“He is an Englishman himself by birth, so you will have no difficulty understanding each other.” She leaned toward us eagerly, the motion causing her jewels to sparkle in the light of the gas lanterns. “And Roderick, you can transpose my songs into a lower key for Sybil. It is quite perfect!”
“That’s far too much to ask of Sybil,” Roderick began, but I squeezed his hand to reassure him that I was looking after myself.
“Even disguised as you,” I told Julia, “with a wig and so on, it would be obvious to anyone who knows you that a different woman was performing.”
She reached across the table to seize my hands. “Not when you are so skilled,” she cajoled. “I am certain you can capture my manner and gestures if you attend rehearsals with me. The rest of the troupe will know, naturellement, but they will hold their tongues if I compensate them sufficiently. The audience would be our real witnesses—and they will be fooled, to a man! You know how people see what they expect to see. That will work to our advantage as well.”
Despite my reservations, the idea had ignited a spark of interest in me. What a challenge—to play not merely the melodrama heroine but Julia portraying the character! But I must not let my thespian’s instincts—or my vanity—get away with me.
“Are you certain you know where the letters are?” I asked. “That seems the crucial point.”
Her energetic nod set her earrings dancing. “He keeps all of his important documents in his study, in his desk. Forcing the locks on the drawers should not be difficult—I have seen them.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I attended a reception at his mansion once.”
Roderick asked, “How did he happen to acquire the letters?”
“As I said before, that is not important.”
“And his servants?” he pressed her. “What if they see you?
She made an impatient gesture. “I shall not make sufficient disturbance to draw attention. But if I am seen, I can tell them that I came for an assignation. They will certainly believe that.”
Something about her glib assurances sat ill with me, and Roderick was scrutinizing her as thoughtfully as if he, too, felt something was going unsaid. “Wouldn’t it be far easier if you just returned to his bed?” he asked deliberately.
She widened her dark eyes at him. “What on earth do you mean, ‘returned’?”
“It’s obvious that you were once his mistress. Otherwise, why would he have your letters, and how would you be so familiar with his house? This is a lovers’ quarrel that you’ve chosen to drag me into quite without reason. Just go to Fournier and make up.” He shook his head in exasperation. “It would have taken less time than this conversation.”
To my amazement, she did not deny his charge. “I finished with him years ago. I have told you, an affair with him now would be highly unwise, as disliked as he is. Besides, Fournier is weak tea for a woman such as I. Why should I sacrifice even one night to such dreary sport?”
“Perhaps it will teach you to be more discreet in your correspondence,” Roderick said blandly, “or to find a new husband so you needn’t rely on the indulgence of men whose lives you’ve poisoned.”
“Just a moment,” I said. “Julia, if you and this man were lovers, you must have cared for him once, mustn’t you?”
“Cared for him?” She shook her head at me as if chiding a foolish child. “Chérie, you must really learn to cast off your sentimentalism!”
So no tenderness existed on her side. “Is he a violent man?” I asked, groping for a reason for her utter refusal to consider his demand.
The corners of her mouth drooped with boredom, and she reached for her coffee. “Ma foi, I should like him the better if he had a trace of fire!”
Like Roderick? came the involuntary thought. Perhaps she had not been exaggerating when she said that other men paled beside Roderick and his intensity. I certainly could not imagine finding any other man as exciting.
At the same time, doubtless due to my inexperience, I was having a difficult time understanding her implacable refusal to tryst with a former lover. It did not sound as if she was afraid or agitated at the prospect, except for its social consequences. It did not even seem to be a matter of principle for her, which I could have understood. The last thing I wanted was to persuade a woman to go to a man’s bed against her will, but with so much at stake, that seemed the less dangerous course—unless there was something she was not telling us. Possibly there was a reason she was too shy to divulge, although shy was not the first word, or even the hundredth, I would have associated with her.
