The Paris Affair Part 38

"So she did leave for political reasons." Cordelia cast a glance at Suzanne. "She was a Bonapartist agent?"

"So it's being said now," Harry said. "I never heard any rumors about her in the past, even when I was in Paris last year. But of course if she was that good I wouldn't have."

Suzanne forced herself not to succ.u.mb to the temptation to pluck at her gown or fiddle with her hair or make any other obvious effort to divert attention, which with men like Malcolm and Harry would likely have just the opposite effect.

A full-throated giggle sounded from the drawn curtains of the alcove beside them. Malcolm ordered champagne. Just after the waiter had poured it, Christine Leroux approached their table. She wore a gown of bronze green satin, her hair was carefully arranged, and she had removed her stage makeup and replaced it with subtler cosmetics, but there was taut tension beneath her movements and wariness in the angle at which she held her head.

The tension palpably increased as she took in Suzanne and Cordelia at the table.

"Mademoiselle Leroux." Malcolm pushed back his chair and got to his feet, as did Harry. "May I present my wife, Suzanne Rannoch, and Lady Cordelia Davenport?"

Christine Leroux's gaze swept over Suzanne and then Cordelia. First with disbelief, then with appraisal and dawning wonder. "People are always saying the British are eccentric, but I never had the sense that meant that the ladies frequent raffish cafes. Or that their husbands escort them there."

"Cordelia and I rather push the bounds of eccentricity," Suzanne said, standing as well. "More to the point, we a.s.sist our husbands in their work."

"More and more surprising. But perhaps not quite as surprising as it would be had I not met your husbands." Mademoiselle Leroux sank into the chair Malcolm had pulled out for her.

Malcolm poured another gla.s.s of champagne and handed it to Christine Leroux. "Thank you for contacting us. You said you had information."

Mademoiselle Leroux took a careful sip of champagne, as though still debating the wisdom of speaking. "You asked me to think over everything Antoine had said to me. I've been going over it. I had been doing so in any case. One does when-" She ran her white-gloved fingers down the stem of her gla.s.s.

"When one has lost someone one was close to," Malcolm said.

She met his gaze for a moment, and the diamond armor in that blue gaze slipped. "Yes." She tossed down a sip of champagne. "Antoine and I didn't go out together in public a great deal. And when we did it was generally in the evening. This was one of his favorite cafes." She cast a glance round the room, eyes bright with memories. "But a fortnight ago, he suggested we visit the Louvre. He said with all the debate about returning works of art to their rightful owners and countries of origin, who knew when we'd have another chance to see the collection. But I still suspected there was more to it. I teased him, but he wouldn't tell me more. When we got to the museum, I kept trying to figure out what had drawn him there. We wandered through the galleries, but there was one painting he studied in great detail. Almost covertly, as though he didn't want me to see what it meant to him."

"Which painting?" Malcolm asked in a quiet voice.

"The Daughters of Zeus by Paul St. Gilles." Mademoiselle Leroux cast a glance round and took a quick sip of champagne. "St. Gilles and Princess Tatiana Kirsanova were intimate."

"Yes," Malcolm said. "My wife and I spoke with him recently."

"I was rather put out that Antoine had dragged me along on this outing and then wouldn't tell me what his purpose was. I told him he was making such an elaborate pretense of ignoring the painting that it was perfectly plain to me that the painting was the reason he'd dragged me to the Louvre and what on earth was so important about it." A faint smile curved her mouth, easing the lines of strain. "Antoine looked almost rueful. He said he should have known better than to think he could deceive me, and I said let this be a lesson to him. Then he looked at the painting for a long moment and said it was quite striking in and of itself. And that you'd never guess it contained a princess's secrets."

Suzanne felt the jolt that ran through Malcolm, though they weren't so much as touching. "And then?" he asked, voice even.

"I said did he mean Princess Tatiana and was she one of the women in the painting, for I couldn't place her in it-though I knew St. Gilles had painted her. But Antoine went quiet-it was as though he feared he'd revealed too much. When I teased him, he simply took my arm in an iron grip and steered me away. And when I continued to ask questions, he said I was too wise a woman to wade into dangerous waters. Of course that made me all the more curious. But nothing I said could shake him." Her brows drew together.

