the sticks, no doubt,” Simone guessed. “They want to be able to go back home and boast to their friends about having met the mysterious Poppy at Paris’s famous Numéro Seize.”

Poppy frowned. “They would have to be recommended by at least two people to get in here,” she commented, “so I suppose they must be all right, even if they are noisy.”

Greg watched indulgently as Charlie downed yet another glass of claret. “Your friend has good taste,” smiled Veronique; “1896 was a very good year for the first-growth wines, though I would have recommended a Chateau d’Yquem with the foie gras, and a Tokay with the dessert.”

“I’m afraid once Charlie gets started on a wine, he sticks with it,” Greg said apologetically. “He’s very single-minded, always has been.”

“I understand,” she said, nodding her head so that her heavy topaz-and-diamond drop earrings swung prettily. “That’s why he is still insisting on seeing Madame.”

Calling the waiter, Greg ordered a bottle of Tokay and Veronique smiled her thanks at him, toying with a tiny pot
of crème brulée
, the caramel of which almost exactly matched her wide, heavy-lidded
eyes. There was a slumberous quality about those eyes, thought Greg, and she had a purring, soft sensuality, like the cat who’d got at the cream.

“So when are we gonna meet Madame?” Charlie asked, exasperated.

“A little later,” Veronique soothed, “after we’ve finished our wonderful wine.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, frowning, “we can’t just call the woman ‘Madame’ when we meet her. For heaven’s sake, what’s her name?”

“Madame’s name is Poppy,” Veronique said, with a smile.

The stem of Greg’s crystal glass snapped in his hand and the beautiful golden, silky-sweet wine spilled across the cloth. Solicitous waiters hurried forward to mop up the debris, inquiring worriedly about his cut hand, as he stared white-faced at Veronique. “Did you say … Poppy?” he whispered.

“Why, yes. Madame Poppy. She is quite famous, you know,” Veronique replied, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Tell me, where is she from?” he said urgently. “What does she look like? Has she red hair …?”

“Madame is very beautiful, and yes, she has red hair. But no one knows where she comes from.” Veronique smiled at him, puzzled. “Madame is an enigma. But you will see for yourself when you meet her. Why don’t you let me take care of your poor hand? How sad that the glass broke, and now you are bleeding and the wonderful wine is spilled.”

“I’d like to send a note to Madame Poppy,” Greg said, summoning the butler.

His hand trembled as he wrote the short message. He was suddenly so sure it was she that he had no need even to question the truth. “Poppy,” he wrote, “I must see you. Greg.”

Even as he folded the note he began to doubt himself. He was in Paris’s most notorious brothel and for the first time in years someone had mentioned the name “Poppy.” He was being ridiculous. The innocent young girl he’d known couldn’t be running a place like this. But he didn’t know what had happened in the missing years; he didn’t know the secrets Angel knew about Poppy; he didn’t know what they had meant when they all claimed that she had reverted to type, that she was “like her father.” … A million thoughts and hopes crowded through his mind as he handed the note to Watkins, pressing a fifty-franc bill discreetly into his palm.

“I will take the note, sir, but I do not accept gratuities,” the butler said smoothly.

“Tips are not allowed here,” Veronique explained, “it’s one of Madame’s rule. She says Numéro Seize is expensive because you are paying for the best. No more should be required.”

But Greg didn’t even hear her, nor did he see Charlie drinking his Tokay and attacking his towering chocolate and spun-sugar dessert with gusto. All he could see was Poppy’s face.

Simone thought that when Poppy read the note it was as though a light had been turned out inside her. And when she looked up, the expression in her eyes was as bleak and chilled as though she’d just looked into her own tomb.

She rushed to Poppy’s side, reading the note over her shoulder.
“Poppy, I must see you, Greg”
was all it said. They seemed like six innocuous little words to her, but it looked as though Poppy might never recover from their impact.

“I want you to do something for me, Simone,” Poppy said at last. “Please, I beg you as my friend to say you will. This man has never been here before … he doesn’t know you—or me. I want you to meet him and pretend you are Madame Poppy. Can you do that for me, Simone?”

Simone knew Poppy was in trouble. “It’s someone from your past, isn’t it? Don’t worry, just leave it to me.” She turned to the butler. “Watkins, take Veronique on one side and warn her what is to happen, and then bring her with the gentleman into the blue salon.”

Poppy sank back into her chair as the door closed behind them. Her face was drained of color and she was shaking so hard, her teeth rattled. Luchay fluttered from his stand to perch on her shoulder, muttering anxiously as he huddled closer. But all she could think was that
Greg was here. He was in this house.
Hope sparked in her heart; maybe he’d come to find her, to take her home; maybe he’d forgive her and restore her to her proper place in life …
maybe he still loved her.

She came back to reality with a jolt; his note hadn’t said any of those things. How could it? She was the madam of a Paris brothel. “Poppy” was no better than a whore herself. She touched the heavy pearls at her neck despairingly. Greg was the past and she had no part in his world. She was Madame Poppy and Franco Malvasi’s mistress, and wasn’t it true that she loved Franco more than anyone? More than Greg?

“Gentlemen,” Simone said in her husky voice, “I am
enchanté
to meet you. My Engleesh is not as good as it may be, but I bid you welcome to Numéro Seize.”

Greg gazed speechlessly at the beautiful Frenchwoman … true, she had reddish hair, and she was charming … but she wasn’t Poppy.

Simone’s sharp dark eyes took him in from head to toe, and she liked what she saw. She thought Poppy was a fool to turn this man down for Franco Malvasi, but who knew the ways of women in love? “Were you expecting someone else?” she suggested smoothly.

“It’s just that Poppy is an unusual name,” Greg said. “It belonged to someone I knew.”

“Belonged?” she asked sharply. “Is your friend dead, then?”

“I don’t know, madame,” Greg said honestly. “But thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”