Page 68 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
She could not know. Could not predict. She dropped the papers to a nearby table.
She would be strong.
She thanked her majordom profusely, and he turned on his heel. “Monsieur?” she called to Franck before he disappeared. “Merci beaucoup.You have served me well. All of you.”
The old fellow had tears in his eyes. “Mademoiselle. An honor to serve you.”
A glimpse of her boudoir told her she had made adequate preparations. Only her valise stood open. Her trunks had gone. She strode to her cheval glass and took one last lookat Charmaine. Her nearest blood, her nearest duplicate, her tormenter and unfathomable nemesis.
Sticking a few pins to her coiffure, she flashed her eyes as Charmaine would at any challenge to her body or soul. A shot of iron to her spine, a bit of rouge to her cheeks, and the damn fan in her hand was all she needed to complete the transfer.
She snatched up her forest-green wool cloak that lay beside her valise. She’d chosen it for travel. The weather in May could be pleasant, and the fragrances of jasmine often wafted the air. The cloak was heavy for today, but if she encountered storms—or the chill of damp walls around her—the garment would comfort her. Heavy and plain, it would serve her well in prison if Vaillancourt sent her there for her arrogance to question him.
At the hall, she turned back and retrieved her reticule from her bed. Inside was the pistol Fortin had purchased for her months ago. So, too, did she carry the two étui, one with laudanum, the other empty. One never knew what one might have need of, eh?
For one moment, she shut her eyes. Charmaine would go into the presence of the deputy chief of police with her self-confidence and her bravura. No one got the better of her.
With speed, she took the hall and the stairs down to her salon.
The two men stood at attention in the middle of her grand drawing room. Their harsh blue-and-black uniforms offended her, and she allowed Charmaine, who took temporary quarters in her soul, to sniff at their impertinence to appear in her parlor.
“Mademoiselle de Massé?” One stepped forward. “I am to take you to Monsieur Vaillancourt. Will you come quietly?”
She swept a hand toward the foyer. “Lead on.”
*
She was surprisedthat the deputy’s carriage took her not to the Hôtel de Ville and the offices of the police but to a house not far away in the rue St. Martin.
Why was that? Did Vaillancourt not wish others to know he interviewed her?
Arresting her would be simpler at his offices. But then, did he not wish to detain her? He had no justification for that. Still, he was the law and needed no reason, only desire, to see her off the streets.
She shut down her speculation. She would deal with him as he came, hear his reasoning as he articulated it. Dialogue meant to be met for what it was.
The two gendarmes alighted from the carriage and, one in front of her, one behind, marched her into the house. The majordom had opened the door for them, and greeted her with only a deferential look of frank despair.
The man, she surmised, had witnessed many scenes such as this, Ramsey and Madame St. Antoine only the most recent. Yet the butler was not inured to tragedy. She wondered if the man’s master knew of his disapproval.
No matter.
“Monsieur Vaillancourt will attend you presently, mademoiselle.”
She met his gaze with gratitude Charmaine would never exhibit. Why not? Vaillancourt would never know what honesty passed between them.
She was escorted up the stairs and down the first floor to a small room, wood paneled and overly warm. The man’s office. Documents strewn across his desktop told the tale of a man who was not neat. Nor, perhaps, was he wise. Did he not wonder if she would steal documents from him?
Her gaze swept the rest of the room, and on the large, circular map table was a service of pastries and coffee. If that was forher, she expected either a man who wished to seduce her—or one who expected another guest after her.
The click of boots upon the marble tiles alerted her to her host’s arrival.
She faced the doorway, waiting for him, serene as she had never been before, her hands clasped, her reticule, heavy with its contents, hanging from her left wrist…though her pistol was easily grasped.
And there he was—tall, imposing, and elegantly attired, each inch of his frock coat and breeches measured to a hairsbreadth of his lean, fit, muscular body.
Oh, yes, she remembered him well. A breathtaking, virile specimen, René Vaillancourt was a man to set many a woman’s heart beating. But not Madame St. Antoine’s. His trim figure, his grace, his flashing sapphire eyes, could enchant so many.But not mine.
Today, though, he had no starch to his shoulders. His eyes were swollen, as if he had wept. Did deputy chiefs of police have cause to cry over the loss of a woman they tried to poison?
