Tempting Fate (87 page)

“There must,” Madelaine said with impatience. “After all, this is almost 1927, not the Dark Ages. We have telephones and telegraphs and…” She broke off. “James.”

“James?” Phillippe repeated, baffled.

“You should know him,” Madelaine said sharply. “You sent him to me—an American journalist. He came here to cover the end of the Great War.”

“Tree?” Phillippe exclaimed. “Is he still in France?”

“I don’t know,” Madelaine replied truthfully. “But it should be simple enough to find out.” She glanced up as the doorbell rang.

“That is Rozoh,” Irina said, getting up from the sofa and going to answer the door.

In the few moments they had for private conversation, Phillippe looked narrowly at Madelaine. “You’ve known Tree well?”

“Very well,” Madelaine said, and there was no way Phillippe could misconstrue her meaning. “We have met off and on for what? eight years? I was hoping to see him sometime before summer. It never dawned on me until now that…”

“That he might help you find his rival?” Phillippe suggested. “Are you so certain he will?”

Madelaine could hear Irina and Nikolai exchange greetings in Russian, and she made a cautioning gesture at Phillippe. “It’s not quite what you think, Phillippe. And it is just possible that James will understand.”

Instead of disputing this, Phillippe said, “You truly do not look an hour older than the day I met you.”

Madelaine chuckled desolately. “You should see Saint-Germain.”

Phillippe would have liked to pursue that comment, but he gave his attention to Nikolai, who had been trying to think of ways to reach his employer.

“I have thought that Madame Jardin might have a way to contact him, in case of emergencies—and this is an emergency. She told me before that she did not, but if I were to tell her why we are troubled, she might be able to give us information we could use to find him.” He gave Madelaine an apologetic look. “I’ve seen your portrait, Madame, in costume.”

“Oh?” Madelaine inquired.

“In Ragoczy’s apartment, in his bedroom antechamber. You were wearing an Eighteenth-Century ball gown. I’ve often wanted to know why he had you painted in such clothes.”

Madelaine had sat for hours in that stifling room where the artist had his studio. The spring had been unseasonably warm in 1744, and she had dreaded the long, boring hours in full grande toilette. “I imagine he liked the dress,” she said nonchalantly, concealing the marvelous, irrational pride she took in knowing he kept her portrait near him.

Irina exclaimed over the quality of the portrait, which she had seen when Ragoczy had first brought her to his apartment, but Phillippe said nothing, regarding Madelaine with greater uncertainty than he had known before.

It was dark and raining by the time Nikolai drove Madelaine to her narrow, dark house, and inquired if she needed his assistance.

“Thank you, I will manage,” she said as she fumbled with her suitcases. She was stronger and less tired than Nikolai, and was not eager to have him waste his energy and goodwill on so trivial a matter as the moving of her suitcases. “There is something I would appreciate, however, if you would be willing to do it,” she added as she gave up struggling with the umbrella and resigned herself to getting wet.

“If it will aid Ragoczy, you have only to ask it,” he said at once. “Would you like me to hold the umbrella for you?”

“It isn’t necessary,” she told him, then said more emphatically, “Tomorrow morning, there is something you can do for me, Rozoh.”

“What is it, Madame?” he asked quickly, secretly aghast at Madelaine standing there in the rain, her suitcases and valise held clumsily. He had seen many displaced persons, and it seemed to him that they had the same look to them. He could not get out of the Minerva and order her to accept his assistance, but was sad that he did not.

“I want you to call the various American journals in Paris and find out if they have an address for a James Emmerson Tree. He works for a paper in St. Louis, I think, or he did last year. Tell them that it is imperative that I reach him, and be sure to leave my name. James would be in town for me and not for others, perhaps. I will want to know where he is, in any case. Will you do that?” She felt her grip on one of the cases slipping, and swore quietly but thoroughly.

“James Emmerson Tree?” Nikolai repeated, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables. “I will do as you ask.”

“Let me know as soon as you have information, and I will give you my instructions then.” She stepped back from the automobile and hurried toward the dark porch of her house. At the door she fumbled for her keys and required a moment to work the lock. A thin trail of water seeped down her collar and around her neck.

