The Paris Affair

by Teresa Grant

  The Frenchman tugged his coat smooth. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will take the air.”

  “A wise choice.” O’Roarke glanced at the red-faced lieutenant. “I suggest a cup of coffee. I believe you may obtain one in the salon across the passage.”

  Slowly, play resumed. The Frenchman and the lieutenant moved to separate doors with what dignity they could muster.

  O’Roarke started across the room himself and stopped at the sight of Malcolm. “Well played,” Malcolm said. “I think you missed your calling as a diplomat.”

  O’Roarke gave a faint smile. “Those I’ve worked with would scarcely agree with you. But there’s been enough madness these past months. These past years. I hate to see it continue.”

  “It’s a rare thing to hear such sanity in Paris these days,” Harry said.

  O’Roarke cast a glance round the salon. “In truth, we’re closer to twenty years ago than I ever thought to see again.” He turned back to Malcolm and Harry. “I must be off, I’m promised to look in at the Russian embassy. Enjoy your evening. Though I rather suspect it has more to do with work than pleasure.”

  He was off with a smile and a nod. Harry looked after him. “O’Roarke was in Paris twenty years ago?”

  “He was an early supporter of the Revolution,” Malcolm said. “Speaking out in coffeehouses, writing pamphlets, organizing protests. Then he was imprisoned in Les Carmes during the Terror. He was nearly guillotined. Only a matter of days according to my mother.” Malcolm had only been six, but he still recalled his mother’s white face and the way she’d scanned the Paris papers, fingers taut on the newsprint.

  “He was a friend of your family?” Harry asked.

  “He used to visit quite a bit, particularly in Ireland where my grandfather has estates. I saw a lot of him growing up, especially before the United Irish Uprising. He had a knack for talking to a confused boy as though he were an adult. “

  “We could use more like him.”

  “I’ve often thought—”

  “Rannoch,” a voice called out. “What are you doing here?”

  It was Freddy Camden, who had been two years ahead of Malcolm at Harrow. His younger brother had fought at Waterloo and come through with minor wounds. Freddy had come to Paris during the peace with other expatriates.

  “What else does one do at the Salon des Etrangers?” Malcolm said, relaxing his posture. “Seeking diversion.”

  “You don’t seek diversion, Rannoch.” Freddy threaded his way between the tables. “You’re always working. Even at school. You’ve just traded books for dispatches.”

  “He has hidden depths,” Harry said.

  “You come here often?” Malcolm asked.

  “Lord, yes.” Freddy pushed his lank fair hair back from his eyes. “That is, where else is one to go in Paris? Feels just like home.”

  “What else would one want in a foreign capital?” Harry murmured.

  “Yes, quite,” Freddy agreed, the irony lost on him.

  “We’re looking for someone specific as it happens,” Malcolm said. “Have you met a woman named Christine Leroux?”

  Freddy stared at him for a moment. “Good lord, Rannoch. And here I actually believed the talk that you were happily married.” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “Good for you.”

  Malcolm sent a mental apology to his wife, while at the same time wishing she were present. She’d appreciate the scene. “I don’t suppose you’d believe I want to interview her?”

  “Call it whatever you like. Mademoiselle Leroux is rather out of my league, but you never know. She’s in the salon across the passage. In a green gown.”

  Christine Leroux stood at a rouge et noir table. She wore a gown of bronze green satin, cut along elegant lines and low at the neck. Her hair, a dark, rich brown, was drawn into a simple knot with artful tendrils escaping about her face. She held a glass of champagne in one hand. As they watched, she stepped forwards and leaned over the shoulder of a Highland captain to whisper encouragement.

  Harry went still halfway across the room.

  Malcolm cast a glance at him.

  “Sorry,” Harry murmured. “For a moment I saw a ghost. Cordelia last night, with Edmond Talleyrand.”

  Malcolm and Harry proceeded across the room. The dragoon leaned forwards to make his play. Christine straightened up. Then she turned round, quickly but still with grace, and looked Malcolm directly in the eye. “Not that I don’t enjoy being looked at, but I confess I’m a bit curious as to the reason.”

