Did he actually think she might be amenable to becoming a prostitute, or was this just another twisted game he was playing? “It sounds revolting.”
With the speed of an uncoiled spring, he clutched her jaw, applying crushing pressure. “That was a rhetorical question. I wasn’t really asking your opinion. See? I’m not so ignorant as you think.” He took a deep breath and unclenched his hand to scrawl an address on the back of one of his business cards. “I’ll set something up for Friday night at eight o’clock,” he said as he handed it to her. “My sense of justice may be different than yours, but it’s there all the same.”
“Justice?”
He eyed the ceiling again. “Justice… Don’t disappoint me again, or I’ll see to it you never sing again.”
Her heart was still pounding furiously ten or twenty minutes later when she boarded a yellow streetcar, paid the fare, and sagged onto a vacant wooden bench. The vehicle lurched into motion. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care.
What a fool she’d been to think herself capable of standing up to a deranged man like Jonas Fowler on her own. Who were these admirers? She shuddered at the thought of strange men discussing her. Would he carry through with his threat if she failed to show up? She thought about fleeing the city, but how could she leave Alex behind?
The streetcar jostled her side to side as she stared out at block-like low buildings with striped awnings. She needed help. Leo came immediately to mind. The fight they’d had earlier seemed insignificant compared to Alex’s situation, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to come to the aid of his old friend.
But what if Fowler came looking for her to make good on his threat? Leo would surely try to defend her. She couldn’t risk that.
She watched a slender woman walking hand in hand with a little girl along the dirty sidewalk, and she realized there was someone else who would surely be willing to help, a wise, resourceful person whom she’d known all her life.
Chapter Eighteen
Claudine felt as though she’d gone back in time the moment she saw Madame Barnett appear in the doorway of her sunny office at Ardaut House. The former painter’s model had scarcely aged at all in the past seven years. Her fitted jacket with its double column of shiny buttons and overlapping lapels showed off her lean figure. Her upswept brown hair set off her graceful cheekbones, full mouth, and sparkling hazel eyes. Just the sight of her familiar face, so reminiscent of her son’s, comforted Claudine, who’d never felt more desperate or alone. “It’s so very good to see you again.” Her voice cracked with emotion.
Madame Barnett rolled her eyes. “At least you’re alive,” she said reproachfully as she stepped forward onto the worn Persian rug, her bottle green skirt skimming the scuffed toes of her brown kid boots. “That is the best I can say for your behavior of these past few weeks. What on earth have you been up to and what does my son have to do with it?”
This was not the greeting Claudine was expecting. She shrank further back into the chair she’d been sitting in, baking in the window beside a badly singed potted palm.
“It’s not like you to be so reckless with your reputation or so thoughtless. You used to be the sensible one. How could you fail to leave some letter of explanation for your family and this poor Philippe person? Everyone has been frantic with worry. Your parents rushed back from Switzerland as soon as they received word of your disappearance.”
“Philippe de Malliffet?”
“At least you recall his name.”
Suddenly, the temperature in the room was unbearable. She went to the windows and tried to open them.
“Those haven’t opened in years. I think they’ve been painted shut.”
“There seems to have been a miscommunication.”
“I should say so. He was so distraught over your disappearance he hired an investigator and came all this way to find you. He seems to think you hold him in similar regard. He left me his card. Quite a distinguished fellow, he was.”
Claudine staggered to the tall window behind the desk and looked down upon Madison Avenue. “He came here?” Her throat was so dry her voice sounded like a whisper.
“He’s staying at the Waldorf Astoria. Your parents told him you were staying with me after they received a telegram to that effect from my son of all people. Now why would Leo do a thing like that, I wonder. He hasn’t seen you or your family in years… Or has he?”
There was a wealth of suspicion in that question, but Claudine scarcely heard it. The terrible feelings she’d thought she’d conquered swirled up inside her like dust beaten from a carpet: humiliation, self-loathing, fear. Philippe’s exact words eluded her now, but she was fairly certain he’d accused her of trying to trap him and then he’d disappeared.
He must have told her parents something very different. He probably believed he was being very noble and making the ultimate sacrifice by deigning to marry her.
Madame Barnett studied her face. “You don’t look well. This isn’t some lark, is it? He’s the reason you left Paris.” She shook her head with a sigh. “It’s never pleasant to break a man’s heart, but if you don’t love him, you’ll be doing him a favor in the end. The sooner you clear up this unfortunate mistake, the better. You’re not a child anymore. You cannot just run away from every unpleasant situation.”
“I don’t do that.” Well, maybe she did. The thought of seeing Philippe again made her feel sick. She refused to see him. He could spend the rest of his life searching for all she cared. She owed him nothing.
And she had far more pressing concerns. “I need your help. I don’t know where else to turn.”
“Of course. I’d do anything for you.” Two little lines of worry appeared between her eyes. “What has Leo done?”
“Nothing. It’s Alexandre. Someone attacked him and broke his hand in multiple places. It didn’t heal correctly.”
Madame Barnett grimaced. “Who would do such a thing to him?”
