Chapter 6 #4
She pulled them on, augmenting the outfit with her own cotton stockings and shoes, and surveyed her appearance in a mirror over the mantelpiece in the sitting room.
Not bad, but she’d have to do something about her hair.
Too bad neither gentleman wore a wig, though, she mused, she rather liked Rafe’s tawny mane.
Casting her eyes about the room, she saw a large tricorne lying under the bed.
Tying her hair in a semblance of a queue, she tucked the length under her collar and topped it with the hat.
Lumpy, but it would have to do, she thought, giving herself a final check in the glass.
Listening to make certain no one was in the hall before she slipped out, her eye fell on the closed chess set. Alix smiled.
It was time to move on to a new game.
Robert Lamartine was having a bad week. Thinking back over the events of his journey to Paris made him positively livid.
It seemed as though every half-witted yokel calling himself a patriot had stopped him, demanding to see his papers and questioning his reasons for traveling.
He had wasted precious time while erstwhile farmers, who ought to be tending to their crops, argued about whether he might be an Austrian spy or an aristocrat in disguise.
He shook his head. Those oafs probably would have held up their own grandmothers.
Everything was fine now, he told himself.
He was in Paris, in Madame de La Brou’s apartment, and now all he had to do was wait for Alix to show up.
Leaning back in a silk armchair, he drew a meat pastry wrapped in a linen napkin from his pocket and unfolded it carefully on his knee.
He took a small bite and began chewing slowly, soothing himself by reviewing the events of the day that had gone well.
It had been simple to find the place since he’d arranged for the rental after Madame had moved from Versailles.
He had used his knowledge of the property and its owner to gain entrance.
He’d told the neighbors that he was employed by a second-hand furniture company and had permission from the landlord to evaluate the contents of the house across the courtyard.
Spreading his hands and giving them his most piteous look, he’d explained that he hadn’t been able to locate the landlord and his employer would be sorely distressed if he returned without completing his estimate.
The neighbors, a family of newly wealthy industrialists, had taken one look at his finely tailored suit and neatly powdered wig and led him straight over.
They’d even insisted on giving him a tour of the rooms. Rattling on about Madame de La Brou and her dinner parties, they’d followed him from the vestibule into the antechamber, the small salon, then into the grand salon and on upstairs into Madame’s boudoir.
From their covetous glances at the furnishings, he suspected they were more curious about Madeleine’s interior decorations than in keeping watch on him.
Well, he thought, for what she spent on a monthly basis, the comtesse should have style.
The anteroom, where the footmen waited, was a relatively simple room, but the rest were decorated in the latest styles and colors.
The small salon was paneled in light wood with raised garlands of roses over the doors and windows.
Green silk curtains draped the two long windows that overlooked the garden, and the gracefully rounded armchairs were upholstered in matching fabric.
The large salon was decorated in sky blue, the walls hung with rows of expensive art, mirrors were set in the corners and over the white marble fireplace, and the floor was covered with an Aubusson carpet. Madame’s bedchamber was all in yellow.
Though appreciative of their naiveté in admitting him to the house, the neighbors’ incessant gossiping wore on his nerves.
And so he had pulled out a sheaf of papers and begun cataloging in excruciating detail every chair, sofa, and table, until at last, barely disguising their yawns, the neighbors were beaten into retreat.
After they’d left, he’d wandered back through the rooms eyeing the fine porcelain and silver pieces lining the mantles and table tops.
His fingers itched to take a few of the smaller pieces, but he reminded himself that if he remained patient these things would come to him.
He debated where to await Alix’s arrival.
The footmen’s antechamber was the nearest room to the front door and had views of both the garden and street, but he disliked the idea of sitting in the servant’s quarters.
The wild thought crossed his mind of positioning himself in Madame’s boudoir, waiting in the shadows with his feet stretched out on the comtesse’s damask-covered chaise lounge.
But in the end, he decided the small salon was just right.
He’d pulled the curtains overlooking the street and the room was cast in shadow.
It really was quite comfortable. Finishing his pastry, he refolded the napkin and whisked the crumbs off his dark wool britches.
Settling his feet on a delicately embroidered footstool he yawned. He hoped she didn’t take long.