Dangerous to Know (7 page)

“I'm not in a humor to argue with you.”

“What's troubling you, my darling Kallista?”

“Don't call me that.”

“You have no idea how you wound me.” He sidled closer to me.

“You have to stop this, Mr. Capet.”

“Darling, I know you call me Sebastian to everyone else. Why cling to formality when we're alone?”

“We shouldn't be alone. It's inappropriate. I want you to come back to the house with me.”

“Absolutely not!” He brushed dust from his yellow waistcoat.

“Why must you make everything difficult?” I asked, tears pooling in my eyes. “I cannot take much more.”

“Darling, please.” He held out a hand; I pushed it away. “Gossip told me of your injuries, but I see that you're well recovered if you're able to ride. Although emotionally perhaps not quite so well as physically. What is troubling you?”

“More things than I care to recount. And if you've any of the qualities of a gentleman you won't press me.”

“I shan't press you.” His voice, low and gentle, had a rhythmic quality to it, almost musical. “Though it wounds me to think you believe I've any of the qualities of a gentleman.”

“My husband feels strongly that you need to present yourself to the police and give an alibi for Edith Prier's murder.”

“You don't think I killed her?”

“What is your alibi?”

He heaved a sigh. “When was she murdered?” he asked. “Surely you don't expect me to keep a catalog of morbid events in my head?”

“Sebastian!”

“First name. That's much better.”

“Alibi.”

“Right. Yes. Let's see…Thursday…Calais. I took a room at a remarkably dim tavern across from the hotel the Whites were in after a more than usually tedious channel crossing. Terrible weather.”

“Can you prove it?”

“If I must. The owner would remember me. We had an infuriating discussion about continental politics.”

“Do you have your ticket from the ferry?” I asked.

“I suppose I do somewhere.”

“Will you please speak to Inspector Gaudet?”

“That fop?”

“You know him?”

“Only from watching you talk to him.” He gave an overdramatic sigh. “If it will release you from even a small measure of stress, I can hardly refuse.”

“It will also keep you from the guillotine,” I said.

“A not unwelcome perk.”

“There's one more thing I need from you.” I untied my horse and started to walk. “Come with me.”

“Very well. I may as well accept the inevitable. Is the dashing Mr. Hargreaves at home? I've been meaning to call on him for some time.”

8 July 1892

An intruder in my house! I know not what alarms me more—his very presence or the fact that I slept so soundly and undisturbed during his visit. So far as any of us can tell, he's taken nothing beyond our sense of security, but I am most displeased. I dislike the violation, even more now that I'm aware he's no stranger to my incorrigible daughter-in-law. It is as if she has brought an unending supply of disturbance with her.

I can't believe I lent a book to a person of such dubious acquaintance.

I've had a letter from Lady Carlisle this morning, pleading with me to return to London. It seems the Women's Liberal Federation, a group in which I've been intimately involved (albeit from a distance) since its inception, is in the midst of heated controversy. They've decided to press forward with an agenda that includes actively pursuing the right of women to vote. All members of the fair sex throughout Britain ought to rejoice at such news. But instead, at least ten thousand of our members have renounced the organization in protest. Rumor has it they're starting a group of their own, one that will not support suffrage, and I'm afraid the Liberal Party leadership may prefer their priorities. What good is fighting for women's rights if those rights don't include being able to vote?

More ruckus beginning outside. I shall investigate and see what new inconvenience is to be heaped upon my household.

The walk back to the house was a short one, and after releasing the horse to a stable boy, I let Sebastian take my arm (only to keep him from trying to dash away) and led him into the drawing room, where Mrs. Hargreaves greeted us with raised eyebrows and an appropriate look of horror. I did detect in her eyes a slight glimmer of hope—perhaps she thought
Madame Bovary
had started to wear off on me. But it was Cécile's reaction that I most cherished.

