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.”
“Naturally not.” The Frenchman narrowed his eyes in Arthur’s direction, as if Arthur’s mere presence might rival that of the robber in despicability.
Arthur was glad when he took his leave of Comte Beaulieu.
Chapter Seven
Arthur strolled toward his hotel, familiarizing himself with the area. Pastel colored homes perched on the hill surrounding him.
The setting sun and all its marvels of tangerine and lilac beams could not compete with the foamy azure ocean crashing along the sandy beach. The color was as consistently
vibrant and blue as the locals claimed, and Arthur strode through cobbled lanes surrounded by pastel colored homes, decorated by window boxes bursting with geraniums. The cacophony of color, the aroma of warm bread drifting through bakery windows and mingling with the flowers and faint scent of the sea, did not dissuade him from his mission.
He ambled toward the shore, keeping an eye for any Italians who might have a penchant for climbing over roofs in search of priceless jewels. Fort Carré, the prison that had held even Bonaparte at one time, overlooked the ocean. Its imposing size and long bastions served as a reminder of France’s determination to trample any revolt.
Somebody moved on the sand.
Was that…Admiral Fitzroy?
Arthur blinked.
The thought was impossible.
He’d seen Admiral Fitzroy last week, and the man had certainly not mentioned any trips to the French Riviera.
Yet a man who looked very much like Admiral Fitzroy stood on the sand. No Hessians adorned his feet, and no golden epaulets gleamed from his shoulders. The man still wore a cravat, but the tie was much looser, perhaps a result of the consistent wind.
He looked like any Englishman on holiday.
He looked, in fact, like Admiral Fitzroy on holiday.
Especially since the admiral was waving.
Arthur headed toward him. He couldn’t pretend to not see a waving man.
What on earth was the admiral doing here? Did he not think he could accomplish his task alone? The man might have mentioned if he’d planned to holiday in Antibes. He could have taken on the investigation himself and not dragged Arthur into the depths of former enemy territory.
“Hullo, Bancroft,” Admiral Fitzroy called out. “What a surprise.”
“Yes,” Arthur said, even though he rather thought it was no surprise at all—at least for Admiral Fitzroy. He’d ordered him here after all.
Perhaps the man was involved in the mission.
“Are you working on the case?” Arthur asked.
The admiral laughed. “With this nice weather? It’s a holiday.”
“Splendid,” Arthur said.
They weren’t the only English people here.
Yet he could hardly say that Antibes was in easy distance of London, and Arthur was more surprised than if he’d happened upon the admiral at Hyde Park.
“My wife insisted. Apparently even Cornwall is prone to rain.”
“She might be right.”
The admiral winked at him. “And the wine is a definite improvement.”
Arthur smiled, though he wondered why everyone lauded marriage as a means to respectability. In his experience, married people were the most prone to throw respectability away, requiring only their spouse’s approval.
His sister Louisa had changed from a shy debutante with bluestocking instincts that kept her close to books about oceans to a woman happily married to a captain, sailing the oceans with his crew of ex-pirates. Even Percival, his honor driven older brother, had abandoned his intended after meeting the woman he would later marry, and they spent inordinate amounts of time digging for ruins in foreign locations. His stepsister, Veronique, ran a publishing company with her new husband.
He shivered to think at what might happen to his younger sister Irene. He was happy she hadn’t debuted yet.
No, marriage might make some people happy, but it hardly made them respectable.
“How is the wife hunt going? Found any good prospects?”
“I was thinking about going to Venice,” Arthur said.
“Ah, pretty women there?”
“Of course.” Arthur winked.
When Arthur winked, he generally received two reactions. Women’s skin pinkened. Men tended to respond in a different, if equally predictable, manner. They usually grinned.
Admiral Fitzroy did no such thing. Perhaps his skin remained the same color, and his lips seemed to even swerve somewhat downward. “Be serious, Bancroft.”
“I was looking at the proportion of married to unmarried ministers, and I assure you that—”
Admiral Fitzroy’s normally jovial expression disappeared entirely, and he strode toward Arthur. Sand splattered around his feet as he moved forcefully. “I expect you to take my words seriously.”
“But I have ideas to help—”
The admiral shrugged. “You’ll need support to get you elected. If you want the party to get behind you.” He smiled more expansively. “But do not fear. Do you remember Lady Theodosia?”
“Naturally,” Arthur said.
Arthur wasn’t certain how a giggling eighteen-year-old would make him a beacon of decorum, unless contrast was important to the eyes of the electorate.
The admiral’s eyes gleamed. “You’re in luck. She’s here with us.”
“On the Côte d’Azur?” Arthur’s voice croaked, and he had the horrible feeling that the smile he’d attempted to give Admiral Fitzroy was crooked.
