Chapter 17 #2
We regarded each other awkwardly, two men who’d been enemies in the past but were not quite friends, uncertain how to behave in this in-between state.
“Good day, Captain.” Moreau tipped his hat to me.
“Colonel.” I tipped mine as well, and then we strolled from the bench and across the square in opposite directions.
Donata was awake by the time I returned, making ready for her afternoon and evening outings.
She cornered me in the dining room where I’d retreated for a brandy, tired after my eventful morning.
“Bartholomew tells me you rushed away with Emile earlier,” she said without preliminary. “And that Emile was very upset. What the devil happened?”
I set down my goblet and dabbed moisture from my lips.
“His family tried to call off the wedding. But everything is well now.”
Donata’s mouth popped open, then a frown erased her shock. She pulled out a chair next to mine and dropped into it. “Tell me everything. Instantly.”
I complied. I watched Donata’s fury grow as I related the tale and then her relief at its conclusion.
“I know you can never be fond of Major Auberge, Gabriel, but he has his uses.” Donata accepted a cup of coffee Bartholomew had brought for her, he lingering to listen. “Thank heaven he turned up.”
“I’m certain he was looking for Emile,” I said. “Fearing Emile would do something rash, as he did, begging me to take him and Gabriella to Scotland to elope.”
“We can arrange something like that if it becomes necessary,” Donata said with her crisp practicality. “Auberge has defused the situation for now, at least.”
Grenville arrived and seated himself as I told Donata what I’d learned from Moreau and Beaumont about Potier.
“The staff in this house talk about those goings-on, on occasion,” Bartholomew said as he poured coffee for Grenville. “There’s not one who didn’t lose a parent or grandparent or other member of their family to the retaliations. It was a bad time.”
“Twenty-five odd years ago now,” Grenville pointed out. “I have difficulty believing Gallo would be murdered for bringing it up.”
“It depends on what he intended to do with the information,” I said. “Perhaps this man, Potier, still has teeth, and Gallo threatened to betray someone who’d stood up to him all those years ago.”
“Potier must be dead by now, surely,” Donata said with the conviction of a woman not many years past her thirtieth. “Either in some battle or done away with by the restored monarchy.”
“I might be able to discover his fate,” Grenville offered. “I have many friends in Paris, some in the upper echelons, who can find out these things.”
“If they can do so without causing a stir,” I warned. “No one Lyon would be happy to see the man again, or even hear about him.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie. Yes, I understand.” Grenville nodded and lifted his cup. “I do know how to be circumspect, my dear friend.”
“You are an expert at it,” Donata assured him. “Were you able to translate the letter, at all? The one found in Gallo’s rooms?”
“Ah.” Grenville took a sip of coffee and clicked his cup into its saucer.
He reached into an inner coat pocket and withdrew the letter with its broken seal.
“I’ve had a bit of trouble with it, because the Italian it’s written in is archaic.
There are words and phrases I’m hopeless to translate, and a dictionary hasn’t helped me. ”
“May I?” Donata held out a slim hand, and Grenville passed her the letter.
She unfolded it and skimmed a page. “I see what you mean. The construction is odd, but it is not a dialect.” She peered more closely at the paper.
“It seems to be about a business transaction, but I cannot decipher of what sort.”
“No signature or greeting,” Grenville said. “Either those have been removed, or they were on another sheet, now lost.”
“Gallo might have kept the pages with the names,” I suggested. “Hidden them elsewhere. Maybe he feared what did happen—someone would find his hiding place.”
“The paper is of fine quality.” Donata rubbed the sheet between her fingers. “Expensive. If it is old, as you suspect, Grenville, it has held up well. Not brittle and crumbling as cheap paper will do with age.”
“The stationary of an aristocrat,” Grenville concluded. “Or a very wealthy merchant, as chaps from Florence or Venice tended to be in the past.”
“It could have been appropriated from an archive during Bonaparte’s occupation,” Donata said. “Taken as a valuable artifact rather than as a document of information.”
“I have another fellow I can ask about that.” Grenville took the letter Donata handed back to him and carefully slid it into his pocket. “One who collects such pieces of history.”
“Of course you do,” I said.
“It is the Comte Lejeune himself, as a matter of fact,” Grenville said, ignoring me. “That is, If I can find the blasted man. He hasn’t been to his hunting lodge but hasn’t returned home either. I do hope he’s all right, what with chaps going about stabbing other chaps.”
