The Adventuress

by Tasha Alexander

  A pang of guilt stabbed at me, and for a moment even I believed I had been to the ruins and that I ought to have invited Amity. I shook myself back to reality. “There was not much to see, I am afraid. We only went because Margaret had a telegram from her husband asking her to check an inscription he thought was there—he needed a quick answer for a monograph he is writing. We didn’t want to disturb any of you so early, when there would have been so little to be gained by it.”

  “It would have been exciting,” Amity said, “even if they were only small ruins. I’ve never seen someone search for an inscription with an actual academic purpose. And we could have brought a picnic on the train.”

  “I shall plan an excursion to Nice, specially for you,” I said. “There are wonderful ruins there.”

  “You are simply too very! I will hold you to it and cannot wait to make the trip,” Amity said. “Thank you again for coming to me, Emily. It does mean the world to me, as does your promise to help me uncover the truth of this hideous day. Now, you must have a bath without delay. You look a fright and we are to have cocktails on the terrace in only just an hour. I do not think Birdie can survive you being late again.”

  Amity

  Christabel and Jack rose and opened their mouths almost in unison to speak the minute Emily had left the room.

  “You cannot believe her!” Christabel said.

  “I want to believe her, but I have very grave doubts—” Jack began.

  “That is quite enough from you both,” Amity said, a sweet smile on her face. She tugged at the Venetian lace spilling from the cuffs of her emerald green gown. “Jeremy, my darling love, would never be friends with someone who could be so cruel, especially to me. I will hear not another word on the subject.”

  “Amity is right,” Jeremy said. “Jack, you know Emily far too well to—”

  “To what?” Jack asked, glowering. “To not have noticed the obvious thing no one is willing to mention.”

  “Captain Sheffield,” Christabel’s voice was small. “I think it is best—”

  “Best that we keep pretending there is nothing else at stake here?” he asked. “I cannot remain silent, Miss Peabody.”

  “Why have you two regressed to such formality?” Amity asked, crossing first to Jack and then to Christabel, standing in front of each and studying their countenances. “It is decidedly odd, given not only our proximity these past months, but the nature of our friendship going back to our first days in India. Are the two of you trying to hide something?”

  “What could we possibly have to hide?” Christabel asked, her face scarlet.

  “What about you, Jack?” Jeremy asked, tilting his head and crossing his legs on the table in front of him. “I thought you could no longer remain silent? Or is candor necessary only when it pertains to personal matters that do not affect you?”

  “You know that is not the case, Jeremy,” Jack said. “I only mean to—”

  “Think carefully before you speak, my dear brother,” Jeremy said. “Words can cause irrevocable harm, even when they are not true, and I have had quite enough of this nonsense. Amity, we are not going to meet the others for cocktails. I am taking you to the casino, where we are going to spend the evening playing baccarat. I cannot bear a moment longer in the company of anyone save you.”

  “What a perfect idea,” Amity said. “May we dine out as well?”

  “Whatever you desire, my love.” Jeremy beamed at her.

  “I am so fortunate to have found you,” Amity said. “What should I have done if my parents had forced some other duke on me? Do you know that before we met I worried that you would be old and grey, despite your brother’s reassurances to the contrary? He made you out to be the handsomest man alive.”

  “I always thought Jack noble and honest, but I am most grateful that brotherly affection trumped the truth when it came to telling you about me,” Jeremy said. “I owe you, Captain.” He raised a glass to his brother and drank. “Now. Baccarat.”

  14

  Back in my room, I applied myself to my ablutions with a focus on speed, not wanting to further irritate Mrs. Wells by being late again. Colin, looking extremely dapper in his evening kit—white tie suited him so very well—escorted me to the terrace. I had dressed without an eye to restraint, deciding that as Amity now seemed to be an ally, I no longer had to concern myself with upstaging her. Her mother, on the other hand, I thought might respond better to me if I presented myself to her in a blaze of fashion. My strategy proved correct.

