The Counterfeit Heiress (11 page)

On each of the room’s wall panels Cécile had caused to be hung an Impressionist painting. She counted the artists Renoir, Monet, and Sisley among her dearest friends, and supported them by buying as many of their paintings as they would allow her. Even in their lean days, they did not like to accept charity from her, so she insisted on paying exorbitant prices for their work. She refused to own things that were cheap, she had explained to them, and never doubted that her excellent taste should act as a catalyst for others. As a result, she viewed driving up the prices of Impressionist works to be nothing short of a moral imperative and would not allow the artists to take from her less than what she considered to be a fair price.

“You did not have this one when I was here last.” I was standing in front of a Monet. “The way he has captured the sunlight is painfully beautiful.”

“It is of Giverny. Do you recognize it, Kallista? It is the path that wanders around the lily pond near the willows.”

“I do, very well.” I had been to Monet’s house there only once, four years ago, when I had taken a friend—and, it must be admitted, a thief—there so that the artist might confront him about a stolen painting. This was far from an unpleasant task, as the thief in question possessed more charm and wit than most gentlemen, and his criminal activities were often limited to ones he viewed as correcting injustices. On that occasion, he claimed to have stolen the painting in question so that he might bestow it upon a more appreciative person. His motives, though suspect, had the shreds of a sense of moral order.

Jeremy had abandoned his usual habit of sinking into the most comfortable chair as soon as he entered a room and was pacing. “Have you come because you do not trust me to handle Cécile’s needs? I must say I am quite put out, Hargreaves.”

“Believe me, old chap, there is nothing I would prefer than to leave Estella Lamar to you,” Colin said. “It appears, however, that there may be some sort of connection between her and Mary Darby.”

“So when I identify the murderer before you, will I become indispensible to the queen?” Jeremy asked.

“You might,” Colin said, “so consider carefully your actions. If your desire is to be sent all over the Continent and the empire in pursuit of serious work, by all means beat me at my own game. I could use a bit of a holiday. It’s been far too long since Emily and I have been to Greece.”

“Why do I feel as if I am being played for a fool?” Jeremy asked.

“I know you have not been here much longer than us, but have you called at Estella’s house?” I asked.

“Non,”
Cécile said. “Your telegram was delivered before we had finished overseeing the unpacking of our trunks, so I decided it would be best to wait for you. I did not think so slight a delay would make much of a difference.”

“A sound decision,” Colin said.

“It is my dearest wish to please you, Monsieur Hargreaves. Your smile is all the reward a lady could ever want.”

“You flatter me,” Colin said.

“Always.” Cécile reclined elegantly on a chaise longue. “I have put together for you on that desk all the letters I have received from Estella since she started to travel. I hope they will prove useful. In addition, I have a book full with numerous clippings of photographs of her that have appeared in the papers. Most are from the early days of her adventures, when I thought she might enjoy seeing them upon her return. As the years have passed, I have stopped collecting them. You can see by the quantity I have that I would have required a library of albums had I continued, as the pictures appeared frequently as ever over the years.”

I crossed to the desk and picked up the leather-bound volume. On the first page was an article that featured a daguerreotype of Estella, when she was approximately twenty years old, taken in a studio. The story mentioned only that Mademoiselle Lamar, after a lengthy period of mourning for her parents, had decided to visit Egypt. The tone of the piece suggested it had been written for the society pages, as if it was a not-too-subtle notice to eligible bachelors that the lady traveler would welcome their attentions abroad.

“Did Estella want to get married?” I asked.

“Non,”
Cécile said. “In all the years I knew her, she never had a gentleman admirer. Estella is no beauty and always moved in an awkward manner one would expect to see in an adolescent. It was almost as if she was not French! I jest, of course, but until she inherited her fortune, she was of no interest to society.”

“And when she did inherit?” Colin asked. “Did a pack of fortune hunters descend?”

