Chapter 7
Seven
Rafe found a foothold in the stone work and swung himself over the sill and into Madame de La Brou’s grand salon.
As he swept a bit of crumbled mortar off his sleeve, he wondered what the gentleman at White’s would make of the Earl of Moreham breaking into fashionable homes in Paris. Cole would certainly be amused.
A moment later, Jervis heaved himself headfirst through the window. Catching himself with his hands, he scrambled upright. His satisfied grin was reflected in the corner mirrors of the room.
‘Told you I’d noticed one of the windows was unlocked,” he said.
He ran his hand over the polished finish of a mahogany side table, pulling out the single drawer in its curved front.
“That’s nice work.” He picked up a silver candy dish and hefted it in his hand.
Noticing an ormolu clock on the mantle, he put the dish down and walked over to the fireplace.
“Now,” he said, glancing back at Rafe and rubbing his hands together, “where do we start?”
Rafe looked around the salon, tastefully decorated in pale blue, and pondered Jervis’s question. Where should they start and what on earth were they looking for? A floorboard creaked, and he heard a door swing open.
“I think you should start by explaining what you’re doing in this house,” said a voice from across the room. The slight figure standing in the open door frame walked calmly towards them.
Rafe noted with interest that the man hadn’t lit any candles to dispel the growing afternoon shadows.
He had a strong suspicion that the man had no more business in the comtesse’s apartments than he and Jervis did.
And then a stronger suspicion crossed his mind.
Perhaps they were all here on the same business.
He waited until the man was standing a few feet away and said, “I think it’s important to exchange introductions before launching into conversation. Don’t you, monsieur?”
“Names are unimportant, monsieur, between passing acquaintances. And in these troubled times, they can even be dangerous.” The slight man did not take his eyes off of Rafe. “So I repeat my earlier question, what are you doing in this house?”
Rafe held the man’s stare. “I am here on an errand for a friend.”
“How curious,” Lamartine replied. “Perhaps it is the same errand that draws us both here.” He paused, appraising Rafe’s features carefully.
“Despite the look of your companion, you seem rather well-dressed for thievery...” He swept a hand over his own simple but well-cut suit.
“As you will notice am I. A young friend has gone astray, a young woman who was, shall we say, attached to this house. I am looking for her.”
Rafe considered the smooth-talking little man. There was something oily about him, as though the truth would slide right off his skin. “A young woman, you say. Are you her lover?”
Lamartine stiffened, as if offended. “I am an emissary from her father. He is gravely ill and desperate to have her at his bedside.”
“Why would a young girl leave her sick father and come here?” Rafe asked, stepping closer.
“Ah,” said Lamartine, his hand fluttering dismissively. “You know how young girls are, they have a tiff with their parents and go galloping off into the night. Then when they run into trouble, the silly things make up wild stories to escape proper punishment.”
“Wild stories? What kind of wild stories?”
“Ah, monsieur, who can say what might arise in the imagination of a young girl? A simple maid working for a wealthy employer might perhaps take some things that did not belong to her and claim them as her own.”
“So we have gone from a tiff to a theft. But you have not explained why, monsieur, the girl would have come here.”
Lamartine ground his teeth. He had already admitted he was an emissary from the girl’s father, but if he said the comte sent him, the tall stranger might denounce him as a royalist sympathizer.
“Perhaps to bring her ill-gotten gains to a lover amongst the staff?” he suggested as quickly as he could manage.
Rafe weighed the possibility that Alix was a runaway maid, then dismissed it.
Alix was far too imperious, far too comfortable being served to be a maid.
Moreover, he thought wryly, how many French maids played chess?
And why send him on this wild goose chase to find Madame de La Brou?
Odd, too, that an emissary from a dying father would seem so calm, would not immediately demand to know if Alix was unharmed.
No, whatever Alix’s story, it held together better than this little man’s.
“Now,” Lamartine continued, clutching his hands behind his back to conceal his mounting frustration, “if the girl has perhaps come under your care, has somehow taken you in, you could turn her over to me and I could return her safely to her father.” He smiled a tight smile.
