Milo, as I knew he would, dismissed my concern. “You worry too much, my lovely. Seaplanes are perfectly safe. Not much different than driving an automobile.”
I was not going to argue the point with him. I had learned over the years to pick my battles. I could only hope that, with André Duveau gone, Milo would be left without access to this particular vice.
“Seaplanes aside, it’s too bad Mr. Duveau had to leave,” I said. “He’s very charming.”
I waved my wrist before my face and breathed in the perfume once again. There was something rather intoxicating about the scent.
“As far as that goes,” Milo said, rising from his seat, “when a fellow starts noticing what scent one’s wife wears and gifting her with perfume with ‘sensual undertones,’ it may be time to dispense with his friendship.”
I laughed. “Is it so strange for him to remember that I wear gardenia? I thought it was very kind of him to give me the perfume.”
“It wasn’t as kind as you think. He’s got some sort of financial involvement in a perfumery. They’ve probably given him crates of the stuff to foist off on people.”
“How charming you are this morning,” I said wryly.
He came to me and took my wrist in his hand, bringing it up to his nose. “It does smell lovely on your skin.”
“Do you think the sensual undertones suit me?” I asked softly.
“Oh, immensely.” He pulled me to him and lowered his mouth to mine, and I felt again that unaccustomed sensation of perfect contentment that had encompassed me as of late. I was rested, relaxed, and very happy. Only a year ago I had been convinced that my marriage was coming to an end. Now I felt that things had never been better.
Then suddenly Milo stilled, pulling back ever so slightly. “When did the post arrive?”
I looked up at him and saw that his gaze was directed over my shoulder. Apparently this non sequitur had come to pass as he looked down at the little table behind me where the morning post was stacked. “A little while ago,” I said. “Winnelda brought it in. I haven’t looked at it yet.”
Milo released me and reached to pick up a letter. He was always terribly difficult to read, but I could sense a change in his mood as he examined the envelope.
“What is it?” I asked.
He hesitated ever so slightly and, though his expression didn’t change, I felt suddenly apprehensive. “There’s something I haven’t mentioned to you,” he said.
A variety of scenarios sprang immediately to mind. Given my husband’s somewhat colorful past, I imagined it could be any number of unpleasant things. I waited.
“I had an ulterior motive for stopping in Como,” he continued, doing nothing to set my mind at ease.
“Oh?” I inquired carefully.
“It has to do with Madame Nanette.”
I tried not to show my immense relief. Madame Nanette was Milo’s former nanny, the woman who had, for all intents and purposes, raised him. Whatever Milo’s secret was, it could not be as bad as I had feared.
“What about her?” I asked.
“I had a letter from her, forwarded by Ludlow, while we were in Capri. She’s taken a post in Paris and will be traveling with the family to Como. She had seen in the society columns we were in Italy and wondered if we would stop to visit her.”
Milo had received several letters forwarded by our solicitor while we had been abroad, so it would not have attracted my notice. I did wonder why he had chosen not to share this with me before we left Capri. It was not as though the news was something unpleasant. Quite the contrary, in fact.
“How nice,” I said. “I shall be glad to see her.”
He walked to the desk in the corner and picked up the letter opener, slitting open the envelope and pulling the letter from inside. His eyes scanned the words, his features impassive.
At last he looked up. “She’s going to remain in Paris. She asks that we come there.”
“Is she unwell?” I asked, suddenly worried. It was unlike Madame Nanette to request a visit. While she and Milo held each other in the highest regard, they did not remain in close contact. I had only met her twice: once at our wedding and once when we had passed through Paris at Christmas.
“She doesn’t say. The letter is very brief.”
“May I read it?”
He held it out to me without comment. I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand. It was thick, high-quality stationery embossed with a coat of arms, the crest of the house in which she now worked, I supposed.
Her penmanship was exceptional, beautiful script flowing in perfectly straight lines across the page.
My dear Milo,
I am unable to leave Paris after all. If you and your lovely wife could find the time to stop and see me, I would be most pleased.
Fondly,
Madame Nanette
In the postscript she had given her telephone number and asked him to ring her upon our arrival.
“There isn’t much to it,” I said.
“No, there isn’t.”
There was something unsettling about the brevity of the letter, though I didn’t know what exactly.
“Would you mind going to Paris?” he asked.
“Of course not. I think we should go as soon as possible. We’d better begin packing at once,” I told him, mentally beginning to make the necessary preparations. “We can take the train tomorrow.”
He smiled suddenly, and it was one of those smiles that made me instinctively uneasy. “Darling, how would you like to fly to Paris?”
About the Author
Photograph by Amelia Lea
ASHLEY WEAVER is the technical services coordinator at the Allen Parish Libraries in Oberlin, Louisiana. Weaver has worked in libraries since she was fourteen; she was a page and then a clerk before obtaining her MLIS from Louisiana State University. She is the author of three previous Amory Ames mysteries: Murder at the Brightwell, Death Wears a Mask, and A Most Novel Revenge.
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Also by Ashley Weaver
Murder at the Brightwell
Death Wears a Mask
A Most Novel Revenge
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
Preview: THE ESSENCE OF MALICE
About the Author
Also by Ashley Weaver
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
INTRIGUE IN CAPRI. Copyright © 2017 by Ashley Weaver. All rights reserved. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover illustration: beach © Red monkey/Shutterstock.com
e-ISBN 978-1-250-16743-9
First Edition: August 2017
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