“He met a woman, a celebrated singer, at a music hall. They ran off together. At first, I thought it was an act of vengeance by the woman’s husband, but now I’m not so sure. I think either one of them capable of wounding a person to serve their needs.”
“Charming couple.”
“Indeed. If you could see the way he’s living in some shanty like a poorly cared for, traumatized animal. I’ve tried to convince him to leave her, but he’s too infatuated to listen. He feels indebted to the woman for caring for him after the incident, but I don’t trust her motives. He’s taken to drink though I’ve never known him to have a fondness for alcohol. And he’s dirty.” Her effort to fight down her tears made her voice come out in a choked rasp.
“That doesn’t sound like him at all.”
“He’s changed. You wouldn’t know him now. He doesn’t seem to care what happens as long as he’s with her. I’m afraid for him.”
Madame Barnett shook her head. Then her eyes lit up. “Perhaps some function could be restored to his hand. That might make all the difference. He should see Dr. Dixon. He’s the best hand surgeon in the city.”
“I didn’t think it possible to heal such a deformity.”
“It’s worth asking his opinion at least. He’s a brilliant surgeon.”
“You seem to know the man very well.”
Madame Barnett went to her desk and removed a notebook from the top drawer. “He’s a special friend. I first met him years ago when he began to volunteer his services at Ardaut House. I will speak with him right away. And Leonardo. He should know. They were as close as brothers once.” She sat down and began flipping through pages, her finger sliding down an endless list of neatly scripted names.
“That won’t be necessary,” Claudine blurted. “They haven’t seen each other in years, not since Leo left college. I don’t wish to bother him with our troubles.”
The page flipping ceased as Madame Barnett looked up with a miffed expression. “Bother him? I realize my son’s past conduct does not speak well of his chara
cter, but you must believe he is still a good person at heart. He would not hesitate to come to the aid of a friend.”
“He would only complicate matters. I don’t need him.”
Now she looked more perplexed than annoyed. “Fine. I won’t say a word. We will resolve the matter without his assistance, and then we’ll see about sorting out that business with your fiancé. I’ll telegram your parents today to let them know you are well, and you will stay here with me so I can be assured of that. There’s an extra room next to mine on the top floor. It’s small but pleasant with a view of the rear garden.”
“Thank you,” Claudine said with a deep sense of relief. Already her problems no longer seemed quite so insurmountable.
* * *
Philippe de Malliffet sprung from his bed at the Waldorf Astoria with a vigor he hadn’t felt it years.
He shot a withering glance at the harlot he’d brought back with him the night before. It was daytime. Anyone might note the sordid company he was keeping. “Why are you still here?”
Then again, did it really matter what one did in America? He was entitled to his guilty pleasures. It had been a long, celibate voyage from France.
At least, his needs would be well met on the return trip with his grateful bride in tow. Claudine would be so overjoyed by his decision to marry her, she’d likely be even more accommodating than she’d been the first time.
Contemplation of his immediate future evoked the sweet memory of his perfectly executed seduction of the girl. Circumstances were all in his favor that night with her parents away and Claudine so desperate for affection. Just another naive girl in a long line. A man needed diversions.
But he hadn’t been able to forget the girl as he’d done with all of his other conquests, even after repeated attempts at substitution. So he arrived at a brilliant solution: he would marry her. He needed heirs, and she would make a biddable wife. Her family, apart from her whore of a mother, was very distinguished. The more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea of joining his own bloodline to that of this ancient, only slightly tainted, noble family.
But the stupid chit had run off. Her flight had taken him by surprise. He didn’t think she possessed the courage to do such a foolhardy thing, but he supposed he’d left her to stew in her own guilt, uncertainty, and fear for too long. He’d likely gotten her with child.
Of course, he didn’t tell her parents that, only that they were engaged to be married. Their ambivalence to the idea bordered on rudeness, but he wasn’t one to be put off so easily. He’d told them they’d quarreled and swore his undying devotion to their daughter until they finally told him about the telegram from one Leonardo Barnett of Manhattan, claiming she was staying with his mother.
Then he knew she was more of a slut than he’d realized.
His brief interview with Madame Barnett only confirmed his suspicion. Claudine had run away with another man. Her infidelity should have infuriated him. Instead, it only aroused that unwholesome part of his nature which had drawn him to her in the first place. She was unconsciously enticing, yet naïve and vulnerable. This piece of sordid history only made her more so. There would be time enough to punish her for her infidelity. A lifetime.
He would pretend to forgive her, for now, and she would be relieved that he’d not forgotten her after all. An expert card player, Philippe liked nothing better than recognizing the perfect hand and savoring the moment of victory. Soon her noble lineage would be tied to his, and she would be his to use however he chose for the rest of her life. “Wait right there,” he ordered the woman struggling to confine herself into her corset by the front fastenings. “I’m not done with you yet.”
An hour or so later, he came to the house identified by his investigator as the residence of Claudine’s lover. It surprised him to see such an extravagant display of wealth, but it didn’t concern him much. The man might possess wealth, but he was still hopelessly common. He slammed the brass doorknocker five times in rapid succession, briefly indulging in a fit of pique.
