The Silver Coin (33 page)

This time Girard threw back his head and laughed. “In other words, you appealed to the passion so typical of the French.”

“Yes. And the greed so typical of criminals.” Hibbert gave an offhanded shrug. “I expect I’ll hear from several very irate husbands.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“When I find the source of this bottle, it’s possible I’ll need your help. Depending upon who that source is, of course.”

“Consider it done.” Girard polished off his brandy, and eyed the empty glass speculatively. “You’re hoping this will lead to whoever is buying the women who have been kidnapped.”

“Exactly.”

A terse nod. “Then I suspect I’ll be hearing from you. In the meantime, I have your descriptions of the women in question. I’ll see what I can find out. Oh, and I should be hearing back any day now on my inquiries regarding the physician Chadwick’s looking for.”

“Good. Because it’s possible the killer first met his business associate en route to or from that physician.”

“That makes sense.” Girard organized his notes. “With any luck, all these pieces will be found while you’re in Paris, and you and I will be able to assemble them.” Girard shot Hibbert a curious look. “This isn’t

Chadwick’s usual type of case. Nor is he going about it in his usual detached manner. Is that because Sheldrake’s a friend of his? Or is it more?”

Hibbert’s expression never changed. “Lord Royce and the marquess have known each other since their days at Oxford.”

“Oui.And Lord Royce and Lady Breanna have known each other less than a month. Yet I get the distinct feeling Chadwick’s determination has a lot more to do with her than with Sheldrake.”

Another bland look, although Hibbert knew his employer wouldn’t object to Girard knowing the truth. Still, baiting him was far more enjoyable. “I’ll let Lord Royce answer that question himself, when you see him.”

“Ah, and will my answer be in the form of an invitation, perhaps?”

“It might be.” Hibbert rose, gathering up his things.”If youhelp solve this case.”

Girard stood, a broad smile on his face. “You drive a hard bargain— Lord Hobson.However, being that I wouldn’t want to miss out on what I’m fast coming to believe will be Royce’s wedding day, I’ll see what I can do.” Abruptly, all levity vanished. “Good luck with your search, Hibbert. But be careful. You don’t know what you’re dealing with—yet. When you do, come to me.”

Hibbert’s nod was equally solemn. “I will.”

By late afternoon, three replies, one incensed husband, and one round woman well past middle years with an eager gleam in her eye had arrived at Hibbert’s inn.

The woman was both hopeful and persuasive. She spent twenty minutes assuring Lord Hobson they’d spent a torrid night together—one she’d be thrilled to repeat, with or without payment.

Hibbert sent her home to her husband.

The second arrival—an incensed man who introduced himself as Monsieur Blanc and then called Hibbert every French obscenity he was able to recognize, and a few he couldn’t—swore that his wife was faithful and that if Lord Hobson ever contacted her again, he would shoot him.

Hibbert sent him home to his wife.

He then ordered a brandy, collected his three written messages, and took them upstairs to his room.

He tore open the first message.

It was written by an insolent butler, who informed Lord Hobson that the Due had received his note, but had elected not to reply for personal reasons. He added that it would be highly indiscreet for Lord Hobson to press the matter, as it would offend the Due, his wife, and his mistress, for whom the perfume was purchased.

Hibbert contemplated the butler’s meaning for only a minute before putting aside the reply. It didn’t warrant further attention. His instincts told him it rang true. Besides, the specifics would be easy enough to check out.

He turned his attention to the other two replies.

One was from a Mademoiselle Chenille, who regularly purchased the perfume for her grandmother, most recently as a Christmas gift. She expressed regret at not being able to provide Lord Hobson with the answers he sought, and wished him the best of luck. She added that she was leaving Paris the day after tomorrow, first to visit her grandmother in the hospital, then to return to the convent at which she’d soon be taking her vows to God. But if Lord Hobson had any further questions, he was free to contact her there. She closed her letter by blessing him, and providing him with the name and address of her religious order.

Hibbert winced, and refolded the note. It was replies such as these that made one feel guilty about using deception as a means to get at the truth. Then again, it was decent young women like Mademoiselle Chenille whom he and Lord Royce were trying to protect through their actions. So in the end, it was worth it

He would, of course, verify the story—if it came to that. But he had little doubt she was telling the truth.