“Indeed.” The admiral beamed. “Think of your good fortune!”
He swallowed hard.
Oh.
Of course.
That’s why Arthur was here. Likely the admiral had always been planning to holiday here, and he’d sent Arthur on the only case available in the area.
“Since you haven’t found somebody—”
No wonder the admiral wanted him to visit the French Riviera. Likely he was as disinterested in what happened to jewels as Arthur was. He’d probably just jumped at the possibility of getting Arthur away from the crush of London’s best balls.
Arthur gaze about him, as if an alternative prospect might conjure herself. There were some Englishwomen here, but most of them were of the older variety, optimistically bathing themselves in French saltwater in the hopes of prolonging their lives.
“Lady Theodosia!” The admiral called in the direction of his family.
Some women giggled, and soon Lady Theodosia strode toward them. Her sister, Lady Amaryllis, and the admiral’s wife looked on.
Lady Theodosia was wearing rather less ribbons on her dress than when he’d met her in London, but he recognized her instantly. Her hair was still arranged in long curls, though the sea breeze had tousled them.
He bowed. “We meet again.”
Lady Theodosia clasped her hands together. “It must be fate.”
“E-excuse me?” He emitted an uncharacteristic stammer, and the admiral smiled, as if Arthur had been rendered inarticulate by Lady Theodosia’s beauty.
“I will let you young people be alone,” the admiral said.
“You needn’t leave,” Arthur said hoarsely.
“My dear marquess,” the admiral said. “I will be a few dozen feet away. I assure you I will be here to stop you should you attempt to ravish my niece.”
“I—I wouldn’t—” Arthur stammered.
The admiral raised his hand to stop him. “I would hope not. I might not have been at the front, but I haven’t forgotten how to shoot a musket.”
The admiral ambled away, and Lady Theodosia clapped her hands together. “Do you not feel my uncle is the sweetest man alive?”
Memories of the admiral ordering assassinations and ordering battle plans that would sacrifice English soldiers drifted through Arthur’s mind.
“He seems to display distinct heroic tendencies,” Arthur said. “Perhaps even inordinate ones.”
She stepped toward him. “Do you believe in fate, Lord Bancroft?”
“I have not given fate much thought,” he confessed.
Arthur was certain her lashes did not need to blink as much as they did. They were hardly in the midst of a sandstorm, even though he wished he were on distinctly more solid ground than the beach provided.
A cloying floral scent that seemed equally distributed over her hair, neck, shoulders and face, easily succeeded in overwhelming the scent of the ocean.
“Who is your favorite poet?” Lady Theodosia asked.
“Shakespeare.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Theodosia rested her hand
over her bosom, and her eyes widened with obvious horror.
“Is there a problem?” He surveyed the area automatically, just in case some madman brandishing a sabre had appeared.
There was no one.
Just himself, evidently claiming an inappropriate degree of enthusiasm for the creator of some glorious sonnets and equally glorious plays.
Lady Theodosia sighed. “Well, he is frightfully old-fashioned.” She leaned toward him. “In my youth I quite enjoyed Sir Walter Scott.”
Arthur blinked. “You still seem to be in the midst of your youth.”
“How chivalrous of you,” she murmured.
“Do you no longer enjoy Sir Walter Scott?” he asked carefully.
“So much adventure,” Lady Theodosia said. “I now prefer a purer poet.”
Arthur braced himself for the sound of her hands clapping together.
He’d heard the sound before.
He knew the poet she would mention.
“Byron,” Lady Theodosia murmured. “Is the most wonderful man alive.”
“Oh?”
She opened her eyes. “I would not want to compare you with him.”
“There are some scandals associated with him,” Arthur said.
“Generated by those jealous of the man’s well deserved fame.” Lady Theodosia practically roared, and Arthur was certain the admiral should feel assured that her ladyship was related to him, had he any doubt.
At any moment her ladyship was bound to start quoting poetry. Her eyes had taken on the distant, faraway look of a person seeking to describe vistas that did not exist.
“But there is another person whom I find even more intriguing than Byron,” Lady Theodosia confessed.
“Oh?” He smiled.
This could be good news. Perhaps she’d been smitten after viewing some nobleman with well-formed thighs and romantic gazes. Perhaps the man was even French, and she would remove herself forever from London parties for some moss-ridden chateau.
“You’re smiling,” Lady Theodosia said. “I was unsure of your feelings.”
“Me? Nonsense. I know the strength of desire.”
“Oh, you are romantic too.” She clasped her hands together, and once more her eyelashes seemed to be battling an invisible sandstorm. “I was worried about the Shakespeare reference—so dreadfully dated, but I suppose you are an older man.”
A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Page 5