The Paris Affair Part 22

"But that was taking Cordelia out of the equation."

Harry stared at a pool of yellow lamplight on the cobblestones ahead. "Cordy told me in Brussels that she could make me no promises. I believe she cares for me. I believe she means to make our marriage work. Just as I do. But I know there are no guarantees. Not in anything in life, and perhaps particularly not where Cordy and I are concerned. Last night was just one of any number of tests. There was no point in making more of it than there already was. It was bad enough for Cordy in any case. I just hope to G.o.d she never knows-"

"Never knows what?" Malcolm asked, watching Harry's set profile in the lamplight.

Harry drew a breath that sc.r.a.ped against the warm evening air, like a rock dragged over porcelain. "That seeing her with Edmond Talleyrand hurt like the very devil."

Malcolm touched his friend's arm. "I don't think you'd be human if it didn't."

"d.a.m.n it, Rannoch, do I have to admit to being human? I pride myself on being above such things."

"There's nothing like love to pull one back to earth," Malcolm said, surprised the word "love" had come so easily to his lips.

Harry paused in front of the Salon des Etrangers. The kid of his glove pulled tight over his fingers. "I still remember my first glimpse of Cordy, across the Devonshire House ballroom. G.o.d knows why I was even there that night. Usually I avoid b.a.l.l.s like the plague. But when I looked at her I thought I'd never seen anyone so beautiful or so alive. I wanted her as I've never wanted anything or anyone, before or since. And I was sure she'd always be out of my reach. Part of me still feels that way."

Malcolm had an image of Suzanne, sitting at her white and gold dressing table a few hours before. For a moment as he'd watched her, surrounded by gilt and porcelain and crystal, framed by the tapers with their flames glowing in the looking gla.s.s, she'd seemed as ethereal as a vision. "I know the feeling. I'd never have had the courage to offer for Suzanne if she hadn't needed me. But though I agree one can never know what the future may hold, I'd swear Cordelia is yours now."

"For a man who claims not to believe in love, you can be d.a.m.nably romantic, Malcolm." Harry turned to the door. "None of us can really belong to anyone. But most of the time I believe what's between Cordy and me is real. I think perhaps that's the most any of us can ask for."

A liveried footman admitted them to the gilded magnificence of the Salon des Etrangers. Crystal chandeliers glittered in gilt-edged mirrors. Marble gleamed. Laughter and the clink of gla.s.ses and the sound of champagne corks popping drifted down the stairs.

A portly man approached them. For a moment, Malcolm was thrown back to his visit to the prince regent's reception at Carlton House the previous summer. The Marquis de Livry, proprietor of the Salon des Etrangers, might have been the prince's twin.

They had only met once, but the marquis greeted Malcolm and Harry like old friends. "Monsieur Rannoch. And Colonel Davenport. This is the first night you have honored us with your presence."

"Wellington and Castlereagh keep us busy," Malcolm said, shaking the marquis's hand.

"They should realize you'll work the better for indulging yourselves for an evening," Livry said, shaking Harry's hand as well. "I thought it was perhaps that the duke disapproved. Or that your charming wives did."

"Wellington doesn't control us," Harry said. "Nor do our wives if it comes to that."

The marquis smiled. "I'm glad to hear it, Colonel Davenport. So many of your compatriots find themselves at home here that we have begun to feel quite like a little island of Britain in Paris." He waved a hand towards the stairs. "I'm sure you'll find something to tempt you."

They laughed with what Malcolm hoped was a fair imitation of gentlemen out for an evening of sport and climbed the stairs. This was hardly Malcolm's first visit to a casino, but nearly all had been in the service of an investigation. He a.s.sociated the whiffle of cards, the rattle of dice, and the smells of champagne and brandy with work.

Glowing wax candlelight spilled over the broad stairs. Numerous salons opened off the landing, offering a seemingly endless vista of gilt chairs and tables of hazard and rouge et noir. A fair-haired lady in a clinging white gown stood beside a pier table surrounded by two dragoons, a Prussian captain, and three men in civilian coats. She had stripped off one of her gloves and was holding out a shapely arm to one of the dragoons, who appeared to be taking snuff from her wrist.

"Never understood the allure of that trick," Harry said. "But then I've never had a taste for snuff." He regarded the woman for a moment. "Christine Leroux is supposed to be a pet.i.te brunette."

They moved into a salon. Green baizetopped tables were strewn about the Aubusson carpets. Candlelight and voices bounced off the gilt ceiling. English, a variety of German dialects, Russian, and of course French, much of it badly accented. A number of elegantly gowned ladies moved through the crowd, but though they received appreciative glances, many of the men present focused with hot-eyed intensity on the cards and dice on the tables before them.

"So many familiar faces we could almost be in London," Harry murmured.

He was right. Malcolm saw Lord Apsley, Punch Greville, the Duke of Devonshire. No one from Wellington's staff, but then Wellington was known to disapprove of gambling.

A cry cut the air, followed by the sc.r.a.pe of a chair being pushed back from a table. "d.a.m.n you. Isn't it enough you overrun our city? Must you cheat at cards as well?" The speaker, who spoke in French-accented English, wore civilian dress. He lurched towards a sandy-haired man in the uniform of a British lieutenant.