  That Mrs. Wells was unhappy with me was evident the moment that my husband and I stepped onto the terrace. She pulled her shoulders back and scowled, but then noticed my diamonds and rubies and the way they enhanced the silver threads shot through the pale shell pink silk of my gown. I had been so thrilled to discover, on my last trip to the House of Worth, that the balloonlike sleeves that had been popular for far longer than I should have liked had at last fallen completely out of fashion that I ordered three times the number of dresses I had intended. The Messieurs Worth were delighted, Colin amused, and I outfitted like an empress. Styles were softer now, meant to accentuate the hips and graceful movement. My enthusiasm had dampened slightly when I realized this meant that skirts had become so narrow as to restrict movement, but I no longer felt obliged to be an absolute slave to fashion, and I ordered my gowns cut wide enough so that I might move freely without destroying the overall effect.

  The bodice of my gown, with its square neckline and long, chiffon sleeves that clung to my arms, laced up the back. An overskirt of chiffon covered the silk, trailing behind me like a little sea of pale foam. Margaret, recognizing immediately that I was no longer playing Mrs. Wells’s game, grinned, and raised her glass to me as I greeted our hostess.

  “What a lovely evening, Mrs. Wells,” I said, kissing her on both cheeks. “It is as if the weather itself bends to your will. I cannot remember a finer night.”

  Mrs. Wells narrowed her eyes as she looked at me. “I must speak with you, Emily—”

  “Lady Emily, please, if we are not going to be friends.” I snapped my fan open and waved it in front of my face. “I can only assume that you mean to be stern with me for the sake of appearances, because no rational woman—and I do believe you to be rational, Mrs. Wells—could consider the notion that I would do anything to harm your darling little girl. I feel as if Amity is like a sister to me.”

  This rendered Mrs. Wells speechless. She had expected to be able to bully me, disparage me in front of my friends, and that I would cower before her, desperate to defend myself. A show of strength on my part was the last thing she had anticipated. Mr. Wells stepped forward and took my hand.

  “I do not doubt you, Emily—and I shall use your given name rather than your title as I do consider you a friend. Apologies for having reacted badly all around to this situation. What does your husband make of this dreadful business?”

  “I shall leave you to discuss it with him. I see a waiter with champagne and am feeling dreadfully parched.” Margaret intercepted me before I had taken six steps away from Mr. Wells.

  “Well done, Emily,” she said. “They do tremble before the titled, don’t they?”

  “It is appalling, isn’t it?” I asked. “Particularly given that I have nothing more than a courtesy title.”

  “I think you ought to have worn a tiara. That would have slayed Mrs. Wells.”

  “I am afraid it did not occur to me to bring one,” I said. “Where are Amity and Jeremy?”

  “They are not coming,” Margaret said. Jack crossed to us and stood a few paces behind her. “They have abandoned us for the casino.”

  “Have they? How singular and how very like Jeremy,” I said. “Why are you hovering, Jack? Are you attempting to hide behind a palm? That is very bad form, you know.”

  “I am told I must apologize,” he said, sounding like a chastened little boy, “and am more mortified than you can imagine. I know you did not crush that hat and send it to Amity.”
r />   “Why did you ever suspect I would have done such a thing?”

  “May I speak freely?” he asked, glancing around at the tables around us, now nearly all full.

  “I do wish you would,” I said.

  He looked at Margaret. “In private?” She huffed, but left me to him. We walked to the edge of the terrace, where we would neither be in the way of any of the servers nor close enough to the other guests to be overheard. “Emily, my brother’s feelings for you are no secret. They never have been. I know how much his friendship means to you, and I have noticed that in these weeks here in Cannes, the two of you have not been quite so easy with each other as you were before.”

  “A friendship between a lady and a gentleman is bound to change when one of them is getting married.”

  “You are already married.”

