She smiled at the compliment but said, "You know better. Performing is hard work. Amelia drew me a hot bath - "
"So that's who that little giglet was," said Malet. "She blushes enchantingly."
Rosalie sniffed and went behind the screen. "The child drew me a bath and I will be damned if I forego it!" she said as she unlaced her costume. "Sit down! I don't want you pacing about while I am bathing."
"What's the harm in it? You have a screen there."
"You're tall enough to peer over the screen. You have done it several times over the years, if you recall. Sit down!"
He obeyed with a chuckle. "And who was that giggling exquisite in yellow satin with the face that would curdle milk? He made a point of bumping into me backstage. I had to tell him to keep his hands to himself."
"Francesco Venuti," she replied. "You must have heard of him. He's a fairly well known castrato."
Malet went over to her pitcher and basin and washed his hands and then dried them on a length of linen. "A castrato!" he said distastefully. "That explains why he had a pair of rolled stockings down the front of his trousers!"
She gurgled with delight and stepped into the tub. "He is a nuisance," she said. "Wretch! Where have you been? I did miss you, you know!"
"Nursing a broken heart, of course," he replied with a smooth promptness that she deplored as he sat down again. "Just as you did," he added with a touch of acid.
"Chasing criminals, more likely," she retorted. "I have read the papers! You have been very busy. Which reminds me, Paul: why are you here? You aren't one to pine when your heart really isn't broken, and we did part on terms that weren't exactly cordial."
"It wasn't a bad squabble. And there are reasons and reasons for coming back."
Rosalie paused in the act of soaping her throat and shoulders to say with sudden suspicion, "This isn't official, is it?"
"As a matter of fact, it is," Malet replied. He was back on the recamier with the book in his hands.
"What?"
He looked up from one of Shakespeare's sonnets. "I am taking an interest in something," he said, "And I am pretty sure you know something about one of the major players."
She immersed the sponge, squeezed it out, rubbed it against the bar of violet‑scented soap, and said, "I can't afford to get tangled up in criminal matters, Paul. I am leaving Paris within the month. Forever. I want no part of this if it's going to delay me."
His smile was rather dark as he replied, "You needn't worry: all I want from you is some direction. Point me the right way, and I will do the rest."
She was silent for a moment, thinking of the future and remembering the past. "Come home with me," she said at last. "We can dine, as we used to. It will only take me a minute to get dressed." She chuckled again at his politely phrased offer of assistance and decided to dispense with her stays.
XXI
A POLICEMAN'S WORK IS NEVER DONE
"This is as beautiful as I remember," Malet said, looking around at the green and gold splendor of Rosalie's drawing room.
"Yes," she agreed. "It has happy memories."
"I am amazed that you can bear to leave it," Malet said.
She shrugged. "One does what one must," she said. "I am going on to something better, I believe..." Her face was thoughtful for a moment, but she smiled up at him and tucked her hand in his arm. "Come, my dear," she said. "My servants have probably laid out a cold supper in the dining salon, as usual."
As she had said, a chicken in mayonnaise was sitting on a platter surrounded by cheeses, fruits and a bottle of wine. A loaf of bread sat to the side, along with a lemon tart. The table had been laid for two, with snowy tablecloth and napkins.
"Carve the chicken," she said. "I will tend to the fruit."
He nodded and took up the carving knife and fork. "Where are your servants?" he asked as he sliced the breast.
"They always retire early when I have a performance," she replied. "They never know what time I will be returning, or with whom."
Malet set the sliced chicken on a plate and said calmly, "Do you want me to open the wine?"
She looked up from quartering an apple. "Do you know, Paul," she said, "I always liked the way you never judge anyone."
"It isn't a cop's job to judge. That's why we have magistrates."
"I am serious."
He raised his eyes to hers over the wine bottle and said, "So am I."
"Are we sparring again?" she asked.
