The Art of Seduction (13 page)

“Detective?”

“Of course. All of it, the flitting around the world acting like an art connoisseur…wealthy playboy…irresistible ladies' man…It's his cover. It gives him a certain credibility in the art world, which he uses to snare thieves, forgers, frauds—”

“Frauds?” Lisette parroted.

Mason couldn't breathe.

Emma leaned back in her chair as if realizing that, in her anger, she'd gone too far. “Oh, I know he likes to keep everything close to his vest. And I don't want to give anything away about his precious secret past. But this is different. You need to know this so you can know what—and whom—you're really dealing with.”

Mason was staring at her numbly.

Speaking as if to a slow child, Emma enunciated, “Richard works for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Hank has probably hired him to help secure the paintings. I suppose it's brilliant, if you think about it. Who better than a gorgeous man of the world to sweep the sister from America off her feet and into Hank's hands?”

She proceeded to bring the conversation back to her offer, which she outlined again in greater detail, naming a staggering financial figure, stressing that no one would be able to top it. As she spoke, Lisette crept over to Mason and silently took her hand.

But Mason didn't hear a word that was said. All she heard was that Richard Garrett was a professional detective whose specialty was tracking down art frauds.

A
s his cab slowly proceeded down the Boulevard des Capucines, Garrett searched for her in the pedestrian traffic along the sidewalks.

Perhaps an hour earlier, the man he'd had positioned across the street from the Jockey Club had tracked him down with the news that the woman had returned to the hotel. Garrett had raced there, charged up the stairs, and banged on her door. When there was no answer, he collared a bellman and forced him to let him in. She wasn't there. He hurried back downstairs, where he learned from the doorman that she'd left the hotel just ten or fifteen minutes before. She hadn't taken a cab. The doorman had seen her march down Rue Scribe and round the corner to the boulevard.

What the hell had happened?

Obviously, she'd tricked him and returned to the hotel to meet with Emma. Whether she'd done this out of jealousy or suspicion or greed, he didn't know. He also didn't know, because his man had stupidly left his post instead of sending a message, if the meeting with Emma had actually taken place. But he had to assume it had. Why else would she go to such lengths to elude him?

Just how dangerous was this to him? Probably not catastrophic. Certainly, Emma would try to put him in a bad light and might reveal some things, but she'd never give him away. She had too much in her own past to hide to flagrantly challenge him in the matter. There was an unspoken agreement between them:
You protect my past and I'll protect yours
.

As his gaze roamed the faces of the strollers along the boulevard, the diners in the sidewalk cafés, the figures standing before shop windows or buying crêpes from street vendors, he thought once again of the telltale clues that had been stacking up.

Her unconscious response to a waiter's question in effortless French the night of the Cuthbert dinner.

The curiously close friendship and camaraderie with Mason's model and best friend, Lisette, on such short acquaintance.

The pigment he'd spotted on her hands beneath the mud in Auvers. The elaborate effort to hide it from him.

The faint tackiness to the touch of the “recovered” catacomb painting he'd held to the light.

The lack of a birth record for an Amy Caldwell in Boston, Massachusetts—indeed, no record of the Caldwell family at all.

None of this was conclusive, of course, and might be easily explained. Still, his instincts were on fire. Amy
was
Mason Caldwell. As incredible as it might seem, the certainty of it gripped him, surged through his body, electrified his senses in a way that was almost carnal.

But how to prove it? His mind had devised and discarded a hundred maneuvers. Then, that very morning, as he'd taken the self-portrait to show the architect, it had dawned on him. The birthmark. The heart-shaped mark on her flank in the portrait. Was it an affectation of the artist? Or was it real? Surely, it
was
real. And if so, the so-called sister would also have it…

Suddenly, he saw her. She was sitting by herself at a sidewalk café, a glass of cognac uncharacteristically in front of her, a dazed look in her eyes. He stopped the cab, told the driver to wait, and rushed over to her.