  “Yes, but do not think there was no period of awkwardness between the time that I accepted my husband’s proposal and now. This, too, will smooth over, but it will require a bit of adjustment from all involved parties.”

  “You are—do forgive me; I know I ought not ask, but I must—you are not in love with my brother?”

  Laughter burst forth from me with such force that I fear I quite astonished the poor boy. A nearby waiter almost dropped his tray. “In love with Jeremy?” I covered my mouth with a gloved hand, but could not stop my mirth. “Jack Sheffield, whatever can you be thinking?”

  “I only thought—I see now it was quite absurd.”

  “Oh, my dear boy, you have amused me like no other,” I said. “Did you really think I was jealous of Amity and attempting to sabotage her engagement? To what end?”

  “I suppose I had not thought much about that.”

  “Had I ever been in love with your brother I would have married him years ago, but I can assure you that neither of us would have been happy with the outcome.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “I have known you since you were a baby. What choice do I have?” I could tell he was looking over my shoulder, and turned to see Christabel watching us. I waved her over. “All of this nonsense is behind us now.”

  “How can it be behind us when we still don’t know who is bent on tormenting Amity?” Christabel asked. She was still careful not to meet my eyes.

  “Rely on Colin and me to figure that out, but in the meantime, there is nothing to be done except to ensure that our friends are enjoying this celebration of their engagement. Look what we have done as a result of all this nonsense—driven them off to the casino because they are tired of the tension that has plagued our party. It stops now.”

  “I am heartily ashamed of myself,” Jack said.

  “Fetch some champagne for Miss Peabody,” I said. “She looks as if she could use some.” I excused myself and went in search of Mr. Fairchild, whom I found lurking on the pavement beneath the terrace, where he was leaning against a palm tree and smoking.

  “You need not scold me for abandoning you all,” he said.

  “That was never my intention,” I said. “What are you doing here all alone?”

  “Wells exhausts me. If I hear one more word about copper mining I shall scream. I have never better appreciated how essential it is for gentlemen to remain gentlemen and not work.”

  “All paid work degrades the mind,” I said. “Aristotle. Do I need to convince you that it is not I who is tormenting Amity?”

  He blew a thin stream of silver smoke from between his smiling lips. “No. I admit I took the note attached to the box at face value initially, but as soon as I gave the matter further thought I saw the inanity of it.”

  “I am glad, because I, too, find myself exhausted. Although not as a result of prolonged discussion of copper mining.”

  “Lady Emily Hargreaves?” A bellman approached us. “A telegram for you, madame.” I took it from him, thanked him, and opened the envelope, frowning as I read the words.

  “Is something wrong?” Mr. Fairchild asked.

  “I am afraid something is very wrong. Would you please fetch my husband and ask him to come to me at once?”

  “Of course.” He vanished, leaving me to read the message again. It was from Hélène’s mother. Her daughter, whom she had expected to see on her birthday, had never arrived in Marseille.

  “What is it?” Colin asked, fairly flying down the steps to me. I handed him the telegram. He frowned, grasping the deeper meaning at once, and took me by the hand, leading me to the front of the hotel, where he waved for a cab.

  Casinos had never held much appeal to me. I had only once been inside such an establishment, in Venice, and then only briefly. If planning to part with a tidy sum of money, I much preferred the idea of buying art or funding a worthwhile enterprise or ordering more frocks than I ought at the House of Worth to losing it gaming. Knowing the Cercle Nautique in Cannes to be a favorite haunt of the Prince of Wales, I expected it to be grand, with decorations that veered on the obnoxious side of rococo. On this point, I was mistaken. Colin and I marched up the steps to the main entrance and were ushered inside a singularly pleasant space. One could not say that it was discreet or restrained, but to my view, it was better decorated than Buckingham Palace, and considerably more comfortable. The lobby, all smooth marble and gilt trim, was wide and cool, with views to the ocean. Colin asked to see the manager, and within moments a tall, proud-looking man stood in front of us.

