Another Scandal in Bohemia (14 page)

At last she clapped her hands softly together at her bosom, a gesture I recognized from her operatic repertoire as one that preceded the delivery of an especially affecting and gorgeous aria.

“The diamond corsage that I wore at La Scala in Milan, when I debuted as Cinderella! How... thoughtful of Mr. Tiffany and yourself,” she said in gargantuan understatement. “I am to understand that this... bauble is mine if I— we—accept your mission to Prague?”

His nod was half-bow. “And other assignments as they might turn up.”

“Oh. Very clever. This gift elevates me to the aristocracy of the fabulous. It will make me welcome—and envied— anywhere.”

“It will make me nervous,” Godfrey put in. “Think of the jewel thieves.”

“Yes, you are quite right!” Irene’s eyes sparkled like black-gold diamonds. “It will be quite amusing to find ways of outwitting them as well. She eyed the Baron. “May I—? They have never seen....”

“My dear Madame, they are yours if you say so.”

Her gloved fingers plucked the fierce fire from the black velvet, but she seemed to me as if she were juggling white hot embers with her bare hands. I couldn’t help fearing that the diamonds would burn her somehow.

She held their length against her torso, anchoring one magnificent glittering rosette at her shoulder, the other at the opposite hip. The middle rosette reposed in the cleft of her breasts and all three were linked by a limpid lace frill of diamond brightness.

“You see, and it can be worn as a conventional necklace as well, although a bit overpowering. Even Monsieur Worth would approve: it is asymmetrical, after all. Brilliant,” she purred to herself in utter indulgence. “Simply brilliant.” Whether she referred to Mr. Tiffany’s inspired and lavish design in diamonds, to Mr. Worth’s asymmetrical dressmaking, to the Baron’s seductive gift, or to her own nature, was questionable, as many things often were with Irene.

“Quite overwhelming,” Godfrey commented in dry, lawyerly tones.

The Baron heard the reservation in his voice and nodded to the waiting second man, who vanished.

Irene sighed and let the diamonds sink softly to their velvet bed. “They must be carefully donned to show their full effect.”

“And carefully worn,” I added.

She quirked a smile in my direction, but before she could say anything more the second man returned, bearing another box.

“My,” Irene said as he paused before Godfrey, who looked none too pleased by the honor. “We are like Portia confronted by her three suitors’ chests. What can the Prince of Morocco have to offer?”

She sank back into her seat, to watch Godfrey’s presentation as she would a scene in a play.

The box that confronted Godfrey was nearly as large as Irene’s, and of finely wrought Moroccan leather, with inlaid silver designs. What, I wondered, would the persuasive Baron use to win over a skeptical barrister? Or did he make the mistake of underestimating Godfrey?

Once again the case lid elevated at the Baron’s gesture. Once again a rich velvet—crimson as blood this time—lined the interior.

Godfrey stared blankly at the contents, which gave a gleam of polished wood and metal. And then he lifted something long and elegant and lethal.

“Dueling pistols!” he said in a tone that mixed cynicism, rue, and wonder. Then he laughed. “How apropos, Baron Alphonse. I shall certainly require these after the gift you have given to my wife.”

“They are French, of course, made at mid-century. I am told that they shoot absolutely true.”

“How fortunate,” Godfrey said, sighting down one long gleaming barrel, “for I will no doubt shoot false.” He eyed the Baron swiftly. “I was not reared as a gentleman.”

“Godfrey means,” Irene put in swiftly, “that he was not introduced to the methods of dueling. As a gentleman, he has no equal.”

“My dear Norton,” the Baron said softly, “you cannot have had forebears who were reared less rudely or ungently than mine.” He stepped forward to pick up the other dueling pistol. “These have been in the family for forty years. I would be honored if you would accept them, and would consider the acceptance to include an invitation to meet with my own personal tutor in these lethal yet gentlemanly arts, the foremost duelist in Paris.”

“Who?” Irene; demanded.

“Coquard,” he told her in surprise, unruffled by her curt query.

