Nestled amidst the overstuffed and tuffeted chairs and couches were glass and gold-leaf curio cabinets revealing enchanting pieces of Monsieur Worth's private collection of snuffboxes, antique fans, porcelains, and bibelots—none for sale.
After the anteshowrooms, Etienne entered the mirrored salon where actual garments were displayed on wooden forms, and ignoring the parties of ladies sipping tea and gossiping, who glanced up at him en masse, he walked through the doors to Worth's reception room.
The master's twin black spaniels looked up from the green velvet chairs they occupied, and at the Duc's greeting them by name, wagged their tails in acceptance. He was offered tea or champagne by the solicitous young man preceding him, and when he said, "Coffee, four sugars," was shown to a chair by the windows overlooking the street. The scented, elegant young man left, returning moments later with the Duc's coffee and the three Monsieurs Worth, Charles-Frederick, father, and his two sons, Jean-Philippe and Gaston.
The elder Worth was sixty-six now and in failing health, but he still dressed in the dramatic artist's style he favored: a cap of black velvet; a gown of dark material relieved with touches of tulle, the edges richly trimmed in fur—over a smock and baggy trousers. His sons, Jean-Philippe, who many said was more talented than his father, and Gaston, the practical and austere business manager of the firm, were both dressed in understated tailored elegance.
They knew why he was here. Bourges had set up the appointment.
They had not yet agreed among themselves whether they could reveal what information they had without jeopardizing their business. At their firm, the Faubourg Saint Germain sat between kept women, and the world of officialdom met the Faubourg Saint Germain, a mingling of social classes, political parties, and marriage partners. At times, kept discreetly separated. As had been the case last summer when the Duc de Vec had come in with his newest amorata, Miss Daisy Black, at the same time his wife the Duchesse had been undergoing a fitting in one of the salons under the watchful eye of her latest young priest.
After greeting each other, the Worths took chairs, the assistant poured them tea, and after a glance from the elder Monsieur Worth, the assistant left.
"Bourges told you what I need," the Duc said immediately after the door clicked shut. "My wife has been here often, it seems, with one or another priest as escort."
"As do others at times, Monsieur le Duc," Gaston answered.
Etienne's brows rose slightly. "An interesting concept," he quietly said, putting the spoon he'd stirred his sugar with aside.
"But this particular variation on a theme interests me only so much as my wife is involved. Do you recall specific instances when she was here, in dishabille, as it were, with such an escort?"
"It's difficult to recall," Jean-Philippe lied, the panic of the near-encounter of the Duc and Duchesse de Vec only months ago very fresh in his memory.
"I not only require a witness," the Duc said, pressing, because they weren't going to volunteer the information, "but a witness who would be willing to testify in court if necessary. And I'm prepared to reimburse you for that information. An employee would be sufficient," he added. "I'm not suggesting any of you need appear."
"It could be very damaging for our business," the elder Worth bluntly said, his Manchester accent still strong after forty years in Paris, his French inadequate for conversation.
"Send a midinette to me. You could have let her go; she was discontent and willing to testify. Your firm would be clear of any mistrust from your customers as to confidentiality. No divorce cases can be publicly revealed, as you know. The risk would be minimal."
"Gossip travels fast in the insulated world our customers frequent. Divorce scandal particularly." Gaston was only pointing out the reality of the situation.
"How much does my wife spend here a year?"
The Duc's curt query brought all eyes to Gaston. The Duchesse was one of their best customers.
"I don't have an exact figure."
"An approximation will do. Be generous."
"A hundred thousand francs a month."
Good Lord, how could she possibly wear that many dresses? Having purchased his share of gowns at Worth, he did the arithmetic quickly in his head—two gowns a day, per month, each year. Certainly that should be worth a midinette or two in court.
"I'll pay you that sum each year. Bourges will draw up the papers. Now can we speak frankly?" He could see they were interested in his offer, but Gaston spoke first, as business manager more aware than his father and brother, who were the designers, that should news leak out of their disclosures, they could stand to lose much more than one hundred thousand francs a month.
"Allow us to confer with our attorneys before we decide."
"I need details, tell him that. We already know she was here many times with one priest or another. And I'd appreciate an expeditious reply."
His politeness was familiar to the Worths, the Duc de Vec's courtesy was legendary. So they were surprised when he said, just before he walked out the door, his voice cold as ice, "I intend to have that information, gentlemen, so you might as well prosper by it. Do we understand each other?"
His question was the kind that didn't require an answer.
* * *
Daisy's telegram was delivered to him as he sat in a meeting late that afternoon with Bourges and several of his attorneys, their discussion centering on the overture recently received from the Worth solicitors. The solicitors had suggested, in language couched in cautious legalese, that the Worths would be willing to Cooperate under certain conditions. Those conditions had brought the Duc's men together and were now causing considerable disagreement. Bourges was for subpoenaing the Worths if and when they went to court—thus saving the Duc a million two hundred thousand francs a year. Several of the more conservative of his legal advisors were interested in pursuing the Worth overtures, while others suggested a counteroffer to set off negotiations.
"Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen," Etienne said, taking the telegram from the salver held out to him by a footman. He had orders for Daisy's telegrams to be brought to him immediately. Tearing the envelope open, he read the message quickly, the buzz of conversation going on around him separate from his preoccupation.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he read the words through again.
Your shaman gods must have planned the storm. I just wanted you to know. Come back to us soon. Love from Daisy and your child.
"More problems?" Bourges inquired, noting the Duc's unguarded reaction.
Etienne's head rose slowly as though he'd heard Bourges's voice from a great distance, his green eyes oddly lit.
"Problems?" Bourges repeated.
Silence had fitfully fallen since the telegram arrived, conversations coming to a halt as first one man and then another observed the Duc's strange response.
"On the contrary." Etienne's voice was hushed, his attention still not fully returned, the impact of Daisy's news distracting: pride, joy, wonder, discomposing and wildly tumultuous, pervading his mind. A child! The wonder of it took his breath away. His and Daisy's child. He carefully folded the paper, placing it in his vest pocket as if the embodiment and spirit of his child were already under his protection.
What had seemed important moments ago suddenly lost its relevancy. Whether the Worths would or wouldn't support him was no longer of overriding importance. He and Daisy were going to have a child!
The immediacy of that miracle made even Isabelle's excruciating meanness disappear in the tidal wave of joy suffusing his soul. He surveyed the men seated around the table, pausing for a small moment as if gathering their images into his memory. "Daisy and I are having a child," he said, elation shining from his eyes, his smile stunning even the lawyers who dealt in drama with its exultation. "I'll be leaving Paris tomorrow."
Responses erupted around the table, congratulations first, polite and genuine, followed closely by consternation and dismay as each man protested the impossibility of carrying on wi
thout the Duc. He answered each man individually, kindly, at whatever length was required, but he wouldn't be moved.
He was leaving the following day.
All he could think of was Daisy and their baby. The past weeks without her had been ones of deprivation and loneliness. Without her, Paris was empty… his apartments devoid of life.
He marveled how fate could take a hand so strikingly, how a single evening at Adelaide's could change his wayward life.
"What of the divorce?" Bourges finally said, quietly, after the last of the other men had left and they sat alone over brandy at the large table strewn with the debris of their discussions.
"Continue the appeals, of course… to the last petition and magistrate." Etienne raked his fingers through his dark hair with familiar exasperation when reminded of the avenues already closed to them. Picking up his glass again, he drank it down, his frustration plain. "Dammit," he said, signaling Bourges to slide the bottle closer, "my divorce is even more urgent now with a child on the way. And the Worths' attorneys are just another legal maneuver that's going to mean more delay."
"I think we'll have something soon. I had a man hired on at the Duchesse's—as a footman. Servants are apprehensive answering questions put to them by detectives. I don't blame them. Like the Worths on a lesser scale, they're concerned with their livelihood. Charbeau is competent."
"I want my child legitimate."
There was nothing to say to the Duc's emotional need, but ever the practical attorney, Bourges pointed out the optional legalities. "The child can still be named a legal heir and legitimized later. Once the divorce is accomplished."
Etienne smiled at Felicien's kindness. "Isabelle's been more unwieldy than you thought. I should have known, I suppose, after observing her so long."
"There's no question of defeat," Bourges crisply replied. "I can assure you." Felicien Bourges had never lost a fight and he didn't intend the Duchesse de Vec to be his first defeat. Beyond the issue of failure, in itself unthinkable to the peasant boy who had risen so far, was the matter of Isabelle's contempt. He would see her deprived of her duchesse's coronet if it took him another ten years.
Ever since receiving Daisy's telegram, Etienne had been considering the necessity, the possible usefulness, of a visit to Isabelle. He wished to make one last attempt at a settlement before leaving and he contemplated getting down on his knees and begging her as a last alternative. In the extremity of his need, pride was suddenly incidental, only the future of his child mattered. "I think I'll stop by Isabelle's before I go," he declared, gazing at the liquor in his glass.
Aware the Duc hadn't spoken to his wife at any length since leaving his home months before, Bourges understood the impulse driving him. "Would you like me to come along?"
The Duc looked at him for a moment over his half-empty glass before saying, "No." He grinned suddenly. "I'd rather not have an audience when I'm humiliating myself."
"Let me arrange for Charbeau to be in attendance… if possible. I can contact him before you arrive."
"A witness?"
"Just in case." Bourges always considered the myriad possibilities.
Etienne looked at the time. Nearly three. He'd hoped to see Isabelle before tea in case she'd be entertaining… or out. "I'll have to see her before four-thirty. Is that enough time to contact your man?"
"I'll send a messenger immediately," Bourges said, rising. A moment later, after vigorously cranking the handle on the Duc's phone, his call was put through.
Etienne listened with half-interest to the instructions Bourges was giving to one of the aides in his office, reflecting instead on his opening remarks to Isabelle. Entreaty would be best accompanied by something more to sweeten the proposition. Isabelle lacked most Christian virtues, including charity.
"Done," Bourges declared, returning to the table. "Charbeau will be informed of your imminent arrival."