“Mon dieu!”
she cried, leaping to her feet and kissing Sebastian on both cheeks. “Those eyes…the color of sapphires. Stunning.”

“Madame du Lac.” He bowed low and kissed her hand with an affected reverence. “It is a delight to no longer be relegated to admiring you from afar.”

“I am glad to see you,” she said, looking him up and down. “I've always believed that it is a rare and magical thing to find a gentleman of such refined taste. Particularly one who will go to such unspeakably magnificent lengths to satisfy his every artistic whim.”

“It is never whim, madame, I assure you. I am driven only by the most carefully orchestrated motivations.”

“What a pity Monsieur Leblanc has already taken his leave from us,” Cécile said. “I'm quite certain he would have been delighted to make your acquaintance. You might inspire his fiction.”

“Fiction?” Sebastian asked. “Is this gentleman a writer?”

“Enough!” Mrs. Hargreaves found her tongue. “Who is this man?”

“Allow me to present Mr. Sebastian Capet,” I said. “Mr. Capet, Madame Hargreaves,
ma belle-mère.
”

“Enchanté,”
Sebastian said, turning his attentions to her. “I've much enjoyed your hospitality. Thanks are long overdue.”

“What on earth can this mean? Emily, is this man not a thief? The man who has only just violated the privacy of my home?”

“Such harsh words, good lady.” His smile revealed straight, fine teeth. “I assure you I've never taken anything of yours.”

“I've asked the butler to send for Inspector Gaudet,” I said. “Mr. Capet is here to give his alibi to the police.”

“How are you acquainted with this man?” she asked, touching Cécile's arm.

“Primarily by reputation, and I can assure you he is a man to be much admired,” Cécile said.

“He broke into my house.”

“Now, Mrs. Hargreaves, you don't know that,” Sebastian said. “The mere fact that notes from me were delivered to your son and his lovely bride does not prove I was actually here. You give me too much credit. It's entirely possible I paid a servant to do my bidding. Can you really think I would disrupt any part of your extremely comfortable abode?”

I didn't believe him for an instant, but Mrs. Hargreaves's features softened. It was hard not to be charmed by Sebastian's easy smile and affable manners, particularly when one first met him.

“But you just thanked me for my hospitality,” she said.

“Which I obviously would have no need of doing had I invaded the seat of your domestic bliss.”

“So I'm to forgive your other transgressions because you claim to have stolen nothing from me?”

“Transgressions?” He laughed. “My dear lady, someday I will regale you with tales of my adventures. If, after that, you still find me guilty I will repent and change my ways forever. But now I see our valiant inspector and your illustrious son coming up the path. Will you excuse me? I always like to get boring business out of the way without delay.”

He raced outside, greeting Gaudet with an eager handshake. My husband, whose scowl was unmistakable, stood, arms crossed, two paces from Sebastian. I watched through the open window as they spoke, the inspector pulling out a notebook and writing in it furiously as Sebastian talked. I could hear nothing they were saying—the only thing audible to me was Cécile's efforts to convince Mrs. Hargreaves that our intrepid thief was something less than a complete reprobate—but in a short while Gaudet nodded. The pair shook hands again and the policeman walked away without so much as a glance towards the house.

Sebastian, grinning like a wicked child, returned to us, Colin following close behind, as if on guard.

“You're lucky to have had a ready alibi,” my husband said to him as they entered the room.

“Did the inspector accept it?” I asked, crossing to Colin, whose lips barely grazed my hand as he kissed it.

“Kallista, darling, could you doubt he would? Your lack of faith slays me.” Truly, Sebastian was infuriating! I could see Colin was about to reprimand him, but wanted to make the interjection myself. Otherwise, it would appear not only that my husband was being domineering, but, more importantly, that I myself did not object to the liberties being taken.

“Do not, Mr. Capet, take on tones of familiarity with me. And don't even consider making yourself comfortable,” I said, my voice severe. “What did the inspector say about the stolen Monet?”

