“Hardly. I was not even impressed by an American queen-to-be in Bohemia,” I responded tartly.
“You will have little to occupy you in Monte Carlo, I fear,” Irene said, “for our business involves princesses, old tars and, I suspect, sealing wax, if not cabbages and kings.”
“I had enough of kings in Bohemia.”
“Indeed.” Irene eyed Godfrey, who was busy checking his pocket watch. “I have had my fill of that species also. But the real aristocracy of Monte Carlo is not old King Charles the Third, who is blind, or Lady Luck, who is even blinder. It is not even Prince Albert, who will soon inherit this Mecca on the Mediterranean. No, Monaco’s reigning monarch is the gambler, who nightly risks thousands of francs, dollars, pounds and marks in the temple of gaming called a casino.”
“It is a Whited Sepulchre,” said I, pinning the bonnet Irene had lent me firmly to my hair.
Within hours we were ensconced in airy adjoining suites at the Hotel de Paris. Long French windows opened onto the sea view from every room, although one could hardly spy the blue sparkle of the water through the tumbling vines of exotic flowers that spilled from the balcony tubs and down the landscape toward the lapping waves.
In my own chamber, I inhaled a mélange of strange scents along with a lungful of warm, salt-seasoned air. How delicious to be free of Casanova’s continual croakings! Really, one cannot comprehend how it dampens all emotion to be saddled with the constant company of a chronic intoner of gloom and doom. Outside my window, vivid scarlet and cerise blossoms nodded their fragrant agreement.
I admitted to myself a small thrill of conversion to the Riviera, beginning with the open carriage Godfrey had engaged at the train station. We had ridden in nodding, smiling splendor up the cramped, winding, cobblestoned streets of the Condamine, the portion that occupies the low ground between the city of Monte Carlo itself and the Rock of Monaco, the principality’s sparkling summit. Flower-draped villas clung to precipices between, as they had along the railroad line into Monte Carlo. The scene seemed painted in a slapdash hand of blue and white, enhanced with flashes of green foliage and crimson blooms.
“Smell the scented air!” Irene exclaimed. “This suggests the American South, though I have never seen it.” Her eager features turned every which way as if to devour each exotic detail. “I adore it, Godfrey! We must honeymoon here every year.”
He laughed and tipped his hat to a passing party in an open equipage who, in turn, greeted us out of sheer exuberance for the climate rather than acquaintanceship.
“This,” said I, “is how I imagined Paris to be. Bright, warm and gay.”
“Certainly it is not London,” Irene said. She frowned through the spidery latticework of her veil. “This is such a happy spot that it must be doubly dire to face ruin here.”
Godfrey’s schoolboy grin vanished. “We are here on grim business, certainly. I shall look into the suicide of Claude Montpensier as soon as I can make the rounds of the local legal and journalistic offices next week.”
“Ah, excellent!” Irene melted into the cushioned carriage seat with catlike luxury. “Legal and journalistic sources are so divinely dull! You attend to unearthing the tedious facts, dearest Godfrey, at which you so excel. Nell and I shall concentrate on such frivolities as finding the unfortunate Louise and meeting the Duchesse de Richelieu, my American cousin, so to speak.”
He laughed at this high-handed division of labor even as I sputtered my objections to climbing the social ladder in yet another unknown city.
“First we will have a day or two to enjoy the sea air,” Godfrey said. “I recommend it; in fact, I prescribe it. Meetings and maneuvering can wait!”
I did so admire Godfrey when he managed to deter Irene’s unfortunate curiosity into all that was obscure, salacious and none of our affair. A pity his masterfulness didn’t last.
The weekend was spent in driving, dining and walking. I made certain that my two friends had sufficient time to themselves by pleading weariness or my diary and remaining in the hotel.
“To Hellespont with your everlasting diaries!” Irene said once, drawing on cerise kid gloves. “It is yet another glorious day.”
“You do not complain of my diaries when they produce needed notations for your purposes,” I answered mildly. “I cannot be precise if I do not cultivate and weed them daily.”