“Not so many as you might expect.” Cécile lifted her glass so that Jeremy might refill it. “Estella did not move much in society, and she rarely welcomed callers to her home. She never entertained and refused nearly every invitation she received. Only the most dedicated gentleman could have attempted to woo her.”

“You were close with her, though,” I said.

“
Oui,
she was an oddity and I enjoyed her. I thought she might fit in better among artists and creative people than she did in society, and I did all that I could to introduce her to that world, much as I did with you, Kallista. You took to it in a way Estella never did. She came out with me on occasion, and did enjoy her new friends, but she kept them at a distance, never revealing much of herself to anyone.”

Jeremy picked up the second bottle of champagne from the
rafraîchissoir
. “I think we ought not open it.” Colin rose to his feet. “We have dawdled—most pleasantly, Cécile—long enough. Will you take us to Miss Lamar’s, please?”

Estella

vii

Estella waited until the man’s booted feet reached the ground before lowering her head and charging at him; she had not wanted to risk damaging the ladder. Her weight, alas, proved insufficient to make much of an impact. His arms encircled her and she struggled against them. Then she heard his voice.

“There, now, fighting me won’t help.”

It was him, her almost partner, the gentleman—no, she no longer could consider him that—the
man
who had wanted her to invest in Dr. Maynard’s Formula. “You!” Her voice sputtered.

“Please, Mademoiselle Lamar, I do not want to hurt you.” He kept hold of her with one arm and with the other raised the ladder until it was barely visible. A leather strap hung down from the bottom rung. Estella shoved him as hard as she could, managing to free herself, and jumped at the strap, but it was beyond her reach. “I have brought you some food, wine, and some other supplies.”

“What have you done? Why am I here?”

“I’m afraid I am in dire need of your money,” he said. “My situation has become rather desperate, you see, and I’ve no one left to whom I can turn. I had hoped we could come to an agreement about our business arrangement, but when you turned me out of your house, I knew there was no chance of that.”

“So you kidnapped me?”

“Forgive me, it is awful, I am well aware of that. It is unconscionable. You would not, though, leave me to the pack of wolves who are prepared to kill me if I cannot repay the loans they gave me?”

“If I had my own pack of wolves I would set them on you without hesitation.” Tears smarted in Estella’s eyes. Her captor removed a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her.

“I am more sorry than you can know to have done this, and I promise I will do everything in my power to keep you as comfortable as possible. All I need is you to write a cheque, Mademoiselle Lamar. I will keep you here only so long as necessary. Once the cash is in my hands, and my debt is paid, I will release you unharmed.”

“Do you think me foolish enough to believe that?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You must know I would march directly to the gendarmes and have you arrested, so why on earth would you release me?”

“I will have already left the country before you could set the police after me.”

“So who will rescue me?” This man, Estella thought, was either a simpleton or a fool.

“I have a letter here.” He removed the leather satchel that had been slung over his shoulder, unfastened it and pulled from it a sealed envelope. “It is addressed to your steward and gives precise details on how you can be found. I will mail it before I embark on my journey.”

“So how will you know I have been rescued? What if the letter is misdirected? What if my steward despises me and laughs at the contents of your letter?”

“I—I could send it to someone else if you would prefer.”

“I would prefer that you lower that ladder and let me go.”

“I cannot do that. Do you see the bruises on my face?” He opened his mouth wide. “These missing teeth? They are but a hint of what is in store for me if I do not pay these men. You alone have the power to save me, Mademoiselle Lamar, and you will do it.”

“I will not.”

“Then I will leave you here. Starvation, I am told, is not a pleasant way to die.”

Estella flung herself at him again, hitting him and pulling his hair, scratching his face and kicking his shins. He stood his ground, but did not fight back. When she stopped, exhausted and sobbing, she sank to the floor.

“I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, Mademoiselle Lamar. I know what I am doing is diabolical, but the instinct to survive is strong in me. Sign the cheque, let me leave you well supplied, and know that you will return to your ordinary life in a matter of days.” He went back to the satchel, which he had placed on the slab. “I have bread and cheese, fruit, an exceptionally nice pâté, a bottle of wine, several of water, and more candles.”