Malcolm met Suzanne's gaze for the briefest moment, then looked back at Mademoiselle Leroux. "That could be . . . extremely helpful. Thank you."

Christine Leroux shrugged her shoulders as though to deny the force of her feelings. "I want to know what happened to Antoine. Anything that helps you unravel the mystery-"

Malcolm reached across the table and touched her hand. "Quite."

Mademoiselle Leroux pushed back her chair. "I must go. I have an early rehearsal tomorrow. I know most people don't credit it, but I do rely on my voice for my living." Her gaze swept them, then returned to Malcolm. "You'll let me know if you solve this?"

"My word on it." Malcolm got to his feet, as did Harry.

Mademoiselle Leroux inclined her head. "Madame Rannoch. Lady Cordelia. Colonel Davenport. You almost make me think the attractions of marriage might in some cases outweigh the drawbacks."

With a swish of satin, Christine Leroux swept into the pa.s.sage between the alcoves and the main dining room.

"It appears you aren't the only one to see the freedom enjoyed by Cyprians as having advantages over marriage, my darling," Harry murmured, dropping back into his chair.

"But even the wary Mademoiselle Leroux recognized that you and Malcolm are exceptional husbands." Cordelia touched his hand. Her voice was playful, but the look in her eyes was not.

"A discerning woman in a number of ways," Suzanne said.

"Yes, her information is interesting." Malcolm's gaze followed Mademoiselle Leroux round the pa.s.sage. "To say the least."

"Do you think she's right that there's some sort of clue in the painting?" Cordelia asked. "Or something hidden in the painting itself."

"That was my first thought," Suzanne said.

"Mine as well," Malcolm agreed. But for all the excitement of the discovery, his voice had the note it took on when his mind was elsewhere. His gaze shot from along the upper gallery that encircled the cafe. "There's a man up there who's been watching Mademoiselle Leroux since she got up from our table," he said, in the same conversational tone. "Fair hair. Side-whiskers. Prussian uniform." His gaze moved back to Christine Leroux. She had stopped to lean over the railing of one of the alcoves and speak with a gold-ringleted lady and a gentleman in a Dutch-Belgian uniform who were dining there. "And someone's following Mademoiselle Leroux. Sticking to the shadows, but I can see the movement." Malcolm was on his feet. "Suzette, Cordelia, go round to the left and intercept Mademoiselle Leroux. Move quickly, but try to act as though it's still a social occasion. Harry, see what the Prussian's up to."

"Right."

They were already all on their feet. Suzanne slid her arm through Cordelia's and they slipped into the pa.s.sage and circled to the left, while Malcolm moved to the right and Harry made for the stairs.

"Who?" Cordelia murmured, her tone admirably conversational.

"Perhaps merely a jealous lover. Or someone who thinks Mademoiselle Leroux knows too much."

"You think there's danger?"

"Danger's always a possibility." Suzanne's head was turned toward Cordelia, as though she was lost in a tete-a-tete with her friend, but she managed to keep her gaze angled to take in the room. Harry was moving along the upper gallery toward the Prussian. Mademoiselle Leroux was leaning over the part.i.tion that separated the alcove where her friends were dining from the pa.s.sage, laughing, dark ringlets stirring about her face. Malcolm was a shadowy form moving along the pa.s.sage. The man he was following was little more than a dark blur beside a pillar near Mademoiselle Leroux.

Three more boxes to pa.s.s and she and Cordelia would reach Mademoiselle Leroux. Suzanne cracked open the steel clasp on the reticule that dangled from her wrist and closed her fingers round the silver handle of her pistol.

Mademoiselle Leroux straightened up and blew a kiss to her friends. With a graceful swirl of skirts and ringlets, she turned and moved along the pa.s.sage. The shadowy form by the pillar suddenly moved, still in the shadows, closing the distance between them. Suzanne's fingers tightened on her pistol. Two more boxes to pa.s.s now. Malcolm quickened his pace. The follower was a few feet from Christine Leroux. Movement cut the shadows, as though he had perhaps raised his arm. Malcolm hurtled through the shadows and slammed the man to the ground.