"That's a d.a.m.nable accusation." The British lieutenant pushed himself to his feet.

"You couldn't have drawn that hand by accident."

"How dare you-"

"I saw the card up your sleeve."

"By G.o.d, sir." The British lieutenant strode towards the Frenchman. The Frenchman caught him by the arm and landed a blow to his jaw. The lieutenant went reeling back but did not fall to the ground.

A thin, dark-haired man in a black coat moved between them with quiet economy. "You both forget yourselves."

It was Raoul O'Roarke, Malcolm realized with surprise.

The Frenchman whirled on O'Roarke. "Stay the h.e.l.l out of this."

"Difficult to do so when you've held your quarrel so publicly."

"You're not even French."

"No. But I love this country."

"And you fought on the opposite side." The Frenchman lunged at the lieutenant again.

O'Roarke's arm shot between them. "You'd both be wise to remember the uniform you once wore. You owe your countries better than this."

All round them, the salon had gone silent. Not even a card turned in the stillness. Malcolm was ready for violence to break out, but O'Roarke's voice held both men.

The Frenchman tugged his coat smooth. "If you'll excuse me, I think I will take the air."

"A wise choice." O'Roarke glanced at the red-faced lieutenant. "I suggest a cup of coffee. I believe you may obtain one in the salon across the pa.s.sage."

Slowly, play resumed. The Frenchman and the lieutenant moved to separate doors with what dignity they could muster.

O'Roarke started across the room himself and stopped at the sight of Malcolm. "Well played," Malcolm said. "I think you missed your calling as a diplomat."

O'Roarke gave a faint smile. "Those I've worked with would scarcely agree with you. But there's been enough madness these past months. These past years. I hate to see it continue."

"It's a rare thing to hear such sanity in Paris these days," Harry said.

O'Roarke cast a glance round the salon. "In truth, we're closer to twenty years ago than I ever thought to see again." He turned back to Malcolm and Harry. "I must be off, I'm promised to look in at the Russian emba.s.sy. Enjoy your evening. Though I rather suspect it has more to do with work than pleasure."

He was off with a smile and a nod. Harry looked after him. "O'Roarke was in Paris twenty years ago?"

"He was an early supporter of the Revolution," Malcolm said. "Speaking out in coffeehouses, writing pamphlets, organizing protests. Then he was imprisoned in Les Carmes during the Terror. He was nearly guillotined. Only a matter of days according to my mother." Malcolm had only been six, but he still recalled his mother's white face and the way she'd scanned the Paris papers, fingers taut on the newsprint.

"He was a friend of your family?" Harry asked.

"He used to visit quite a bit, particularly in Ireland where my grandfather has estates. I saw a lot of him growing up, especially before the United Irish Uprising. He had a knack for talking to a confused boy as though he were an adult. "

"We could use more like him."

"I've often thought-"

"Rannoch," a voice called out. "What are you doing here?"

It was Freddy Camden, who had been two years ahead of Malcolm at Harrow. His younger brother had fought at Waterloo and come through with minor wounds. Freddy had come to Paris during the peace with other expatriates.

"What else does one do at the Salon des Etrangers?" Malcolm said, relaxing his posture. "Seeking diversion."

"You don't seek diversion, Rannoch." Freddy threaded his way between the tables. "You're always working. Even at school. You've just traded books for dispatches."

"He has hidden depths," Harry said.

"You come here often?" Malcolm asked.

"Lord, yes." Freddy pushed his lank fair hair back from his eyes. "That is, where else is one to go in Paris? Feels just like home."

"What else would one want in a foreign capital?" Harry murmured.

"Yes, quite," Freddy agreed, the irony lost on him.

"We're looking for someone specific as it happens," Malcolm said. "Have you met a woman named Christine Leroux?"

Freddy stared at him for a moment. "Good lord, Rannoch. And here I actually believed the talk that you were happily married." He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. "Good for you."

Malcolm sent a mental apology to his wife, while at the same time wishing she were present. She'd appreciate the scene. "I don't suppose you'd believe I want to interview her?"

"Call it whatever you like. Mademoiselle Leroux is rather out of my league, but you never know. She's in the salon across the pa.s.sage. In a green gown."

Christine Leroux stood at a rouge et noir table. She wore a gown of bronze green satin, cut along elegant lines and low at the neck. Her hair, a dark, rich brown, was drawn into a simple knot with artful tendrils escaping about her face. She held a gla.s.s of champagne in one hand. As they watched, she stepped forwards and leaned over the shoulder of a Highland captain to whisper encouragement.

Harry went still halfway across the room.

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 Rivere."

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 Rivere. 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 pa.s.sage 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 gla.s.s? 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 gla.s.ses, 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 a.s.sume you mean to explain further," she said at last, when Malcolm put a gla.s.s into her hand.

"Colonel Davenport and I found your name in a letter in Rivere's rooms." Malcolm carried a second gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. "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 gla.s.s in his hand, studying the play of candlelight on the crystal. "In this letter, Rivere 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 gla.s.s 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 Rivere'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 t.i.tle. 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 Rivere 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 pa.s.sage out of France?"

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