Which brought him to the last reply.

This note was penned in a flowery, feminine hand, and Hibbert’s discomfort vanished, his instincts roaring to life when a hint of the fragrance he was searching for drifted to his nostrils.

The recipient had taken the time to dab her letter with a provocative touch of the perfume he’d mentioned. That meant she was interested.

The question was, was he?

Slipping his finger under the flap, Hibbert opened the letter, and read:

Lord Hobson, I’m fascinated by your letter. We should meet. I’ll be at the front steps of Notre-Dame at seven o’clock, wearing your perfume.—Maurelle le Joyau.

Maurelle Le Joyau.

Hibbert reread the name and the note, then glanced at his timepiece. Half after five. That gave him enough time to catch Girard before he left the office, find out more about the lady in question

After which, he’d be on his way to the cathedral.

Maurelle Le Joyau was an extraordinarily beautiful woman—every bit as beautiful as she’d been described.

Her thick black hair was swept off her face, emphasizing her fragile, fine-boned features and wide, dark eyes. Her costly silk gown and fro-lined pelisse cloak were the height of fashion, and her diminutive height and build made her look like a china doll swathed in expensive material. She looked young, vulnerable— the kind of woman a man would want to protect and, at the same time, to possess.

Hibbert studied her impassively as he approached the front steps of Notre-Dame, thinking that all the information he’d been given didn’t do her justice. She was breathtaking. Without a doubt, she could pass for a woman a decade younger than her thirty-two years. She had an untouched quality to her beauty that was unmistakable.

Except that she happened to be the owner of a very elite, very expensive Paris brothel.

“Lord Hobson?” She gave him a dazzling smile, inclining her head just so as she stepped toward him.

Hibbert played his part, scrutinizing her with an element of longing, and an equal amount of regret. “Miss Le Joyau?”

“Yes.”

He bowed, brought her gloved fingers to his lips. The perfume—he could smell it even in the crisp evening air. “I’m as disappointed as I am entranced,” he confessed. “I wish I could say we’ve met. But as we both know, we haven’t.” A charming smile. “Although, to be honest, I wish it was you I was searching for. The young woman I recall was wearing your exact scent. Still, she doesn’t come close to matching you in beauty.”

Maurelle flushed accordingly, although Hibbert was aware that her show of maidenly shyness was just that: show. Indeed, at the same time that she attempted to preoccupy him with her allure, she was assessing him with a shrewd but subtle thoroughness the average man would never have perceived.

Hibbert perceived it.

“Merci.What a lovely compliment,” she murmured, her English punctuated with a soft French accent. “However, now that we meet face to face, I have to sadly agree you’re a stranger to me, as well. Still, perhaps I can help in your search.” She tucked a tendril of hair off her face. “You’re English. Yet your message said you met this woman in Paris. May I ask when?”

Interesting that she didn’t askwhere,Hibbert noted.

His brows raised in a semi-hopeful gesture. “Why? Do you know another woman who wears that scent?”

“Possibly. But I don’t knowyouwell enough to say.”

“Ah, you’re being cautious.” Hibbert nodded his understanding. “I don’t blame you. One can’t be certain whom one is speaking with these days. Well, I assure you, I’m an honorable man. Lonely, but honorable. What would you like to know? My name is Albert Hobson. I live in Surrey, but I also have estates in Yorkshire, Dorset, and Devon. I’m a man of considerable means, and can provide handsomely for the young woman in question. As for when I met this mystery lady, it was last summer. I was in Paris on business.”

“I see. She must have thoroughly impressed you, to still be in your thoughts six months later. Yet you didn’t get her name.”

“Unfortunately not.” Hibbert gave a discreet cough

“I’m not sure how to say this delicately, but it was an arranged evening. I’d had a fair amount to drink when the liaison began. I can describe her to you, if that would help.”

Maurelle lowered her lashes. “You’re very frank.”

“Have I offended you?”

Her lashes lifted. “No. I prefer candor to evasiveness.” Another pause. “I’d like to hear more about you, and about this woman you’re seeking.”

“Indeed. I’ll tell you anything about myself you wish to know.” Hibbert shivered a bit, turned up the collar of his coat, and glanced about. “It’s cold. Can I take you somewhere warm where we can talk?”