She must have grown impatient with my silence, for now she asked, “How would you feel if one of your castoff lovers should demand that you receive him again?”
Castoff admirers I certainly had, but no former lovers—not that I saw any reason to tell her so—and perhaps that was my difficulty. “I just want to be certain you’ve thought through the possible implications of the burglary plan,” I said carefully. “Are you truly certain that the risk of being arrested as a thief is worth thwarting the man? Might you be sent to prison?”
“Don’t you see, that is why it is so important that you provide an alibi for me. No one will ever be able to prove that I was not on stage that night before hundreds of people!”
Seeing my reluctance, she reached across the table to take my hand. “Sybil chérie, as a woman, you must understand my feelings. Imagine if some dreadful oaf were trying to do this to you. How degrading it would be to know that all he had to do was snap his fingers to make you run to him. How humiliating it would be to have him see you naked and at your most vulnerable. He would be free to paw you all over your body, to kiss you—to do anything in his vile imagination.”
The thought churned my stomach, and I looked at Roderick. He frowned, but before he could speak she gushed, “And think what wonderful publicity it will be for you, Roderick! Ivey will happily make you concertmaster in the orchestra, and I have no doubt that there will be opportunity to compose new music for the play—what better way to regain your old prestige and announce that Roaring Brooke is once again poised to take France by storm!”
His face gave no sign as to whether that prospect interested him. “Why don’t you hire a footpad or ask one of your friends to burglarize Fournier’s home?”
“Are you mad? Why would I be such a fool as to let the letters pass into someone else’s hands when they could blackmail me as easily as Fournier?”
Evidently she had little faith in her friends. Roderick shook his head, nearly out of patience. “Julia, it’s a preposterous plan,” he said in a level voice. “Besides, it would be far too much of an imposition on Sybil. I can’t believe you can seriously suggest such a thing.”
Instead of getting angry, she put her head on one side and gave him a cajoling look. “If you do not like my plan, there is a much simpler way,” she said softly. “Call him out. As a Frenchman, he will not refuse a duel. And you have already proven that you—”
Before she could finish, Roderick came to his feet with such suddenness that a waiter had to catch his chair before it hit the ground. His nostrils were flared, and I would not have been surprised to see flame emanate from them.
“Absolutely not,” he hissed in a whisper more dangerous than a shout. “Goodbye, Julia.”
We were all on our feet now. She reached out appealingly for him, though he evaded her grasp. “Wait, s’il te plaît! Forgive me—I ought never to have said such a thing. I am so desperate, you must understand. It was a rash idea.”
Roderick was still a hair’s breadth from stalking away. I was torn, uncertain how much of Julia’s histrionics was the truth. Far more important than my own feelings, though, were Roderick’s. I knew that if he left now he would still feel that he owed Julia something, and his blood guilt would continue to hang over him. I could not bear that for him.
I laid my hand on his arm. “I’m willing to try the impersonation plan if you are,” I told him, and immediately reali
zed my error. Roderick and I should present a united front. I ought to have told Julia we would confer privately.
But after brief consideration he bowed his head in acquiescence. Gravely he told Julia, “You are fortunate that Sybil is so tenderhearted. Since she is willing, we will help you out of this predicament—but only because, as you so helpfully pointed out, I owe you that much.” His voice was a forbidding rumble. “Once this is done, my debt to you is paid, and I won’t ever come running again.”
Her eyes lit up, and she darted over to bestow a kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint but definite trace of rouge. “Merci mille fois, mon beau! Thank you a thousand times. I knew you would not fail me. And thank you, Sybil. I feel so much easier in my mind now that you are helping me. You both must come to the closing night of The Mountain’s Peak tomorrow to meet Ivey.”
Roderick took up my mantle and wrapped it around my shoulders, indicating an end to the conversation. As we made to depart, Julia laid a hand on his sleeve to detain him.