He set the cork aside and poured a glass of wine for her. "Not at all, Rosette," he said with a smile. "I am not such a hypocrite as to forget that I was one of those who accompanied you home from your performances." He poured a glass of wine for himself and then carried the plate of chicken to the table.
"You sang magnificently," he said after they had seated themselves and started on the chicken.
She raised her glass of wine to her lips. "Did you really think so?" she asked.
"Your voice was always splendid. But this time it was sublime. La Malibran couldn't hope to surpass you tonight."
She blushed and looked down. "And yet she is a genius," she said. When he didn't comment, she said, "And what of you? Do you ever sing?"
"I often sing under my breath when I walk home at night," he said. "And when I am shaving, too." His eyes lightened with amusement at her expression. She was almost the only one in Paris who knew that he had an excellent, well‑trained deep baritone voice. They had often sung duets. "I sing lullabies to my godchildren, too," he said. "But I don't think they really pay attention. When are you going to London?"
She set her wine down and gazed across at him with frank understanding. "In a little under a month, M. Chief Inspector," she replied. "Do you wish to know why I am going?"
"I can guess," he said.
"Can you?" she asked dryly.
"Of course. You haven't been to London yet, and the British royal family are great opera aficionados, by all reports. A voice of your quality will be an immediate succès-fou. I only wonder that you didn't go to London sooner, and I congratulate the Earl of Sussex for his taste in music - and ladies."
"You side‑stepped that very well, Inspector," she said.
"I said what I believed, Mlle. Plessis," he returned. He eyed her plate and set several more slices of chicken on it.
"You always had a good heart," she said. "Very well, then. You came on official business: what do you wish to know?"
Malet speared a piece of chicken with his fork, dipped it in the mayonnaise, and raised it to his lips. "Constant Dracquet," he said. "You were on friendly terms with him once - "
"I was his mistress," she said flatly. "I dismissed him."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I gave him his congé," she said. " I didn't like his style."
"He's very wealthy," Malet pointed out.
"He raised his hand to me," she returned with a glittering smile.
Malet's eyes narrowed. "Did he indeed?" he asked.
"Indeed," she said. "I gave him a cut across the face with my riding whip and told him to get out of my sight. I told him he was a classless crook without taste or style. He still has the mark of the blow on his face." She met his gaze and read the question in his eyes. "He hasn't tried to molest me since," she said. "I have powerful friends. Sometimes it's safer to be a singer than a queen."
"You fascinate me," said Malet, offering the plate of cut fruit. "But tell me more about him."
Rosalie looked over the fruit and finally selected a sectioned orange. "Is that why you wished to speak with me? To learn about Constant Dracquet?"
"It is," Malet replied.
"You're taking him on, then?"
"That's right."
She chuckled. "I am surprised you haven't gone after him long before now."
"He had some powerful friends, too. I was stalemated. But this is a new game."
Her eyes flashed. "Bravo, Paul!" she said. "Tell me what you need from me."
** ** **
&nb
sp; They spoke together for some time, until Malet finally pushed his plate aside, drained his glass, and rose. "That's excellent," he said. "It's more than I hoped, and I believe it may be just what I need to get matters started. You're certain of his connections with the British royal family?"
"Quite certain," she said. "I was the hostess for His Grace of Rochester in Paris two years ago, and I recall that he and Dracquet talked long and earnestly before Dracquet came up to bed."
Malet lifted his eyebrows. "Did you hear any of it?" he asked.
She touched her lips with her napkin, frowned slightly at the faint mark of lip rouge on the damask fabric, and looked up at him. "I did," she said. "I was wakeful that night, and I had thought to take a book from the library. This was at the Rue de Grenelle house that Dracquet also owns. Had we been at the Montmartre house, I would have had books of my own in my own rooms... I went softly to the library, and I heard their voices as I stood outside the door. They had been discussing theoretic happenings, I think. At any rate, I heard Rochester's voice saying, 'Now if only I were king...' And then Dracquet's voice replied, 'All things are possible, Your Grace, as I have said before...'" She fell silent.