“Ah... A master of both sword and pistol,” Irene said in satisfaction. “Good. Then Godfrey and I can practice fencing together. I fear I grow appallingly rusty.”

“I can see,” Godfrey said, “that it will behoove me to master such things. I recall now some mention of a duel in Monte Carlo.” His fine gray eyes narrowed as if sighting on a target—Irene. “A man must have some way of settling an argument with his wife.”

“But we never argue,” she said blithely.

“To every rule there is a lamentable exception.”

Godfrey carefully, almost reverently, laid the pistol he held back in its self-shaped velvet cradle. I saw that it was as dangerously attractive to him as diamonds and detection were to Irene; he saw possibilities for himself in it that he had never glimpsed elsewhere. So much for the barrister conquered. I should like to see what the clever Baron had decided to bestow upon me!

I was soon to get my wish, for the first man laid the case containing the diamond corsage on the Baron’s desk and went out of the ghastly room in which smoke and brandy and treasures were surrounded by glassy animal eyes in severed heads to collect my trinket.

I sat again, as erect as Irene at her most imperial. I should not be seduced with diamonds and death. Although something fine but tasteful—perhaps sapphires, so dark, deep and reserved. Perhaps a lapel watch for formal occasions. Or... a gilded scissors, being both practical and lethally suited to a future spy.

The Baron was watching me with barely contained excitement, rather like a small boy in my charge who was giving the governess what he conceived to be the perfect gift—a toad, no doubt to make me shriek, or a toy boat that would not float in a bathtub, or something equally unsuitable. I almost felt sorry for the man. I would so hate to be the first to disappoint him, to ruin his lucky streak with my easily impressed associates... Oh. I, too, was the recipient of a large box. Mahogany, with scrolled brass corner pieces and great hinges at the rear.

I found myself stretching like Irene and reined in the impulse. Once again a lid popped open, revealing an old-gold velvet interior, so aged that it was mottled darker and lighter here and there. And... a book. A great thick book with an upholstered cut-velvet cover and golden spine, corners, and gilt-edged pages. A... Bible.

I rose, speechless.

“Sixteenth century,” the Baron said. “I have taken the liberty of inserting a parchment with your forebears listed to the date of the Bible.”

“My forebears? Back to the sixteenth century?”

“Indeed. You come of solid English stock, Miss Huxleigh.” He turned the heavy front cover and I saw a hand-lettered document that listed my parson father’s first name, and my late mother’s, and then many others, each with years of birth and death written in spidery script.

“I thought it discreet,” the Baron added softly, for my ears only, “to omit the pig thief hung at Tyburn, but the pedigree is otherwise complete. Of course, this is an early Protestant Bible.”

“Of course,” I murmured weakly. “Tyburn.”

“Tyburn?” Irene asked alertly.

“Apparently... a, a maiden name in my family,” I answered quickly, catching the Baron’s twinkling eye as he shut the elaborate cover on my otherwise blessedly undistinguished family tree.

Chapter Nine

DOMESTIC CONTRETEMPER

We had
dined like Renaissance princes at Ferrières, then returned to our chambers to redon our traveling clothes. Like Cinderella, we were returned to our ordinary rags and ashes at the stroke of twelve, when we were whisked in a ducal carriage to the tiny railway station, and thence to Paris. There our coachman waited with our more humble conveyance, though it was no pumpkin.

Three A.M. tolled in the cottage clocks’ chorus of soprano and bass voices before we were settled once more safe and cozy in our Neuilly parlor.

There we sat, like heedless children on Christmas morning, ignoring the gargles of a yet-uncovered Casanova, our trophy cases—or bribes—before us.

“So clever,” said Irene, happily exploring the complexities of her treasure chest. It masqueraded as a traveling vanity case, with the diamond corsage hidden in the top lid. The rose moiré interior fitted with ivory nail implements, crystal and silver cosmetic and perfume bottles, and other fripperies struck me as ample enough a bribe without the added extravagance of the diamonds.

“Do you suppose that Mr. Tiffany never found anyone rich enough to buy the corsage?” Irene asked suddenly. “I despise looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he might as well get some good out of it, then.”

