Chapter 22
I laid down the letter and sat still.
That Potier had fixed upon the Deveres did not surprise me. They were an esteemed and successful family whose forebears had once served France’s monarchy.
That Potier’s very last dispatch mentioned he would visit them filled me with misgivings.
Moreau had told me that Potier would personally knock on the door of those he would condemn, demanding their wealth to spare them, and then drag them off to the guillotine anyway. This had happened to Madame Paillard’s family, and she’d escaped only due to the bravery of her father.
Potier had noted his plan to visit the Deveres, and shortly after that, he’d disappeared forever.
I drew a breath and returned to Denis’s letter, which had more to impart.
When his superiors in Paris heard nothing more from Potier, they wrote to the commander in charge of the city. This man told them that Potier had expressed a wish to retire, and one day simply packed a bag and walked off into the hills.
An official was sent to Lyon to make an inquiry, but all in authority there maintained that Potier had departed of his own volition, never to return. The official wrote his report and filed it.
Not long later, the government in Paris changed again, Bonaparte’s career was on the rise, and Lyon was left to recover by itself.
No one cared very much what had happened to Potier, as he was never a popular figure, even to those who employed him.
It was noted that he had retired somewhere in the south of France, and forgotten.
Filled with uneasiness, I read the letter again. The second perusal did not change the words, and I set down the paper once more, my thoughts troubled.
Potier had disappeared, and the conquerors of Lyon at the time hadn’t minded that he’d gone.
I wondered if one of their number had murdered Potier, either deliberately or during a confrontation that turned deadly. This would make a neat ending, but if so, would people like Beaumont and the Deveres be as zealous in their effort to quell all mention of him?
Or perhaps, realizing that Potier had likely been killed by a citizen of Lyon, his fellow officers had collaborated in the coverup. Potier had been so hated that even those sent to punish the city for its rebellion had been happy that he’d vanished.
Or else, the Lyonnais had banded together to make certain the story that Potier walked away of his own accord was taken as truth by the Parisian officials.
Denis had many contacts in all walks of life, including those in governments, and I did not doubt what he wrote. I imagined all had happened exactly as Denis put forth.
I heaved a sigh and picked up the last page of the missive, which I had not yet read.
I have learned of a letter in Italian that you turned up during your investigation of a dead blackmailer, one from a collection of Comte Lejeune. I would like to purchase said letter, as it is of interest to me, and wish for you to negotiate its sale.
Speak to Comtesse Lejeune, rather than the comte, as she will be more reasonable and accept a fair price. An agent of mine in Lyon will provide the cash. I will instruct you how to reach him once you have come to an agreement with the comtesse over its purchase.
He ended the letter as abruptly as he’d begun it, signing it simply as
Denis
I laid down the paper, rested my hands on either side of it, and sank into unquiet thoughts.
I spent most of the evening after I’d read Denis’s letter and much of the following day in the villa’s library.
Heavy rain began in the morning, precluding me from tramping about Lyon.
I holed myself up in the comfortable chamber as the servants and Donata readied the house for the soiree my wife had planned that night to honor Gabriella and Emile and their families.
I pondered all day, as rain battered at the library’s windows, what to do next. I wasn’t certain confronting the Deveres would do any good, though in my heart of hearts, I wanted to learn the truth. Gabriella deserved to know it.
The rain, fortunately, slacked off by that evening, promising good weather for the festivities.
The Auberges, with Gabriella, turned up unfashionably early, to Donata’s vexation.
Bartholomew installed Carlotta and Major Auberge in the ground-floor drawing room, where they waited in discomfiture for the soiree to begin.
They’d brought their next oldest daughter, Chloe, who was seventeen, already having made her debut in Lyon’s society.
She’d been at the villa before to visit Gabriella, and was the only Auberge besides Gabriella at her ease.
The Devere brothers, including the wives of Auguste and Julien, arrived not long later. Claude Devere and the only female cousin, Camille, came as well, both surrounding Emile, as though shielding him from the older members of the family.
Camille, the daughter of Julien, had married and moved to a village in Provencal, though she’d journeyed to Lyon with her husband for the wedding.
She was a bright spot among the more dour Deveres, with a wide smile and friendly brown eyes.