  She had a low, musical voice with the resonance of a trained singer. “We haven’t met, Mademoiselle Leroux,” Malcolm said. “I trust you will forgive the informality of the introduction. My name is Rannoch, Malcolm Rannoch. My friend Harry Davenport.”

  Christine Leroux regarded them from beneath artfully darkened lashes. She had a thin, fine-boned face, dominated by a pair of wide, expressive brown eyes. “What may I do for you gentlemen?”

  “Perhaps we could talk somewhere quieter?”

  She gave a throaty laugh. “About?”

  “I believe we have an acquaintance in common,” Malcolm said. “Or rather had.”

  Her brows lifted, darkened and strongly marked. “Oh?”

  “Antoine Rivère.”

  For a moment Christine Leroux’s face went still. Faint lines stood out about her eyes and mouth beneath carefully applied paint. “Yes, I knew Antoine. The Comte de Rivère. A bit. It was tragic what happened to him.”

  “So it was. We are endeavoring to learn the truth.”

  “He died in a tavern brawl.”

  “It may have been more complicated. Perhaps if we could go to another room?”

  Christine Leroux cast a glance at the dragoon, who had won the last hand, and gave a quick nod. She led the way across the room, drawing a number of glances, and down the passage to a small sitting room hung with cream-colored silk. She swept forwards, leaving it to them to close the door, and took up a position in front of the unlit fireplace, where the light from the two braces of candles fell at a flattering angle across her face. Every movement carefully controlled, an actress setting the stage. She was only an inch or so over five feet tall, but she dominated the scene. “The champagne in the cooler on the table should be chilled. Perhaps one of you gentlemen could pour us all a glass? I don’t know about you, but I find myself in need of fortification.”

  Malcolm uncorked the bottle—which was indeed well chilled—and filled three glasses, while Harry leaned against a chair, his gaze on Mademoiselle Leroux. Mademoiselle Leroux held her position. She might have been the lady of the house, waiting for her footmen to serve her.

  “I assume you mean to explain further,” she said at last, when Malcolm put a glass into her hand.

  “Colonel Davenport and I found your name in a letter in Rivère’s rooms.” Malcolm carried a second glass over to Harry. “It appears you were more than acquainted.”

  Mademoiselle Leroux studied him for a moment, then gave a faint smile. “Surely you realize there are different degrees of acquaintance, Monsieur Rannoch.”

  Malcolm returned to the table and picked up the third glass. “As a friend, I’m sure you wish to learn what happened to him.”

  For a moment, something flickered in her eyes that might have been grief. “Of course.” She took a sip of champagne. “But I don’t see how I can help you.”

  Harry turned his glass in his hand, studying the play of candlelight on the crystal. “In this letter, Rivère makes certain comments about his future. About a fortune he expects to come into.”

  She kept her gaze steady on his face. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “You didn’t know he was a blackmailer?” Malcolm asked.

  Mademoiselle Leroux twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Rather a harsh word. If you mean did I know he made use of information, yes. Most people do. A way to help one’s self to a role, a preferment. To solve an investigation.”

  Malcolm took a sip of
champagne. It was a superb vintage, dry and yeasty. “Point taken. Had Rivère’s use of information made him any enemies?”

  Mademoiselle Leroux gave a low laugh. “Does anyone get past the age of eighteen without making enemies? At least anyone whose life hasn’t been a complete bore.”

  “Any enemies who’d have wanted him dead?” Harry asked.

  She frowned in apparently genuine consideration. “His cousin wanted the title. But he was going to have Antoine denounced, not killed. Though it might well have led to the same thing.”

  “And so Antoine was going to leave Paris,” Malcolm said.

  Mademoiselle Leroux took another sip of champagne. “Was he?”

  Malcolm knew gesture as prevarication when he saw it. “Did you know Rivère was meeting me the night he was killed?”

  She opened her mouth as though to deny it, then gave a sudden laugh. “There’s little point in denying it, is there? For what it’s worth, he told me you were clever. I suppose he told you he wanted safe passage out of France?”

  “Was he planning to take you with him?” Harry asked.