“What have you to write of here, save sunshine and flowers and Monsieur Escoffier’s crepes at the Grand Hotel?”
“For one thing, the bearded gentleman who has been following us.”
“Following us? When?” Irene was indignant.
Godfrey cross-examined me. “Bearded? Like a sailor? Where?”
How satisfying to note their mutual amazement; I did not often surprise either one. Now I was happy to answer their questions in sequence.
“Since we arrived at the hotel this morning. Bearded—more like a gentleman. Everywhere.”
“Why did you say nothing?” Godfrey demanded.
“I assumed that you both noticed his presence and forbore mentioning the fact to spare me worry. He was no Pinkerton, to be sure, and they are most obvious, as Irene herself has bewailed on many an occasion.”
Irene was laughing by now, torn between admiring the protective glint in Godfrey’s eyes and snuffing the smugness in mine. Despite my retiring intentions, she swept me along for a stroll along the promenade skirting the sea. “Nell, you sly boots! Describe your anonymous admirer.”
“He most certainly is not!”
“You are a lone third to our pair. Why shouldn’t you attract the attention of an unattached gentleman?”
“In Monte Carlo? Irene, please! The very parlor palms conceal beautiful American heiresses and Continental adventuresses. Why should some gentleman waste his time observing me?”
“Perhaps,” Godfrey said gallantly, “he has discernment. But describe him to us.”
“He is of middle years, though not old; well groomed save for the beard—not that it is not well groomed, but you know that I much prefer a clean-shaven man. A mustache, of course, is acceptable.”
“Thank you,” Godfrey put in, twitching his. “I know your standards are rigorous.”
“And purely my own. As I say, he is not evil-looking, but quite respectable. Dark hair and eyes. Curiously neat hands... or rather, curiously precise hands, like an accountant’s. He looks, in fact, quite utterly harmless. No doubt I slander the man by even mentioning him. I wouldn’t want to cause an innocent stranger undeserved difficulties!”
The longer I spoke, the more convinced I became that I was hanging a lamb for a sheep. Oh, the responsibility of presuming to read the actions of one’s fellow men! Truly, I was usurping the prerogatives of godhead.
“No doubt you are quite right and he is harmless,” Godfrey agreed.
“Still,” Irene suggested silkily, “point the fellow out when you see him. Merely to satisfy our curiosity, of course.”
“You would not. . . confront him?”
“Confront him? Certainly not.” Irene sounded rather wounded. “My methods are never confrontational. You should know that, my dear Nell.”
Irene spoke only the truth, but it was no consolation. On our last walk along the promenade, no palm top could scrub the soapy clouds and clean blue sky above us without my examining its trunk for glimpses of a lurking homburg, a manicured dark beard or a worn but well-polished shoe.
I carried a green silk parasol Irene had insisted I buy at one of the principality’s expensive milliners. She strolled on Godfrey’s other side, her parasol handle dashingly cocked over her shoulder, her arm through his, lounging along as if a Monégasque born.
The sun and shade jousted for possession of her lovely features. I welcomed our southern adventure merely for the mute rapport that sparkled between man and wife, as if he were the great, glittering blue sea and she the sharp, dancing sunlight that glinted from its surface.
I was, in fact, composing a most lyrical diary entry on the subj
ect of conjugal affection—an emotion I was no doubt never to experience personally, for my callow entoilment with the penniless parson, Jasper Higgenbottom, last heard of laboring in some mission’s foreign field, had evaporated. Now that I had known so fine a gentleman as Godfrey, I doubted that the mere mortal men common to my station in life would satisfy me. I was, as I report, waxing quite poetic and resigned when Irene spun to face Godfrey and myself, making us into a tight, conspiratorial triumvirate.
“There! Is that he, Nell? Our shadow? Our gentlemanly accountant? Don’t turn! Glance coquettishly under your parasol flounce . . . well, glance slowly at least, as if you were admiring a flower. Is that he?”
I glanced, whether as subtly as prescribed, I cannot say. “Yes,” I whispered, whirling back to them. “Is he watching us?”