The thud of two men hitting the polished floorboards rose above the stir of conversation and the clink of gla.s.ses. A woman screamed. Suzanne dropped Cordelia's arm and ran to Christine Leroux's side.

"Madame Rannoch-"

"Get down." Suzanne pulled Christine to the floor. "Someone was trying to kill you."

Malcolm was grappling with Christine's would-be attacker, still a dark blur, on the floor of the pa.s.sage. The man got his arm free and landed Malcolm a blow to the jaw. Malcolm hung on. Two waiters ran up and grabbed Malcolm by the coat, pulling him off his opponent. The man scrambled to his feet and ran the other way down the pa.s.sage.

A shot whistled through the air from above.

CHAPTER 27.

Malcolm went still in the grasp of the waiters, blood turned to ice. His heart went still until he saw Suzanne's arm move, still sheltering Christine, saw Christine move in response, saw Cordelia hurrying towards them.

In the next split second he took in the rest of the scene. On the upper gallery, Harry had ripped open a pair of velvet curtains. Malcolm couldn't see into the alcove behind, but the Prussian was running towards Harry, through the screaming crowd. On the main floor, screams filled the air as well, as diners sprang to their feet, glancing round for the source of the shot. Malcolm's quarry was halfway round the pa.s.sage, making for the double doors that led out of the cafe. Malcolm wrenched himself away from the waiters and hurtled after his target.

His only chance of catching the man was to cut across the main floor. He leaped over the part.i.tion, vaguely aware of exclamations from the auburn-haired lady and British cavalry officer dining at the nearest table, dodged between an Austro-Hungarian and a Bavarian who seemed to arguing about the source of the shot, jumped over an overturned gilded chair and a fallen champagne bucket, dodged round a lady who had fainted and the three men bending over her, skirted a table overturned in a tangle of linen, silver, and broken porcelain and crystal, caught himself on another chairback to avoid skidding on the champagne-soaked floorboards, and leaped the part.i.tions to the outer pa.s.sage.

His quarry was reaching for one of the handles on the gilded double doors. Malcolm pushed between two gentlemen with gold epaulettes and sprang on the man's back again. They fell against the double doors, knocking them open, and slammed into the black-and-white marble hall tiles. As he fell to the floor Malcolm had a brief impression of silk and gold braid and heard a woman scream.

His quarry managed to land him a blow to the jaw. Malcolm caught the man by his neckcloth. With the candlelight blazing down, he had a brief impression of sandy hair, pale eyes, and freckled skin stretched over a sharp-boned face. "Who hired you?"

"Don't-" The man's breath stank of garlic and rotting teeth.

"His name."

The man jabbed an elbow in Malcolm's ribs. Malcolm lost his grip on the neckcloth. As he grabbed for the man's arm, cold fire sliced across his ribs.

"It's a wonder you don't have more scars, darling." Suzanne doused a cloth with brandy and pressed it against the cut in her husband's side. They were in a private dining room at the cafe, to which the proprietor had shown them after some minutes establishing that they weren't dangerous hooligans (a process helped along by the proffer of coins to pay for the damage).

"There was a man with a rifle behind the curtains in the alcove off the gallery," Harry said. He had conducted a search of the cafe with the proprietor. "He had the window open behind him. He got out before I could catch him. By the time I came out the Prussian was gone."

"One man with a knife, another with a rifle," Malcolm said. "Double insurance. Strikingly like Vienna last year."

"Quite," Harry agreed. "Except that was an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt on the Tsarina of Russia. This was-"

"An attack on an opera singer of middling importance." Christine rubbed her arms. She was sitting bolt upright on a gilt chair, a gla.s.s of brandy on the table before her. "Were they really after me?"

"I'm afraid there's no question," Malcolm said. "The man with the knife was making for you and the sniper shot at you."

"He'd have killed me if it wasn't for you." Christine looked up at Suzanne. "Thank you."

Cordelia dropped down beside Christine and put an arm round her. Christine was shaking and her face was as white as the lace of her shawl. Shock taking over as the reality of what had almost happened hit her.

"I still don't understand," Christine said.

Malcolm leaned towards her, then winced.

"Hold still, darling," Suzanne said, pressing a makeshift bandage made from a linen napkin against his side.