  Her gaze shot to him, bright with amusement. “Antoine? Take me off to England to live in luxury off the charity of the British government? Hardly. There are all sorts of lovers. That isn’t the sort we were. It’s not even as though I was his only—”

  “His only mistress?” Malcolm asked.

  “Any more than he was my only lover.”

  “Did you know the names of the others?”

  “There was a dancer at the opera—Ninette. A bit annoying that he chose someone so close to home. And . . .” She hesitated a moment, then shrugged, fluttering her gauze scarf over her shoulders. “I don’t know why I feel any particular reason to protect another woman’s reputation. Antoine was involved in an affair with a married lady. Lady Caruthers.” Her gaze flickered between them, taking in their reaction. “You already knew.”

  “As it happens, yes,” Malcolm said. “What did you know about the affair?”

  “It seemed to amuse him. He said dallying with married women could be dangerous, but fortunately she took it no more seriously than he did. Than I did. The secret to a successful love affair, don’t you find?”

  “But he confided in you,” Malcolm said.

  “A bit.” She moved to a gilded chair and sank into it, still commanding the room.

  Malcolm dropped into a chair across from her. “Why was Rivère so convinced the British would support him in luxury in England?”

  She twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Surely he told you when you met the night he was killed?”

  “Mostly he made vague threats.”

  Mademoiselle Leroux leaned back in her chair. The silk of her gown slithered over her legs. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “We want to learn why Rivère was killed.”

  She tilted her head back. “No matter where it takes you?”

  “You intrigue us, mademoiselle.” Harry moved to a third chair at the table. “I think you’d best elaborate. Rannoch and I promise not to faint with shock.”

  She gave a reluctant smile. “There was some past scandal. To do with Lady Caruthers’s cousin. Bertrand Laclos.”

  “So Rivère told me,” Malcolm said. “What did Rivère tell you about Laclos?”

  She hesitated, weighing the value of information. “That his death wasn’t what it appeared.”

  “Who did he say was behind Laclos’s death?” Malcolm asked in a casual voice.

  “He didn’t.” She shifted in her chair. “Antoine talked to me, perhaps more than he should. But he wasn’t a fool.”

  “What else did he say he had to bargain with?” Harry asked.

  “Who says he told me anything?”

  “He couldn’t have conveyed such confidence based on something so vague.”

  Malcolm could see the carefully masked calculation in Mademoiselle Leroux’s eyes. Then she smiled and held out her half-empty glass. “A refill?”

  Malcolm crossed the room, took the champagne bottle from the cooler, and refilled the glass. Mademoiselle Leroux smoothed a crease from her glove. Harry leaned back in his chair and kept his gaze on her.

  “You’re very obliging, Monsieur Rannoch,” she said when Malcolm brought her the refilled glass. “I can only wonder what you’d do for a woman with whom you were intimately involved.”

  “You flatter me,” Malcolm said as he put the glass into her hand.

  “But then of course I’ve learned men are generally obliging when they want something from one, one way or another.”

  “What else did Rivère have to use against the British?” Malcolm asked.

  “He knew something about you.” Mademoiselle Leroux sipped her champagne. “I suppose he told you?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm said, his gaze steady on her. He could feel Harry looking at him. “But he was too astute to think any hold he had on me would guarantee his safety.”

  “He said you always underestimated what you could accomplish,” Mademoiselle Leroux murmured. “But no. He did have more information.”

  “About?”

  She tilted her head back. “How much do you know?”

  “Enough prevarication, Mademoiselle Leroux.” Harry clunked his glass down on the table. “What did Rivère have on Wellington?”

  CHAPTER 16

  The smell was instantly recognizable as Suzanne stepped through the stage door. Greasepaint, smoking oil lamps, sweat, dust, and excitement. The smells of backstage at the theatre, the smells of her childhood. She nodded at the porter. In a plain dark blue dress and gray cloak, a blond wig over her hair, a basket on her arm, she could pass as a seamstress come to assist Manon Caret’s dresser. The porter jerked his head to the right.

  “Thank you,” Suzanne said, her voice roughened into the accents of Montmartre. “I know the way.”