She rubbed her gloved palms together, still inspecting him closely—his expensive clothing, his cultured demeanor.”Oui,my lord,” she said at length. “I believe you can. You can take me to my establishment. There, we’ll continue our chat.”

Le Joyau looked more like an opulent manor than a brothel.

The entire dwelling was furnished in rich blue velvet and carved mahogany, its drawing rooms warm and cozy, each with a cheery fire burning and adorned with plush sofas and drapes of gold brocade.

Maurelle escorted Hibbert into one of the rooms, after giving their coats to a sophisticated young woman at the door, who greeted mademoiselle and her guest politely, then went off to get them some refreshment.

Hibbert warmed his hands by the fire, thinking it was no wonder affluent men came here. With very little effort, they could pretend they were calling on a virtuous lady, rather than buying a prostitute for the night.

“I don’t understand,” Maurelle returned with a genuinely perplexed look. “I thought you wanted… ?”

“What Iwant,and what’s available to me are two different things.” Hibbert tossed off his brandy, glad he’d had the presence of mind to fill his stomach with a large meal before leaving his inn—just in case he needed to lessen the effects of any liquor he’d consume.

Heavily, he set down his glass, taking in her uncertain expression, and attempting to explain. “I’m a realistic man, Miss Le Joyau. Candid, as you yourself said. I know my attributes … and my limitations. I’m well past fifty. I’m not displeasing to the eye. But I’m hardly able to capture the fancy of a beautiful, well-bred young lady. I can pay for a roomful of women. But the one I truly want can’t be found at a brothel, no matter how elegant.”

The tiniest flicker in Maurelle’s eyes was his only indication that what he’d said had struck a chord.

Calmly, she reached for a piece of cake, nibbling at it as she asked, “And what type of woman is that?”

He waved away her question. “Please, my dear. You’re not required to listen to my fantasies.” He peeled off several hundred-pound notes, pressed them into Maurelle’s hand. “Where shall I await my liaison?”

“S’il vous plait —in a minute.” Maurelle set the bills aside, her fingers closing around his. “My job is to see that you’re happy. If there’s something more you need, just ask for it.”

He quirked a brow. “Forgive me, but what I need is not something you can provide.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Very well.” Hibbert averted his gaze, staring off toward the fire. “It’s quite simple. I’d like a companion. Not just for a day, or a week. For an extended period of time, maybe even for the rest of my life.”

“But you object to paying for her,” Maurelle guessed softly. “You want her to fall in love with you.”

A dubious laugh. “That’s a delightful notion. But I’m not impractical enough to expect it. No, I don’t object to paying. Love isn’t the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“Breeding. Breeding and chastity.” Silence.

“I see our discussion has reached an end,” Hibbert said, glancing over to give Maurelle a rueful smile. “I didn’t mean to offend you. But you did ask. Now perhaps you’ll understand why I didn’t want to pursue the subject.”

“I’m not offended.” Maurelle caressed his fingers. “Just so I understand, monsieur, you’re saying you’d prefer to buy one of my ladies for an indefinite period of time—if she’s well-bred and untouched?”

“Noblybred and untouched,” Hibbert corrected. “Any companion I acquired would have to be of the same class as I am. And, at the same time, young and beautiful.” The warmth left his face. “I hope you’re not toying with me, Miss Le Joyau. I might be lonely, but I’m not stupid.”

“I’m not toying with you, my lord.”

“Then why are we pursuing this discussion?”

“Because I might be able to supply you with precisely the companion you want.” Maurelle withdrew her hand, suddenly all business. “For the right price, that is.”

“Do we understand each other?” Hibbert asked bluntly. “I’m referring to a noblewoman. A young lady born of the peerage. And a virgin. Someone who’s never lain with a man before.”

“I know what a noblewoman is, my lord. Just as I know the definition of a virgin.”

“And why would I find either, much less both, in a brothel?”

“Because the young woman I’m thinking of just arrived, this week in fact. She has yet to entertain her first client.” Maurelle leaned forward, obviously sensing a windfall. “I would give you a guarantee, of course. I have my reputation to consider.”

Hibbert remained dubious. “Suppose I accept your guarantee. You’ve assured me of her innocence. What about her roots?”