The Art of Seduction (28 page)

“What do you mean?”

“In the dream, I'm always surrounded by nameless horror, things reaching out of the dark and trying to pull me into the pit. But up ahead is a blue light that I know can save me. So I'm trying to get to it. But I can't. Never. When I wake up, I don't want to think about it anymore. But I'd be pretty stupid if I didn't realize that blue light is Molly's blue dress, and it's disappearing the same way Molly disappeared into the earth. What I never realized until this moment, though, is that my entire life has been a search for that blue dress.”

“You mean your love of art?”

“Yes. The first great painting I ever saw was a Delacroix in Denver. It shook me to the core. When I saw that painting—that magnificent work of art with its rich colors and the cobalt blue dress of the woman—it was as if Molly had suddenly come back to life for me. It was just like her in the coffin, this vision of beauty. I can't tell you what a revelation it was to see that painting. It changed me in an instant. Changed everything in my life. From that moment, the only thing I cared about was art.”

“And when you saw my paintings?”

“When I saw your paintings, it was an even greater revelation. Not only were they innovative and masterfully done and seemed to point art in a whole new direction, they reflected
my
own vision of the world. The contrast of unspeakable terror and angelic purity. It was as if you'd looked into my mind and painted what was there. All of them, but especially the self-portrait with that enigmatic figure of transcendent grace and sexual confidence in a Prussian blue dress.”

Mason could see that now. “But once you found them, and after you discovered I was alive, why did you want to turn me into a lie?”

He thought for a moment. “You know when Clint Murphy said to me, ‘Don't waste your tears on a saloon whore?' Well, as I grew older and learned what that meant, I blocked it out. I couldn't accept the fact that Molly probably had to sell herself to keep us alive. So I substituted the real Molly with that image of her, the image of purity. In a way, that wasn't fair to her. Or to the noble sacrifice she was willing to make for me. I don't think I've ever understood that until just now. I made her into a paper saint.”

“And that's what you were trying to do with me?”

“I suppose I was. I didn't realize it, of course. The way I twisted your story, the letters I wrote for her…It seems crazy when I think about it now. But at the time it seemed necessary, vital to the mission we'd started. But the woman in the legend I was trying to create wasn't really you, was it? It never was. It was Molly…the whole time. I can see that now. I suppose some part of me was just trying to bring her back to life. Because deep down…I
knew
…not only was I responsible for her death…but I watched it happen…and I didn't do anything to stop it.”

“But you were just a little boy!” Mason clutched him to her. “You
weren't
responsible. And there was
nothing
you could have done to stop it.”

In the long silence that followed, Mason felt an overwhelming tenderness for this man who'd shared the deepest secret of his soul. There was no doubt in her mind that he'd told her everything, had held nothing back. “I'm so proud of you,” she told him.

He returned the embrace, holding her, allowing the healing energy of her love to seep into him. She could feel his gratitude, feel his body release its tension in her arms, as if a terrible weight had been lifted.

“How do you feel?” she asked after a while.

He pondered the question, then said, sounding faintly surprised, “Relieved.”

“Are you ready to get out of here?”

“I'm ready.”

She took a small candle from her bag and lit it. The light seemed almost intrusive after the intimacy of their cocoon. When her eyes had adjusted to it, she saw that he was looking at her wondrously. “You must love me a great deal to go to such pains.”

She touched his face. “Oh, Richard. I love you more than I ever thought it was possible to love anything or anyone. You gave me a great gift. Your love has healed me. I wanted to return the favor, if I could.”

He kissed her sweetly, gratefully. She felt so happy, so relieved. Everything would be all right, after all.

They retraced their steps through the labyrinth and climbed the ladder. Richard tipped the manhole cover and saw that the alley was deserted. They climbed out into the fresh night air. But as he was replacing the lid behind them, he suddenly stopped short. “I just thought of something. These catacombs honeycomb all of Paris, don't they?”

“That's what they say.”

“Then there must be some under the Champ de Mars, wouldn't you think?”

“I suppose so. Why?” She didn't like where this was going.

