Chapter 6
Isobel awoke to the sounds of quartier de la Porte Saint-Denis beyond L’Orchidée. The house itself and its occupants were mostly quiet at this hour, sleeping.
The light coming through her window heralded another cloudy day, and a chill wind tried to force its way around the sash.
For several minutes she burrowed deeper into the soft warmth of the comfortable bed and blankets, but nature’s demands quickly called her forth.
She had only just finished when a soft knock came on the door.
“Mademoiselle? Have you woken?”
“I have.” She cracked the door and was confronted by Louise, Amélie’s lady’s maid, holding a pile of folded clothing with a gown draped over her arm.
“I am sent from Mme Laval to tell you that when you are ready for coffee, you are invited to her parlor, and that M. Beaumont will likewise be there.”
Beaumont. The name Nathaniel gave to the harbormaster in Dover.
“She also sends this dress for you to wear, if you would like.”
The gown, Prussian blue, was twilled silk, a fabric far finer than anything she had worn in recent memory.
“I would be pleased to wear it.” Along with the dress was a pair of soft slippers, a shift of fine muslin, netted stockings, and stiff back-lacing stays.
“Will you assist me in dressing?” She couldn’t manage the stays’ laces herself.
“Oui, Mademoiselle. Madame sent me to do that exactly, if you wish. Madame says if these underthings do not fit you, we will find for you others today. Slippers as well. She has for you several other dresses that need but minor alterations.”
“That is very kind, but I do not wish to be any trouble. Surely I will not need multiple dresses.”
“It is no trouble, Mademoiselle. Madame says we will have you outfitted as a fine Parisian lady so that you are free to enjoy Paris with M. Beaumont.”
To what end? Certainly they would not be traipsing about for pleasure.
With some trepidation, she allowed herself to be laced into the stays.
They were more comfortable than they looked but far more structured and elaborate than what she wore in her everyday life.
The maid helped her into the gown and fastened the ties on the back before departing.
She drew a deep breath. If the working woman’s clothing she had purchased on arrival to Calais was one sort of camouflage, perhaps this would be another.
Stockings and slippers donned, she sought out Amélie. Nathaniel was near the window, unbuttoning his greatcoat, as Amélie poured coffee.
“Ah, ma chère, I was hoping you would soon join us. Nathaniel has only just arrived, bringing inside with him the cold. Here, allow me to pour for you some coffee. Was your sleep pleasant?”
“It was, thank you. I do not believe I woke even once.”
“You are looking very much more rested today, if I may comment on this. That dress is quite a lovely color for you.”
“Thank you for the loan of it, although it is finer than anything I require.”
“It pleases me to help you in this way. And I will admit it is not wholly altruistic of me to choose the gown of a fashionable Frenchwoman. But Nathaniel must tell you of these reasons.”
Nathaniel had seated himself, coffee in hand. Isobel looked at him expectantly, but he did not offer an explanation.
“You will alarm Mme Graham with your silence and your scowls, mon ami. You will speak to her of these plans in good time, but for now we will share coffee.” She extended a hand towards Isobel. “Come and sit beside me, ma chère.”
Although she made light conversation with Amélie as they ate, Nathaniel did no more than drink a bowl of coffee. Disconcertingly, his eyes were on her more often than not, assessingly.
Amélie noted it as well. “You will go and look out the window now, Nathaniel, or else my guest will lose her appetite.”
“It is quite all right. I have finished all I intended to eat anyway.” Isobel laid her empty plate aside.
“It is not all right, as you say, that he should glower in so menacing a fashion. But you two have much to discuss. Perhaps we three, to begin, but certainly the two of you. Now, Nathaniel, you will come to the point and cease your hard looks.”
He replaced his bowl upon its saucer. “I will be at the Palais-Royal this evening, Café de Foy specifically, with an acquaintance. If you are willing, Mrs. Graham, I would like for you to accompany me there.”
“Who is this acquaintance?” she asked warily. And why had he called her Mrs. Graham? It was absurdly formal after the past eighteen hours.
“His name is étienne Baudelaire. We have worked together for some months now because we share interest in some of the same targets, although the people to whom Baudelaire reports are not the same as mine. I cannot tell you much more than that.”
“Why do you wish me to meet him?”
“For one, I would like him to examine Lucy’s miniature. I do not know how likely it is that he will recognize her, but it is worth trying.”