“And no one need ever know about her unfortunate indiscretions. Eh, monsieur?”
Thinking about the papers and jewels sewn into Alix’s stays, odds were the little man was far less interested in her well-being than in something she carried with her. A cold finger of suspicion ran up Rafe’s spine.
Perhaps the man was seeking out Alix to denounce her.
Rafe closed his fingers around the stem of a heavy silver candlestick. Jervis, who’d been watching the conversation carefully, detected the movement and edged over to stand beside him.
“You have proof of your connection with the girl?”
Lamartine grimaced. He didn’t have any documents. Who was this man? Why was he getting in the way? His mind began racing like a rat in a maze. He was so close to getting Alix! He could certainly forge a note from the comte beseeching her to come home. That would work.
He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a loud scrabbling noise from outside the open window at the other end of the salon.
As he turned toward the disturbance, Rafe swung the candlestick.
Lamartine’s bagwig padded the blow, but the force was sufficient to knock him unconscious.
As he slid to the floor, Rafe knelt to check that he was still breathing.
Glancing up at Jervis he hissed, “Put him in the room next door and tie him up with whatever you can find.”
Jervis hurriedly dragged Lamartine’s limp form through the doorway while Rafe raced back across the room and slipped behind the blue silk curtains. As the rich fabric settled around him, he cursed silently; Madame de La Brou’s salon was fast becoming more popular than the Tuileries.
Alix pulled herself into a sitting position on the sill and jumped down into the room.
Silently congratulating herself on having found the open window, she inspected her surroundings, finding no sign of Rafe or Jervis.
She suspected they were searching upstairs.
There’d be hell to pay when she caught up with them, but why should men always have the last word just because they wanted it?
For that matter, why couldn’t a man ever admit a woman might have something useful to offer?
In the case of her mother, Alix speculated it would require another woman’s eye to detect any clues left behind.
Madeleine de Rabec had grown up with a great name, but no fortune.
She had told Alix about her childhood: how things around her were always disappearing, paintings, furniture, jewelry, and trinkets.
Since her grandmother forbade mention of the missing items, Madeleine had never known whether they had been sold to pay her father’s gambling debts or stolen by the servants.
She’d learned to paste things of value behind the furniture with candle wax and pomade and, she confessed to Alix, even after she’d married the wealthy Comte de La Brou, she’d continued the habit.
Alix cast an eye over the grand salon, thinking that her mother’s boudoir would be the best place to start.
But as she stepped forward, she was grabbed roughly from behind.
A muscular arm held her tight, while strong fingers clamped around her mouth.
Thrashing wildly she managed to kick her foot backwards, connecting solidly with a booted shin.
“Alix, you little hoyden, what the hell are you doing here?” From the moment he’d grabbed the intruder, Rafe knew exactly whom he had caught.
He’d recognized the fragrance of his own expensive Bond Street soap, and the armful of uncorseted breasts only confirmed his knowledge.
He spun her around to face him and his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of her costume. “Are those Jervis’s clothes?”
Jervis, just reentering the grand salon, gasped in indignation. “Here now, that’s my best waistcoat!”
Rafe interrupted. “If I might repeat my earlier question Mademoiselle de Rabec de La Brou, what the hell are you doing here?”
Alix raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “I told you earlier I wanted to help.”
“And I told you to stay at the inn.”
“You are not my guardian, monsieur. You may not tell me when or where I have leave to go.”
“Obviously.”
“So are you going to stand here arguing with me until it’s too dark to search?”
Rafe stared at her sharply. A maid would never take that tone. He released her. She was right about the light. “Well, mademoiselle, where do you suggest we start?” He would definitely have more to say about her outrageous behavior when this misadventure was over.
Alix bit back a real smile, knowing she’d won, and quickly explained about her mother’s habit of hiding important items. “Have you checked her bedchamber yet? I think it would be the best place to start.”
Rafe gave a negative shake of his head and started to ask why she hadn’t told them this back at the inn. Then Alix started across the salon towards where the unconscious man was stowed.