by Tamara Gill
“No need. They are happy. It is…nice to see.”
“Indeed,” Arthur said.
They were silent. It was perhaps odd to contemplate that they’d become relatives. Once she would have thought they might—
She shook her head. It was in the past. She’d been naive then, she wasn’t anymore.
Perhaps Arthur sensed the awkwardness, for he soon made his apologies and left.
“Enjoy Venice,” he called out to them and then disappeared into the thickening throng of passengers preparing to disembark.
“The man is so handsome,” Gabriella murmured. “Bellissimo.”
Madeline tried to smile. Normally Gabriella’s enthusiasms were amusing. Now her inundation of compliments, emphasized by her Italian, seemed to only highlight Madeline’s earlier naivety.
“And he called you beautiful,” Gabriella exclaimed, moving her hand to her heart. “Most romantic.”
“He was only assuring me that he doubted I had gray hairs,” Madeline explained. “Simple politeness.”
“Nonsense,” Gabriella said. “A man needn’t give such compliments to ensure a woman does not feel insulted. You are very lucky.”
Madeline nodded. Gabriella was not the first person to tell her this. Indeed, Madeline knew she was lucky. She’d been lucky to marry a baron, and she was lucky to get her father out of debt, brought on by his pursuit and respect for women’s beauty, in his case a willingness to pay exorbitant fees to gaze at and even touch the most splendid women of a certain brothel.
The horn sounded a few times, and they moved toward the gangway.
The sun soared upward, and pink splattered across the sky. The dark shadows lightened, revealing workers darting through the harbor. The ships docked at Le Havre seemed less foreboding, and there seemed little indication that tens of thousands of men had lost their lives fighting a war waged against the government here.
“Let’s go,” Madeline said. “We’ll see if we can avoid the marquess.”
It would be awkward if he also discovered they’d rented a cottage on the French Riviera and didn’t tell him.
“You don’t have to do this,” Gabriella murmured. “You’ve been so helpful already.”
“Nonsense,” she told her companion. “I know where the bracelet that completes the set is. Of course I’m going to get it.”
She felt a sense of relief as she exited the ship.
No one had caught her.
It would be fine.
Arthur wouldn’t expect her to appear in the Côte d’Azur, and she would do her utmost to avoid him.
Travelers ascended a stagecoach bound for Nice. Madeline almost wished she could join the boisterous holiday goers. Privacy could be tiresome, but she settled into a carriage with Gabriella and directed the only slightly surprised driver to take her to Antibes. Evidently she was not the first English person to crave the French Riviera, and the coach soon jostled to a start.
The carriage moved from the harbor into the countryside. The lane wound through vineyards. Grapes grew in neat rows, undeterred even by the steepness of some of the fields. On occasion some farmer had decided to grow a fruit orchard, and apples and cherries dangled between the verdant leaves that adorned each tree.
The homes were quaint, perched on the edge of the steep inclines in an effortless manner, as if their very beauty could mitigate the realities of their position.
A stone church looked over the buildings, and Madeline wondered who had carried each slab of granite over the hilltop.
Mountains jutted into the sky beyond. Grey clouds eased through the mountain gaps, invading the idyllic surrounding. She smiled.
It was absurd.
She’d never had an actual friend before.
She might adore company, might love the sound of laughter in her home and of seeing disparate people connecting over raspberry shrub as they remarked on the Italian paintings hanging in Madeline’s drawing room, but people tended to be wary of her.
After she succeeded in her mission, she would remember this time fondly. Helping the Costantinis was the first time in her life she’d felt useful. She’d been able to help Gabriella’s parents in a way that their solicitors and appeals to decency could not.
She was grateful for her time with Gabriella. It had been easy to suggest to aid her.
People tended to dismiss Madeline when they saw her blonde hair and the symmetry of her features, supposing her knowledge of taking care of herself to denote a lack of any intelligence. They might ask her about her preferred shades of haberdashery, they might even listen to her with interest on her opinions of the merits of satin versus velvet, but they would never inquire about her opinions on parliament.
Plainer women seemed happier without her sitting with them. Perhaps they feared Madeline might distract any potential suitors. Their suspicion of her had only heightened after Madeline’s husband’s death. Once Madeline’s stiff ebony had changed to lilac and gray, people had seemed to imagine her to have become wanton. Widows possessed independence, and people supposed her to desire to bed every man in her acquaintance, now that she would not be hindered by some possessive musket wielding, sword brandishing husband.
As if Maxwell had ever been a man prone to jealous rages.
She sighed.
The only people not afraid of speaking with her were men.
Not all of them, of course. A startlingly significant proportion seemed prone to stammer in her presence, as their gaze jumped to the more private areas of her body and their cheeks flushed.
Still there were confident men who did place themselves closer to her on purpose. Those men were apt to gaze deeply in her eyes and remark on their sudden desire to stroll in the garden with her, even though they’d never taken an interest in botany before that and the rosebushes were hardly at their most brilliant when shrouded in darkness.
She’d never been tempted.
