Chapter Forty-eight
Any other watching the approach of the Comte de Roche would have believed their presence had been undetected, though Valentine de Luca, the Earl of Southerby, was not any other.
Louis’s gait was languid and unhurried as he entered the room — all elegance and indolence. Yet the nearly imperceptible shortening of a single stride as he crossed to the drinks cabinet left Valentine in no doubt his presence had been noted.
“It’s your soap, old friend,” Louis purred without turning as he poured two drinks.
“Subtle, I grant, but my olfactory senses are as sharp as my, mmm… shall we say, my dress sense? A spicy, exotic undertone, it’s rather pleasant; however, I am yet to be convinced the unexpected appearance of such notes lingering in the air of my private study is… pleasing.”
Turning, he walked across and handed Southerby a drink, but at the lack of response, did not release his grip on the glass and raised an ominous eyebrow. “Tsk, tsk, Valentine… play nicely. I’ve had rather a trying day.”
Southerby’s exotic pale green eyes — the colour of a breaking wave ringed with darker depths — locked with Louis’s.
For several moments, the two men stared at each other, the air thick with silent calculation, until Southerby’s gaze slowly narrowed as he spoke quietly. “What do you know that I do not?”
“I know more than anyone knows I know,” the glass still suspended between them as Louis leaned in closer, “though perhaps less than maybe I ought. So, old friend, do enlighten me… upon which subject has you stealing into my home and hiding in the shadows.”
“Isabelle Westland’s death.”
“Ah,” drawled Louis, releasing his vice-like grip on the glass with a satisfied smile. “That old chestnut.”
He crossed back to the cabinet to retrieve his own drink then paused.
Stretching out his right arm, he studied the silver, man-made appendage that appeared from the end of his sleeve.
“You know,” he mused, “there’s a toy-maker in Paris…
a most ingenious fellow… developing clockwork mechanisms that move with astonishing lifelikeness.
It’s quite enchanting. He’s working on something for me at present.
You know how I adore my little novelties. ”
“Louis,” rumbled Southerby.
“Mm?” he murmured in reply, his deep violet eyes raising lazily. “I was rather taking a fancy to the possibilities of what he might do for my hand… but, never mind. You see, my dear, to the observer… now, what was that lovely old saying? Ah, yes: if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”
Unperturbed and unrushed by Southerby’s scathing look, he settled into the chair opposite.
Taking a leisurely sip of his drink, he smiled.
“Et voila! We have a duck. A cleverly constructed illusion created by its maker. Yet, if one were to discover a long-forgotten key to unlock the outer shell, then one might discover lots of little pieces. A little puzzle hidden beneath one might say… that, in our case, was rather crudely and hastily assembled.”
Southerby shook his head and sighed wearily. “Riddles? Really, Louis? If this hypothetical key of yours was this so-called groom, then let me tell you. He’s dead.”
“Unfortunate,” Louis replied silkily, “but no matter. I assume something came of the meeting.”
“Indeed. The Marchioness has been banished to Wales. Angus has retreated to Cheshire in a state of desperate agitation and despair to prepare for what he believes is coming, and you, my friend… once again… are public enemy number one.”
“How interesting.” Louis’s smile deepened. “‘To love is to madness and suffering,’ Mayhap the Westland curse is real after all.”
“Do not jest about such a thing.”
“So serious, Valentine. You are becoming quite a bore these days. Sparring with you was once a pleasure, but I fear you are losing that sharp, snappy edge of yours.”
“No,” said Southerby evenly, “just my patience. I was of the understanding we sought the same outcome in this.”
“Tsk, Valentine, my dear, you wish to right the wrongs, to unburden our old friend of the fear that dwells deep in his soul… to release his mind from the purgatory in which it resides. Your motives are noble. Mine… mmm, well, mine are more, shall we say, less altruistic.”
“That, I do not doubt,” murmured Southerby with a slight shake of his head, “and yet, they do not appear to be serving you well.”
“Au contraire. The cards have only just been dealt. The game is still in play… and I think you will find, my dear Valentine, yet again, I hold the ace.”
“Mm,” murmured Southerby, “an ace, yet the three aces you need to win your game still elude you.”
“Aces?” Louis’s tone dropped to velvet steel.
“They are not even Kings, Valentine. Barely even Jack’s.
Pretty little lords nursing old grudges.
” At no reaction, he continued. “Continually, I help you, help them! Yet my assistance and generosity are constantly disregarded and misconstrued as nefarious intent.”
Southerby smiled, the smile of a man in control as he leaned forward. “Do I detect a touch of emotion, my old friend? Have I struck a nerve? Were you hoping for… gratitude?”
“Ha! Gratitude?” snorted Louis, “Of what possible use would that be to me? My dear Valentine, you know what I want. We’ve been playing this game together for many years.”
“Then tell me what you know… that I do not.”
