Chapter 21
Dubois sent a note instructing Nate to arrive at Cercle des étrangers at eight o’clock on Monday night so that he might first dine with Dubois and Compton at a private members’ dinner before they enjoyed the high-stakes gaming.
The invitation-only nature of the salon meant none of his men could have entry.
It was possible Baudelaire could have arranged for one of his own men to attend, but Nate didn’t know what purported relationship, if any, they might have established with Dubois given the scope of Baudelaire’s own work.
It seemed wisest to go in alone rather than risk further elevating Dubois’s suspicions.
Thus, unlike Frascati’s, there would be no one else nearby should matters go poorly. He would have to trust his instincts and play whatever cards came his way, in every sense.
Dubois had thus far been the more overt threat, but it was Compton he was tasked with investigating. With careful maneuvering, he might manage a private conversation with Compton at some point in the evening.
Despite limited sleep, his nerves buzzed, his mind sharpening with the purposeful focus required when every word, every action, was of utmost importance.
Cercle des étrangers was in quartier Chaussée-d’Antin in the H?tel d’Augny.
The last rays of an autumn sun turned the buff-colored cut-stone facade to gold.
He gave his name at the door and was informed that M.
Dubois and M. Compton were expecting him.
A silent man led him up a grand staircase and into a sumptuous dining room.
The long table in the center, covered with blindingly white linen, was laid extravagantly with sparkling cut glass and shining cutlery.
Patrons lounged in conversational groups at the perimeter of the room; Dubois and Compton were in one corner. Dubois noticed his entry first, inclining his head and offering a thin smile.
He nodded in acknowledgment, claiming a glass of wine from a passing waiter as he made his way to the men.
“Bonsoir, M. Beaumont.” Dubois’s voice was entirely neutral.
He could equally be genuinely pleased or plotting Nate’s imminent incapacitation.
“As you see, we have rid ourselves this evening of Baron Cuvelier. He is most useful with his money, but for matters more private, we find it best to leave him to his drink and his ma?tresse entretenue.”
A disdainful tone served. “I salute your wisdom in that, having met the man.” Better not to address Cuvelier’s mistress if Dubois was fishing.
“Cuvelier is very poor at gaming besides,” Compton remarked. “If he were playing at Hewards, I would be happy to encourage that tendency, but when house money does not benefit me, I find it merely tiresome to witness.”
“It is most fortunate for him that public gaming in Paris is now more moderate than under Napoléon,” Dubois added.
He’d heard anecdotes from both Amélie and Baudelaire about the outrageous extremes during Bonaparte’s early rule. “I’ve heard interesting stories of Cercle des étrangers in its heyday.”
Dubois gestured dismissively. “Excesses were celebrated, and many men—and women too—were in here ruined in a matter of minutes, on a single hand of cards or roll of dice.” Dubois caught his eye. “And many a seditious plot took wing here.”
He held Dubois’s gaze while sipping his drink. “Another avenue of ruination for the unwise.”
Dubois smiled faintly, his eyes sliding to Compton. “There are not now so many excesses as in Napoléon’s day. As to the other, sedition . . . It has now a different flavor, but in France, these schemes will never go away.”
Numerous flavors of sedition and dissent remained just below the surface in postwar France, displeased by the Bourbon Restoration but without cohesion.
There were sufficient numbers it would be disastrous for peace had they a common cause, but each had differing motives.
Bonapartists desired a return to imperialism.
Ultra-royalists strove to resurrect the absolute monarchy and aristocratic structure of the ancien régime.
Doctrinaires advocated for a more constitutional monarchy.
He made a noncommittal noise, an invitation for Dubois to proceed.
Dubois ran a finger along the rim of his goblet. “Men must decide for which particular flavor one has a taste.”
Dubois’s seditious entanglements comprised the intersection of his work and Baudelaire’s. The Foreign Office’s interest—and hence his own—was in Compton’s involvement in French affairs. It was decidedly not benign. And somehow Lucy Muir had become entangled in their web.
“And if one has not yet had opportunity to sample all the flavors?” he asked.