“That's it. That's how we'll get the paintings. We shall tunnel under them!”

She could feel his excitement, but her own spirits plummeted. He
still
wanted the paintings.

“But we don't need them anymore,” she protested.

“We can't just forget about them.”

“Why not? Let the French have them.”

“Just walk away from them?”

“That's right. Just walk away.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I don't think I can do that.”

“If you had them, what would you do with them?”

“I'm not sure. Take them to some safe place. Care for them. After all the work you put into them, I'm hardly going to let them fall into the hands of people who want to kill you.”

She could taste her frustration. “Can't we just let them go?”

“Absolutely not. Mason, those paintings are a part of you. Turning my back on them would be like turning my back on you.”

He still wasn't free. Even though he understood the forces that drove him, understanding wasn't enough. There was nothing she could say to change his mind. He would find a hundred different ways to rationalize his need. He was like a drunkard who knew now why he drank but still couldn't give up the crutch around which his whole life had revolved.

I
nspector Honoré Duval spent the morning pacing a worried path in front of the cordoned-off pavilion where the Caldwell Collection would be opened to an eager public the following morning. Art critics, dealers, brokers, and connoisseurs from all over the globe had made the journey to Paris for the event, which had been heightened by the sensational news of the artist's murder and the ongoing trial of her murderess.

Two steps behind him, Duval's assistant Daniel followed closely—a cocky young man who smugly prided himself on being on top of everything. Duval couldn't stand him, but the boy was a nephew of the Minister of Justice and had been thrust upon him. He strained not to let his annoyance show but secretly delighted in catching the pup with any detail left undone.

Without stopping, he turned toward the young man. “What's the latest on Thompson?”

Duval well knew that the American tycoon was a bosom friend of Garrett and had gathered a force of lowlife thugs, no doubt with hopes of helping him recapture the paintings and smuggle them out of the country.

“He's in Calais with his men,” Daniel said, just barely stopping before plowing into the inspector. “He still has his ship in readiness, but he has made no move to bring his people to Paris. Cold feet, no doubt.”

Duval assumed the American would try to join forces with the fugitives' Belleville allies, but so far, he'd made no moves in that direction. If he had such a strategy, surely he'd act before tomorrow, when the opening would firmly establish the collection as a French possession.

If he did try something before then, it would be futile, because Duval had convinced the Minister of Defense to bring in an entire regiment of crack troops that was positioned in platoons all over this end of the Champ de Mars and was more than capable of squelching any uprising of petty criminals.

As he resumed walking, his eyes watched the curious faces staring at the pavilion from the other side of the cordon. Just behind them, a crew was doing some kind of construction work. The hammering had been going on all morning, resounding in his head. He stopped again and peered at Daniel. “And how are things progressing at the prison?”

“Everything is set. The execution of the young murderess will take place tomorrow morning at ten sharp. As you requested, there will be no prior announcement and the press will not be told about her conviction until after the execution has been carried out.”

“Good.”

Duval had convinced the Minister of Justice and the President of the Republic to extend the secrecy under which they'd cloaked the trial by not announcing her conviction last week. He'd prevailed upon them to carry out her sentence in privacy and at once, to avoid a bloody and potentially embarrassing rescue attempt by elements of the Belleville underworld. He also reasoned that once the young woman was dead, her gang chieftain admirer would be so crushed that he would have no stomach to aid the fugitives in any foolhardy attempt to rescue the paintings.

Duval turned to walk another lap that would take him away from the irksome hammering of the workmen. He strode another twenty feet in deep thought, then stopped and shot a glance at his companion. “And what about the artist's sister? Has there been any breakthrough in the search?”

“None, sir. We have had information that they may have left their Belleville hideout, and we are intensifying our efforts in the city's center. Every policeman has their description and knows that capturing or killing them constitutes the highest priority.”

Duval wasn't enjoying this. He felt no animosity toward the young American woman and even less toward the beautiful trapeze artist who was about to lose her head. They were all victims—he included—of a situation that seemed to have been ordained by fate and now had a will of its own. The ironic truth was these people had to die so he could save his reputation.