A most peculiar-looking butler answered. Philippe handed the hideously scarred man his card, pointedly averting his gaze from his offensive face. “I’ve come to collect my fiancée, Claudine Valencourt. Bring her to me at once.”
“There is no one here by that name.”
He waved his investigator’s report in the man’s face, challenging any denial. “This is the home of Leonardo Barnett, is it not?”
“It is, sir.”
“Well, I demand to speak with him.”
“He is out, sir.”
“Out where?”
“His offices.”
“Which are where?”
“I am not at liberty to relay that information to strangers, sir.”
“I’ll wait.”
“It may be hours before he returns. If you wish to leave your card…” the man droned in that infuriatingly patient tone.
“I’m very close to losing my temper with you. Do you wish to be held accountable for conspiring to kidnap a young lady?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” The servant showed no alarm whatsoever. If anything, he was beginning to look amused. Whatever accident he’d suffered had likely affected his brain.
Philippe sighed with impatience at the servant’s rudeness. He shoved his hat and walking stick at the man, brushed past him into the vestibule, and shouted upstairs, “Claudine! Come down here at once! I must speak with you.”
There was no answer.
“I told you, sir. There is no one here by that name here,” the butler said behind him.
“We’ll see about that.” He turned into the first room on his right, trod over a Persian rug, seated himself on a silk upholstered fauteuil, crossed his legs, and scowled at the décor. Pale green with gilded moldings, the parlor featured a stone fireplace, arched built-in bookshelves, an Érard piano, and mostly Louis XV furniture. Americans were just as he’d always assumed. Their taste was as abysmal as their manners.
* * *
“You again. Haven’t you upset him enough with your absurd theories?” Odette gave an exasperated sigh, which further taxed the already straining seams of her lemon colored satin bodice. She stood like a firmly rooted tree in the entryway.
Claudine nodded to Madame Barnett. “I’ve brought a family friend to cheer him up.” Under the circumstances, mutual hatred, she didn’t feel a formal introduction was called for.
Odette looked over the newcomer’s fashionable navy dress and matching plumed hat. “If you had exercised the courtesy of sending word of your visit, I would have warned you that Alex is indisposed.” She showed no indication of allowing them entrance.
After much discussion, they’d decided the best approach to dealing with the potentially unbalanced singer was a non-confrontational one, but it seemed that would not be possible. “We’ll not be long,” Madame Barnett replied, brushing past the other woman, her jaunty blue hat plumes bouncing with each step of her determined stride.
“He’s not to be disturbed!” Odette snarled behind them.
Seated before a small wooden table facing the wall, Alex looked up in confusion as Claudine opened the bedroom door. He was fully dressed today, an improvement, but the pale gray suit he wore was dirty and stained. The brown stain on his lapel might have been a faded bloodstain.
His face lit with recognition. “Madame Barnett? How wonderful to see you… Claudine, you’re here too. I’ve missed you.” He sounded weak, drunk, and disconcertingly disoriented.
The two women exchanged a glance of alarm. Not only was he inebriated at half past two in the afternoon, he also seemed to have no recollection of the events of the previous day.
“I’ve come to visit you as you have neglected to call upon me,” Madame Barnett said lightly.
“Forgive me… I haven’t been well.” His chair clunked to the floor as he lurched to his feet.
Madame Barnett came forward and embraced him as though he were her son. “I think you’ve lost weight, Alex
. That suit doesn’t fit you properly. Why don’t we get you fitted for a new one?”
“This one’s fine.”
Claudine looked down at the ink-splattered papers scattered across the table, and her heart lifted at the sight of notes and staves. “You’re composing again.”
“No, just more nonsense melodies,” he muttered, swaying. “I can’t get them out of my head until I write them down.”
“You make your gift sound like a curse.” She swept the sheet music into a neat rectangle and removed the pile from the table. If he was leaving here today, as she intended, it seemed only right that his music should go with him.
“What are you doing?” he asked, only mild concerned.
“It must be difficult to compose without a piano,” Madame Barnett interjected. “We have a piano at Ardaut House. Would you like to try it?”
He looked lost in thought for a moment. Then his lips curved into a faint grin. “I remember that poor abused Pleyel.”
“If you come, I promise I’ll get a tuner.”
All signs of animation left his face. “I don’t play anymore.”
“Nonsense. You still have five functioning fingers. I’ve seen people do incredible things with even fewer. I’ve made a consultation appointment for you with a friend of mine. Dr. Dixon is the best hand surgeon in New York, perhaps even in all of America.”
Alex studied his hand. If anything, it looked more swollen and discolored than it had the day before. “What’s the point?”
Claudine touched his shoulder. “At least meet with him and hear his prognosis. You have so much to gain. If you don’t take this opportunity, you might always wonder what might have been.”
Madame Barnett didn’t wait for his reply, linking her arm with his and leading him through the main room. Claudine’s heart ached as she watched her once athletic cousin drag his feet, leaning on the older woman. She rushed to support his other arm and found it shockingly atrophied.
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