A Scent of Magic

by Jill Jones

  “Perhaps they exaggerate,” she replied modestly, although she recalled the astonishment of the faculty at the Institute when she completed in a day the most complex battery of tests designed to evaluate a person’s ability at creating fragrance. “Don’t you think it would be wise to put me through the tests, as I am certain you would any other candidate for this position?”

  Dupuis pulled a chair opposite her, took a seat, and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. His eyes were bright. Like a fox’s, Simone thought. “I was able to read the results of the tests you were given at the Institute,” he revealed. “They faxed them to me. There is no need to replicate the effort. Besides,” he added, leaning back into the chair, “you are the daughter of Jean René Lefevre. Some members of the Board of Directors of the House of Rutledge were clients of your father. They know the talent that courses through your veins.”

  Mention of her father caught Simone off-guard and brought a clutch of emotion to her throat. “They knew my father?”

  “Some of them. It was how I came to locate you in the first place.”

  Simone felt unexpected moisture spring to her eyes, and she blinked it away quickly. It was as if her beloved Papa had somehow reached out from beyond his grave and given her a personal reference. As if he knew her desire to become a true perfumer, not a slave to the commercial fragrance industry, and had found a way for her not only to fulfill that dream, but also take long-overdue revenge on his former apprentice as well.

  “I see,” she croaked, pulling herself together before her emotions got away from her.

  “I have no doubt that you are the talent we need to take over as master perfumer here,” Dupuis went on, his voice serious, almost silky. “But what is it you want, Miss Lefevre?”

  Simone shifted in her seat, thinking before replying. “I want a place where I can create,” she answered at last. “I do not want to be merely a technician, or the perfumer who makes fragrances for the toilet bowl,” she laughed nervously.

  “You want to be your father’s daughter,” Dupuis finished for her, nodding knowingly.

  His understanding encouraged her. “In a sense, yes,” she said. “But I do not wish to create great perfumes for only a few. I…I wish to create grands parfums, like in the days of la belle époque. Truly great scents, packaged in crystal or gold, fragrances that will honor the memory of my father and place the name of Lefevre right up there with Guerlain and Caron and Coty.”

  She saw a smile widen across Dupuis’s face. “Then we are of like mind,” he replied. “Although the House of Rutledge has made its comeback through the success of the Royalty line and the development of common bath and body products that have become favorites with the mass market, I believe the time has come for us to step above the mediocre, where Nick’s limited talent has kept us for the past ten years. It is time for the House of Rutledge to move onto center stage, to create the finest perfumes in the world.”

  He leaned forward and took her hand. “And I believe it is time once again for the name of Lefevre to become synonymous with the finest perfumes of the world. Les grands parfums. Yes, I think we are of like mind, Mademoiselle.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nick pulled the Triumph into the small car park behind the House of Rutledge, fighting the anger that surged through him that this place that had once belonged to his ancestors and should belong to him was now the property of Antoine Dupuis. But it was Nick’s own damned fault, and all he could do now was work harder than he ever had to fight his way back. He got out of the car and strode toward the back door of the building, as he had every day for the past ten years. But then he remembered he no longer had a key.

  It hurt.

  His jaw set, he turned to the small sidewalk that led from the parking lot to the imposing front doors, determined to confront Dupuis about the ransacking that had taken place in his own, far less pretentious offices. When he opened the door, he saw first the surprise, then the distress that came over the face of Sarah Addington, the receptionist who had long had a crush on him and who had been distraught to learn of his departure from the company. Was she still his ally?

  “Hello, Sarah,” he said, feeling painfully like an outsider now, like one of the sales reps who called on the company.

  “Nick!” She gasped his name, then glanced nervously over her shoulder, down the hall toward the office that had once been his. “What…what are you doing here?”

  “Is Dupuis here? I need to speak with him.”

  He could tell by her agitated manner that Antoine Dupuis was here, but that she didn’t want the unpleasant job of announcing Nick’s arrival to him.