Sebastian laughed. “It was a trifle, really. No person of the venerable Inspector Gaudet's taste could really believe I'd take such a gauche painting. Besides, he can't prove a thing. My work here is finished.”

“Not quite,” I said. “We've one more errand ahead of us. I don't share the inspector's gullibility. You're going to apologize to the Markhams and return the painting to Monet.”

Mrs. Hargreaves looked askance at me and drew Sebastian over to her. They stayed close, apparently deep in conversation for some time, and as we prepared to set off for the Markhams' château I wondered if she would express an interest in joining us, but she did not.

“I do hope, Lady Emily, that my household can return to a more normal state now that this business is finished,” she said. “Added excitement is not what you need right now.”

Sitting in the coach, I considered whether her comment suggested a warming towards me. Could she actually be concerned for my well-being? Or was I looking too hard to find signs of something simply not there?

The driver slowed as we clattered over the bridge leading to the château, the road cooled by the dark shade of tall willow trees. By the time we reached the house, Madeline had popped her head out a first-floor window and waved.

“George is in the garden!” she cried. “It's so good of you to visit!”

Colin turned to me. “Could you find him? I don't want to let Capet out of my sight for an instant.”

“Of course.” I started down the gravel path. All but a few wispy clouds had vanished from the sky as the sun fought to eviscerate the last remnants of damp chill in the air. I turned away from the house, passed through a thick row of hedges, and emerged next to the circular dovecote, built in the same style, and undoubtedly the same time, as the tower. I felt a shiver of cold and rubbed my arms. But there was something else—something that filled me with an uneasy discomfort. My pace slowed, and I looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but once again I could not shake the sensation of being watched.

I was afraid to look, filled with an inexplicable dread of what I felt certain I'd see. I stopped walking, breathed slow and deep. But I couldn't resist. Raising my eyes to the dovecote, I saw the small girl with blonde hair, a blue ribbon tied in it, one tiny, pale hand pressed against the window, the other clutching a worn-looking doll.

Rationality rushed from me. For an instant I froze, seized with fear. Another glance at the eerie figure, and I ran through the garden until, panting and sweaty, I found George on a bench by the maze.

“My dear girl, what on earth has happened to you?” he asked, standing to greet me. “Sit down and catch your breath. You look a fright.”

“No, thank you, I'd rather stand,” I said, trembling. “It's ridiculous, really. Mad.” I wanted to blurt out what I'd seen, even though I knew there couldn't have been an actual girl in the dovecote. Last time I'd searched and found nothing. The shivers still running through me, I felt as if I'd seen a ghost.

“Ridiculous how?” He looked past me in the direction of the dovecote. “You're not seeing things, are you? Madeline does sometimes.”

“No, no. Of course not.” That Madeline saw things did not surprise me, but Madeline was not entirely sane. My mind was racing, spinning, trying to process what I'd seen. I'd lost a baby. My heart and my head were grieving and brought me an image of what? The child I might have had? A girl in search of a mother?

“She tries to convince me the château is haunted. You don't agree with her, do you?” I saw concern—real concern—in George's light eyes and forced a smile onto my face.

“Aren't all châteaux haunted?” I asked, slowing my breath and keeping my tone light. “I thought it was a requirement.”

“I certainly hope not,” he said. “I've enough to concern myself with trying to keep the roof from falling on my head, not to mention marauding art thieves milling about. The last thing I need is to worry about supernatural disturbances as well.”

“It's the marauding thief who brings me to you today. Or, rather, I have brought him to you.”

“You have brought him?” His eyes grew wide in disbelief.

“I caught him on Mrs. Hargreaves's estate this morning.”

“How did you manage that?” he asked, the concern in his eyes replaced with a spark of astonishment.

“I, Mr. Markham, used myself as bait.”

“Daring girl! I want to hear every detail. No wonder you're so flustered. I'd be overwrought.”