  She turned to the right and started down the maze of passages. Raised voices sounded as she neared the wings. Sonorous, rolling, intense. Racine. Baj a zet. A French play that made her think of her mother performing in Spain.

  A stagehand leaned against the wall nearby. Bearded, potbellied, smelling of tobacco. Suzanne skirted a basket of swords and shields, which forced her to nearly brush against the stagehand. He didn’t move out of her way.

  “Men have it easy,” she murmured. “A beard hides so much.”

  “A woman’s hair color makes for a great change,” Raoul returned, in a Breton accent. “Two of Fouché’s agents are at the stage door,” he continued in the same tones. “And two more at the front of the house.”

  “Are you telling me to go home?”

  “On the contrary. You know I never indulge in regrets in the midst of a mission. And your help is more vital now than ever. But go carefully.”

  “I always do.”

  He gave a snort that could pass for the stagehand making a flirtatious pass at the seamstress. He hesitated a moment, as though debating the wisdom of further speech. “I was at the Salon des Etrangers before I came here.”

  Her heartbeat quickened. “Did you see Malcolm? He was going there tonight with Harry Davenport.”

  “I saw them both. I also broke up a fight between a British lieutenant and a former soldier of the Empire.” His mouth twisted. “Not that I don’t understand the impulse to lash out at the victors, but there’s been too much death as it is.”

  His gaze held ghosts. Suzanne scanned his face. “It was good of you to save the combatants from themselves. If perhaps not wise to draw attention to yourself.”

  “I can’t abide waste. Malcolm said I’d make a good diplomat. Of all the names I’ve been called, that’s perhaps the most unusual.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment, again in a gesture that could pass for flirtation, though the current that ran between them held no echo of romance. “I’m glad you’re too young to remember twenty years ago. This is closer to the Terror than anything I’d have ever wanted you to see.”

  A bitt
er taste welled up on her tongue. “But I’m one of the victors.”

  “For which I’m eternally grateful. You should be as well, for your son’s sake if not your own.”

  “I try. In between bouts of self-disgust. Which is why I’m here.”

  His hand tightened on her shoulder. “Look after yourself, querida.”

  Suzanne nodded and moved on down the passage. Actors in gaudy robes and seamstresses and dressers with arms full of costumes brushed past her. Strange, from her few visits to the Comédie-Française the direction was imprinted in her memory. But then she had a good memory for direction. It was a survival skill. She reached the door, rapped once, and turned the handle.

  Manon Caret’s signature scent, tuberose and violet, greeted her, along with the smells of face powder and greasepaint. Manon herself was not in the dressing room. A brace of candles flickered on the dressing table. A blue silk dressing gown edged in Valençiennes lace had been flung over the dressing table bench. An elaborate cloth of gold gown lay on the sofa. More costumes hung from strings of clothesline from the ceiling. Paste jewels spilled from a box on the dressing table. Wigs stood on stands round the room. Masks hung from the wall. Trunks and hatboxes were stacked indiscriminately about the room. Programmes and playbills adorned the walls. A stack of scripts stood on a spindle-legged table.

  A light shone from the open door to the adjoining sitting room. Suzanne glanced through and met the gaze of the tall woman with honey-colored hair standing there. Berthe, Manon’s dresser. Berthe inclined her head. A small blond head showed on the arm of the sitting room sofa. That must be Clarisse, who would be four now. She’d been a baby when Manon came to Suzanne’s rescue. Roxane, who must be about seven, sat in a worn damask armchair, white-stockinged legs crossed at the ankles, a book in her lap. She looked up at Suzanne, leaned forwards as though to spring to her feet, then at a look from Berthe bit her lip and waved silently. Suzanne waved back.

  For a moment she was a girl again, falling asleep on a sofa in her mother’s dressing room or on cushions on the floor, the sounds of actors’ chatter, the rustle of silk as her mother swept in and out of the room, the jangle of jewels, the stir of a quick costume change all round. Her father poking his head in to confer with her mother about how the performance was progressing. It had been so much a part of her life, she had dozed through the noise and commotion, secure in the happy, chaotic world of whichever theatre her parents’ traveling company was playing in.