The Beautiful and the Cursed: Marco's Story (6 page)

“Girls, this is Monsieur Constantine,” their mother said with a wide smile. “Your brother’s estate agent.”

Monsieur Constantine took Ingrid’s hand and bowed over it. “
Enchanté
, my lady.”

She muttered a distracted bonjour and slid behind her mother to enter the rectory. Meanwhile, Gabby captured his attention with her natural charm, wide smile, and perfect French.

Ingrid drifted deeper into the large foyer. A young woman in a plain gray dress and black pinafore curtsied and then wordlessly went to work stripping Ingrid of her cloak and gloves. It was only slightly warmer in the rectory than in the abbey. A Persian rug covered the stone floor, and thick, peacock-blue drapes cordoned off two rooms extending from the foyer.

“Your other portmanteaus arrived two days ago and have been brought to your rooms,” Monsieur Constantine said, this time in English. “Your lady’s maids are being shown about the premises.”

Ingrid peered up the flight of stairs, which were covered in lush, cardinal-red carpet. “And where is our brother?”

Her nerves jumped and itched. The hollow sensation she’d learned to live with the last two months yawned wide within her. She was more than ready for it to be filled, and the only person who could do that was her twin.

Monsieur Constantine took a deep breath and held it. That was the moment Ingrid began to suspect something was wrong.

“I am afraid Lord Fairfax is not here,” he answered, referring to Grayson by the courtesy title every heir apparent to the Brickton earldom had used for generations. Her twin preferred the less imposing “Grayson” but had long given up lobbying for people to use it.

“Not here?” their mother echoed. “My son knew we were to arrive this afternoon. What was so important that it has drawn him away?”

Constantine smoothed his silver, dart-shaped beard and rocked back on his heels. “My lady, I do not wish to upset you; however, it seems your son has not been at the rectory for nearly four days.”

The brewing storm Ingrid had been feeling, the one whispering Grayson’s name, suddenly made sense. Startled, she looked to her mother. The Countess of Brickton rarely allowed emotion to color her expression, but at that moment anxiety fired her eyes.

“If he hasn’t been here, then where exactly
has
he been?” she asked.

“I know only what the staff tell me,” Constantine answered. “From what they say, it seems that your son attended a dinner last Thursday evening. The driver said that after the dinner concluded, there were no signs of his lordship. When he inquired, the driver was told he had disappeared before the first course was served. Everyone in attendance assumed he’d left.”

Ingrid frowned. “Monsieur Constantine, where was this dinner? Were the hosts friends of my brother’s?”

She didn’t like the blank look that fell over the man’s face. “All I know, my lady, is that it was within the Fourth Arrondissement. Not very far from here. And the driver tells me the hosts were people his lordship was acquainted with.”

“Where is this driver?” Ingrid’s mother asked.
“Je veux lui parler immédiatement.”

Monsieur Constantine parted one set of blue drapes and called out. In less than a minute, a small group of men and women flowed into the foyer. The men removed their patched tweed caps and the ladies clasped their chapped hands in front of their starched pinafores.

“I’ve hired your staff, Lady Brickton, and as requested, they all speak English very well. Bertrand drove Lord Fairfax to the Fourth last Thursday.” He snapped his fingers at an older gentleman. The man had a horseshoe ring of thinning black hair running back from his temples. He kept a stranglehold on his cap.

“My lady,” Bertrand said with a low bow.

“Has my son sent any word at all?” Ingrid’s mother asked, her voice shaking.

Ingrid’s stomach tightened. She’d hoped something minor would be the cause of her intuitive jitters. Nothing more than a broken heart or, at the very most, a broken bone. Grayson was supposed to be here, sweeping her into one of his dizzying hugs. But Bertrand voiced exactly what Ingrid feared.

“Je suis désolé, mais non,”
he answered, shaking his head as an afterthought in translation of his words.

“We will resolve this, Lady Brickton,” Constantine said quickly and earnestly. “There must be an explanation for his absence. If you wish it so, we can ask the police for their assistance.”

“Why haven’t they already been alerted?” Gabby asked, a fervent shine in her eyes.