“Perhaps we might offer you the choicest of morsels,” Dubois returned smoothly, eyes shifting to a point behind Compton. His face changed. “Ah. I see in the doorway one of Fouché’s men.”
He glanced to where Dubois looked. Across the room stood a foppishly dressed man with an air of self-importance, raising a hand in greeting.
The distaste on Dubois’s face appeared entirely genuine. “A tiresome man, but I must acknowledge him as he eases for me the way to run my establishments as I prefer. This may require no small number of minutes. He is a man very used to hearing his own voice. You will excuse me?”
“Certainly.” An opportunity gifted by serendipity to gain answers from Compton out from under Dubois’s watchful eye. Precisely what he’d been working for these past weeks.
He must tread extremely carefully. Leaning back against the wall, he took a sip of his wine as though Dubois’s temporary departure was of little interest. “This is a fine wine. I am appreciative of the chance to join you and M. Dubois if this is an indicator of the meal to come.”
“Yes, they are well stocked here,” Compton replied. “You will find most anything you wish. In terms of drink, that is. It lacks some of the . . . amenities to be had at other gaming establishments.”
Available women, likely. He raised his eyebrows.
Compton’s expression took a sly cast. “Of course, you need not avail yourself of those amenities at present.”
“No,” he said coldly. “And Isobel is not up for discussion, as I’ve already made clear to you and Dubois. Your friend Oberlin as well. I do not share what is mine.”
Compton grimaced. “Oberlin is no friend of mine. I have only met the man a handful of times. A thoroughly disagreeable man, but Dubois has uses for him.”
“Dubois would do well to keep him better in line. He did a very poor job of spying on me at Frascati’s last week.”
Compton’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Indeed. He lacks subtlety. But the reason I bring up these amenities . . . Perhaps it will not surprise you that I supply Dubois with some of the girls for Les Moineaux. It is in my interest to hand select some of the offerings.”
He feigned interest. “Is that so?”
“It is not important whether they can speak a single word of French or display fine manners. Not for Les Moineaux, whose offerings are not of a caliber to tempt worldly men such as yourself.” Slightly mocking now.
“But Dubois and I have connections, men like Cuvelier, who become suggestible when made happy with women and drink and the idea that they hold some degree of importance in matters of interest to us.”
“While you and Dubois in truth retain all the true power. I admit I was intrigued when Cuvelier said you introduced him to . . . Thérèse, I believe her name was?”
“As far as Cuvelier knows, it is Thérèse.” Compton’s lip curled.
“One of your acquisitions?” He washed down his disgust with a swallow of wine.
“A wise man knows when best to call in what he is owed. If the debtor hasn’t the money to pay, well . . .” Compton lifted his glass. “There are many forms of profit. There are always other arrangements to be made. Thérèse rather fell into my lap.”
For Isobel’s sake, to learn more of what landed her sister in Paris by Compton’s hands, he wished he had leisure to probe deeper—but he didn’t.
This opportunity to connect with Compton was the only one he’d had.
With the timing, with Dubois’s mistrust, it was quite possibly the only one he’d ever have.
He needed to shift conversation elsewhere before Dubois returned.
Resolutely he turned his mind from Isobel and her sister. “A wiser man does not allow himself to fall into debt in the first place.”
“You are an unusual man for one who enjoys gaming.” Another challenge in Compton’s voice.
He lifted one shoulder. “The prospect of winning—and the exhilaration of raking in money in the event one does—is enough of a lure for some.”
“But not so for you, Mr. Beaumont.”
“I find power both more entertaining and more profitable, Mr. Compton. Something you understand. Dubois as well.”
Compton smiled but said nothing.
“Maintaining power demands control of oneself and the capacity to calculate reasonable risks. Knowing, too, when to cut one’s losses and walk away. I have never found myself in the position of whatever poor sod handed over Thérèse to you in lieu of money owed.” He hardened his tone. “Nor will I.”
“And yet you join us for gaming here.”
“I’m not here tonight for the gaming. Not even for the meal, in truth, nor are you and Dubois.” A shade condescending now. “Let us stop pretending otherwise.”
Compton lifted his chin in acknowledgment.