“One thing, Roderick, before you go.” Her voice had taken on a flirtatious note once more, and her accent gave the words a foreign charm. “I understand that the two of you are not sharing a bed. Would you like to share mine?”
In the silence that followed, the music from the orchestra sounded jarringly buoyant. With a nervous laugh, I said, “You may not realize it, Julia, but you actually said that in English.”
Her dimples peeped out. “Of course I did! I am not so underhanded as to try to steal Roderick behind your back. It is better to be frank about such things, non?”
I was certain Roderick would unleash a storm of reproach upon her, but instead, to my astonishment, his mouth quirked with laughter. “Julia,” he said, and the mildness of his voice was another surprise, “thank you for proving that my imagination has not exaggerated your faults over the years. Please get it into your head that I am going to marry Sybil.”
“I know you are, and I wish you both joy in your life together. But until that happy day arrives”—she drew her index finger down his waistcoat, and he pushed her hand away—“why should you not spend your nights with me?”
The astonishing thing is that I could not be angry at her. What kind of witchcraft did she employ to make such an offensive suggestion sound merely saucy... even, heaven help me, endearing? I could well understand why men found her irresistible. Immune though I was to her power of seduction, she had thoroughly muddled my head.
But Roderick’s face had gone stony. “You know it isn’t in your best interests to alienate us when we’ve agreed to help you out of this mess. I do it because I feel I owe it to you, but Sybil is acting out of generosity—and it would be contemptible to pay her back by trying to force us apart. Do you understand?”
A lift of one eyebrow registered how impressive this speech was. “How commanding you have become!” she murmured. “The Roderick I knew before was a boy, but you are a man.”
“Now, Julia,” I put in, “I think that’s enough seduction for one evening. You’ve led a worthy charge, but at least have the courtesy to give Roderick a chance to catch his breath before you launch the next attack.”
Though I spoke lightly, I admit that I was hiding the stirrings of anxiety. I had complete faith in Roderick and his love for me, and I knew he had no intention of deserting me. But doubts whispered in the back of my mind.
Julia may have noted this, for I thought there was a knowing look in her eyes. “I shall regroup my forces, then,” she said. “Bon soir, mes chers!”
“Bon soir,” I echoed, and my last glimpse of her as Roderick and I left was her mocking smile.
Chapter Five
“Do you feel like walking for a time?” Roderick asked as we exited the gardens and the music gradually faded behind us. “I’d like to clear my head and get the taste of Julia out of my mouth.” When I did not answer immediately, he added, “That was poorly phrased.”
“I should enjoy walking.” I squeezed his arm. “It’s the first time you and I have truly been alone together in Paris.” The fiacre journey to the Jardin Mabille had been too brief to count.
As much as I loved London, I had to admit that here in Paris I felt far safer taking a nighttime stroll. Between the wide avenues and the brilliant gas streetlights that illuminated them, together with the police patrolling almost every corner, there was no fear of footpads leaping out from dark corners and narrow alleys. The city’s population took advantage of this security, and there were many strolling couples and groups, window shopping at the brightly illuminated store displays, or sitting outside the cafés enjoying ice cream or coffee.
Even though it took us away from our hotel, we turned our steps toward the Seine and the Ponte de l’Alma. We strolled across the bridge until we reached the first pier, with its massive stone statue of a grenadier, where we stopped to lean on the stone balustrade and gaze out at the view. Farther down, closer to the left bank of the river, the second pier bore a giant statue of a Zouave in his distinctive fez. The sky wore streaks of coral across a slate-blue cloud bank, and a soft breeze lifted our hair—for Roderick, as was his custom, had not worn a top hat, which had won a few supercilious glances from well-dressed gentlemen we passed.
Beneath us the river made liquid, hushing sounds as it flowed past, and the reflections of the streetlamps rippled in the moving water. It was soothing after the bright lights and music we had left behind.
Presently I asked, “Is it very painful seeing her again?”