Constantine fumbled with a few words in his own language before switching to English. “I have been told,” he said, “that an absence like this is not unheard of with Lord Fairfax. He is rather … 
tempestuous
, the servants say. Here one moment, gone the next. Sometimes for a day or more.”

Ingrid let out a disappointed sigh. She’d hoped her brother had learned to tame his appetite for parties, clubs, and gambling halls. That hope crumbled at Constantine’s explanation.

An awkward silence fell as their mother tried to weather this statement of her son’s reputation with grace. After a moment, Constantine helped her by leaping in with lengthy introductions to the staff he’d worked with Grayson to prepare: the housekeeper and the butler, the cook, a kitchen maid, two housemaids, two footmen, a livery boy, and a driver—Bertrand. Their names were a flurry of accents and sounds to Ingrid as she looked from face to face, trying to follow who was who. Constantine’s rambling seemed to hush as her gaze tripped over, and then locked with, another.

Instantly, everything stilled—her mind, the room, her breathing. The eyes transfixing hers belonged to a young man. The irises, luminous green and gold flecked, were earthy and vibrant, like a patch of pale forest moss long forgotten by the sun. Thick charcoal lashes shaded them.

He didn’t look more than a year or two older than Ingrid, and he watched her with unsettling inquisitiveness. She stared back, sensing hostility in the way he looked at her. His lips weren’t set in a grimace, but the flare of his nostrils expressed clear contempt. As if Ingrid had somehow wronged him. Which was absurd. She had never met this boy before.

Ingrid finally forced her eyes to detach from his, only to find herself looking into the foyer’s rococo mirror. She saw the high color over her cheekbones. Blasted skin. She couldn’t be angry or embarrassed without showcasing it before everyone in the room.

“Ingrid, you look flushed,” her mother said once Constantine had finished his introductions. It only made her cheeks burn hotter. “You’re upset about your brother. You need to rest. Madam Bertot, could you see to it that Lady Ingrid receives tea?” She then turned to Ingrid’s lady’s maid from home. “Cherie, do draw a hot bath for her.”

For some reason, Ingrid’s complexion and slim physique caused people to believe she was frail and more likely to fall ill than her curvaceous sister. The assumption was wholly unwarranted, too, considering that Ingrid hadn’t been sick a day in her life. Nor had Grayson, in fact. Their physician had often marveled at the twins’ perpetual good health, but it never stopped their mother from fretting.

“Mother, I’m fine.” But Madam Bertot, who must have been the cook, and Cherie had already disappeared. The others, including the young man with the lime-gold eyes, remained.

“You mustn’t neglect your health, darling,” her mother said.

“My health is
fine
,” Ingrid ground out. “I think I would like to go for a walk, actually.” She needed air. Lots of it. Ingrid turned to Constantine. “Is there a bookshop close by, monsieur?”

Her brother liked books almost as much as he liked to breathe. If there was a bookshop nearby, Grayson would definitely frequent it. Anything she could do to track him down would be worthwhile.

Constantine glanced at the servants and cleared his throat. They took it as an order and filed back through the drapes. Except for the young man. He stood rigid, those curious eyes of his rooted on Ingrid.

Constantine followed the path of the young man’s stare before clearing his throat a second time. “Luc? Is there something you wish to say?”

Luc lowered his eyes in answer, to which Constantine replied impatiently, “Then you may leave.”

Luc disappeared through the drapes, leaving behind an uneasy silence. Constantine filled it by dismissing Ingrid’s question.

“It is nearly nightfall, and the Préfecture de Police has been circulating a notice for people to stay indoors after dark.”

Gabby and Ingrid met each other’s gazes with raised eyebrows.

“A few incidents have made night travel unsound,” he said in response to their confused expressions.

“Do these incidents have anything to do with my son’s disappearance?” their mother asked.

Constantine ushered them from the foyer into the sitting room. The place looked straight out of a castle, utterly medieval, with its tapestries, mullioned windows, and walls of roughly cut stone blocks. They soaked up the warmth of the fire, a natural barricade against the raw winter twilight.