“Amy? Am I daft, or didn't I just drop you off at Gare St-Lazare?”

She jerked at the sound of his voice. When she looked up at him, her eyes were hollow, a bit fearful, like a cornered hare. Stumblingly, she said, “I…felt ill.”

“Ill?”

“It came upon me all at once.” She was avoiding his eyes. “I left the train at the first stop and came straight back.”

She actually did look sick. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken and lifeless. He sat down at the small round table. “You poor thing. You should be in bed.”

She still didn't look at him. “I needed some air.” Then, sharply, “What are
you
doing here?”

“It's the most remarkable coincidence. I just happened to be passing by and looked over and there you were.”

Her eyes flicked to him; then she reached for the snifter and took a sip of the cognac, as if trying to steady herself. Her hand as it held the glass trembled slightly.

“I was afraid of this,” he told her. “This has all been too much for you. With all you've been through, it's a wonder this hasn't happened sooner. But not to worry. I shall get you to a doctor straightaway.”

“No,” she answered quickly. Then in a more controlled tone, “I don't need a doctor. I just need some rest.”

“Let's get you back to your rooms, then, shall we? We really must see that you take better care of yourself.”

“Please don't concern yourself. I'll be fine.”

He leaned toward her and put his hand to the side of her face, running his thumb along her cheek. “I know what you really need,” he said softly. “But I suppose that shall have to wait until you're better. Come along, then. I'll see you safely back to your hotel.”

He put a coin on the table to pay for her drink and helped her toward the waiting cab.

As he did, he watched her covertly. Her ashen pallor, the way she turned her shoulder to form a barrier between them. There was no question about it. Something had changed. She was slipping away from him.

He had no intention of allowing that to happen.

 

Once again, Mason stepped over to the glass French doors that looked out over the shallow wrought-iron balcony. She couldn't spot him, but she was sure someone was out there, watching. Someone in Richard's employ. Maybe several people. For the first time, she realized she was a prisoner.

When the duchess had so casually dropped her bomb, Mason had strained not to show its devastating impact. Instead, she'd feigned interest in the woman's offer and ushered her out the door as quickly as possible. Then she'd turned to Lisette in shock.

A detective! A conniving flic!

Lisette seemed as confused as she. “
Qu'est-ce que c'est un
Pinker—”

“I can't talk now,” Mason had cut her off. “I have to think.”

She'd reeled out of the hotel and several blocks down the Boulevard des Capucines, until she'd finally collapsed into a chair at the sidewalk café. Then…

Just passing by…

A remarkable coincidence…

It was insulting. Obviously, he'd had people watching every move she made.

That's
how he knew she'd gone to Auvers!

The sneaky bastard!

Ever since she'd heard those fatal words “Pinkerton Agent,” she'd been running the events of the past several weeks through her mind. Those two words had cast everything he'd said and done in a poisonous new light.

Who had hired him? Duval, most likely. Who better to help the French authorities ferret out the American fraud than a helpful, handsome art expert who spoke her own language?

But to go to this length of romantic involvement…Why? Was it, as Emma had said, to sweep her off her feet, catch her off guard in the hopes that she'd confide in him?

If so, it had almost worked. When she thought of how close she'd come to telling him the truth that day in Montmartre, it made her shudder.

But if that was the case, why had he pulled away? Making her believe his attraction to her was so frightening that he had to protect himself?

To make her chase
him.
It was actually easier that way.

The man was diabolically clever!

But could he actually fake that passion, the obvious attraction he showed for her? Could any man do that?

Again, she heard Emma's voice:
All of it…wealthy playboy…irresistible ladies' man…it's his cover.

Then she thought of the paintings, the understanding and appreciation he'd shown for them, the way they'd so powerfully moved him, his dedication to their posterity. Had he faked all that as well? He must have.

That hurt most of all.

She'd actually fallen in love with him. She'd thought he was the one man who could really glimpse her soul, could heal her wounded heart.

She'd been such an idiot. And because of it, she was in grave danger.

