French Leave (6 page)

Not that she had wished him dead, precisely. If only the blasted man had not kissed her! If only that pot had not been at hand.

A stranger appeared in the doorway, interrupting Maurice’s learned discourse. Mab paid little heed as Maurice went to speak to the newcomer. She was still teasing herself with thoughts of the Duc. Then a phrase caught her attention. The phrase was “foul play.” She stole a glance at the newcomer. He wore the uniform of the Metropolitan Police.

Frantically, Mab looked around the room, saw no easy means of escape. Maurice and the stranger stood in the doorway, and the windows were set too high in the hall to allow easy access. Perhaps she could hide behind the dressing-screen. But to move now was to draw attention to herself. The students, too, cast covert glances at the newcomer and murmured among themselves. Easy enough for them to speculate, Mab thought bitterly. It was her head that was like to be parted from her neck.

Maurice led the stranger across the studio, directly to Mab
.
“Ma’mselle Foliot, allow me to present Inspecteur 0llivant,” Maurice said formally. “He wishes to ask you some questions about the Duc de Gascoigne.”

Act natural, Mab told herself, as she untangled herself from the ropes and stretched. “I don’t know why anyone should ask me about M’sieur le Duc.”

Inspecteur Ollivant was a man of medium height and years, whose most remarkable feature was that he was so nondescript. “I am afraid the case is serious, mademoiselle. M’sieur le Duc seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Mab echoed.

“Disappeared,” Inspecteur Ollivant said gravely. Ma’mselle’s emotions were difficult to ascertain. She appeared primarily annoyed. “The matter was reported by his friends. He failed to keep an important appointment. This is most unlike him. His friends are concerned.”

Now Ma’mselle looked rebellious. “Why ask me?”

Inspecteur Ollivant was apologetic. “M’sieur le Duc is known to have come here. It is said that he had a certain interest. It has been suggested that perhaps there was a
tête-à-tête.”

Ma’mselle looked daggers at the source of Inspecteur Ollivant’s information. “Contrary to what you may have been told, I am a respectable female.”

Inspecteur Ollivant politely withheld comment on Mab’s scant draperies. “I do not suggest otherwise. These questions are in the line of duty. We seek to retrace the Duc’s footsteps so that we may discover his present whereabouts.”

Mab hoped fervently that Inspecteur Ollivant discovered nothing of the sort. “I don’t know what I may tell you,” she said stubbornly.

The students were growing restless. Maurice sent them away. When the last hurrying footsteps and bursts of conversation had faded, he turned back to Mab. “It was Edouard’s intention to wait outside the studio so that he might speak privately with you. Are we to understand that he changed his mind?”

Mab understood that her papa’s old friend was a traitor. With nervous fingers she pleated her antique draperies.
“
He waited.”

“We progress!” said Inspecteur Ollivant. “And so?”

“And so what?” Mab retorted crossly. “The Duc wished to see me home. He refused to take no for an answer, and I said that he might walk with me for a way. He made certain overtures. I sent him on his way.”

Inspecteur Ollivant oozed sympathy. “It is a common enough story. The man of wealth bestows highly flattering attentions on the innocent
jeune fille
in hope of leading her astray.”

Mab was not so innocent—had she not kissed that faithless hussar some ten years back? “It is the way of the world.”

Inspecteur Ollivant nodded gravely. “That is true,
hélas!
M’sieur le Duc was a wealthy man.”

Mab could not care for this use of the past tense. “Was?”

Inspecteur Ollivant sighed. “M’sieur le Duc’s friends fear he has met with some mishap. Perhaps you may help set their fears to rest. Did he perhaps indicate to you any of his plans?”

The Duc had indicated his plans all too clearly. Mab flinched away from the memory of his kiss.

What could she tell this curious policeman? “He mentioned a gambling establishment in the Palais Royale. Which one, I am not certain. Nor am I certain he meant to proceed there immediately. Me, I think this is a tempest in a teapot. M’sieur Le Duc appears to be a man capable of looking after himself. It seems more likely that he encountered congenial company than fell victim to some iniquitous act. I can tell you no more than that.” And she sincerely hoped it would send the Paris police off on a wild goose chase.

“It is a possibility. But his friends are uneasy, and they know M’sieur Le Duc very well.” Inspector Ollivant shook his head.  “The times they are most difficult.”