No, it was far better to rebuke men when they started reciting Byron and started regaling her with stories that centered on their supposed athletic abilities or the difficulty their cobbler experienced of creating boots large enough for their generously sized feet.
Awkwardness was not a state she was eager to experience. And even if any encounter with a Casonova-inspired Corinthian managed to avoid awkwardness, she’d seen the tearstained faces of her cousin Fiona when she’d supposed the Duke of Alfriston to have abandoned any interest in her.
She was certain that even her cousin Fiona, who was closest to Madeline in age and had lived on the neighboring estate until she’d married a dashing duke, had viewed her with suspicion.
Fiona had certainly never confided her passion in archeology to her.
Gabriella was different.
For the first time she’d spent time with a woman who didn’t see her as a competitor. Gabriella was her companion, and they spent long stretches of the day together. Madeline had been reluctant to get a companion, but she needed to maintain some sense of propriety on her travels to Europe.
Gabriella had been the first person she could share things with. Gabriella belonged to the Venetian aristocracy, and even though her family’s wealth was greatly diminished, so much so that her parents had been happy to send Gabriella to England, Gabriella did not consider herself in a competition with Madeline. She did not see Madeline’s stylish gowns as a reminder that she needed to acquire gowns with more innovative cuts: Madeline was wealthier than her, and naturally her gowns would be nicer. It helped perhaps that Madeline was a few years older than Gabriella, and Gabriella was pretty in her own right.
It pained Madeline that Gabriella’s family heirlooms had been stolen and gifted to French ministers. The people who possessed them now did not need the money, had not even spent any money on them.
The carriage stopped at regular intervals, but they drove through the night.
Eventually the darkness lifted, replaced by pink and tangerine rays that bathed the grand villas in their light. The turquoise sea sparkled to her
right, and boats sailed in the clear waters.
Chapter Six
If only he hadn’t been assigned to the French Riviera.
The last time Arthur had visited, elderly English invalids swathed in unseasonal furs and sun-worshipping Corinthians had outnumbered French in the grand hotels. They seemed to think it a more exclusive version of Cornwall, purely for its propensity toward sunshine.
Venice, for instance, would be far more intriguing.
He would see canals and palazzos and…Madeline.
He shook his head, as if the action might dissolve the image of long blonde locks and a knowing smile.
It was ridiculous. He didn’t tend to spend long periods of time contemplating Venetian architecture, but ever since Madeline told him she was going there, he’d had visions of the sun setting over the Basilica di San Marco and of the pastel colored palazzos that lined the Canal Grande.
Madeline’s presence was certainly not something he welcomed. And Madeline certainly viewed him with skepticism.
She’d convinced her uncle to tell him he was ruining her prospects for a good match, because she could no longer abide Arthur’s company.
He sighed. The conversation with Sir Seymour had been distinctly unpleasant.
He’d halted his search after his conversation with the baronet. He’d accepted an offer from Admiral Fitzroy the next day to work for him on special projects for the Alien Agency.
The agency liked his ability to speak in an American accent, and they’d sent him off to the West Indies soon after, where he’d posed as an American merchant.
He’d experienced the delights of other women, naturally. Even the West Indies had scores of bored women, nervous about the spread of the Napoleonic Wars, and eager to embrace life, even if that meant being unfaithful to their husbands.
Arthur had never again sought to court anyone.
Bonaparte had offered an easy respite. The man’s habit of waging war had kept Arthur safely away from London’s ballrooms and house parties.
He’d sometimes wondered if Madeline had regretted her youthful action, but she’d been cold to him when he visited her townhouse, and yesterday she’d still been in full mourning for her late husband. Evidently she had not married Lord Mulbourne merely for his title and fortune.
He’d always supposed the man to have been an unlikely match. The baron had been older than Madeline, and Arthur had allowed himself to imagine that she’d chosen him simply for his wealth and his estate’s proximity toward her family in Yorkshire.
He sighed.
Evidently he’d been mistaken.
She seemed to have found even conversing with Arthur to be despicable.
Finely attired gentlemen with speckled hair spoke English as they inched along the promenade, clomping their canes onto the pavement in a manner that was not strictly fashionable.
Yes, Arthur was certainly on the French Riviera. Dying English people had made it popular at the end of the last century, and new dying people were once again making it popular. Perhaps the most elderly were constrained to sumptuous balcony rooms, but their younger family members and caretakers spent the evenings in festivity, awaiting their inheritances.
How had they forgotten about the war so quickly? Shouldn’t one have some misgivings about giving one’s coin to the country that had so gleefully slaughtered one’s fellow countrymen?
Clearly most Englishmen had other concerns with which to occupy themselves.
He visited the governmental office in Antibes. Lavender shutters decorated the windows in a show of coziness he suspected was utterly misleading.
A guard showed him to the office, and a man behind an elaborate gold painted desk with the thin, scarcely robust legs common in the French style of the last century, rose to greet him.
“My lord,” the man exclaimed, clearly pleased.
“Comte Beaulieu.” Arthur bowed and scrutinized the man with whom he’d be working.
