Chapter 19 #4
“Mmm.” Appearing eager would be exactly the wrong move. “May I?” He rose and gestured to Dubois’s collection of bottles on the sideboard. He’d cautiously finished the wine distributed by Dubois but from here on out, he would drink nothing except what he poured with his own hands.
“Certainly.” Dubois looked less congenial than his tone suggested.
He’d noted from which decanter Dubois had poured his own drink, but took his time looking over the selection. “My father’s connections interest you,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
Compton’s eyes glinted. “Or what may be learned from them.”
“You may not care much for politics, Beaumont, but in my country we are most interested in it.” Dubois shifted in his chair. “An unfortunate product of our many years of war, but a shrewd man may always profit should he position himself wisely.”
“There are always men interested in information they are not meant to have.” He selected a clean glass from the sideboard and poured himself the apple brandy.
Turning, he leaned against the sideboard, sipping his drink before saying, “The question is, what are those men willing to pay for it?” He met Compton’s and Dubois’s eyes in turn.
“It entirely depends upon the quality of the information and how timely it is,” Dubois said. “And how one obtains it.”
“My father has . . .” He furrowed his brow, considering the habits of his fictitious father. “. . . a rather, shall we say, unfortunate tendency to look for solace at the bottom of a bottle.”
Cuvelier roused himself to raise his glass. “Don’t we all at times?” he slurred.
Compton shot Dubois a glance.
“In my father’s case, he becomes . . .” He looked steadily at Dubois.
“. . . careless.” George Beaumont was entirely the Foreign Office’s creation, nothing but a trail of paper and rumors carefully laid months ago, allowing for his cover.
It might fall apart back home, but it was unlikely anyone in Paris could put the lie to it, at least not quickly.
Certainly he hoped for an end to the operation before either he or Compton returned to England.
Dubois laid the letter opener aside. “Continue.”
“He brings work home. Correspondence and such. He does not always lock it away as he ought. And even when he does?” He moved one shoulder dismissively. “It is not so difficult to find the key.” A subtle tilt of his head in Cuvelier’s direction. “A bit of a liability, really, drinking to excess.”
Compton sat up straighter. “Does he have access—” He stopped at feminine voices in the corridor.
Isobel’s voice, thanking Chrysanthème. Relief flooded him. One less worry to split his attention at a time when neither of them could afford a single misstep.
He’d perhaps secured himself another conversation with Dubois and Compton, hopefully one without Isobel or Miss Muir present. Best to bring matters to a close tonight as soon as he was able, minimizing further risk to them.
He crooked a finger at Isobel, ignoring Compton’s smirk. She came to him, her face placid—determinedly so. He tipped her chin up, looking deeply into her eyes. “You are well, chérie?”
“Chrysanthème has kindly pinned the dress for me.” Fine tremors wracked her despite her outward calm, although he’d not have realized it without his arm around her.
“I am terribly sorry to have created such a fuss.” She kept her eyes cast down, chewing on her lip.
“Please accept my apologies for having disrupted the evening.”
“Indeed, chérie, it wasn’t worth that little scene,” he said dismissively. “I will buy another dress for you tomorrow.” With luck, attention would move elsewhere if he and Isobel spoke of inanities.
She caught the direction of his thoughts. “But I borrowed this dress from Clothilde,” she said plaintively. “She will be furious.”
Clothilde? Despite it all, he wanted to laugh. He tugged Isobel towards a chair, pulling her down into his lap.
“I promised Clothilde I would take care of it,” she continued. “I feel horrible. It was so terribly clumsy of me, and now she’ll never allow me—”
“Hush, our friends don’t wish to hear about Clothilde and her dresses. I will order a dozen new dresses tomorrow for you and two for Clothilde besides. Would you like that?”
“You are very kind to me, mon amour. I shall make it worth your time.” She’d stopped trembling.
He stroked a hand along her curves. “Indeed you shall.”
Compton had turned away, freshening his own drink. Cuvelier drunkenly clutched Miss Muir’s hand as she murmured something to him.
Dubois was watching Cuvelier. “I agree with you most certainly, Beaumont, about liabilities. The remainder of our discussion is best saved for another time. Perhaps you will join Compton and myself at Cercle des étrangers one evening this week, and we will resume this conversation afterwards. Monday, perhaps. You are familiar with this place?”
“By reputation. I’ve not yet had the pleasure of attending.” It was an invitation-only maison de jeu known for its high-stakes gaming. Baudelaire could have pulled strings to gain him entry, but as yet there hadn’t been a need.
“I will make arrangements, then, for this. You will enjoy it, I believe.”
Compton raised his glass. “Perhaps you will even unbend from your three-games-only rule.”
He tossed back the rest of his drink. “Perhaps. I make no promises, monsieurs.”
Except one: I will bring you down.