  “Yes, but he wasn’t expecting you, was he?”

  “I doubt it,” Nick replied dryly. “Where is he? I’d like to catch him unawares anyway.”

  “Oh, Nick, don’t,” Sarah pleaded. “He’s…he’s taken your old office, and…”

  But that was all he needed to know. He marched down the familiar hallway, ignoring Sarah’s flurry of protests. The bastard, he thought. But he wasn’t surprised that Dupuis had wasted no time in displacing Nick in every respect possible. He was, after all, the quintessential predator, hovering, waiting to pick clean the bones of his prey.

  “Nick, stop!” Sarah’s voice reached his consciousness, its urgency finally registering. But it was too late. He had already opened the door, already discovered the secret that lay beyond.

  And suddenly everything fell into place.

  “So that’s what you are doing in England.” He voiced the realization in a low growl. If the world hadn’t started to crash around him, he would have found ironic humor in the little tableau that remained frozen for an instant in front of him. Dupuis had jumped to his feet, a look of startled irritation on his face. Simone sat on the sofa, her eyes wide, her hand at her throat, her mouth slightly open, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Both of them looked like the proverbial rats caught in a trap.

  Before, he’d been unable to picture a vindictive Simone. Now, she was right before his eyes. In league with the very man who had masterminded the plot that had led to the theft, to her father’s death. Did she know? She couldn’t. Dupuis was a master at deceit. At engendering trust, however misplaced.

  Nick’s first impulse was to warn her against Dupuis, but at the look on her face, he stopped short. She had recovered from the surprise of his intrusion, and now her gaze bore into him with undisguised venom. She hated him, and he knew intuitively she could only be here with the intent of doing everything in her power to destroy him. Was she the new master perfumer? Did she have her father’s talent? If so, she would bring to the House of Rutledge what it needed to remain the leader in the market, and his own young enterprise would have a harder time than ever competing.

  This was not the Simone he had once loved, the young girl whose face had haunted him for the decade of despair and regret that had been his existence since his night of crime. Not even the lover in his dreams, for except in last night’s variation, she had been his eagerly.

  This Simone was dangerous. Deadly.

  Nick managed at last to tear his gaze from her face, turning his attention to Dupuis, determined to finish the business he’d come here for.

  “I won’t take much of your time, Dupuis. Just enough to let you know that if you, or your henchmen, ever set foot onto my property again, I will sue you on every charge I can come up with.” For a fraction of a second, he saw what appeared to be pure bewilderment on the Frenchman’s face, but he didn’t believe it for a moment. Dupuis was an actor. His responses were always controlled.

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” Dupuis professed, a scowl deepening on his face. “But it is you who are trespassing at the moment. Get out, or I’ll call the police.”

  But Nick would not be intimidated. Instead, he stepped right up to the man, thrust his face squarely into the other’s. “You’ve got it all now, you stinking little bastard,” he said, his voice low and menacing
. “Just as you planned all along. Be content with what you’ve acquired through my own naive trust and stupidity, but don’t mess with me. I warn you. Stay out of my way from here on, or you’ll be sorry.”

  Nick knew about Dupuis’s many “fringe activities,” his involvements with shadowy characters and the underside of politics.

  And Dupuis knew that Nick knew.

  Nick’s testimony in certain investigations could probably send Dupuis to jail, and if there was such a thing as guilt by association, Nick would likely join him there. But at the moment, he did not care. He was ready to do anything to be rid of Dupuis once and for all. He regretted that Simone was likely being caught up in the man’s web, but it was her choice, and he knew she would neither listen to, nor believe him, if he tried to convince her otherwise.

  Dupuis pushed him in the chest. “Don’t threaten me, Rutledge,” he hissed, “or you are the one who will be sorry. Now get out.”

  Blood thundered in Nick’s ears. His face was crimson with anger that the man had laid a hand on him, and he wanted to tear the vile Frenchman apart on the spot.