Good God, she could end up spending ten years in Santé Prison! Wouldn't that be bitterly ironic? She'd come to France to exonerate her family name and she would end up disgracing it even more.

She could make a run for it. Try to get out of the country. But how could she possibly accomplish that when she was, as she now knew, being watched day and night?

And if she ran and by some miracle managed to get away, would the running ever stop?

The hopelessness of it all overwhelmed her.

She turned from the window.
I can't panic. I have to think clearly.

She fell into a nearby chair and willed her emotions to cool. There was still so much that didn't add up, that she didn't understand.

Who was this Hank and this Emma really, and how did they fit into the puzzle?

And this secret past of Garrett's to which Emma had so enigmatically alluded, wouldn't there be an advantage to her knowing what that was all about?

What she needed was information. And it suddenly occurred to her where she might find it.

Lisette.

Or more properly, Lisette's spurned but undeterred lover.

Juno Dargelos.

The gangster king of Belleville.

I
n medieval times, the village of Belleville sat on a vinecovered slope several miles east of the city. In the eighteenth century, it became famous for its merry open-air cafés where Parisians would venture on Sundays to drink guinguet, the local specialty wine. After 1840, the village grew rapidly, becoming one of the largest towns in the Île-de-France, and in 1860, it was annexed by metropolitan Paris. But in the 1870s, it became the dumping ground for the city's poor who were displaced by the grand urban renewal of Napoléon III under Baron Haussmann. Since then, it had disintegrated into a casbah of poverty, sedition, and gangsterism—its streets ruled by competing gangs that called themselves “Apaches” after the fiercest Indians of the American West.

When Mason and Lisette crossed the invisible boundary on Rue de Ménilmontant, it was as if they'd entered a foreign country. Their cab driver automatically pulled over, fearful—like all ordinary Parisians—of entering this forbidden domain. As they stepped down, an escort of surly Apaches who'd been waiting for them came forth to offer safe conduct. They were the elite guard of Juno Dargelos, the first man to unite the perpetually warring Apache factions under a single banner.

They formed a phalanx around the two women as they walked several blocks to Rue de Belleville. By some uncanny means, word of their arrival had spread and swarms of people had come out of the shops and teeming apartment buildings to stare at them—or at least at Lisette. They'd all heard the story of Dargelos's great unrequited passion for the dazzling trapeze artist. To them, it was the greatest love story of the age, akin to Tristan and Isolde. As she passed, they cried out her name. “Lisette! Lisette!”

Acknowledging their adulation, Lisette blew a few kisses, eliciting appreciative cheers.

The warmth of the crowd bolstered Mason's spirits. Despite Belleville's fearsome reputation, she felt a huge wave of relief as they walked into its protective depths. The past week had been an ordeal as she waited for this day's meeting. She still was pretending to be sick and had endured Garrett's attentive concern and increasingly amorous overtures.

Here, she was safe. Dargelos's guards would see to it that whatever tail Garrett had put on her would stay well beyond the border of Belleville.

They came to a café where a group of a hundred or so spectators was standing respectfully at the entrance, waiting to see Lisette. Several other Apaches pushed them back to make way for the anticipated arrival. Inside, the air was thick with Gauloise smoke and several men were drinking absinthe at the bar. The sound of accordion music drifted down from an upper floor dancehall.

Dargelos was sitting at a table in the back. Unlike the last time Mason had seen him, he was very much in his own territory here, lord of the realm. Despite the shabby surroundings, he was squeaky clean, freshly shaved, dressed in his best suit, with an iris in his lapel. It was apparent that he'd dressed himself with fastidious care for this rendezvous.

When he saw them, he shot to his feet, came around the table, and approached them with both hands extended. Mason took his hand and he kissed it quickly, but Lisette ignored him completely.

He suddenly looked about him and made a sweeping gesture that instantly cleared the room except for the three of them and one other man—a massive Gascon with broad shoulders, a huge bald head, and the face of an angry cauliflower.