"Someone thinks Rivere told you something," Malcolm said to Christine. "Or he did tell you something and you don't realize the significance."

"By 'someone' you mean the person who killed him," Christine said.

"Yes." Malcolm regarded her for a moment. "Have you told us everything Rivere told you?"

Christine's wide eyes fastened on his face. "You'll wonder no matter what I say. But if I hadn't already I would now. I don't understand."

"Nor do we," Malcolm said. "Yet."

"Perhaps it's to do with whatever's hidden in the painting," Cordelia said.

"Hidden-" Christine drew a breath. "Of course."

"But Rivere gave you no indication of what it might be?" Harry asked.

"Not except that it related to a secret of Princess Tatiana's."

Suzanne looked up from fastening the bandage with a strip cut from an old tablecloth to see hope and fear shoot through her husband's eyes. But he merely said, "Can you leave Paris for a few days, mademoiselle?"

Christine drew a breath, then nodded. "I can go to my sister in Reims. But is it safe?"

"It will be. I'll send my valet Addison with you. He's an excellent agent in his own right."

"Meanwhile you'd best stay with us tonight," Suzanne said. "I can lend you some things and then tomorrow we can send to your lodgings for whatever you may need for your journey."

Harry went out to hire a fiacre and reconnoiter to make sure the coast was clear. Back in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, with Christine shown to a bedroom, Suzanne, Malcolm, Harry, and Cordelia repaired to the salon. Harry poured whisky while Suzanne replaced Malcolm's makeshift bandage with a proper one from her medical supply box.

"We could go back to St. Gilles," she suggested, securing the new bandage in place.

"St. Gilles didn't tell us anything about the painting," Malcolm pointed out, pulling his dressing gown up about his shoulders. "If there's something hidden in it either he doesn't know about it . . . or he does know and made the decision not to tell us."

Harry flicked a glance at Cordelia. "I think perhaps we should leave."

"It's all right." Suzanne flipped the medical supply box closed.

"I can read enough to see that somehow this matter of Princess Tatiana and whatever the painting may conceal touches on something more personal than merely an investigation." Harry set down his whisky gla.s.s. "You'll do better exploring the topic without having to hold information back from the two of us."

"No," Malcolm said, as Harry got to his feet. "That is, we'll do better with your help. But you're right, in order to give it you need to know the whole." He looked from Harry to Cordelia, his gaze open and direct in that way it seldom was. "You're right, it is personal for me, in a way even Castlereagh and Wellington and Stuart don't realize." He drew a breath but did not falter or glance away. "Tatiana Kirsanova was my sister. And Rivere gave me reason to suppose she may have left a child behind when she died."

Cordelia drew a breath like broken gla.s.s. Her gaze went to Suzanne, then back to Malcolm.

"That's quite an admission, Rannoch," Harry said.

"Only sharing information with a friend." Malcolm returned his gaze steadily.

Harry dropped back into his chair and took a sip of whisky. "Quite."

A simple exchange and somehow their friendship had deepened. But then with men like Malcolm and Harry it was what lay beneath the surface of the words that tended to matter. Malcolm leaned back in his own chair and told Harry and Cordelia about Tatiana's birth, his relationship with her through the years, her work as a spy, her death, and the possibility that she'd left a child behind. He spoke concisely, but he held nothing back. Suzanne saw concern and sympathy welling in Cordelia's eyes and even a trace of it in Harry's, but both the Davenports knew better than to put anything of the sort into words.

"You think Princess Tatiana hid information about the child in St. Gilles's painting?" Cordelia asked.

"It seems an elaborate way of going about it," Malcolm said.

"But Tatiana made it a habit to hide dangerous secrets away from her own lodgings," Suzanne said, recalling the box of the princess's papers and possessions that she and Dorothee and Wilhelmine had discovered in Vienna. "Perhaps she kept proof of the father's ident.i.ty as insurance in case she ever needed it but thought it was too dangerous to have among her own things. If it was concealed in the painting, with or without St. Gilles's knowledge, she'd know she could retrieve it should she ever need it."

Malcolm gave a faint smile. "You know Tatiana well."

"I've begun to understand her."

Harry's gaze moved between them. "You're going to break into the Louvre."