  Control, Nick, stay in control. A voice inside of him shouted over his raging emotions, reminding him it was when he had been out of control that Dupuis had been able to best manipulate him.

  He glared at Dupuis, then turned a contemptuous eye on Simone. “He is all yours, Mademoiselle. And good luck.”

  Simone sat in stunned silence after Nick left the room. There was no question in her mind that these two former allies were now bitter enemies. She wondered what exactly Dupuis had done that had brought Nick storming into his office. Wondered, in fact, why Nick had decided to leave the House of Rutledge in the first place.

  “What was that all about?” she inquired cautiously. It really was none of her business, except that she had every intention of making Nick’s downfall very much her business, and any information she could glean about him would be helpful.

  “I have no idea,” Dupuis replied in a tight voice, going to close the door behind the intruder. “I’m afraid our man is regretting his decision to leave us. He has delusions that he can make it on his own.” He shrugged and gestured with his hands. “Maybe he can. I doubt it, however. He is not a self-made success. It is I who gave him his chance after his father had practically destroyed the company. It was the money I invested that rebuilt this firm into the fiscally strong company it is today.”

  Simone frowned. “What about the Royalty line? I thought you told me that was entirely of Nick’s doing.”

  Dupuis took his seat again and gave her the warmest of smiles. “I assure you, Miss Lefevre, the manufacture and marketing of that line was accomplished in my complete ignorance of the source of the formulas. I never questioned Nick in those early years. He seemed a highly talented perfumer when he developed those fragrances. Synthetically reproducing them instead of using all natural ingredients as your father did was nothing short of genius, since it made them so affordable. So in that respect, the Royalty line was entirely of his doing. But the money that paid for it was mine.”

  Simone chewed on that for a moment, then digested it as likely being the truth. Nick had deceived her and her father. It stood to reason he would have deceived his financial backers as well in not revealing how he’d come up with those formulas.

  “May I see the operations?” she asked, suddenly curious to know the kind of technology that would be available to her if she accepted the position Nick had recently deserted.

  “But of course,” Dupuis said, jumping up instantly and helping her from the couch. She didn’t like the way he seemed to want to put his hands on her, although all of his gestures had been of consummate courtesy. She slid the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and put her hands in her jacket pockets before following the sweep of Dupuis’s arm as he indicated for her to precede him into the large hallway.

  “This house has been the headquarters of the firm known as the House of Rutledge since it was created in 1848 by James Rutledge,” he began, and led her into a large conference room across the hall, where a number of portraits lined the pale green walls. “That’s James.” He pointed to the painting above the mantle.

  Simone saw the resemblance between this man and Nick Rutledge in an instant. He had the same broad forehead, outlined by a handsome, square hairline. His straight nose was the same as well, and the intense blue eyes.

  “James started this company as the British liaison of a firm instituted by his brother out in India called the Bombay Spice & Fragrance Company.” Dupuis gave a disdainful snort and added, “That’s the division Nick thinks he can salvage and rebuild in today’s market. Fat chance.”

  But at the mention of the brother in India, Simone’s curiosity stood at attention. “What was the brother’s name?” she wanted to know, recalling the story Esther had told her.

  “John. John Rutledge was the younger son of the Earl, an officer in the British Army in India. Nick told me once he was sent there by his father because he was having some kind of illicit affair with a commoner. The British are such snobs,” he added in French.

  “What happened to him?”

  Dupuis gave her an odd look, as if he was surprised she was so interested in Rutledge family history. “John Rutledge disappeared while he was in India. He’d started the export business, and it was apparently thriving. The old records show that there was quite a trade between the firms owned by the two brothers, although they reportedly were not friendly toward one another. Then one night, John supposedly just vanished. Poof! Like that.” Again the Frenchman gestured dramatically.

  “What happened to him?” Simone could scarcely conceal her excitement at this confirmation of Esther Brown’s story. Did Dupuis believe, as Esther did, that John’s disappearance had something to do with a perfume?

