The Adventuress (39 page)

“Yes, but, Irene, to do so might inflame her to become vindictive, to try to hurt you.”

“She did,” Irene said with a tight smile. “Several times. You think I did well?”

“Incredibly. I never thought for a moment that you were not in complete control.”

“That is why I won and she lost. But she is a feeble opponent. I will have to find better.”

“Better? But why?”

“Winning is nothing unless the opponent is worthy.”

Chapter Thirty

T
HE
W
ICKED
U
NCLE

“Louise!” cried
her uncle. “You are alive!”

We sat thunderstruck on the terrace of the Hotel de Paris, our merry fivesome, staring at the ferociously erect figure of Édouard Montpensier.

Irene, as usual, was the first to recover. “As are you,” she said. “Is this not a happy coincidence?”

Her remark drew Monsieur Montpensier’s attention from the quivering Louise, who had grasped my hand beneath the table.

“And you, Madame—I recognize you at last! You are that American hussy who called upon me in Paris with false protestations of grief at Louise’s demise. And this mild-faced person I have seen before . . . also under false circumstances,” he added, staring at me.

Godfrey rose. “Your present state of mortality will suffer, Monsieur, if you continue to libel ladies in public in this fashion, especially since one of them is my wife.”

“That’s as may be, Englishman, but this chit is my niece. I should have expected to see her in this unwholesome climate, and in the company of some fortune hunter.” He had at last honored Caleb Winter with his coruscating eye and tongue.

This American gentleman leaped to his feet. “By heaven, sir, you won’t take after my fiancée like that, even if you are kin, without us coming to blows about it here and now.”

“It is so comforting,” Irene commented in flawless French, “to view an uncle’s sincere joy at the discovery of his niece’s unsuspected well-being.”

This mild remark slipped through Édouard Montpensier’s guard like a rapier through butter. He belatedly removed his hat. “I am surprised to see the girl alive,” he said gruffly, “that is all. As for her ‘fiancé,’ this robust young man may have her if he will, but he can expect no dower.”

“What of your fortune-hunter remark?” came Godfrey’s lawyerly verbal pounce.

Édouard Montpensier shrugged with Gallic elegance. “An uncle’s overprotective instincts, Monsieur... Norton.”

“I think not,” Irene said, thoughtfully stirring her coffee. “I believe that Louise stands to inherit a substantial amount from her father’s Quarter. Oh, do sit down, Monsieur Montpensier. You look as if the sun has drained your strength.”

He accepted the chair Godfrey appropriated from an adjoining empty table, bracing himself upon his gold-headed cane. His face was now the color of tracing paper, and almost as transparent.

“You know about the Quarter, Madame Norton?”

“Of course, but how do you?”

“I suspected something. The last letter requesting to contact my niece was posted from Monte Carlo. After her presumed death, I decided the matter merited a journey south to investigate. I assumed a nautical correspondent on the basis of the postings.”

“Bravo,” Irene said. “And I assume you now realize that much is at stake. But why did you find it necessary to kill the Indian?”

“The British sailor’s pet? I did not!”

“Yet you know of the Quarter,” Godfrey said. Édouard looked from face to face around the table, as if importuning a jury. “I swear to you, I have killed no one! And you can see that Louise is safe enough. True, I have learned of these Quarters from the British sailor.”

“How?”

“By the simple means of telling him of Louise’s... drowning. He hinted at a cache of money of which part would come to Louise.”

“And now to yourself, since Louise was presumed dead,” Godfrey said. “That is why you were so surprised to see her alive, and why you called Mr. Winter a fortune hunter. Now
you
are disinherited.”

Édouard Montpensier was silent, his gloved hands throttling the greyhound’s head that topped his cane.

“We must ask ourselves,” Irene said, “whether Louise is safe now that her uncle knows of both her part in the cache and her continued good health.”

“I would not hurt her!” Montpensier’s eyes fired with fresh surprise. “I am not about to lose money that is due my family, but I am no murderer.”

None of us looked convinced.

“Uncle.” Louise’s voice fell strangely sweet into the unkind silence that gripped our table. “I would never allow the one who had reared me to be excluded from my good fortune.”

His hands went limp on the cane’s sleek gold head. “You would not, Louise? Even after—?”

“No, I would not. But the thing we seek is by no means guaranteed. It may be beyond everyone’s reach.”

Irene extracted a Turkish cigarette from her reticule and lit it daintily. “Go back to Paris, Monsieur,” she urged, her words wreathed in a film of smoke. “You clutter up an already overpopulated landscape. Go back to Paris and clear your wife’s name, tell her of Louise’s safety. Comfort the poor woman, and hope for future fortune.”   ’

“I may have business—”

“It is likely that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is investigating Louise’s disappearance at the request of the Paris detective force. He is in Monte Carlo. You have heard of Sherlock Holmes? He will not overlook your actions in this affair; he has no reason to be wary of Louise’s feelings. Go back to Paris.”

The gilded greyhound at the top of the cane received one last wrenching as Édouard Montpensier lifted his hat from his knee and stood. “Very well, Madame. I can see the field is too crowded for a mere uncle,” he said bitterly. “Messieurs. Mademoiselles.” Erect as a flagpole, he left the terrace.

Irene turned to Louise. “Really, generous child? You would admit your uncle to some share of your portion of the treasure?”

