Chapter 12 #2
“Nothing that pointed towards Lucy. I did learn bits of gossip about several of the players. I will write down what I have learned, if you provide paper.” She tried to work the button at the top of one glove, making a noise of frustration when it did not immediately yield.
He removed his own gloves. “Allow me.”
Her eyes met his as she slowly extended her arm, although she looked elsewhere as he undid the button. He took care not to brush against the bare skin just above her glove, although his fingers tingled with the impulse.
Once freed of her gloves, she seated herself at the table. “Is there anyone of most importance? Should I start with M. Fournier, perhaps?”
He shed his greatcoat. “If you like.”
“He is a banker, a royalist who profited tremendously during the First Restoration and has continued to do so with the Bourbon monarchy restored. His oldest daughter is marrying soon to a man more than twice her age who was recently elected to the Chamber of Deputies. M. Fournier arranged the marriage for personal gain: his money and daughter in exchange for rubbing shoulders with the elite.”
So far that tracked entirely with what he knew. “Was there any specific gossip about his political leanings?” He set writing supplies before her.
She shook her head. “No. Chiefly his love for wine and women. And gambling. Mainly at Frascati’s, but he recently won large at a private gambling salon in Montparnasse. I did not catch a name, unfortunately.”
He knew the one. In the main it attracted Bourbon loyalists with more money than sense.
“What else . . .?” Isobel tilted her head.
“His wife lives entirely apart from him in Faubourg Montmartre and has done so for some time. He has a mistress currently living near to him in Chaussée-d’Antin.
Before that, he regularly patronized maisons de tolérance.
I do not know their names. I expressed curiosity about Le Repaire, as though you’d mentioned it to me as an entertaining destination, but it led nowhere. None of them have been there.”
“Did you learn anything about the third man who played trente-et-un?” He unbuttoned his jacket. “Not the young one.”
“The man who spoke with me after quitting the table? None of the women recognized him; I did ask. I discovered nothing beyond that.”
Oberlin had done more than speak to her and had been close to gaining a broken wrist in consequence. “That’s information in itself, especially given how pointed his attention was. Directed at both of us.”
She looked unnerved by his final remark. “What does it mean? You misliked him well before he spoke to me. I observed the tension between you.”
“Natural antipathy for me, perhaps, although I rather doubt that was all it was. His interest appeared personal from the outset.” Maybe only because Oberlin coveted Isobel. Maybe for reasons more nefarious.
“And the game?”
“Certainly he was sore about losing to me. Game and money both.” Isobel’s favors as well.
She nodded slightly before bending to the paper and its lines of neat, careful script, her face expressive as she sifted mentally through recollections of the night’s conversations.
After several minutes she shook out her wrist to loosen it, reading over what she’d written. Satisfied, she laid aside the paper to dry and stoppered the ink. “Will you share this with M. Baudelaire tomorrow?” She idly rubbed her thumb along the quill’s spine.
Foolish to be so arrested by that small movement. “Aye. I’ll pass along a copy elsewhere as well. That copy can wait till tomorrow.”
Isobel rose gracefully to her feet and moved over to one of the windows, though she could surely see nothing out of it.
“Earlier . . .” But he stopped, uncertain which part of earlier he meant to address, here or on the terrace at Frascati’s.
She turned. The silence extended, becoming nearly tactile, till she broke it.
“Being here in France”—one hand made a vague, all-encompassing circle—“first searching alone for signs of Lucy, now having involved myself with whatever else is also at stake . . . It feels terribly fraught.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly.
“Regardless of our public interactions, or perhaps I should say in addition to them, we cannot pretend there is not a—genuine attraction.”
“Aye.” It was part of what he’d meant to address, saying earlier.
Her cheeks had definite color beyond that painted by the lamps. “As you said, it isn’t all pretense.” Her hands were on the frog fastening her pelisse. A line of French voltigeurs charging through the door couldn’t have caught his attention more effectively.
She wasn’t looking at his face. “I’ve been alone for some time now, in my own way. By your own admission, you have as well.”
“Aye.” He understood now what she was leading towards. Unwise, yes, but he’d certainly wanted it when he led her onto the terrace of Frascati’s, hadn’t he? He wanted it now.
“You told me the other day that sometimes, for a few days, if you met someone living isolated as you were, in—a sort of impermanent situation, that you might . . .” But despite her nerve in bringing it up, she could not quite finish the sentence after all.
“Become lovers.” Blunt, for both their sakes.
“A very short while only.” She had the frog undone. “Perhaps a single night only?”
“Why?” She was not embarking upon this lightly; he knew her that well by now. He needed surety from her.
Her voice was soft. “I am weary of feeling nothing but cold inside. Earlier, with you, I did not.” Folds of velvet whispered to the floor. The lamplight made gold from the cream silk beneath and sapphire of her eyes.
“How do you want this to go?” His voice was rough to his own ears. His question meant yes.
“In truth? I do not know, precisely.” Her dimple showed itself. “I was advised recently that such matters become easier once begun.”