And yet, with the fugitives still running around loose, determined to foul up his plans, and allied with two criminal armies, the potential for a career embarrassment—no, disaster—hadn't vanished. So he had to be diligent.

Well, if they were stupid enough to make a move on the paintings, he'd be ready for them.

He turned again and headed back the way he'd come. As he walked, the hammering of the road crew, the repetitious rat-tat-tat, over and over again, suddenly made him flare with anger. “What are those people doing?” he snapped out.

His assistant reddened. “Apparently, sir, they are doing some work on the waterline to the Tower.”

“When will they be done? We cannot have the dignitaries tomorrow subjected to that racket. Tell them they're to finish up and be out of here by eight
A.M
. I don't care if they have to work all night to do it!”

 

Richard pushed his shovel into the loose pile of dirt and limestone and deposited the rubble into a wicker basket. Behind him, another man picked up the basket and passed it to another behind him, sending it down a long bucket brigade that led to the wider shaft of the catacombs. Richard was grimy, sweaty, tired, and hot from the kerosene lamp he had to keep perpetually by the side of his face. Without the lamps, it was pitch-black and painfully claustrophobic. It was miserable work, but he couldn't afford to let up, and he preferred doing the digging himself.

They'd entered the catacombs through an opening in an old building that faced the south end of the Champ de Mars. The tunnel had stretched almost three quarters of the way down the long fairgrounds before it took a sharp diversion toward the Seine. By his calculation, that put them within a hundred feet of the pavilion. They'd been digging their way through that hundred feet and it was tough going. The procedure was to use a sledgehammer to break up the hard rock, then shovel it into containers to be removed. A slow procedure, but they were making progress. Soon, he estimated, they would hit surface clay and it would become much easier.

As he toiled, Richard thought again about Mason. She'd been surprisingly reticent the past few days, even a bit withdrawn. They'd seemed so close after his confession. In fact, he'd never felt more connected with anyone in his life. It had tortured him to strip away the layers of his past, but when he'd finished, some of its treacherous hold had drained out of him. He'd ended up feeling grateful for her patience, her understanding, and yes, even for having forced him to see the real Hank.

But then he'd told her his idea about the tunnels and her face had fallen. Since then, she'd been distracted, remote. He was determined to finish this job on time, and had thrown himself into the task with ferocious vigor. And yet…that look on her face. He couldn't get it out of his mind.

Another man crawled to his side. It was Pierre, a good-natured Corsican and Dargelos's chief lieutenant; he knew the catacombs and had led them to this branch of them. “Time for me to relieve you,” he said.

“Just a minute. I want to get this one big rock that's loose.”

“Have you hit any clay yet?”

“No, but I expect to soon.”

“We must be close,” Pierre said.

“I just hope we've calculated correctly. It's so easy to get disoriented down here. It wouldn't do to tunnel into the river.”

Pierre crossed himself.

“I'm concerned about the time,” Richard continued. “We only have until eight tomorrow morning, because they've ordered the work crew to stop by then. After that, if we keep tunneling, they're likely to hear us.”

“Then I think you had better let me take my turn. You must be tired. I will dig as quickly as I can.”

 

The sumptuous carriage pulled off the Boulevard des Capucines and into the driveway of the Grand Hotel. As it drew to a halt, the driver announced to the smartly uniformed valet, “The Count of Deauville.”

The attendant quickly opened the door and the count stepped out. He was a short, slight figure with a sneer on his full lips that twisted the close-clipped mustache. He looked about haughtily, then walked up the steps, entered the hotel, and crossed the lobby, stopping short when he spotted her grace, the Duchess of Wimsley, sitting with an older gentleman in a corner area. Pausing a moment to run his fingers along his mustache, the count approached the aristocratic couple. When he reached them, he made a curt bow, and when the lady extended her hand, he brought it to his lips, just barely grazing it.

“Please join us,” the lady offered graciously.

When the count took the offered chair, the lady leaned forward and said in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “The disguise is marvelous. You fooled me right up to the moment you bowed.”

