Page 30 of The Art of Theft
When Charlotte deemed that they’d made as many purchases as any quartet of genuine tourists, they entrusted their new possessions to Forêt and headed into an establishment that seemed to be both a pub and a coffeehouse.
While they lunched on pot-au-feu, Charlotte spreading only a fraction of her customary amount of butter on a slice of rustic bread, Mr. Marbleton, in very decent French, asked for directions to the château from a local farmer. He also asked whether the château admitted visitors, as most stately manors in Britain, which they had just visited, surely did.
The farmer shook his head. “Pas celui-ci.”
Not this one.
They finished their meal and strolled in the direction of the château. The sky had cleared, the sun shone, and though it remained chilly, Livia’s heart lifted at the sight of the pale blue sky.
The buildings of the village, largely clustered around the square, quickly thinned. Cobblestoned streets gave away to dirt lanes cutting between fallow fields and stubbly pastures where goats and donkeys foraged.
The ground dipped and rose, both gently. To Livia’s surprise, from atop the next rise, she saw their quarry.
When the article had mentionedextensive grounds, she had envisioned something on the scale of Stern Hollow. But one glance was enough to take in the entirety of the estate.
Granted, the avenue that ran straight from the gate to the bridge was impressive. The formal gardens, even from a distance, was geometric grandeur. And the château itself, slate-roofed, clear-windowed, almost golden in the slanting sun of the afternoon, was indubitably beautiful. But there was hardly any extra acreage, parkland or farmland. The whole thing made Livia think of a massive wedding cake perched on a too-small table, leaving barely enough room for a cake knife.
A ten-foot-high wrought iron fence surrounded the entire estate. They walked alongside it, stopping from time to time to admire the view inside. Mr. Marbleton carried a rucksack. Livia had assumed it contained a water canteen and some extra food. But the first timethey stopped, he took out from the rucksack a book that wasn’t big but rather thick—and held it so that it pointed toward the château.
“Is that a detective camera?” asked Charlotte. “Custom-made?”
“Frances and I made it with parts from other cameras,” he answered happily. “And we did some additional bits of tinkering so we could use sensitized paper rather than plates.”
Livia remembered that he and his sister had passed themselves off as a photographer and his assistant during the summer.
Mr. Marbleton took a number of other images as they circumnavigated the estate. There was indeed an orchard, if two dozen apple trees could be called an orchard. At the back of the estate, there was in truth a herd of dairy cows, too, comprised of all of three heads. Occasionally dogs barked; Charlotte listened carefully, as if trying to deduce their numbers.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to learn much more than we have, promenading on the periphery,” said Charlotte once they’d done an entire circuit. “It’s getting a bit late. We should head back.”
They had almost reached the village when Mr. Marbleton said, “You ladies have a safe trip back to Paris. I’ll stay here tonight.”
It made sense, his plan; they should know what the place would be like at night. But still Livia’s heartbeat stalled. “Will it be safe?”
“For an observer, I don’t see why not.”
“What if there are guard dogs?” Charlotte wouldn’t have paid attention to the barking otherwise.
“What if there are? I don’t see how that should endanger me sitting in the café, listening to gossip.”
She looked at him incredulously. “Is that really all you are going to do?”
He winced. And then groaned. “I would have preferred to lie to you, Miss Olivia, but alas, all the inculcation from my parents is preventing me from withholding the truth. No, that is not all I am going to do, if you must know. I also mean to take myself back tothe château, climb the fence, and get as close to the manor itself as possible.”
Livia bit her lower lip. “Then I’ll also stay here tonight. I won’t tag along when you venture out, since I’ll most likely get stuck on the fence and spoil your entire plan. But I’d rather be worrying here than worrying in Paris.”
“Then I suppose I should remain here as chaperone,” said Mrs. Watson.
Charlotte glanced at the three who had declared their intentions. “I will go back to Paris. I haven’t read everything that has been furnished to us in that dossier.”
Ah, Lord Ingram was due this evening. And Charlotte wouldn’t wish to miss his arrival.
?Charlotte read everything in the dossier twice, except the article on the masquerade ball. That one she read three times. By the time she finished, she could recite, word for word, the final paragraph extolling the fireworks display that marked the end of the night. Then she bathed, dressed for dinner, and studied the architectural plans until the dinner bell rang.
In the dining room, she was the only person at table. Forêt, after ladling out a bowl of thick potage, stood back against the wall and seemed to disappear into it. He was unobtrusive, this man, effortless at making himself unnoticed—an interesting talent, given that he happened to be very good-looking.
“It’s just the two of us,” she said in English. “Why don’t you take a seat, sir?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss?”