"There's still time for a drink," the Duc said, reaching for the bell-pull to have his carriage brought around. "You can wish me good fortune. Or more appropriately, considering it's Isabelle I'm seeing," he added with a smile, "you can more realistically offer me condolences in advance for a wasted trip."
* * *
Was he asking so much, he wearily thought, sprawled in his carriage as his driver took him through the rain-wet streets to the palace that had been home to the de Vecs for five centuries. Was his freedom from a marriage devoid of everything but malice such an enormous favor in the eyes of the fates? Had he no right to happiness like others on this planet?
In desperation he was traveling to see a woman who had shown him no compassion or charity in two decades to ask of her a boon. It was an outrageous act of hope.
Many of the old de Vec retainers had gone with the Duc when he'd set up separate quarters at his apartment, and Isabelle's new butler didn't recognize him until he announced his name.
The new majordomo didn't know whether Madame le Duchesse was in, he told Etienne, but if the Duc would wait in the green drawing room, he would have the Duc's card brought up to Madame's quarters.
Motioning to a footman standing at attention near his shoulder, the butler said, "Charbeau, take His Grace's card upstairs." Bourges's man had no choice but to obey. Bringing another footman over with a wave of his hand, the new steward of Isabelle's home directed, "Picard, show Monsieur le Duc to the green drawing room."
Handing his gloves to the butler, Etienne followed the footman down the corridor he'd walked through a thousand times in the past, a small stab of nostalgia gripping him as the familiar interior reminded him of happier days, of his children, and his childhood.
As they approached the drawing-room doors, the young footman turned, smiled, and said, "She won't see you, Your Grace."
"She won't?" While the possibility wasn't entirely unexpected, this young man plainly telling him was.
"Orders, sir. You're not allowed upstairs."
"The Duchesse is there now?"
The footman nodded. "You didn't hear it from me, sir."
"You're Douet's grandson, aren't you?" Etienne recognized the tall broad-shouldered frame and the shock of flaxen hair. Douet's family had come originally from one of his grandfather's estates in Normandy and their size and coloring traced back to some long-ago Viking ancestor.
"Yes, sir, I have to leave, sir. Montrose will come looking for me."
"Why didn't you come with your father when he left the Duchesse's employ?"
"Well, sir, the morning parlor maid was newly hired and would be staying… so…"
"So you stayed," the Duc said with a smile. "You're both welcome in my household, should you wish… and thank you for your information."
"Thank you, sir. Marguerite would be happy to be away… the Duchesse frightens her, Your Grace."
"Being your things and Marguerite, too, to your father. You know the way?"
"Oh, yes, sir, Your Grace, sir," the young man stammered, backing away and bowing. "Thank you, sir, Your Grace."
If Isabelle wouldn't receive him, he'd have to find his way to her though less formal channels, the Duc thought, deciding to take the conservatory stairway to avoid Montrose.
The conservatory dominated the eastern courtyard, the three-story glass structure housing a collection of exotic trees and plants brought home by generations of travel-prone de Vecs. Fragrant flowering plants and shrubbery perfumed the entire east wing of the hotel, the open stairway added by a de Vec enamored of the tropical climes he'd visited in his youth.
The staircase was rarely used, for its distance from the family and public rooms made it inconvenient. So Etienne paused on the second-floor landing for a brief time to admire the enclosed garden he'd nurtured through his years as master of this house. He drew in the smell of damp earth, of lily and jasmine and island grasses, inundated suddenly by a sense of melancholy as the familiar smells assailed him.
He had not perhaps a profound veneration for his ancestors—since his father's role had been so detached even on the
rare occasions he was in residence, and his mother's friendship had come to him in his adulthood—but there was a certain sense of continuity in this beautiful old building. If his attachments weren't based on familial emotions, they were devoted to a fidelity of place; he had spent his entire adult life caring for the de Vec estates, improving them, expanding them, restoring those his father had neglected. Like this hotel.
With a conscious effort he shook away the nostalgia, reminding himself no amount of satisfaction in estate management compared with the deep happiness he'd found with Daisy. And if he must sacrifice in his lifetime all the de Vec monuments to the past, he would.
Leaving the landing, he strode down the carpeted hallway toward those rooms Isabelle occupied. It was quiet this time of day between drowsy afternoon and teatime, the rain outside casting the interior into an orchid shade. He must hurry, he realized, increasing his stride, for his time was limited to that interval between his card being brought up and returned to the majordomo downstairs. He then would be sought out in the drawing room to be given his refusal.
There was a new gold screen inside Isabelle's reception-room door, and as Etienne crossed the threshold into the room, he saw through the crack between two of its folds, his wife and the young blond priest from the Bonnard show sitting side by side on the sofa by the fire. He hesitated for a second with the knob still in his hand, mesmerized by the scene, and then he realized that the young priest was gazing devouringly into Isabelle's eyes and holding her hands in both of his.
The carpet was so thick and the latch so well oiled his entrance hadn't made a sound.
In a rich throaty tone he'd never heard before, Isabelle caressingly said, "Roger, darling, you understand me so well."
"It's always special when it's raining, isn't it, heart of mine… since that first afternoon…"
"… at Charles's reception."
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