The house smelled musty, and there were three neat boxes of mail on the table by the front sitting room. Madelaine let her suitcases fall and closed the door, hoping that Irina had remembered to have the lights turned on, for although she did not need them to see in the dark, reading was difficult, and she had a great deal of studying to do in the next few days. When she had got to her bedroom, she discovered to her relief that the electricity was connected and the light bulbs replaced so that they worked properly. She got out of her wet clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap by the closet. Her nightgown was a long robe of black silk, a gift from Saint-Germain six or seven years ago. As she pulled it on she was consumed with worry for him, wondering what would happen to him now. In the past, Roger had always found a way to inform her of Saint-Germain’s movements, but a quick glance through the accumulated mail had shown that this time no such missive had arrived. Now, as she settled herself in bed to sleep away the fatigue of travel, she was puzzled by the silence, and wondered again if James or anyone would be able to assist her. Saint-Germain knew from millennia of practice how to vanish, and she feared that this was such an occasion. If that were the case, nothing she, nor the police, nor James could do would bring him to light until he chose to be found. It may be, she thought, that all I wish from James is his love, and the rest is an excuse to ask for it If Saint-Germain had disappeared … She could not believe it. Saint-Germain would not let her be so worried, so
alone.
He had promised he would not desert her, and she believed it. No matter what became of him, he would find a way to get word to her. The realization was scant comfort, but she had no other to sustain her. James would be overjoyed to see her, and would know which newsmen to speak to. Or there would be a letter from Roger in the morning, informing her that Saint-Germain was coming to Paris. These and other welcome notions vied for her attention, and after a short while turned into dreams.

Two days later, as snow drifted over Paris, Nikolai drove Madelaine to an address on a short street off the Rue de Rennes. The Minerva was large enough for Nikolai to have problems maneuvering it in the narrow confines, and he cursed comprehensively as two delivery boys on bicycles swerved into his path to avoid a party of rambunctious schoolboys who were throwing snowballs at shop windows.

“You need not stay for me,” Madelaine said as Nikolai pulled up in front of the building showing the address he had been given. “I really don’t know how long I will be.” She did not add that she did not know if James was at home: all she knew was that he was living at this place and was not away from Paris on assignment. “Don’t bother with the door,” Madelaine told Nikolai as she let herself out of the Minerva.

“You will call Ragoczy’s apartment if you need my help?” Nikolai asked, looking back nervously as a delivery van turned into the narrow street.

“Yes, of course. But you had best be on your way now, Rozoh, or that driver will ask you to name your seconds.” She motioned him on, stepping onto the narrow sidewalk as she raised the furlined hood of her Inverness coat. Nikolai stared at her for an instant as he prepared to drive away, seeing how youthful she was, like one of the young women he occasionally saw hurrying to classes or to work. It was difficult to remember that she was a professor, a woman who had spent several years digging up ruins in harsh faraway lands. He was almost sorry she had not asked him to wait for her.

Just inside the doorway, Madelaine found three flights of stairs, each leading off at its own odd angle. She stood undecided, searching for some indication of which room numbers were where. She had almost made up her mind to try any door and ask for directions when the outer door swung open and a person blundered into her back.

“For God’s sake!” the man said in English. “I didn’t mean…”

Madelaine had turned at the sound of the voice, and the annoyance she had felt evaporated. “James.”

James Emmerson Tree almost dropped his two cloth bags of groceries. “Madelaine.
Madelaine!
You’re supposed to be in Asia somewhere.” He thought he sounded unbearably stupid, but he was sure that the lovely woman in front of him would inform him in the next minute that he was mistaken, that she was not Madelaine, and he would have to mutter an apology and make his way up to his picturesque, inconvenient apartment to battle with the lowering of spirits that would surely claim him.

She touched his face with her gloved hands. “How good to see you. I have missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said, beginning to believe that she was really in the same room with him. “How did you find me? You did find me, didn’t you?”