"And that was all?" Malet asked.
"No," she said. "I heard a chime of crystal, as though they had touched glasses to the idea. It made me nervous, so I hurried back to my own rooms. Dracquet came up to me later, and he was...very exuberant."
Malet looked thoughtful. "I see," he said as he stood and offered his hand to Rosalie.
She took his hand but hesitated for a moment, her eyes focused on nothing.
"What is it?" asked Malet.
She looked up at him. "I just remembered," she said. "When I was singing Rosina in The Barber of Seville, early in September, I happened to look up into the boxes and I thought I saw the duke, just for a moment. I had to turn away and sing, and he was gone when I looked next."
"But it was Rochester?" Malet asked.
"I couldn't be certain," she replied. "The man was sitting at a distance, but he was in Dracquet's customary box."
Malet did not say anything.
Her hand was still in his. She rose and said, "Will I be required to testify?"
"Not at all. Your name won't even come into this inquiry. You gave me background, nothing more. It's up to me to turn this to my advantage." His smile grew more ominous. "As I shall," he added.
"As you shall..." she repeated. She saw that he was suddenly restless. "Must you leave now?" she asked.
"It's late," he said. "I have things to do tomorrow."
"But we have had so little time to talk," she said. "It's been so long... Surely, for old time's sake - since I am leaving France..."
His expression was still withdrawn and slightly ominous, but it softened at the wistful note of her voice, and he took her hand.
She tried to smile at him. "The years do pass," she said. "I missed you when we parted - was it because of that quarrel that you never came back?"
His gaze seemed to be directed inward, but he replied, "No, not really. France had changed, King Charles had been ousted and Louis Philippe was king, the Police needed me, and suddenly you were the pride of the Opera and busier than you had ever been. I realized that we weren't suited as a couple, and you never sought me out, either. I have always had a warm spot in my heart for you. You have never lost my friendship. You know that."
"I do know it," she said. "It means more to me than you realize." She walked slowly with him to the green salon. "You have found your love at last," she said without rancor or bitterness.
He did not deny it. "Unfortunately," he said, "she hasn't found me." He paused and then said wryly, "And I am not in a position to say the words to make her love me... And even if I were, I wouldn't know what to say. "
"Then say nothing, and kiss her lips," Rosalie said. "You're very persuasive that way. "
His eyes were lowered, and he shook his head. "No," he said, "I can't do that at the moment. She's a lady to her fingertips, and what I feel for her runs deeper even than that." He added quietly, "And I - am a bastard with little hope of winning her..."
Watching him, Rosalie felt her heart turn over with sympathy. She had felt that sort of ache in her own heart. But she could help the pain. She touched his sleeve lightly with her fingertips. "Do you remember the night I taught you to waltz?" she asked. "It was after I Puritani, and I had sung only for you. Do you remember?"
The pain faded a little from his eyes and he smiled down at her. "How could I forget?" he said. "It was our first night together. You were so beautiful, and I was all left feet that night."
"You were as nimble as a cat," she said. "I remember, if you don't. It was a splendid night. Do you still waltz?"
"Only with the right partner," he said.
"Who better than your teacher?" she asked, and went to the inlaid music box on the pier table. She wound it until it was tight, set it down, and went to him as the brisk, tinkling notes unwound into the quiet room.
He was smiling again. She stepped into his arms, paused to catch the beat, and then moved into the dance with him.
The scent of roses filled the room, and the beeswax candles, adding the light scent of honey to the air, glowed in his eyes as they whirled about the room.
He smiled down at her; his eyes warmed as she moved closer to him, caught in a web of memory. Her right hand came to rest against his heart, quivering with the race of its beat. His arms circled her waist and she felt a light kiss against her cheek. She opened her eyes to gaze into his and smile again.
"Oh Rose, how could I forget?" he murmured. The music was slowing now, and they were barely moving as he bent to touch his lips to her eyes and then, gently, her mouth. The kiss lingered, deepened into passion, and they stood motionless as the music sighed into silence.