Her husband, a tall young man who stood behind her, clearly adored her.
The Deveres filed into the sitting room, and Auberge and Carlotta rose to greet them. I made myself scarce after saying my good evenings, letting Bartholomew and Matthias make them comfortable.
Gabriella saved any awkwardness in the situation by inviting her mother, half-sister, and Camille on a tour of the house while they waited. The younger women chattered away in excitement, and Carlotta followed them, with the expression of forbearance I well remembered.
When Grenville arrived with Marianne, he took on the task of entertaining the gentlemen in the drawing room with the ease and gallantry that only he could manage.
“You will owe him a great favor for keeping the peace with your in-laws,” Marianne told me as I led her away to seek Donata. “Why on earth did they arrive so early?”
“Because the time on the invitation was for nine o’clock,” I said. “Only the highborn and actors believe this means to arrive at eleven or midnight. In their defense, I’d have come at the time instructed, myself.”
“Been unfashionable, you mean.” Marianna patted my arm. “That has always been you, Lacey.”
“Thank you.” I made her a bow.
“I might have to slip away unfashionably early, as a matter of fact,” Marianne said as we ascended the stairs. “Grenville has put me in an interesting condition, and I tire easily these days.”
I halted on the landing to stare at her. “I beg your pardon?”
The incredulity in my voice made Marianne’s smile widen. “Yes, my dear friend, I am increasing. I am certain you’ll have noticed me looking wan. I’m a bit old for bearing a child, and Grenville is rather worried.”
Well he ought to be. I’d nearly lost Donata and Anne both when Anne had come into the world. Only the aid of the nameless surgeon Denis had sent to help had saved them.
“Then you indeed must go early,” I said. “We have plenty of rooms for you to rest in, if you feel the need to sit. Shall we go to one now?”
Marianne laughed. “Good heavens, Lacey, I am not that fragile. All my years on the stage have made me robust, as I keep reassuring my husband. Let us find your wife, and her maid can give me lemonade or something equally foul.”
I continued with Marianne up the stairs, she with a pleased smile on her face.
I could not easily picture Marianne as a mother, but she’d surprised me in many ways since the days she’d been the desperate young woman who’d lived upstairs from me in our cheap lodging house. I quite looked forward to meeting her child.
Jacinthe admitted Marianne to Donata’s inner sanctum, and closed the door more or less in my face. Donata and Marianne had formed an unlikely friendship, which unnerved me not a little. I heard their laughter rise behind the door before I turned away.
At long last, more guests streamed in downstairs, which included Comtesse Lejeune. The comte was nowhere in evidence, but the comtesse seemed perfectly serene without him.
Once the soiree had commenced, the house filled with chatter and laughter, softened by music from the string quartet Donata had installed in the upper gallery. Since the June night was warm and now dry, all windows and doors had been opened, admitting fragrant air from the garden.
While the guests congratulated Gabriella and Emile, as well as the Devere and Auberge families, Denis’s letter weighed on my mind.
It was difficult to be so near Fernand and his brothers and remain silent, but I would not confront them tonight. There was no reason to spoil the festivities and take the attention from Gabriella and Emile.
I did, however, think it only fair that Emile and Gabriella should know what unnerving tidings I had discovered.
I held my peace until late in the night, when the guests began to drift away.
I invited Emile and Gabriella to stay on when the Auberges and Deveres departed, for a quieter visit with Donata and myself.
I’d given Donata Denis’s letter to read yesterday evening, and she’d agreed with my wish to share its contents with Gabriella and Emile.
Grenville and Marianne had departed early, as Marianne had predicted. I hadn’t been able to corner Grenville privately to offer my congratulations, but by the wariness in his eyes when we said goodnight, I was certain Marianne had told him that I knew.
The house quieted, and the four of us retired to the private sitting room. Donata lounged on a sofa, her slippers sliding from her feet as she yawned. Bartholomew, in no way weary, brought us refreshing cups of tea and warm brandy.
I wasn’t certain how to broach the subject with Emile and Gabriella, so I simply handed them Denis’s letter.
Donata and I waited while Gabriella helped Emile through the English missive, both of them growing increasingly troubled as they read.
Emile raised his head once they’d finished. “I do not understand.”