  “I am afraid the girl may have come to some harm,” Colin said, after having explained our search for Hélène.

  The manager smiled broadly. “You are too worried, my good man. Girls like that disappear all the time, and for no nefarious reasons. Most likely she either grew tired of her work or she found herself a gentleman prepared to take care of her. You may inquire with the other girls if you would like, but I can assure you there is nothing about this that raises even the slightest alarm bells in me.”

  We did want to speak with the girls, and he led us through a maze of corridors, down to the dressing rooms near the casino’s small theater. Marie spotted me at once, and waved.

  “You are so beautiful,” she said. “Violette! This gown! Can you make it for me?” Violette, who was leaning close to the mirror that ran the length of the wall made no move until she had finished carefully applying kohl around her eyes. Once done, she took a slim notebook from a case sitting on the counter below the mirror, and came to us.

  “May I sketch, Lady Emily?”

  “I do not think now—”

  Marie did not hesitate to interrupt Colin. “You may tell us why you are here while she works.” Their costumes, garish and bright, exceedingly low cut, and with skirts shorter than that allowed for evening wear, along with the generous application of rouge, made them look rather different from the girls Margaret and I had met at the café. I could now understand why my husband had initially told me I would be shocked by their appearance. This is not to suggest that I felt even the slightest shock—I am not so easily taken aback—but gentlemen, even enlightened ones, often think ladies are far less worldly than we are.

  “You have met my husband?” I asked.

  “Not formally.” She extended her hand to him. “It is a pleasure of the highest order.”

  “We are here because we are concerned about Hélène,” I said. “She did not go to her mother in Marseille.”

  “Where else would she have gone?” Marie asked. “She certainly hasn’t been here.”

  “I went to see her yesterday,” Violette said. “Her landlord’s wife told me she was not there, and that she hasn’t had a glimpse of her since she left for Marseille.”

  “Where does she live?” Colin asked, taking no notice of the bustle of activity surrounding us. Chorus girls were rushing by in colorful costumes, while others touched up their rouge or fixed their hair. A burly man standing at the door barked at them if he thought they would be late for their performances, but his remarks revealed a greater fondness for them than he perhaps intended. He was more friend than boss.

  “We
’ve a show in half an hour, or I would take you myself,” Marie said, “but we can give you the address.” Without having to be asked, Violette tore a page from her book and wrote down the directions as well as the landlord’s name.

  “You don’t think that something has happened to her, do you?” Rose had come up so quietly I had hardly noticed her.

  “I very much hope not,” Colin said. “None of you has had a word from her since she was supposed to have gone to Marseille?”

  “Not a single one,” Marie said.

  “Think carefully. Are there any gentlemen to whom she might be attached?” Colin asked.

  “No, there hasn’t been anyone particular for a long while,” Marie said.

  “You are certain?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Violette said.

  “And is there anyone you thought she might be trying to cultivate?” Colin asked.

  “No,” Marie said. “Hélène never wanted that sort of thing. Did her best to avoid it. Of course, her mother had a bit of money, so she was only supporting herself and her salary here is enough for that.”

  “Has anyone troubled you recently?” Colin asked. “I am aware there are men who are more forceful than they ought to be.”

  “Not recently, no,” Violette said. “This is not a brothel, Monsieur Hargreaves.”

  “I apologize for the question,” Colin said, “but at this time, I must pursue every possible angle.” We thanked them and returned to our cab, ordering the driver to take us to Hélène’s modest abode. She lived far from the center of town, above a butcher’s shop, in a worn but neat building. Colin banged on the door with the head of his stick until we heard footsteps approaching.

  “There’s no cause for such excitement!” came a voice from behind the door. Keys jangled, locks clicked, and the door swung open. Behind it stood a man who could only have been the butcher. His face was red and jolly, his hands broad and strong, but it was the blood-stained apron tied around his ample waist that gave away his profession. “Can I help you?” he asked, a look of astonishment on his face.