Louis’s eyes glimmered. “I suppose if I were a compassionate man, I could do just that. But no. I think I will let it play out a little longer. The newest element in the game, the delectable new Marchioness, is proving rather… diverting.”
“This is no game, Louis.”
As Southerby motioned to say more, Louis slowly rose to his feet with feline grace. “Well, old friend, as delightful as our little tete-ta-tete has been, I trust you can find your own way out. Unseen. Madeline, you understand, is not one for intrigue.”
As the Comte de Roche sauntered towards the door, Southerby made no move to depart; instead, he looked to his drink and murmured, “Then I take it Madeline is unaware of your… shall we say, connection… to your sister-in-law Sofia’s intriguing new admirer?”
Louis instantly stilled and slowly turned back to face his adversary. His eyes were alight with mischief, satisfaction illuminating his fiercely masculine yet beautiful features. “There you are, you sly old cat. And to think I was beginning to tire of you.”
* * *
“So?” Southerby asked, his gaze not wavering.
“Mm.” Louis walked back to the drinks and held up the decanter in silent offer. At the slight nod from Southerby, he replenished both their glasses before resuming his seat, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. He tilted his head slightly, studying Valentine for some moments before he smiled.
“You and I both know,” he began softly, “that our dear Angus must discover the truth of what happened that day for himself. I could regale you with all that I have found, yet it would not answer every question. The puzzle, my friend, is not yet complete.”
Southerby blinked and leaned forward in his chair, readying to stand. “Not complete? Have you betrayed my trust? Led me to believe you have information…”
“Tsk, tsk, Valentine,” Louis interrupted smoothly, “stand down, my dear. Of course, I have information. And a theory.”
“A theory!” hissed Southerby. “We all have theories, Louis!”
Louis sighed theatrically and leaned back. “Are you quite finished?”
A glare was his only answer.
“Good. My theory… or, let me rephrase, my belief… is that it cannot be I, um, public enemy number one, the perennial villain of the piece… who reveals the truth. Call it the facts, the pieces, the clues, the evidence, whatever label pleases you — but when assembled, all together, they allow for only two possibilities. Ah, ah,” he lifted a finger before Southerby could interrupt.
“If I were in any doubt as to the outcome, do you really think I would have proceeded this far? No. Since it cannot be me, nor you… as I believe our perceived association in this matter has compromised things… I have placed what is needed in the hands of another.”
Southerby’s voice dropped to a growl. “And I’m to believe you would simply hand over information?”
“A moment of weakness, I agree. Yet…”
“Yet?”
“So beguiling a creature,” Louis murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Such innocence and trust shining in the eyes of one tainted by love.”
“Sylvie?”
“Tsk,” tutted Louis, “who else, my dear? She is perfect. Resolute in her love, steadfast in her quest to rescue her hero. Though I suspect she has yet to realise that what she holds is the key.”
“Then, tell me.”
“And deprive our sweet Marchioness the joy of saving her husband’s tortured soul?
I think not. The darling thing is a true romantic, and, mayhap I am becoming sentimental, but find myself inclined to afford her the opportunity to become a living, breathing heroine in her own love story… instead of merely writing about them.”
At Southerby’s incredulous look, Louis laughed softly. “Oh, Valentine, you truly are slipping. I fear in this matter, you are letting your heart lead instead of your head. A neophyte’s mistake, and so unlike you.”
Sighing in defeat, Southerby hung his head.
“I fear you may be right. Mayhap if I had been working more objectively, without bias, I could have laid this to rest many years ago. Saved poor Angus the….” He stopped, shaking his head.
“As much as it pains me to admit, I feel the heavy weight of failure. You appear to have easily uncovered what has eluded me all these years.”
“Mm.” Louis studied him, surprised by a faint stirring of — what was it? Sympathy? It was most extraordinary. More curious than unpleasant, yet it irritated him all the same.
“Valentine, honestly!” he said at last. “You know I cannot simply tell you. That’s not our way.
But truthfully? As much as I hate to admit it, I was lucky, tis all.
A simple case of serendipity. Right place, right time, a sharp eye and, as you know, a disturbingly good memory for details.
I will not say what caught my attention, nor all that has followed, but know this, my annoying friend, without that moment of good fortune, I would have been no further on than you. ”
Southerby looked up slowly, then smiled, an amused, almost affectionate smile. “Louis? Louis, is that you?”
“Very droll,” muttered Louis sarcastically, though his eyes were smiling.
“Since the lovely creature, Sylvie, may require some assistance when the time comes, I shall, in my infinite generosity, offer you this. Look closely for what was not there, yet should have been — and what was there, yet should not.”
Rising, he readjusted the cuffs of his jacket with immaculate precision. “Now, if we are quite finished…” He turned toward the door, raising a hand to signal there would be no further discussion. “I bid you au revoir and Godspeed, my dear friend.”
Southerby watched him go, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. Louis might be his most worthy opponent, but even he had his weaknesses.