Leonie (33 page)

It was true, even now at three weeks she looked like her. Léonie
searched her daughter’s face for a trace of her father, but could see none. Amélie’s hair was blond and when she opened her eyes and gazed at the world it was with that same long, golden, slumberous look.

Bébé had quite taken to this new, small-sized human being and had become its guardian, placing herself next to the crib and purring loudly and contentedly at her new responsibilities, making Léonie laugh at her self-importance. “I’m not sure if I’m the mother, or you Bébé,” she teased, picking up the small cat and hugging her, receiving a rasping lick on the nose in return.

This month was heaven. May had blown in across the Mediterranean bringing clear skies and a warming sun, and the blessed blue days were ones of gentle happiness, of looking after the baby and feeding her, watching her with the fascination of a new mother as she slept, and waking with a new instinctive alertness to her tiny cries in the night. And Amélie thrived, blossoming from her first battered difficult journey into life into a plump-cheeked, blond infant content in her mother’s arms.

Léonie enjoyed each day for what it brought, each small gain in weight, the wave of a tiny arm, her gripping perfect fingers. It was the happiest month of her life and she refused to count the days until the last one.

There was no going back, and she knew it, even though she paced the terrace through the night, plotting ways to keep her, agonizing over the thought of giving her away. There must be some way, but it all came back to the same thing. She was no good for the child. With her Amélie would never have a normal life—she would be the illegitimate child of a notorious woman, and Monsieur’s vengeance would be terrible. She shivered with fear for Amélie as she thought about him. She remembered the property she owned, the house in Paris, the factories in Lille, the railway shares and the stocks and bonds—she would have traded them all in in an instant to be able to keep Amélie. If only it were that simple. Once she had thought that was all it took—security. Then life offered no more problems, no one could hurt you. It wasn’t true, it just wasn’t true.

The sea barely moved under the morning sunlight as she sat on the terrace holding Amélie in her arms. She had packed all her little things—the tiny jackets and minute nightdresses, the little pink hairbrush for her blond fluff of hair. There was no way out.
Amélie deserved a better mother than she, and a real father. And then she would be safe from Monsieur.

Madame Frenard hesitated in the doorway, afraid of what was to happen. “We’re ready to leave now, Léonie,” she said gently.

Léonie looked down at her daughter, at the small, lovely, innocent face. “It’s the last time,” she whispered. “I’ll never see you again, Amélie, but I’ll always love you. Oh, yes, you’ll always be loved.”

“Madame Frenard,” she whispered, as she handed her the baby, “this is the most terrible thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.”

She turned away, stony-faced and dry-eyed, unable to watch as they drove down the lane, and the little cat sat quietly at her feet, knowing as she always did that she needed comfort.

–
• 30 •

Caro held Léonie’s hand as they drove from the station toward the place Saint-Georges. “Come and stay with me for a while,” she urged. “Tell him you’re not strong enough yet to return to town, we can go to the country.” She was terribly worried about Léonie. It wasn’t so much the way she looked—she was thin but she seemed healthier than when she had left and there was color in her face from a month in the sun. It was the dead look in her eyes that was frightening.

“No,” said Léonie determinedly, “I’ve done it now, Caro. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, but it was best for Amélie, and now I have to live with it. Monsieur has been patient and kind—and I’ve deceived him. I want so much to tell him, Caro … it’s a terrible secret.”

“You mustn’t even think of it. He’d kill you, Léonie! Think of Amélie. My God, if he knew there was a baby.…”

Léonie hadn’t told Monsieur that she was coming home. Only Caro knew—and Maroc. He was waiting for her on the steps, and he took her cold hands, scanning her face anxiously. “Is a butler permitted to kiss madame?” he asked with a faint smile.

“Oh, Maroc, of course you are.” She flung her arms around him. “I’m just so glad to see you, both of you, my friends.” They followed her into the hall, eyes meeting behind her back.

“Is she all right?” whispered Maroc.

“I’m not sure … she looks well, but she should never have kept the child, she’ll never get over it now.”