“He is now,” Irene said drily. “I must teach you the art of the indirect look as soon as we return to the hotel.” Godfrey presented his arms to us and turned smartly on the walk. By this simple stratagem, we were all facing back toward the object of our interest and could amble in his direction.
“I told you he was respectable,” I hissed as we neared the man in question. “He wears a hat and carries a cane.”
“So did Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Irene reminded me. “What do you think, Godfrey?”
“That Nell is astute. A professional man, though not rich—look at those shoes—but certainly more than an accountant, I think. His gaze does not falter.”
Mine faltered, dramatically, as we neared the place where he stood. What if Irene should suddenly greet him, naming me as the one who had drawn their attention to him?
“Never fear, Nell,” she murmured in my ear. “I won’t disgrace you.”
As we passed him, I breathed again. Before us lay the rococo Hotel de Paris, set in a bezel of pots of red geraniums. Irene presented Godfrey and myself with her cheek for farewell kisses.
“Now, my darlings, you must continue your walk, as I have a frightful headache. It must be this strong Mediterranean sun. I will return to the suite.”
“I will go with—”
“No, Nell, you must walk to and fro with Godfrey until you determine if the bearded gentleman is watching you—or if he was watching me, which has been known to happen—or if he is observing cockatoos in the palm trees. I shall be fine. Really, I insist.”
She was gone, leaving Godfrey and me to meekly follow orders. We strolled up and down the promenade so many times that the bearded gentleman finally deposited himself upon a bench. I began to wish for such a mercy.
Godfrey remained calm, discussing the history of the casino, inquiring into my Shropshire girlhood, and even treading dangerously near the subject of my sentimental attachments. This effectively distracted me from all but the mild weather, the endless pacing and the unfading presence of the bearded man.
At last Godfrey turned us back toward the hotel. The sun was blushing in readiness for its evening ablution in the sea. My parasol’s carved handle had impressed a heathen dragon shape into my palm. Even the promenade had grown deserted, and I could detect the pale glow of gaslights from the casino next to the hotel.
A solitary stroller, a young man with copious facial hair and wearing a pale holiday suit, went by with a tip of his slouch-brimmed hat. Godfrey nodded in passing and steered me for the hotel, which although pretentious, offered innumerable opportunities for sitting down.
At the door I could not resist turning. Under the cover of my now-unnecessary sunshade I glanced back at the bench the bearded man had occupied for the past forty- five minutes. It was empty.
“Godfrey—!”
He drew my gloved hand gently through his arm and led me in. “It’s quite all right, Nell. Irene is following him.”
Chapter Sixteen
INTERVIEW WITH A DUCHESS
I didn’t see Irene again until breakfast on Monday.
She and Godfrey had settled at a table upon the hotel terrace, the picture of the serene married couple. He was dressed for the day and peering at the fine print of the newspaper’s legal notices, and Irene, wearing a lace- cascading cashmere breakfast jacket, was feeding small songbirds a croissant flake by flake.
“My dear Penelope!” Godfrey rose to greet me. “You look pale and drawn. Are you ill?”
“Not at all, but I did have difficulty sleeping. I kept imagining Irene being waylaid by a bearded man and thrown to the bottom of the cliffs.”
She looked up, surprised, from her dainty little friends. Each bird would have made one bite for the absent Lucifer.
“My dear Nell, surely you were not worried! I would have bid you good night, but the hour was so late that it was early when I returned. I feared waking you.”
“Needlessly, it seems,” I said, accepting the hot tea the waiter had brought. ‘Then you successfully followed the bearded man, else you wouldn’t have stayed out so long.”
“Indeed.” She raised an eyebrow. “He went first to the palace, where he waited incognito for some time. Finally, at one in the morning, a heavily veiled lady emerged. He escorted her to a nondescript house not far from there. He stayed for an hour, then returned to his residence, a small hotel near the base of the city. I was home by three o’clock.”
I turned to her unruffled spouse. “And you, Godfrey, will no doubt tell me that you were not worried.”