Even in the low illumination afforded by the nearest streetlamp I saw the wry expression that twisted his mouth. “Mainly because it makes me ashamed all over again of my actions years ago, of how foolish and reckless I was when I was with her... how I gave over all my faculties of reason and became a creature of pure flesh.”
“You must forgive your younger self,” I said. “You were in love with her, inspired by her. It wasn’t your flesh alone but your soul and your heart that responded to her.”
His shoulders lifted, then fell in a disheartened shrug. “I’m not even sure anymore,” he said.
My heart constricted painfully at the defeat in his voice. “Listen to me, my darling. Be gentle with yourself—and patient. I can be patient as well.” With difficulty I shaped my next words. “I can imagine how hard it must be to recover from loving a woman like her, how a man might be haunted. I shall understand if it takes more time...”
At this, he gave me his full attention, turning from the view of the dark waters to look into my eyes. “Sybil, sweetheart.” The huskiness of his voice was like a velvet cloak wrapping around me. “I don’t want her anymore. You are the woman I love.” Then he winced. “I’m ashamed I let her goad me into losing my temper, though. I can imagine that she took that as a sign that I still have some—well—weakness for her.”
She certainly had taken his anger as encouragement; I had seen it excite her. I supposed that in their volatile relationship, characterized as it had been (or so Roderick had given me to understand) by extremes of emotion, anger must have been one facet of Roderick’s passion for her. This was not utterly strange, for Roderick and I had spent much of our early acquaintance at daggers drawn, and the way we quickened each other’s blood in argument seemed only to make us more exciting to each other. Even now, Julia might believe that if she could spark his anger she could also reawaken his desire for her.
“This probably goes without saying, but even if she means it in jest”—and I did not think she did—“I don’t like her trying to seduce you. I’m trying not to be stuffy about it, but I want you to know that I cannot take these things as lightly as she does.”
“It doesn’t make you stuffy in the least.” Perhaps sensing that wasn’t the reassurance I wanted, he added, “I no longer take such liaisons as lightly I did when I was younger, although even then I’m certain I took our affair far more seriously than Julia did. I thought... well, never mind.”
He had thought she had taken it seriously enough to want to marry him
and spend their lives together, but he had been wrong. I laced my fingers through his. “She may not have grown more mature in her thinking since you last saw her, but I trust she’ll soon recognize how futile all of her overtures are.”
He tried to smile, but his face held a weariness that hurt me to see. “She can certainly be persistent. But even if my heart weren’t given, no matter how charming she can be, there is one feature in her that can’t help but dissuade me from ever finding her attractive again.”
“Oh?” I tried to think of a flaw in her beauty and could not.
His eyes were somber. “Whenever I look at her, I see the dead, white face of her husband after I shot him.”
“Oh, Roderick.” My heart gave a pang, and I slipped my arms around him and held him tight. “You don’t have to stay and see her again. I can carry out this ridiculous plan of hers. You should return to Vienna.”
“Absolutely not. Leave you to cope with this coil on your own, when you owe her nothing? That would be a blackguardly thing to do. But are you certain you are willing to go through with this, Sybil? It’s a tremendous thing to be asked to do for a stranger. If you’ve thought better of it, I quite understand.”
I smiled up at the concern in his beautiful eyes. “I would do far more for your sake, dear heart. But I don’t mind helping her. It’s a horrible position for any woman to find herself in.”
At the same time, I resolved to dispatch this business as quickly as possible and leave France. The sooner we could finish our errand of mercy and leave Julia—and get married—the better.
This was especially clear in my mind after we retired. Parting each night was always wrenching. Tearing myself from his embrace, putting a stop to the murmured words, trying to ignore the way he looked at me with banked fires in his hazel eyes... The presence of our chaperone, Mrs. Vise, was an effective damper on displays of affection, but even under her stern, repressive gaze it took every ounce of mental strength I possessed to draw back from Roderick’s kiss and leave him for the night.
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 6