The shadow of pain was gone from his eyes and the hand that stroked a tendril of hair back from her cheek was quivering. She felt her heart melt within her. She had loved him so dearly, once...
She moved slightly away from him and held out her hands. "Paul," she said, her voice a mere thread of sound. "Come to my bed once agai - "
Her gown slid to her feet in a whisper of silk.
She gazed down at the billows of rose‑colored fabric about her ankles, then looked up into his suddenly mischievous smile. "You haven't lost your touch, scoundrel!" she said on the ghost of a chuckle.
"Only with you, Rosette," he said with an echo of her laughter. "You inspire me." His hands moved among the knots of ribbon that fastened the silk shift at her shoulders. It joined the gown a moment later, leaving her naked before him.
He drew her to him and stroked the long, smooth line of her back. His eyes, still fastened on hers, grew hot with remembered passion. "No stays tonight?" he asked as his hands moved slowly upward to pluck at the pins that held the gleaming black coils of her hair in place.
Her smile broadened almost to a grin. "Only with you," she echoed. "You inspire me..."
He was taking too long with her hairpins; she sighed and raised her arms to remove the remaining pins and scatter them on the floor. She shook her hair loose about her shoulders and waist as she stepped deliberately out of the mass of silk at her feet and kicked off her pink morocco slippers.
He caught her to him and traced a tingling path of kisses from her throat to her breast. His right hand twined in the thick, heavy mass of her hair and drew her head back; he paused to smile at her before his mouth came down upon hers.
She abandoned herself wholeheartedly to the embrace, her hands moving eagerly over him, lingering, remembering. "You have me at a disadvantage," she breathed against his lips after a moment.
His eyes flickered, but he drew back and said on the breath of a chuckle, "That can be easily remedied, you know."
"I know," she said as he started to unknot his cravat. She pushed his hands aside. "No, let me," she said. She was smiling as she drew out the emerald pin from the folds his cravat and set it aside on a nearby table.
The cravat and his jacket joined the pin a moment later.
His eyes were fastened on hers. He raised his hand to smooth the hair from her forehead and stroke her cheek. "I have always cared for you, Rose," he said.
"Hush," she said on a quiver of laughter as her fingers plucked at the buttons of his waistcoat. "I know. I have always known." She pushed the waistcoat off his shoulders, watched it fall to the floor, and then smiled as she unfastened the buttons of his shirt and slid her hands inside, to savor the smooth, warm swell of his chest and glory in the swift beat of his heart beneath her fingers.
No regrets, she thought. Not on the eve of her departure for England and marriage. No regrets ever, only happy memories...
"You're so beautiful, Rose..." he breathed. He caught her hand to his lips and then swung her up into his arms. She wrapped her arms about his neck and drew him down to her, to kiss him again and again until the room seemed to spin about them.
"Rosette..?" his voice, alive with suppressed perplexity and amusement, eased the spell for a moment.
"Mmm?" She traced the line of his lips.
"You have changed things here: where on earth is your bedroom?"
She lay back in his arms and broke into peals of delighted laughter.
** ** **
The firelight had sunk to a soft glow upon the hearth, bathing the room in warm, rosy light. Rosalie paused in the act of brushing her hair to gaze back toward her bed and smile.
Malet was asleep, his firmly chiseled lips softened in a half‑smile, his cheek resting against his hand. Asleep, with his hair in his eyes and the austere lines of his face warmed and relaxed, he looked mischievous rather than heroic.
She turned and drew the brush through her hair once more, and then set the brush aside and braided the mass. That done, she rose and went softly back to the bed and stood gazing down at him again.
She had eased the hurt for a moment and, she hoped, eased some of the pain she had caused when she refused him. She wondered who the lady he loved was, and hoped, for his sake, that she would come to love him.
He stirred and shifted, but his eyes remained closed and the smile did not alter.
The Orphan's Tale Page 13