“Your American colleagues gave me your address. I didn’t stumble in here by accident, dearest, dearest James.” She stretched put her hands toward his. “Give me one of those: I’ll carry it up for you.”

“But…” He put the bags down, letting them lean against his legs, and impetuously took her into his arms, hugging her with a joyous passion that surprised him. He felt her arms around him, and her response. “Oh, Christ, I love you, Madelaine,” he whispered roughly before he kissed her.

Madelaine was secretly ashamed by the intensity of her reaction to this man, and it was she who broke away first. “James. Not here, where someone else might come in with groceries.” She reminded herself that Saint-Germain would understand her love for this brash, wonderful man, but she had never thought that her heart would be so wholly captivated by anyone but her adored first lover.

“And I wouldn’t want you to greet anyone else the way you greeted me.” He did not say it as debonairly as he had hoped, but he did not stop to ponder it. “You were in Asia, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I got back two days ago. If I had had an address, I would have been here sooner.” She bent to pick up one of his bags. “Which way?”

“It is a maze, isn’t it? That one, at the back.” He started toward it, saying, “How long will you be in Paris this time?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” she answered evasively.

“Oh?” He had caught the note in her voice that warned him of her lack of forthrightness.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” He paused on the stairs, looking back toward her.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know. You’re not entirely sure. What kind of runaround is this, Madelaine?” He was fishing in his coat pocket for his keys and trying to watch her face at the same time. Some of his light-headed happiness evaporated.

“It isn’t a runaround, but…” She stopped. “James, don’t look at me that way. I’ve come to you because I need your help, yes, I admit it, but it’s your love that will help me more than anything else, and without it…” She paused on the stairs while he opened a door on a triangular landing, her anxiety returning with more force than it had had before.

He stood aside so that she could enter his apartment. “Without my love, what? You must need something pretty big.” He hated the cynicism in his voice and the jealousy that flared within him. As he put his bag down by the door to the little kitchen, he said contritely, “That was unforgivable, even if the favor is a big one. Give me that bag, Madelaine.”

She was still smarting under the sting of his accusation. “Why?”

“So I can try to make this up to you.” His jumbled emotions were calmer now, and he made up his mind he would not let them get the best of him again. “You showed up out of nowhere and … it all came up again. I was an ass about it. Can we start over again?” Without waiting for her to speak, he reached out and took her hand, shaking it warmly. “Hello there, Madelaine. I’m really happy to see you again, and if I weren’t so surprised to see you, I would have thought of a proper way to celebrate. Won’t you come in and let me make you some coffee … But you don’t drink any, don’t remind me. Well, maybe you’ll watch while I have some.” He bent and kissed her hand with something very like flair.

Madelaine was laughing. “James, oh, James. How good to be with you again.” She went more easily into his arms this time, and if there was less fervor in their kiss, there was also less discomfort. She reveled in his embrace, and grinned at him when he released her.

“There. Better?” He could not bring himself to let her go. He smiled down into her face, loving the contours of it, the violet of her eyes, her well-shaped nose and firm, generous mouth.

“Much better. So much better.” She looked over her shoulder, “But it might be best to close the door.”

He gave the door a shove, and it slammed shut. “There. Privacy.” He looked at her again, taking her face in his hands and kissing her eyelids. “We’re going to need privacy, aren’t we?”

“Yes. But for more than one reason.” She saw the distrust come back into his face and gave a little cry of protest. “No. Don’t do this, James. I’ve come to you for comfort and solace and love. The rest, if you can do it, will help me immeasurably, but if you cannot trust my affection, then I will leave.”

“And come back?” He could not keep the apprehension from his voice.

“No.” She let her head rest against his shoulder. “And that would break my heart.”

“We can’t have that,” he murmured, holding her tightly.

She let her anxiety rest a bit, hoping that she had not misunderstood him: her first impulse had been to abandon the whole attempt and go at once to Munich in the hope of finding a clue to where Saint-Germain had gone. She did not know how she would convince James to help her, since anything she asked would seem to be a condition of her favor, but she hoped that she could find a way to explain her feelings to him, though she did not understand them entirely herself. “James, come.”