Louise smiled. “I said I would share with the one who had reared me. That was my Aunt Honoria. If Uncle wishes to partake in her good fortune, he shall have to earn her good will.”

“A Solomon come to judgment!” Godfrey proclaimed. “Whether he goes or stays, your aunt will be well treated in any case.”

I squeezed Louise’s hand encouragingly as she withdrew it from beneath the table.

Irene frowned and extinguished her cigarette in the crystal dish provided. “No one can raise the treasure without the aid of the prince’s expedition. We can only openly enlist His Highness’s cooperation. The treasure will have to be shared with the government of Crete, with the prince, with the world of wonder seekers who uproot the past. There may be little left.”

“Fine by me, Mrs. Norton,” Caleb Winter said stoutly. “All I ask of Louise is her hand in marriage and that she be willing to accompany me home.”

“To America? Really, Caleb?” Louise sounded delighted.

“It’s where I earn my living, Louise. We make our own way in America.”

“So I have seen,” Godfrey put in under his breath, with an amused glance at Irene.

I spoke at last. “Do you think Louise’s uncle will leave merely because you have asked him to do so, Irene?”

“He will leave because matters have been taken out of his hands,” she replied. She turned to the young couple. “And it would be best if you followed his example. We shall have less to worry about, including Sherlock Holmes discovering that Louise is alive.”

The pair exchanged a glance.

“I reckon you’re right, Mrs. Norton,” the young man said. “I’ve pushed my stay as it is. My editor isn’t about to swallow a Paris assignment that becomes an extended jaunt to the Blue Coast. Besides, I’m eager to show Louise the other side of the Atlantic. We can always come back for a visit when things settle down.”

“Excellent sense!” Irene said. “I recommend a speedy wedding—Alice will help, I’m sure—and immediate departure for Paris, then London, then to America by ship. I cannot wax too extreme in my recommendation of impetuous nuptials,” she finished, a twinkle in her demure brown eyes.

As witness, I stood the next day beside Louise in Alice’s buttercup-yellow parlor while a local priest performed the marriage ceremony in sonorous Latin. Luckily, Caleb Winter was of the Roman Catholic faith, and so there was no barrier to the couple’s swift coupling, as Monaco did not require civil ceremonies first.

Louise had chosen myself as her attendant over my protestations that Irene would better serve. Godfrey upheld the groom. I wore one of Irene’s gauzy tea gowns, as did Louise. Hers was arranged in multiple shades of pink, and she bloomed like a brunette rose in a pastel garden. Mr. Winter bore a more serious demeanor than I had ever seen in the young, energetic American, and so it should be when a man pledges his life and future to a woman.

Having missed Irene and Godfrey’s nuptials, I avenged myself by shedding copious tears at this ceremony. In fact, I had become exceedingly fond of Louise. I was not untouched to see her jet-black eyes glaze as we made our farewell embrace and promised to write each other faithfully. (A promise I kept to a greater degree than we had then imagined, since so much transpired after the new-wed pair left the Blue Coast.)

Alice served a dainty tea afterward. Then her coachman drove the handsome young couple to the railway station.

“Well,” said Alice, her blue eyes misted, “ ‘all’s well that ends well.’ Forgive my repetitiveness, but I am much relieved to have Louise and her suitor safely married.”

“And safe,” Irene added, brushing tart crumbs from her rose, Nile-green and brown-striped changeable silk skirt.

“You think real danger remains?” Alice sounded doubtful. “I have persuaded Albert to sail to Crete at the time demanded. Surely that will satisfy the blackmailer. Since you know the object of the voyage, you and Godfrey can arrange to have the authorities intervene in t
ime
to end the conspiracy.”

“I would rather it ended before the voyage begins, my dear Alice. We will all rest much easier.”

“But how, Irene? You say that many loose ends remain.”

“Then we must gather them all into one knot and start from there.”

“How?” Alice repeated.

“I don’t know,” Irene replied, “but something will come to mind.”

Chapter Thirty-one

A
D
IVINE
V
ISITATION

Finally allowed
to return to my map tracings, I was startled that evening when the maid brought yet another missive, this one for myself.

“You were not in your chambers, Miss Uxleigh,” she said in English, handing me the envelope with a curtsy. All of the maids at the Hotel de Paris were polite, efficient and pretty.

My envelope bore no sealing wax. Irene passed me a long, rather lethal hat pin and I slit the flap.

“It is from Dr. Hoffman! He wishes to call with news of interest to us. This was clearly meant for you.” I handed the note to Irene.

“But it is addressed to you, dear Nell. Perhaps the good doctor wishes to ensure your presence.”

“Surely not. He must misapprehend my importance in the affair.”

“Surely not,” Godfrey echoed me with a smile. He pointed to the innumerable pieces of tracing paper floating like flotsam on the map-laden table. “This is exacting work, Nell.”

“Yes, Nell is most exacting,” Irene said with fond regret, “as I have cause to remember. But the good doctor arrives within the hour. Perhaps, Nell, you should set your pince-nez aside and tidy up.”

I looked down. India-ink archipelagoes spotted my hands. I knew that two red depressions from the spectacles bracketed my nose. And no doubt ink smudged my face so I resembled an overdevout churchwoman on Ash Wednesday.

“I am busy,” said I, “and I do not intend wasting precious time preening for the advent of some... scandalous physician.”

“I said nothing of preening.”