Godfrey sat with the pistol case open on his knees, studying each elegant weapon. “Here is the maker’s mark, on the barrel,” he said in sudden triumph. “I wonder if he still lives.”

“You are more likely to meet the Maker of us all,” I noted, “should you resort to using those pretty but deadly toys.”

“Nell will certainly meet her makers in that Bible,” Irene put in. “How thoughtful of the Baron to have your antecedents researched. A most personal touch.”

“Most personal,” I said dryly. “A pity that he did not also investigate yours.”

“Ah, but we cannot know that he didn’t,” Irene said. “And Godfrey’s family tree would have been most intriguing. An even greater pity that Baron Alphonse did not elect to give either of us Bibles and backgrounds.”

Her note of self-mockery was not lost on me. “My family tree is excessively dull,” I said, “and Godfrey has no interest in his, since he disowned his wicked father at an early age. You are the only one of us left with mysterious origins.”

“Origins are a most unoriginal obsession,” she said. “One’s own history is enough burden to drag behind one like a damask train: I do not require the particulars of a number of people I never knew, and who will never know... me.”

My “tsk, tsk” was ably aped by the parrot, who followed it with a lewd whistle.

“Can that vile bird not retire?” I asked in no good temper. “I have been forced to dine upon a surfeit of French cookery, and then to jolt home for two hours besides.” Godfrey had already set the pistols on a side table and risen to drape good English chintz over the parrot cage. Grumbles within slowly subsided, to the familiar tune of “Cut the cackle.”

Godfrey did not resume his seat, or his examination of the pistols, but strolled slowly around the chamber.

“I was quite serious, Irene,” he said. “Those diamonds are more a liability than a boon.”

“What is the use of rare, beautiful things existing, if it is too dangerous to own them? And see! I could keep a tiny mother-of-pearl pistol in this indentation, where the cologne bottle is to go.”

“A tiny pistol will not foil a reckless thief, Irene,” he said, “and the Baron’s dueling pistols are for more formal occasions.”

I stifled one of my usual shudders. “I hope that you never find occasion to use them, Godfrey.”

“Oh, I am willing to learn, Nell,” he answered with a smile. “They are a less dangerous possession than the diamond corsage.”

“But think how magnificent the diamonds will look!” Irene said. “I am so glad that one of Mr. Tiffany’s stout American matrons or snippy, skinny heiresses did not buy them. They suited me perfectly from the first; even Mr. Tiffany allowed that they could have been made for me.” She had unfastened the lid’s hidden spring while she spoke, so that the revealed corsage struck our eyes like a clash of fire and ice, lightning incarnate.

“A liability,” Godfrey repeated. “As bad as returning to Prague.”

“I have returned to London with no ill effects,” Irene said. “Apparently the Baron’s spy network is not so superior that it managed to uncover the role of Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the Colonel Moran affair. Or perhaps Mr. Holmes is simply too good at hiding his candle under a bushel.” She glanced at me. “I believe that there is some exhortation against that tendency in your Holy Book, Nell, and that you also practice it a bit too literally.”

“You refer to a New Testament passage. Matthew,” I said, “and there is no habit—either bad or good—that I can possibly share with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t be so sure,” she said in that irritatingly sure manner she used on occasion.

Godfrey stopped in front of Irene, drawing her attention from the diamonds glittering in the open case in her lap to a new and steely gleam in his eyes.

“Irene, you are not listening to me. Your plans to return to Prague are not agreeable to me.”

“Not agreeable?!” Irene was truly amazed when one of her intimates proved less than eager to dash off on an escapade. I wondered if Godfrey had ever objected before; certainly not in my presence. “This is a splendid commission for us all. It will open new vistas of... travel, fresh acquaintances, knowledge, monetary reward—”

“And it will unfold new visions of dangers from old foes. Do you think the Baron sends us to Bohemia as a kind of lark solely for your entertainment and enrichment? If he says the political situation there teeters, it is worse than before, when a King was killed, as you should well remember: you solved the murder of the present King’s father, after all.