Comte Beaulieu had a red face, the sort only obtained by a hearty consumption of wine and brandy, and common in the middle-aged men of his age who’d survived the war. He wore a uniform, as if the golden tassels that hung from his epaulets conferred him greater gravity.
Some dictionaries and law books lined the bookcase. All the dictionaries were of languages of countries Bonaparte had either invaded or planned to invade, though Arthur wondered if that was coincidental, given the lack of discretion Bonaparte had given as to which direction he should expand his border.
“It is wonderful to have you here,” said the comte. “Though you might find your time here is short. We were worried an attempt might be made on my wife’s bracelet after the thefts on the jewels in that collection. But truly, we certainly did not think England would send someone here. Much less a marquess.”
Arthur almost smiled. Ever since Louis XVI’s brother had returned to the throne, France had abandoned all pretense at liberalism. It seemed difficult to believe that Parisian salons had once found merit in the enlightenment.
“The English government wanted to assure you that we take seriously any indication that the thief might have been one of our citizens,” Arthur said.
He might think being sent hundreds of miles away to investigate a theft that had not yet occurred was one of the more ridiculous requests he’d had, but Comte Beaulieu did not require his unofficial opinion.
Arthur rather thought his title had no ability on his work, especially since he would never have become a marquess had another branch of the family not died.
He attempted to dismiss the notion that his presence was a formality, a sign of goodwill between once warring nations that also could have been achieved with a donation to a charity or a statue representing one of France’s overtly idealistic symbols. Compared to a statue, he was rather more easily transported and did not need to be chiseled from some weighty stone better kept on a cliff.
He settled into an armchair. “I was told your wife intends to wear the bracelet at a ball tomorrow evening.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you think that wise?”
Comte Beaulieu frowned. “We French are brave. We will not be scared by events that happen elsewhere.”
“Yet you contacted the British government…”
“I thought they should be aware of the matter. I am glad they took it with the seriousness it deserves.”
Arthur nodded.
“Besides,” the comte continued. “No French woman can be asked to not look her very best. My wife is very pretty. Très belle.”
“Yes, I met her once.”
The comte’s expression changed. “You are married yourself?”
“Er—no.”
“It is odd you chose this case to work on.”
“I was assigned to it.”
The comte frowned, as if he suspected Arthur of wanting to cuckold him, despite the fact he’d only once met his wife before.
“The comtesse is traveling to Paris after that. So you see you will likely not have to stay long. You may enjoy the Côte d’Azur.” The man beamed with the peculiar confidence of a person who believed his home to be the prettiest place in the world.
“Ah,” Arthur said. “I thought you meant my English intelligence would ensure I would catch any criminal soon.”
“Absurd.” The smug look on Comte Beaulieu’s face vanished, and Arthur did his best to not smile too widely. “If you leave, it will be because any thief will be intimidated by the superior skills my men possess at guarding.”
“You are confident the jewels will draw the thief’s interest?” Arthur asked.
“Naturellement,” Comte Beaulieu stammered. “The bracelet is wonderful. It’s French.”
Arthur frowned. “That’s not what I learned about it. In my research it was clear the art came from Venice, as did the others which are missing from the set. Is that not—?”
The comte waved his hand in a gesture Arthur supposed was supposed to connote irritation. “French. Italian. Does it matter?”
“It may to the thief.”
“Nonsense. The jewels are in France. They show our good taste. They’ve been here for fifteen years. Not an insignificant period of time.”
“Indeed,” Arthur agreed.
Fifteen years of waiting for the war to end to be reunited with one’s family heirlooms, only to find they would never be returned, was enough to make certain people angry.
He sighed. Or perhaps the jewels were nice enough to attract any thief’s notice, not merely one incensed that the set had been taken from its homeland.
That was more likely.
It was a pity Madeline had not had any insight to offer him.
Still, anyone could see that jewels would be worth a fortune. Unlike a painting or sculpture, jewels could be cut and reset, and were not dependent on a viewer’s sentimentality to determine its value.
“Do you have a list of guests?”
Comte Beaulieu handed him a list. “You may study it. Though I doubt the person will walk in through the front door. That would be ludicrous.”
Arthur nodded. “You must install guards on the roof. The thief in London entered that way. One of our men found a greatcoat there.”
“Then we know the thief is a man.”
“It would seem so,” Arthur agreed. “Though it is not impossible for a woman to wear a greatcoat.”
He smiled to himself. His sister Louisa had done worse.
“We’re looking for a burglar. A man with some muscles. Desperate likely.” Comte Beaulieu glared at him. “Perhaps Italian as you say, but I say likely English. One of those veterans who roam the British countryside. Someone bitter at no longer being allowed to slaughter Frenchmen.”
Arthur stiffened but refused to enter an argument with the comte. This was about preserving the peace. “Remember, the thief might choose an alternative mode of entry.”
“Thieves aren’t clever.” The comte waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. “They’re the vilest of human beings. I’m going to personally ensure the thief will be behind bars for a very long time.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. Murderers tended to hold the rank of vilest human beings in his mind. “I take it the French will not approve the Costantini’s request for the return of the jewels stolen by members of the French army.”