“Even if I wanted to write a cheque I could not. Do you think I carry them with me?”

“I removed one from your desk last night. Your house was surprisingly easy to enter under the cover of darkness. When you return home, you must do something about this.”

Estella’s head throbbed. Her body ached and she felt a deep pain in her soul, a pain she feared would never leave her. She looked around the little stone room and felt fear closing in around her again. The door in the ceiling could be closed so easily. She would never be able to overpower her captor. If there existed another way out of this hideous situation, Estella had no inkling as to what it was.

“Give me a pen.” She wrote the cheque, following his precise directions.

“You are better than I deserve.” He waved the cheque until the ink had dried, then folded it and put it in his jacket pocket before handing her a blank sheet of paper. “Now I need one other thing. Write a note to your steward, telling him you are taking a trip or staying with a friend, whatever you prefer, just so long as it serves to make him and the rest of your servants know not to expect you home.”

“A trip?” Estella balked. “I thought you said I would not be here long.”

“I meant an excursion, to Versailles or Fontainebleau, or some such place. You take my meaning. Write.”

She did as she was told. What choice did she have?

He read the letter and put it in an envelope. “I shall return tomorrow with more sustenance. You will want this as well, but might prefer not to open it until I have gone.” He took a wrapped item out of the satchel and put it on the floor in the corner opposite the slab.

Estella did not reply.

He reached for the leather strap. “Do not attempt to climb the ladder behind me, Miss Lamar. I am stronger than you. You cannot best me physically and I have no desire to hurt you. Let me go and I promise I will return and take good care of you.”

What could Estella do but acquiesce? She watched him go, cringing as he returned the trapdoor to its closed position and plunged her into the darkness against which her candle struggled in vain. She lit three more and unwrapped the package he had left behind.

A chamber pot.

Estella could not help herself. She began to laugh.

8

Estella’s house was in the place des Vosges, on the right bank of the Seine, and therefore a fair distance from Cécile’s. Henri IV had dreamed up this square in the Marais, called place Royale until the Revolution, and had insisted on a high standard of architecture for the buildings surrounding it. No timber frames for so lofty a space! Overzealous revolutionaries had destroyed much of the public sculpture in the city—one could hardly blame them for not wanting to face the haughty stare of a monarch at every turn—and melted down many in order that their metal could be used to make cannons. In 1829, an equestrian statue of Louis XIII had been erected in the square to replace its lost bronze predecessor, which had been commissioned by no one less than Cardinal de Richelieu. In his new incarnation, the king was depicted with a seventeenth-century beard and mustache, but clothed as a Roman emperor, his typically French flowing locks crowned with a laurel wreath. Perhaps as a precaution against the need for future armaments, the new sculpture was fashioned from marble.

The Lamar residence, which had been in the family for countless generations—all the way back to the place’s fashionable days—occupied a large portion of the side of the square opposite Louis XIII, and, like its neighbors, was constructed from red brick and stone, its steep slate roof rising high above the neatly manicured park, its entrance housed beneath an arched arcade. A servant admitted us the barest instant after Colin knocked, and we stepped into a grand hall with a staircase that swept to the floor above in a graceful curve. Family portraits hung on the walls, and in the center of the black-and-white tiled floor stood a round table upon which rested a large urn all but overflowing with fresh flowers.

Cécile identified herself to the man who had opened the door, explaining that she was a close friend of Estella’s, and inquired whether the mistress of the house was in residence. We knew his answer before he gave it.

“This gentleman, Monsieur Hargreaves, has come from London on the order of Queen Victoria.” Cécile’s voice dropped a register and she leaned in close to the servant, a severe look on her face. “Her Majesty would be most displeased if we did not assist him in every way possible. We have reason to believe Mademoiselle Lamar is in a great deal of danger.”