Mab was perfectly aware of the difficulties of the times.  The
émigrés
thirsted to put back the clock and restore the Ancien Regime.  The Ultra-royalists went further and wanted revenge. Added to this volatile mix were opponents of the Restoration. Mab was not the only resident of the city to hold aristocrats in very low esteem.

Inspecteur Ollivant was watching her.  Mab rubbed her bare arms.  “I don’t know what more I may tell you.  One hopes that M’sieur le Duc has come to no real harm.”

Ma’mselle Foliot could tell him a great deal, perhaps.  She clearly knew more about the Duc de Gascoigne than she was willing to confess. Inspecteur Ollivant made a stiff little bow. “We shall see what we shall see. You have been most helpful, ma’mselle.” He nodded to Maurice. “M’sieur.”

Maurice followed the policeman to the door of the studio. Mab ducked behind the dressing-screen. When she emerged, clad in her serviceable dark dress, Maurice was embellishing a student’s drawing with a grease crayon. Curious, Mab peered around Maurice’s arm to see what he was doing. Atop a sketch of a female clad in antique draperies was the face of Inspecteur Ollivant.

Maurice threw aside the crayon. “I do not like this,
ma petite.
I do not like it at all.”

Mab doubted that the student would be little happier about the destruction of his work. “I wonder what can have happened to the Duc.”

“As do I.” Maurice wiped perspiration from his brow. “For a moment, I even thought that you— But of course that is absurd!”

Absurd, was it? “You thought what?”

“That perhaps you and Edouard—” Maurice looked embarrassed. “It was only a passing notion, you understand
.
I suspected that he wished— But you said you did not— That is true,
non
?”

“Perfectly true.” Mab retrieved her shawl.

Maurice sighed. “It was a perfect solution. Edouard was—is!—not without charm. Nor without sufficient means to make you very comfortable. I thought you might find him
sympathique!”

Maurice believed her. Mab was relieved. “I will forgive you,” she said sternly. “If you will promise to remember that I find no man
sympathique.”

“I will make it up to you. Come, you have not had a lesson in some time.” Maurice picked up a drawing board and began to sketch. “Take this home and copy it and return it to me.”

Mab murmured thanks. Maurice meant well. He meant well even when he encouraged her to welcome the attentions of the Duc.

How quickly the Duc’s disappearance had been noticed. Perhaps, unlike Mab, Barbary could think what they must do. Mab was amazed to find her cousin so changed.

Or perhaps she hadn’t changed so much as that. A vision of the Duc’s pale face appeared before Mab’s eyes. Mab’s cousin had a weakness for a handsome gentlemen. The Duc had a weakness for females with golden hair and sapphire eyes. Barbary had said she wouldn’t mind being the Duc’s
petite amie.

Vividly, Mab pictured the scene. The Duc would waken to find Barbary bent over his cot, tenderly sponging his noble brow. He would be wildly taken with his ministering angel, like a new-hatched duckling was smitten by with the first being upon whom he set sight. The Duc would not be the first of Mab’s admirers to kiss Barbary.

“
Mais
non, ma petite!”
scolded Maurice upon viewing Mab’s altered expression, and she quickly tried for a more amiable face. It would not do, in the midst of all these other troubles, to gain a reputation for being difficult.

A few more strokes, and Maurice handed her the drawing. Mab murmured her thanks and fled.

Chapter Seven

Barbary had no thought of kisses. She had no thought, even, of the injured Duc. In point of fact, Barbary had left the studio and the Duc behind.

Mab had issued strict orders that Barbary and Tibble must remain within doors, so that the concierge would not be aware of their presence, and consequently charge a higher rent. Barbary could understand her cousin’s concern, though she chafed at it. She had compromised by abandoning her own modish costume for one of Mab’s more serviceable gowns.

At least she had thought she was stylish. The French seemed to have a different concept of fashion altogether, judging by the women in high-waisted, wide-sleeved gowns that belled out extravagantly and enormous bonnets with brims that projected far out from their faces, the whole embellished with ribbons or feathers or flowers, or perhaps a combination of all three. Barbary felt excessively dowdy in Mab’s dark dress.