“I have little interest in political maneuvering, aside from what I gain personally. It seems you trust Dubois, having worked with him since before the wars ended. I do not trust him that far, myself. Not yet.” Whatever Compton might say in private to Dubois afterwards, suspicion and doubt served him better than sycophantic agreement with either man.
To that end, he would play it to the hilt with Compton.
“Should we three come to an agreement, most of my direct dealings in London will be with you, yes? Then let us speak plainly between ourselves while the two of us have an opportunity.” He pointedly looked towards Dubois.
“Dubois does not know everything with which I occupy myself, nor even most of it, any more than I know all of his schemes.” Compton leaned in conspiratorially. “It is possible you and I may work out arrangements to our own satisfaction that are transacted entirely on British soil.”
Layers upon layers of secrets and double-dealing, but with men like Compton and Dubois, it was to be expected. Neither represented himself honestly. Then again, none of them were honest men—himself included.
He sipped his wine, making a show of studying Compton’s face before responding. “I am open to the possibility, depending on what you have to say.” Let Compton court Beaumont rather than the other way around.
“As you noted during our meeting at Le Repaire, I have a shipping company. It serves me well for many reasons.”
“Not least of which is the ease of conveying anything a man might wish to transport.” He’d been lounging against the wall; now he straightened up. “And to whichever port.”
“Yes. Between London and Boulogne serves me well for my agreements with Dubois. There are ways of avoiding high tariffs on that route. But as for other interests of more global scale? Let us say for starters that the Isle of Man provides many opportunities to redistribute wealth.”
So his smuggling network encompassed more than whatever profit he turned on the Continent with Dubois.
Not something the Foreign Office knew about, so far as Nate had been briefed, but also not a surprise.
He’d pass along the information; Customs would be interested.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked bluntly.
“More plain talking, then.” Compton smiled. “Your father has access to information that will help me increase my profits and expand the scope of my westward enterprises. I do not anticipate tying myself to Dubois forever.”
Interesting. Compton was looking to break with Dubois and saw Beaumont as a possible means to do so.
Or alternatively, he was setting a trap.
“Certainly I might be induced to keep my eyes open for anything of specific interest to you, but not without good cause. What’s in it for me?”
Compton’s expression did not change, save for a gleam in his eyes. Due to a potential new partnership? Or because the bait was taken and the trap sprung?
“You spoke of an interest in personal gain. For prudent men, there is a fortune to be had moving certain goods between the Continent and the British colonies in the Caribbean. Goods, certainly . . . and services.”
Emphasis on that last word brought the conversation back to where it had begun.
“Like Thérèse.” An unknown number of other women too.
“When the price is right. Although you have Mlle Blanchet for yourself, a man of your stature and interests moves in circles with refined women. You are too wise to owe me money, of course, so perhaps we can make some together instead.”
It grated on him, the necessity of this conversation, of representing himself as a man unscrupulous enough that he might willingly be complicit in unspeakably sordid dealings.
But he hadn’t a choice. The repugnant words he must speak were bitter on his tongue.
“I mingle with many women like Thérèse in London, if I’m understanding your suggestion. ”
“One of them, certainly.” Compton’s smile was cruel. “Profit and power. Potent motivation and a respectable foundation for a partnership, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Indeed.” Respectability was the opposite of what Compton offered. “To profit and power.” He saluted Compton with his glass and finished his drink. The wine was sour in his mouth, his weariness soul deep.
Compton nodded his head towards the room. “Dubois is returning. You and I will discuss this further later this week?”
“Yes. Send a note to my lodging, and we’ll arrange a convenient time for a private continuation of this conversation.”
Dubois was scowling as he approached. “Quite tedious, what one must do as a man of business in this city, but I have done so for this evening and may now enjoy more pleasurable pursuits. And company.” Dubois gestured with his half-full goblet to Nate’s empty one.
“Another drink, M. Beaumont, before we are shortly seated for our meal?” His lips curled.
“But I forget myself. You are not with money immoderate or with drink either. So I have heard.”
He shrugged. “Immoderation in one often leads to immoderation in the other. Neither suits me.”
The most honest statement he’d made all evening, the truth the thinnest of lifelines within an ocean of lies.