The house looked just the same. Even in the afternoon sunlight the salon was theatrical—a stage for a play that no longer held her interest, she thought wistfully. And her room was as beautiful, filled with flowers by Maroc, pillows temptingly arranged on the wide bed, her little sitting room waiting—with the chaise placed
by the open window and its leafy view, ready to catch the first breeze. But all she really wanted was to be back at the inn. She began to cry.

“Oh, Léonie,” begged Caro, “please don’t cry. I’m here, I’ll help you—and Maroc … we love you, darling, please don’t cry.”

“Caro, how could I do it? How could I make such a mess of my life? All I really want is to be with Amélie.”

“All right, Léonie, that’s what you want. But you can’t have it! Yes, you have made a mess of your life, but you’re not going to ruin that child’s. Pull yourself together … this is the way things are. We planned the deception and we carried it through. Monsieur suspects nothing. Only you could give away the secret—and if you do, God knows what will happen. It’s time, Léonie Bahri, to start thinking with your head and not with your heart.”

They’d left her alone to rest and to think things over. Of course, Caro was right. It was all her own fault and she had no right to be self-pitying. It was time to pick up the threads of her own life and go on. Her heart lifted as she thought of Monsieur—he’d been so kind, so understanding. He really loved her. Hadn’t he said so? And, once, that had been all she wanted.

Verronet’s report was on his desk waiting to be read. He had pushed it away, hidden it under a pile of papers, busying himself with blueprints and layouts, financial reports and share dealings. But now he had to read it. He had to know. It hadn’t been easy, Verronet had said, there were a number of little boats in the harbors along the coast in September, and the only clues he had had were the name Charles and the fact that they thought it must be a sailboat there for the races. But he had done it; he’d gone personally, as de Courmont had instructed, trusting no one else, and spoken to harbor masters, sailboat owners, and to the promoters of the various races—and then he had had a stroke of luck. He’d met someone who had remembered that Charles d’Aureville had been out in the storm, and he remembered it particularly because it brought a spell of bad weather, several weeks of rain and thunder and high winds. Charles had been lucky to find shelter, let alone to have escaped with his life.

So that was it. The shipwrecked mariner: Charles d’Aureville. He threw the papers back on the desk. The name meant nothing
to him. He looked at the address. Château d’Aureville in the Loire.

He paced the floor of his office, thinking of his next move. There was a tap on the door. Léonie stood framed in the doorway, smiling at him. “I was just thinking about you,” he said calmly.

“And I was thinking of you … so here I am. Quite better, as you see.”

She looked thin and tired. There was something, he wasn’t quite sure what it was, she was different. But in his arms her sleek-skinned bones felt the same under his hands, she smelled the same, of fresh air and jasmine—he could drown in that scent. He wanted to kill her!

“Did you miss me, darling?” she asked with a smile.

“You know I did.” His eyes searched her face. He knew he couldn’t live without her. “And are you better?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor Lepont said that I’m cured and there should be no recurrence if I’m careful.”

“I should take you for a holiday—to the sea, maybe even to your precious inn, so that we can build up your strength again, but I’m busy.”

“No, not the inn … I want to stay here with you. I’ve been isolated for too long, Monsieur. I’m quite happy now that I’m back here—with you.”

Her smile wrapped itself around him.

She was still his Léonie, his old Léonie come back to him. He thrust the papers into a drawer and took her by the hand. “I’m finished for the day, Verronet,” he said as they walked down the hall together. “We are going home.”

He drove to the house himself in the new model of the de Courmont car—a deep blue tourer with creamy leather seats—concentrating on the machine. When they arrived at their house he took her hand and walked silently with her up the stairs to her room.

If she’d expected him to be tender and considerate, she was mistaken. He didn’t so much make love to her as reclaim her, branding her body as his with a dark thrusting passion that left her gasping. And he didn’t say he loved her. But then, she hadn’t said she loved him.