She had meant to go only a little way, to purchase some sausage and cheese, for Mab’s cupboards were appallingly bare, but no sooner did Barbary step  out of doors than she was immediately caught up in the marvels of Paris, which included an astonishing number of bronze Napoleonic eagles and an unusual  system of street numbering. Now she stood outside the Jardin des Plantes.

Temptation struck. Having failed to arrive at her intended destination, Barbary was still in possession of the coins with which she had intended to buy food. She was additionally possessed of a great desire to visit the botanical gardens and zoo. It would be a diversion. Heaven knew Barbary was in need of a diversion. Conscience in this manner silenced, Barbary entered the Jardin des Plantes.

It was indeed diverting. Barbary especially liked the zoo, where the animals were allowed to wander free in various yards. She saw a panther, a wolf of the Ardennes, hyenas and a porcupine and bears, one of which had hugged a too-bold visitor to death. Two camels turned the wheel of a pump that brought water to the gardens.  An elephant amused itself by scattering dirt with its trunk. Barbary especially enjoyed the lions, one of which had a tame and incessantly barking dog as its pet.

The dog’s barking soon wore on Barbary’s nerves, and she left the menagerie behind. The Jardin des Plantes also contained several buildings. Barbary looked about for a place where she might sit and rest her tired feet. She wandered into the largest of the public areas. This room was not crowded, due perhaps to the grisly nature of its prime exhibit, the skeleton of the fanatic who had murdered General Kleber in Cairo fourteen years before, and as a consequence had been impaled and subjected to various forms of torture. Barbary sank down on a bench.

Amazing how one’s life could change so quickly. Once Barbary had been cried up as a great beauty; now she was dressed practically in rags. Once she had been able to command life’s elegancies; now she had fled to France to escape debtor’s prison and stood a good chance of being clapped in the Bastille. Once she had been surrounded by admirers. Now she had forsworn romance.

“‘And now thou art a nameless thing,’” she said mournfully. “‘So abject—yet alive!’”

“Excuse me.” A masculine voice broke into Barbary’s thoughts. For a horrid moment Barbary feared that her morbid expression had betrayed her and she was about to be questioned concerning a certain pocket watch, or a missing Duc, or the unhappy creditors she had left behind in England.

“I do not mean to intrude,” the voice insisted, “but—what the devil, Barbary!”

No representative of the law would address his quarry in such a disturbingly familiar manner. Barbary turned on the bench and looked up into her estranged husband’s face.

Conor Dennison was not a handsome man but one who invariably commanded attention nonetheless. He was tall and athletic, his arrogant face sun-bronzed. Not just the ladies favored Conor, a fact of which Barbary would have had renewed proof if she had been properly conversant with her surroundings:  the curator of this very chamber had invited him to shake the skeleton’s charred hand, an honor which Conor had politely declined.

Words failed her. Barbary could not recall a single one of the countless epithets she had so lovingly gathered together in anticipation of this day. Unbearable that she should be wearing this drab gown when confronted by the spouse who had wronged her. Or whom she had wronged, all of which was very much a question of which had come first, the chicken or the egg.

Conor looked impatient. It was an expression with which Barbary had more than passing acquaintance in the past. She tried hard to collect her scattered thoughts. She did not feel at all herself.

Very well then, Barbary wouldn’t be herself. “
Pardon?”
she said, with an excellent imitation of Mab’s scowl.

Conor looked startled, as well he might; his wife had been far too careful of her beauty to grimace so. “Have I made a mistake? If so, I apologize. But you have a damnable look of someone I once knew.”

Damnable, was it? Thus Conor convinced his wife that she should not admit her true identity. “You err,” she said. “M’sieur.”

“Apparently.” Still, Conor looked puzzled. “You are English.”

So she was. So Mab was. “M’sieur, what is the name of this wife?”

“Her name was Barbary.” Disbelieving, Conor shook his head. “What a boor you must think me. I can’t get over the resemblance. You are as alike to her as two peas in the same pod, even to the timber of your voice.”

Actually, Mab’s voice was less husky in pitch, but Conor wasn’t to know that. “It is a mystery easily explained,” said Barbary. “You must be speaking of my cousin. I have not seen her for some years, since my papa and I returned to France. He was an
émigré.
My mama was English. She and Barbary’s mama were twins.”

“Which explains the resemblance. May I?” Conor sat down beside her on the bench. “What a small world we live in—if you will forgive me so unoriginal an observation.”