It was Emma's idea for them to hide in plain sight for this meeting, just in case the Galliera was being watched. She'd sent the carriage and the necessary accoutrements. Percival, with his customary unflappability, had picked Mason up just outside of Belleville, and she'd donned her disguise on the drive into the city.

“This is my husband, Smedley,” Emma told her. “And this, darling, is the”—she hesitated—“
person
I spoke of.”

Smedley Fortescue-Wynthrop-Smythe, Duke of Wimsley, leaned forward to shake hands with Mason. “I'm delighted to know you, although discretion dictates that I not address you by name.”

Mason grinned. “You may call me ‘count' for the time being. Did you have any luck?”

“We managed to procure exactly what Richard wanted. Actually, Smedley arranged it. Tell the count about the plans, Smedley dear.”

“I've arranged through a personal acquaintance, the Earl of Hambersham—charming fellow, by the way, with an excellent wine cellar, although he tends to be a bit of a snob when it comes to his preferred vintages—to have the fastest cutter in the British Isles at your disposal. It's currently docked at Cherbourg, which offers the safest escape route from the country.”

Emma patted his arm proudly. “Smed's being much too modest. He had to pay a bloody fortune to the earl to convince him to go along.”

Smedley blushed. “What's the use of having a fortune if one can't use it to help one's friends?”

Mason leaned closer to him. “What you're doing is enormously risky. I want you to know how much we all appreciate your efforts.”

“Not at all, my good young—fellow. It's nothing compared to the kind of capers—Is that what you called them, dear?—my Emma used to perpetrate. Why, did you know she was a daring counterfeiter living by her wits in the Wild West? All these years I hadn't the foggiest. She finally told me. I knew she was a glamorous figure, but I had no idea how truly glamorous she really is. I must say, it's rather a delicious development, being married to an adventuress. I feel enormously privileged that she finally cares enough about me to bring me into her full confidence.”

“Just so you know,” Emma said, taking her husband's hand, “we destroyed my forgeries of your paintings. We did it together.”

“And a jolly good bonfire they made, too.”

Emma smiled at him and said, “Smed, do be a dear and go get us something cool. We ladies need to have a little chat.”

When he left, Mason observed, “So you threw caution to the wind and told him.”

“Thanks to you I did. Ever since I've been married, I was afraid my secret would come out. I lived in constant fear of that. But when I told him, I think he fell in love with me all over again. Perhaps for the first time. With the real me. Oh, Mason, I've been such a fool! This man is the best thing that ever happened in my life and I didn't know it.”

“Are you over Richard now?” Mason asked.

“Completely. I've never been as happy as in the last two days. I've been released from a passion that really had no meaning anymore. By forcing me to face the truth, you've given me a second chance at happiness—perhaps the first I've ever had. I intend to seize that chance. Mason, dear, I don't know how I can ever thank you.”

“You already have. Your help is going to prove invaluable to us. Richard appreciates it as much as I do.”

Emma laughed. “I rather doubt that.”

“It's true. I told him I followed him the night he went to see you. He knows about our conversation. He was a little reluctant to trust you, I admit. But, Emma, he's really trying to change. He wants to change. He knows he
needs
to change. What you thought was impossible has happened. He's broken with Hank. I took your advice and forced the issue.”

Emma's eyes widened. “Darling, do tell!”

She related the scene at the observatory.

“That snake Hank! I knew he had to be up to no good. But a complete betrayal? Dimitri Orlaf of all people! Heavens! How did Richard take it?”

“Just as you said he would. It turned out to be the key to unlocking his past. He shared it all with me, Emma. Everything.”

Emma's eyes sparkled. “A few short days ago, I would have died to know what that ‘everything' is. But that's for the two of you alone. I'm so happy for you. Now we both have what we want.”

“Not completely. Richard has opened himself up to the thing that haunts him, but that hasn't freed him from its power. He's still having the nightmares. And as you can see, his obsession with the paintings—and the legend they represent—is still the thing that drives him. I don't care a thing about those paintings, and I'll never be happy until they're out of our lives.”