  But when he answered, he didn’t mention any magical perfume or dematerialization of dead bodies, and Simone didn’t bring it up. “Nobody knows. They suspect he was murdered, but his body was never found. His family thought perhaps he’d eloped with his forbidden lover, but again, there was never any proof of that either.”

  “People don’t just disappear,” Simone murmured, staring up at the portrait, wondering what had really happened to John Rutledge. Had he looked a lot like James? Like Nick? And what had Mary Rose been like? She allowed her thoughts to drift into that bygone era until her escort’s voice brought her abruptly back to the present.

  “Well, it’s just a tale at any rate,” Dupuis said. “This is our conference room, as you can see. The department heads meet here every Tuesday morning to keep abreast of what is going on within the company. You will be expected to make a weekly report on the activities of the perfumery operations.” He came to stand behind her and put his hands on her upper arms. “It is my great hope, Simone, that you will bring us reports of many grands parfums that you will develop here.”

  Simone shuddered involuntarily at his touch. “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Dupuis,” she said, removing his hands and turning to face him. “It is uncomfortable for me to become too familiar with my prospective employer.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Dupuis replied properly, but she could see he was obviously put off by the polite rebuff. “I intended no such familiarity.”

  Simone hoped she hadn’t just shot down her chance for the job, but she’d meant what she’d said. If Dupuis wanted her, it must be for her talents as a perfumer, not for her body. Better get that understood right from the beginning. But for the rest of the tour, which took the better part of an hour, Dupuis was all business, and if her words had offended him, he didn’t show it.

  Simone was duly impressed with what she saw. The House of Rutledge was streamlined, completely state-of-the-art, with every resource she could imagine available to her. It was a perfumer’s dream. When at last they returned to Dupuis’s office, there was no question that she would accept the position, if he still wished her to take it. She would be a fool to pass up this opportunity.

  “
Well?” Dupuis said. “Do you think it would suit you to become the master perfumer at the House of Rutledge?”

  Simone could think of nothing that would suit her more. “Mais, oui, Monsieur Dupuis,” she replied. “It is a wonderful opportunity, one for which I am extremely grateful. I only hope I can measure up to your expectations.”

  “I am certain that will be easy for one of your talent. Now, a few business matters.” He offered her a salary that was quite acceptable, along with a number of fringe benefits. “Of course you will have to relocate to London,” he added. “You may use the company’s flat not far from here for the time being, until you find a place of your own. The House of Rutledge will assume all expenses of your move.”

  He extended his hand. “Is that agreeable?”

  She laughed. She’d be an idiot not to agree. “Yes,” she replied, and they shook on the deal.

  “You will be my guest for lunch then, to celebrate?” Dupuis beamed at her, obviously pleased with her decision, and Simone scolded herself for her earlier suspicions that his overt familiarity was out of line. It had been many years since she’d lived in France. She’d forgotten that such gestures were cultural, not lecherous.

  “It would be my pleasure,” she said, relaxing and beginning to assimilate her new role at the House of Rutledge, assuring herself that as CEO, Dupuis would have invited his new master perfumer to lunch whether the successful candidate had been a man or a woman.

  Nick left the building without even looking at Sarah Addington at the front desk, afraid his steaming temper would erupt in her innocent direction. He slammed the door of the Triumph and steered it recklessly through the heavy traffic. The balls of that man! Dupuis’s audacity never ceased to astound him. But he had to admit that hiring Simone Lefevre to replace him was a stroke of pure, if cruel, genius.

  At least now, he thought bitterly, braking abruptly and skidding when he realized the car in front of him had stopped, he knew his competition. And even though he didn’t like it that she had taken over his job, he was undaunted. Simone Lefevre was an unknown, riding on her father’s reputation. Did she have talent in her own right? Was she a true nose? Or had Dupuis hired her in some sort of sick revenge for Nick’s departure?