“And I must be dressed as a fashionable Parisian lady to do so?”
“Aye. It will serve your interests as well as my own for you to meet Baudelaire in a highly visible place.”
“Dressed as a woman who might choose to be in company with . . . Mr. Beaumont?” she asked. “Before I agree, you must first tell me who Mr. Beaumont is.”
Amélie nodded approvingly. “You ask very much the correct question, ma chère. Nathaniel, you will be forthcoming as you are able.” A look passed between Amélie and Nathaniel, and he inclined his head slightly.
What was the connection between them? She’d wondered more than once.
“Nathaniel Beaumont is a gambler. Bored, wealthy, hedonistic. Son of minor English nobility. Unlikely to be manipulated but morally flexible enough to willingly let slip information gleaned from his father, an official in the British Foreign Office, for personal gain. Interested, perhaps, in becoming better acquainted with and involved in Guillaume Dubois’s business interests in Paris, should they prove mutually beneficial. ”
“And in so doing, learn more of Jeremiah Compton,” she stated.
“Aye.” Nathaniel wore his approval less openly on his face than Amélie, but it was there.
“So will I pose as your—companion?” she asked.
Certainly this was a conversation she could never have envisioned even a week ago.
“Is that what you are suggesting? For I cannot imagine a man such as Mr. Beaumont would dine innocently with an unmarried woman. Perhaps not a married one, for that matter,” she added with a flash of humor.
“If you are seen in my company—Beaumont’s company—such would be assumed, yes,” Nathaniel said. “You ought to consider that, as well as risks.”
“I suppose with the Allies still keeping peace in France, there is some minor risk of encountering an officer who knew Jamie.” She adjusted her skirt to give her hands something to do.
“It will match your cover best to be seen definitively with a lady of—” She nearly said light morals but had no wish to offend Amélie.
She would not say Amélie seemed immoral.
“A lady of the demimonde,” she temporized.
Truly, she hadn’t the vocabulary for this sort of conversation.
“So it would, particularly as I have already been inside Les Moineaux and Le Repaire—”
“Le Repaire?”
“Another of Dubois’s establishments. I will tell you more of it in another conversation.”
The first part of what he said registered. “You have—been inside Les Moineaux?” Her stomach rolled slightly. It felt almost a betrayal.
“Not as a paying customer.” Nathaniel’s gaze was steady. “I made my excuses and left without engaging anyone. It was not my intent in going there to procure services.”
Her burst of relief was immediate. It also underscored how badly she wished to believe in Nathaniel’s . . . What? His honesty? His morality? “You were saying that you’ve been inside Les Moineaux and . . .?”
“Aye. It will raise suspicions if I return but remain uninterested in what’s on offer. If it’s believed I have a woman of my own, it will be somewhat less so.”
“That woman being . . . me.”
“Aye, for appearances. Not in truth, obviously.”
She recalled what he’d led with in this conversation. “You said you think it might serve my own interests as well. In what way?”
“Most nights I’m in one gambling salon or another. Other men bring their companions.”
She followed now. “Sometimes women are freer with gossip than men. I could ask after Lucy.”
“If you have an opening without exposing yourself to risk.”
“I can exercise discretion.”
His mouth lifted slightly. “Aye, but you won’t have your veil.”
She smiled at the teasing before saying, “I might glean information that will be helpful to you as well, yes? Matters men might not speak of with one another but might let slip to their women? Or information about the men themselves?”
“Aye. Another possibility.”
“You must take some time to think about this,” Amélie interjected.
For a moment she’d all but forgotten Amélie was in the room, so focused had the conversation become between herself and Nathaniel.
“Even if it is not tonight, there will be other opportunities,” Amélie continued.
“No.” Decisively. Confidently too, she hoped, although her heart rate suggested less certainty.
“No, I do not need time to think. I will do it. Gladly. Only I may need some coaching first. I must look to the two of you for that.” She laughed a little.
“The life of a cavalry wife has ill prepared me for intrigues.”
“And yet I believe you will do very well,” Amélie said, “with your instincts and your heart. Already you have been investigating on your own.”
Such as she could. Which reminded her: “I completed translation of my notes, all of them, not only those directly pertaining to Compton. I do not know if you will find the remainder of any use, but I thought it best that you have a complete picture. Especially as you have agreed to aid my search for Lucy.” She was still afraid to hope for too much. “Shall I fetch them now?”