Taking the arm he offered, I struggled to slow my racing mind. “I want to take him to Giverny, to let Monsieur Monet confront him.”

“All the way to Giverny?” He bobbed his head back and forth, pensive. “That's more than fifty miles from here. And there really isn't any question of his guilt, is there?”

“No.” I paused, my hands growing cold as we approached the dovecote. “But I confess to having something of a soft spot for Mr. Capet. I'm hoping Monet will perhaps forgive him and leave the police out of it.”

“A soft spot for a criminal?” The slightest hint of amusement crept into his voice.

“It's not what it seems,” I said. “It's just that when he's not liberating objects from their rightful owners, he pays an invaluable service to a friend of mine.”

“Ah, now I begin to see. He is someone's lover.”

“Heavens, no! He's offering protection to a child in an extremely vulnerable position.”

“Is that so?” he asked. “Whose child?”

“A woman I know.”

“This is all most mysterious, Emily. I'm intrigued. Do you have a checkered past?”

“Nothing of the sort.” We had passed the dovecote, where the upper window was now empty. “The child's father is dead, so Mr. Capet looks out for him.”

“And to ensure his continuing ability to do so, we must travel to Giverny?”

“Yes. We could telegraph Monsieur Monet, but a personal visit could make all the difference. Furthermore, he's a great friend of Cécile's and mine as well. We could picnic in his magnificent gardens.”

“Now it's all clear to me—you're looking for an excuse to abandon the dreary halls of Chez Hargreaves. You ladies are not entirely impossible to decipher. Though I think you'd find things much more simple if you told us chaps what it is you actually want,” he said.

“You're too clever,” I said. I never made a habit of being deliberately opaque about my wishes. Picnicking was, in my mind, a secondary priority, but I saw no point in arguing his erroneous belief. At the moment, I was simply pleased to be away from the dovecote. As we approached the house, I saw Colin and Cécile standing, he placid, she bemused. Madeline, who'd joined them, was engaged in vigorous conversation with Sebastian and looked to be giving him a piece of her mind. When he saw us approaching he all but lunged at George.

“I must beg your forgiveness,” Sebastian said, bowing low before him with excessive flourish. “Please accept my apologies. I never meant to disturb your household, only to provide what I believed would be an outstanding addition to your already spectacular art collection.”

“I never object to a well-planned prank, sir, but your antics have deeply upset my wife,” George said. “Which means I haven't had a decent night's sleep in longer than I care to remember.”

“A tragedy, good man, but one that can be remedied.” Sebastian turned back to Madeline. “My dear lady, I humbly beg your forgiveness and give you my word that I will never again disturb you.”

“What good is the word of a scoundrel?” she asked, stepping toward him and meeting his eyes, smiling. “I couldn't possibly trust you. George, will you shoot him?”

“Not today, dear,” her husband replied. “I never shoot on Wednesdays.”

“You're a lucky man, Monsieur Capet,” Madeline said. “I suppose I shall have to accept your apology.”

“My gratefulness knows no bounds,” Sebastian said, kissing her hand more slowly than necessary or decent. He knew exactly how to flatter and flirt and make his roguish self irresistible. George was, perhaps, not quite so impressed, but he laughed nonetheless.

“A consummate con man,” Colin said, arms crossed, voice low, as he stood close to me. “I do hope you have the sense not to fall for his antics. He's not some romantic anti-hero.”

I was not so naïve as to be completely duped by Sebastian. Still, I had to admit his charms did have a certain appeal. Whether Colin needed to know that was something I had not yet decided. “That may be,” I said. “But we do need to keep him out of prison for Edward's sake.”

“You give him far too much credit, my dear,” my husband said. “I could ensure—”

But he wasn't given the opportunity to finish. Madame Breton, the skirts of her golden-colored gown swirling, stepped out of the house. Today her hair was well groomed, swept up in a flat twist, her face relaxed. She beamed when she saw Sebastian.