Grenville’s hand strayed to his abdomen, where a few years ago, a man had driven a knife into him. He’d been assisting me on another problem and had stepped into the path of a desperate man.
“You take care while you’re searching for the comte,” I said. “I think we’d better find him. He might be the one who killed Gallo, but then, he might be another victim.”
“An appalling thought either way,” Grenville said. “I don’t know the comte well, and I’m not certain I like him, but I wouldn’t wish him harm. In any case, the comtesse does not need a husband who either murders those who threaten him or is murdered himself.”
In my opinion, the comtesse would be well rid of the man, but if he’d committed a crime, she would be caught in the shame and whatever legal retaliations the French government would take. I agreed that she did not deserve such troubles to be poured upon her.
“We will run the comte to ground,” I said with confidence. “Bartholomew, can you and Matthias assist? Inquire among the servants if any know where the comte actually is, or if not, where he might go?”
“Be happy to, sir.” Bartholomew brightened, always eager to join in our hunts.
“Carefully,” I admonished. “Gallo upset someone, and I don’t want to replicate his mistake.”
“Of course.” Bartholomew sounded surprised I’d doubt him.
“Excellent,” Donata said. “We will have opportunity to ask Signora Ruggeri about him ourselves, tonight.”
My brows rose. “Will we be entertaining her?”
“Marianne will,” Grenville answered. “Or, rather, one of her actor friends is, and she will hostess for him. I suggested they invite Signora Ruggeri. It will be a gathering of actors, artists, and a few of the more respectable of the demimonde. I assured Marianne we would all attend.”
Marianne’s gathering took place in a large, fairly modern house in the Croix-Rousse, north of the old city.
The area had been home to silk factories of the last century and had housed their workers.
After the war, artists and their set had taken over a part of it.
Marianne’s crony, a retired actor from London, had renovated a townhouse, transforming it into a studio and comfortable home.
The soiree’s guests came from many parts of the Continent, with a smattering from Britain. Some had owned theatres and been actor-managers, and others had made grand names for themselves in their day.
Artists were there as well, including one Antoine Berjon, whose still-life painting I’d admired on the wall of Comtesse Lejeune’s chateau.
Marianne, dressed in fine gray silk, greeted guests along with the host, welcoming us with aplomb. She’d grown quite stately since she’d married Grenville, comfortable in her new role as wife of a wealthy and acclaimed gentleman.
Grenville was already surrounded, as he was a famous arbiter of taste. Every artist and poet there wanted him to give a favorable pronouncement of their next work.
Donata nudged me as we circled the room, and surreptitiously indicated a window alcove.
Signora Ruggeri reposed there alone. She wore a more subdued ensemble than when she’d stormed the chateau, tonight’s gown of glossy browns and creams, the bodice modestly cut. Dark curls framed her face, her otherwise simple coiffure adorned with a feathered headdress similar to Donata’s.
She glanced past me without interest, her gaze seeking Grenville. I wondered if she sized him up as a possible new protector for when the comte finished with her. Grenville was easily the wealthiest gentleman in this room.
Donata broke from me to speak to a poet she’d once sponsored in London, taking his arm and asking in a motherly fashion how he fared. As they wandered away, I strolled to the alcove.
Signora Ruggeri blinked up at me when I halted before her, clearly not recalling me from the comtesse’s soiree. Her face was lined with weariness, her eyes twitching nervously.
“May I sit?” I asked after giving her a bow. “Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service, signora. My knee troubles me if I stand too long.”
“Of course.” Signora Ruggeri answered in charmingly accented English and waved a hand at the chair next to hers. “You are the husband of the viscountess, are you not?”
“I am.” Donata was technically no longer a viscountess, but many people still referred to her thus, as it was a more lofty position than wife to a mere army captain. “You met her yesterday, I believe.”
“I did. She was most kind.”
The signora’s first untruth. Donata could indeed be kind but also quite pointed. She would not have been soft and gentle with Signora Ruggeri.
“My condolences,” I said. “On the loss of your friend. Signor Gallo,” I finished when she stared at me blankly.
When I spoke Gallo’s name, Signora Ruggeri’s eyes widened, and she wrapped slim but strong fingers around my wrist.
“Oh, sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “I am so very afraid.”
“Of what?” I asked. “You are safe here, signora.”
“Perhaps, but nowhere else.” Signora Ruggeri glanced out the window behind her. “They murdered Gallo, and they will not stop until I join him.” Her fingers tightened on my arm. “Captain, I fear for my very life.”