Ignoring Lisette's snub, Dargelos put his arm about her and led them back to the table. A small apron-clad man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth brought over a bottle of wine and three glasses. They sat at the table as the gangster's companion stood behind his chair, his gargantuan arms crossed over his chest.

Dargelos was staring at Lisette with all the love he felt for her pouring from his eyes. “
Mon Dieu!
” he exclaimed. “How is it possible? Every time I see you, you are more breathtaking.”

She didn't even bother to look at him. “We came to talk business, nothing more.”

Swallowing the rebuff, Dargelos said, “Very well. But before we do, I have a condition to make.”

“And what is that?” Mason asked.

“Hugo.” He jerked his thumb back toward the Goliath standing attendance behind him.

“What about him?”

“I have heard stories of how the fame of your sister's paintings has made my sweet Lisette the object of much attention. More than she could ever have as a performer at the circus. I laid awake nights fearing some crazed admirer might do harm to her. Hugo will prevent that from happening. Like all Gascons, he's stupid. But he's loyal to the death, fearless, and stronger than any ten men.”

Lisette looked at Dargelos for the first time, her eyes blazing. “What? A bodyguard?”

“Even a goddess needs her protector.”

She whirled on Hugo, then back to Dargelos. “You can't fool me, Juno. You don't want to protect me. You want to keep me under your thumb and away from other men!”

Putting his hand on his heart, Dargelos cried,
“Ma chou!
You wound me! To think I care about anything but your safety.”

Lisette made a fist at him and spat out in rapid-fire French, “I will wound you, all right! You hear me and hear me well, Juno. I don't care what you do. I don't care how many bodyguards you put on me. I don't care what you say to me. I am never coming back to you. Do you hear me?
Never!”

“All the same, that is my condition. If you want to know what I have learned about this matter, you must agree.”

He looked at Mason. She turned to Lisette, took her still raised fist in her hand, and gently pushed it down onto the table. “We agree.”

Contemptuously, Lisette blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, but she didn't object. Her features settled into a pretty pout.

“Excellent.” Dargelos reached to the floor, picked up a folder filled with papers, and spread them out on the table. “This was not an easy task. I had to promise many favors to obtain this information.”

“We deeply appreciate it,” Mason assured him. “What did you learn?”

“The woman was correct. Richard Garrett is, indeed, an employee of the Pinkerton Detective Agency of Chicago, Illinois. In fact, he is one of their best agents.”

“But that's an American company and he's English. Why—”

“Who can say? American, English, it's all the same to me. But here is what I
do
know. He has been in their employ these past five years. He disguises himself as a dilettante of the international art world, but it is only a ruse. He has had a remarkable string of successes in his field.”

“For instance?” Mason asked.

Dargelos flipped through the papers, scanning them. “Shortly after joining the agency, your Monsieur Garrett smashed a ring in Amsterdam that was forging Rembrandts so masterfully real-looking, they say even the artist himself would not have noticed the difference.”

The word
smashed
gave her an uneasy feeling.

“Then, three years ago, he was hired by the Vatican to track down a gang of thieves who had removed a priceless Renaissance altarpiece from St. Peter's itself, posing as Dominican friars on pilgrimage to the Holy City. Each of them received an unusually stiff punishment: life in prison without possibility of parole.”

Lisette gave Mason's hand a squeeze of support.

“Then, let me see—ah, yes, here it is—last year in Berlin, there was this fellow who was selling fake Egyptian antiquities to the kaiser's museum. They were the greatest copies ever to surface. So remarkable that not even the experts could tell them from the real thing. But this Garrett so ingratiated himself with the forger that the fellow confided in him what he was doing. He was so fond of this Garrett that he actually wrote him into his will!”

Dargelos chuckled appreciatively, but for Mason, this was particularly demoralizing news. Surely this was what Garrett was doing with her. But out of her depression, she had the presence of mind to ask, “You said he's worked for them for five years. What do you know about his life before that?”

“Not a thing. It is a complete blank.”