“Certainly not. I am afraid, Lady Brickton, that your son leads a rather colorful lifestyle here.” He guided her to the sofa nearest the hearth.

“He’s young,” their mother said with practiced defense as she sat. It was the same excuse she often tried using on Papa. It worked better on Constantine.

“That he is,” he replied. “Lord Fairfax is a fine young man, and certainly not involved in these recent incidents.”

“What has been happening?” Gabby asked. She perched on the arm of the sofa at their mother’s side.

Constantine shuffled in place a moment, reluctance twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“A few young ladies have been reported missing. The papers print nothing but rumors, of course, and I do not like to speculate, but there are whisperings of violence having been involved.”

Their mother drew herself up with a shudder. “I do not wish my daughters to hear any more on the matter. They will stay indoors for the time being. Thank you, Monsieur Constantine.”

He made a deep bow. “Please, do not concern yourselves. You have had a long journey and, just as her ladyship has said, are in need of rest.”

Their mother rose to see him to the door, leaving Gabby and Ingrid alone in the sitting room.

“Did you hear him?” Gabby shot off the arm of the sofa. “ 
‘Do not concern yourselves.’
He tells us our brother is missing, and that we should avoid the darkened streets of Paris for fear of losing our lives, and then tells us to never mind!”

Ingrid didn’t respond. Sometimes it was best to let Gabby’s outbursts just fizzle. Instead, she went to the window. The bottom sash had been rigged with wooden shutters painted the same peacock-blue as the drapes. Ingrid ran her fingers over the flaking paint in thought. That was what Ingrid did—she contemplated while Gabby took action.

Behind her, Gabby paced the room. “And I don’t care what Grayson’s reputation is. Four days gone without a word? It’s too long. The police should have been called by now.”

Through the top panes of the mullioned glass, the snow covering the churchyard looked pale violet. A stone fountain had been turned off, and snow-crusted apple trees and boxwood shrubs lined the yard. Four days. The effects of any wild soirée Grayson might have attended would have worn off long ago, and besides, Ingrid’s sixth sense was positively humming.

“We should find out more about these
‘incidents,’
” Gabby said, nervously patting the sides of her skirts. “I hardly know what to think.”

Ingrid did, however. Something bad had happened to her brother. It wasn’t a knowledge she could put into words. It was only something she could feel, just as when, after they’d left the nursery for their own bedrooms, Grayson would wake from a nightmare and Ingrid would instinctively wake as well. Even if her dream had been a happy one, she’d know somehow to leave it so that she might tiptoe into Grayson’s room and climb into bed beside him, assure him it had only been a dream.

Ingrid stared up at the ruined abbey, at the series of stone gargoyles stamped darkly against the twilight. The sight of them made her shiver, and she started to look away.

From the corner of her eye she saw the wings of one hunched black statue flutter up.

With a gasp, Ingrid turned back. She pressed closer to the glass, straining to see through the failing light. The gargoyle’s wings were no longer up but were hanging like curtains. What had she just seen?

Ingrid closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold glass.
Nothing
. She’d seen nothing. She was just overwhelmed and the poor light had been playing tricks on her.

Her brother was missing. There might be a kidnapper—or a murderer—stalking the girls of Paris. And Ingrid was confined to the rectory for the night. Come morning, first thing, she’d set out to find Grayson.

T
he quiet ached.

After all the crying and screaming, all the pleas for Léon to
stop!
, silence crushed the dining room. Now Léon trembled on the rug beside the table, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

He wanted to shut his eyes, but terror froze them open. He wanted to clap his palms over his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to the weak, muffled cries coming from all around him—but his fingertips were still
leaking
.

Léon’s father was at the head of the table. Every inch of the man, from his thinning crown to his polished brogans, even the spindle-back chair upon which he sat, had been bound in a cocoon of thick white silk. The untouched plate of coq au vin still steamed in front of his father’s mummified figure. The scent of mushrooms and wine, a sauce Léon’s mother had spent the afternoon stirring at the stove as she hummed little songs, now turned Léon’s stomach.