“Of course I was worried, but what good did it do me? Irene returned safely and berated me for remaining awake.”
“At least you knew of her return.”
“At least you escaped her lecture,” he returned with a twinkling eye. “It was fierce.”
Suspicious still, I turned again to Irene. “And you mean to say that you were in no danger last night, that the bearded man never suspected your presence?”
“Never,” she answered. “I assure you that I was safer on the streets of Monaco than I would have been here in the hotel, where a jewel thief might have entered and rapped me on the head.”
“There were no untoward incidents?” I pressed. “None.” Irene produced a strange smile. “Except for a gentleman who made a rather shocking proposal in passing.”
“You see!” I waited until both Godfrey and Irene gave me their full attention. “Someone did see through your male disguise! A woman is not safe alone at night, or at any other time, in any guise.”
“He did not see through my disguise, dear Nell. Indeed, he would have been most disappointed if he had,” Irene said. Her odd half smile was both amused and indulgent, I fear at my expense.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Irene. And you needn’t hide behind the newspaper, Godfrey; I can tell you’re laughing. At any rate, I still hold that these solo expeditions are likely to catch up with you one day, Irene, and then there will be a terrible scandal.”
“I forever seem to flirt with one scandal or another,” she answered lightly. “But that is the advantage in being dead to the world. Who can harm me now?”
“You are still mortal,” I warned.
“My dear Nell,” Godfrey said, “our cautions fall on deaf ears. Irene has been doing as she will since long before I—or even you—met her.”
“Yes. And given her predilections now, one must wonder what she was about before we knew her.”
I detected a hint of confusion on my friend’s features and was about to pounce upon the issue of her past while she was still feeling guilty about her lone midnight lark. But a waiter swooped between us like a crow, presenting a silver salver to Irene.
“A message, Madame Norton. The bearer said it was urgent.”
Irene lifted the thick parchment envelope from the tray, all other topics forgotten. I should not forget, of course, but would obtain no answer now to any of my questions. With an unknown item before her, Irene was like Lucifer about to pounce upon a dust mote: feral concentration embodied.
She drew a hat pin from the tangle of lace and silk flowers dressing her hair and, with its six-inch steel barb, slit the envelope as neatly as a s
urgeon might. Before she withdrew the contents, her miniature rapier pricked the thick puddle of scarlet sealing wax upon the flap.
“The paper alone costs a pound a sheaf. The sealing wax is crimson... and scented,” she declared after lifting it to her nose.
“Not—?” I began.
“Not sandalwood-scented, no. And the insignia is so ornate that it is unreadable.”
“Then it must be French,” said I.
“Are you going to analyze the envelope, or open it?” Godfrey asked.
Irene smiled at our eager curiosity. Her fingertip traced the impetuous scrawl across the envelope’s face. “A woman, I think, in a hurry now, but quick to act even when there is no reason to. The loops are smudged, she was writing so speedily. The handwriting itself is conventional, save that the letters are cramped and angular. She will appear to obey the letter of the law, this woman, but her heart will always flout convention.”
“Another actress!” I complained. “Say it is not true that Sarah Bernhardt is visiting Monaco.”
“Not Sarah.” Irene drew out a piece of ivory parchment folded once in half. “There is not enough scent upon it.”
Godfrey had risen to lean over Irene’s chair as she read the letter. Her eyebrows raised, then she reread it.
“Interesting,” Godfrey commented.
“Very,” said she, sitting back to read it yet again.
“Well?” I demanded.
Irene passed the letter across the table to me. “It is from Alice, Duchess of Richelieu, nee Alice Heine of New Orleans. Sarah’s friend.”
“I should have known!” I pulled the pince-nez from my reticule to begin translating the ungoverned handwriting. The French was perfect but the writing outraced the meaning; letters were dropped, and even the occasional word, so that I found it hard going.
“She wishes to see you!” I said at last.
“Naturally. It was only a matter of time.”
“And Godfrey also.”
“Possibly because he is a barrister as well as my husband.”
“And your... your sister!”
The Adventuress: A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes Page 14