“Did you try to look back that far?”

“Of course I did. But there are no records of any kind in connection with his name before he joined the agency. It is as if he came from out of nowhere. Whatever his past, he has wiped out any trace of it.”

“Then you think he has something to hide?”

“Do we not all have something to hide?”

She sighed. “What about Hank Thompson? Who is he?”

“Not exactly what he appears to be. He began his career as a gambler in the Wild West of America. From this, he won a copper mine that struck a rich vein shortly after he acquired it. There were apparently rumors that he cheated in the game, but it was never proved. He used the profits from the mine to expand his fortune in railroads. There is some talk that he used less than ethical tactics to further his interests—but then, who has not? More recently, he has lost huge sums in endeavors that have not met with his earlier success. He still shows the world the face of a successful businessman, but my contacts say his back is against the wall.”

Mason filed that away in her mind. “And what about the duchess?”

“She married the old duke some years ago. They divide their time between their homes in London and the family estate. His lineage is one of the oldest and most respected in England. They do all the expected things for landed gentry, attend church on Sundays, sit on the boards of charities that help the poor. Her reputation is, according to my friends in London, above reproach. She, too, comes from a wealthy, respected family, but was raised mostly in India and did not come to Europe until she was fully grown.”

“How did she meet Richard?”

“That I don't know yet. Her husband is an avid art collector and they travel in the same circles as Garrett, but there is absolutely no indication that there has been any kind of relationship between her and Garrett, romantic or otherwise. As far as I can tell, their paths had not even crossed until this trip to Paris.”

“But that's impossible. They both admit to knowing each other.”

“That may well be, but I have no evidence of how or where that might have come about.”

“So we know nothing about either one of them until he surfaced as a detective and she as a duchess.”

“That's correct. Although, now that you mention it, the two things seem to have happened around the same time. I will have my people continue the search, if you wish, and see what we might come up with given more time.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Mason said, standing. “You've been very kind.”

Dargelos rose with a shy smile. He didn't know exactly why they'd requested this information, but in his world, one didn't ask. He looked to Lisette for approval.

But she only said to him, “Leave us for a few minutes. I want to talk to Amy alone.”

The two men did as they were told. Lisette took Mason's hand and sat her back down. “Listen,
chérie.
This has gone on long enough. You have to get out of the country. You heard what kind of man this Garrett is. I want you to stay here tonight. Juno will make the arrangements, and as soon as he can safely do it, he will get you to Switzerland, and then back to America.”

But Mason didn't seem to hear her. “You know, there's one thing I still don't understand. He's gone to so much trouble to build my reputation as a major figure of the art world. Courting reporters, petitioning the Exposition committee, even insisting on a pavilion all my own. Why would he do that?”

“You heard his history. Rembrandt forgeries. The Vatican. The kaiser's museum. How does he possibly top those feats? Don't you see? The more famous you are, the more spectacular his success.”

It was so cold-blooded, so egotistical, so cruel, she hadn't even considered that possibility. Her hatred for him hardened her heart and brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

All at once, everything seemed clear. “I'm not leaving,” she declared.

“
Chérie,
you
must
leave.”

“I'm not going to let him beat me like this. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life running.”

“But you have no choice. There is nothing you can do.”

“There
is
something I can do. This past that he guards so tightly…I can find it. And maybe I can find a way to use it as a weapon against him.”

“That's a dangerous game.”

“Maybe so, but it's the game I intend to play.”

 

As they walked out of Belleville, Mason was feeling much better—determined, focused, and enjoying the protection of Lisette's new shadow, Hugo. But Lisette was fuming and resentful of the huge man's presence. She shook her finger up at him. “You I will put up with because I must. But let me warn you now. If you ever tell that fool Juno anything of what is said or done in your presence, I will go to him and tell him you crept into my bed and forced yourself upon me. He will believe me, because he is convinced no man can resist me. And then he will cut you up in little pieces and feed you to my dogs. Do you understand?”