Verronet always enjoyed the Côte d’Azur. It wasn’t so much the sunshine and sea breezes as the gambling. The casino was a terrible
lure, but so far he’d always managed to stop before disaster struck. There was one great advantage to working for de Courmont: he was a very generous employer. He demanded every minute of your time and your life was never yours to call your own, but he paid well and the expenses were unlimited, so if a little of it got lost in the casino, who was to worry? And that was another thing: over the last couple of years his job had become more that of a “right-hand man,” a personal confidant. He was closer to de Courmont than anyone else; he took care of all his
personal
business. Only he knew de Courmont’s secrets, his weaknesses—the private desires of a man whose public image was so distinguished, so powerful, and so ruthless. In fact, what he knew might surprise a lot of people. Yes, he was sitting pretty and for the moment he was content to leave it that way. But there’d come a day when he’d have had enough of being de Courmont’s spy—he didn’t intend to be a high-paid lackey all his life. When the moment was right he’d use what he knew to move up in the world. He would go to all those parties as an equal, not as some sort of servant—people would invite
him
. And there’d be plenty of money; de Courmont wouldn’t like the world to know he had an underbelly as vulnerable as any shark’s.

He’d a feeling that there was more to this Charles d’Aureville affair than just one night. It had seemed implausible that a woman like Léonie and an attractive young man like d’Aureville would be satisfied with only that. De Courmont had sent him back to see if there was any foundation to his suspicions, and at first it seemed that that was the way it had been. Except now there was something new, and Monsieur was not going to like it.

Léonie had spent a month here when she was supposed to be still up in the Swiss mountains getting cured from whatever it was she was supposed to have. He’d found out quite by chance when he’d gone to the village of Saint-Jean near the inn—sometimes you could pick up gossip from the locals in the bar there, or in the store. Small things, like at the pharmacy. He had dropped a glass onto the floor in the bar, spilling his beer, and had cut his finger quite badly. They had directed him to the pharmacy and the owner had supplied plaster and ointment—and a little gratuitous information. The Frenards did the best lunches around, he’d told him, thinking he was a casual visitor, and now that the lady from Paris had gone he thought they would be serving again. It had taken only a little probing to find out that there had been a small
child staying, a baby in fact. Madame Frenard had come herself to collect the gripe water and powder and things that small babies need; she had seemed quite pleased about it, though she had been very close-mouthed. He didn’t quite know why.

A baby. And Léonie away in the mountains for six or seven months; things were beginning to add up, and Verronet knew Monsieur wasn’t going to like it. It gave him a good deal of pleasure to write that telegram. He could just imagine him reading it.

Well, there was no hurry. He might as well enjoy himself at the casino for a few days before he began to look for the child. After all, he was entitled to a little pleasure, too.

“Caro, isn’t that Verronet—you know, de Courmont’s lackey?” Alphonse pointed out the man at the chemin de fer table, a pile of plaques stacked beside him.

Caro stared in surprise. “You’re right, but what on earth is he doing here? I thought he only left Monsieur’s side when he went to bed.”

“I wonder,” said Alphonse thoughtfully. “De Courmont is up to his eyes in these American negotiations for his cars. I would have thought he needed Verronet—he can put his hand on facts and figures in a moment and that’s just what de Courmont needs right now. It’s very strange that he should be gambling in the casino in Monte Carlo instead.”

“Do you suppose he’s run off with de Courmont’s money?” Caro laughed at the idea. “That would be something!”

“I don’t think it’s that. You know, Caro, Monsieur uses Verronet as a sort of a business spy—he has him find out all the secrets of the men whose companies he wants to take over—and he’s very good at it. Now, what secrets are there here in Monte Carlo that Verronet might be looking into?”

Caro’s eyes widened as she realized what he was saying. “But it’s not possible, Alphonse. Why would Monsieur suspect?”

“I don’t know, but for Léonie’s sake, I think we must find out.”

“Oh, Alphonse, what shall we do?”

“We’ll follow Verronet.”

“But he’s sure to recognize us. We must get a spy of our own, Alphonse.”

“We’ll do better. The chief of police here is an old friend of mine. I once did him a favor. He’ll be only too pleased to return it now.”

*   *   *

Amélie will be five months old next week, thought Léonie, as she dressed for dinner in the suite overlooking the ocean in the Grand Hotel at Deauville. Her legs will be brown and strong from lying in the sun and she’ll be lifting up her pretty head to look around. Her own face stared back at her from the mirror. “It’s no good, Léonie Bahri,” she told herself firmly. “You have to stop thinking like this.”