The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(21)
Not without a sense of relief, Clayton remained gazing up the staircase until the captain disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. He recalled the captain’s advice on affairs of the heart offered to him in recent days under the assumption that it was all nothing more than a harmless flirtation. But the captain hadn’t the slightest inkling of what was really about to happen in the dining hall, no more than the countess herself in all likelihood—or, if he was honest, than Clayton himself. There was no telling what direction the conversation would take once he showed his hand. He might even need his gun, he told himself, and quickly felt one of his jacket pockets to make sure it was there. Heaving a sigh, he approached the dining hall, bumping into one of the maids, who had just finished clearing the dessert things away. Valerie de Bompard was standing in front of a small mahogany table, pouring two glasses of port. The fire in the hearth played over the thousand sparkles on her dress, casting a golden glow over her arms and back and transforming the decanted liquid into gold.
“Inspector Clayton!” she exclaimed in her mocking French accent. “For a moment I was afraid you had been refused permission to stay up late and were on your way upstairs, clutching your nanny’s skirts.”
Clayton went over to the countess, whose eyes met his as she handed him one of the glasses. The inspector felt himself once more teetering on the edge of the dark, fathomless abyss of her gaze, and for the umpteenth time it occurred to him that it was not only the perfect combination of Valerie de Bompard’s features and proportions that made her beautiful but something much more profound and difficult to describe. She was incredibly beautiful because she had decided to be so, because that was her desire. And Clayton was convinced that nothing in the world could stand in the way of anything she desired. Taking the glass, he returned her smile with a casually sophisticated air.
“My nanny’s skirts . . .” He grinned at the image of Sinclair squeezed into a governess’s outfit. “I confess that anyone who ordered me to bed dressed in a gown as lovely as yours I would be hard put not to obey. You look stunning this evening, Countess.”
“Is that the only compliment you can think of?” she chuckled. “Frankly, I was expecting something more from a man of your exquisite intellect. And besides, you shouldn’t try to flirt with me, Inspector. I’m a dangerous woman. I thought you’d realized that by now.”
“Why ever would I think that?”
She clinked her glass against his and then took a sip.
“Oh, come now, Inspector, there’s no need to pretend with me!”
“I . . .” Clayton swallowed.
“I find it hard to believe you haven’t heard the gossip circulating about me in the town!” she exclaimed. “The Countess de Bompard, that Frenchwoman with a murky past! A fortune hunter who married the old Count de Bompard for his money and position and who, when he disappeared under mysterious circumstances, fled her native France to avoid the scandal and the dreadful rumors that began to assail her! I’m sure you heard all that and more during the course of your investigation.”
“You are well acquainted with your neighbors’ opinion of you,” Clayton simply replied.
“And don’t you think them cruel? I was nothing but a poor widow wanting to mourn in peace. But I soon realized that would be impossible: evil tongues have wings, and my undeserved notoriety followed me here . . . Damn it! The moment I arrived in this godforsaken place to take possession of the count’s English castle, the first thing all the women did was lock up their husbands . . . As if I could possibly be interested in any of those yokels!”
Clayton had to admit he had never heard any woman curse others in quite the same way. Possibly some of the women of ill repute in the London slums, but certainly no lady. After this charming display of vulgarity, the countess took another sip from her glass and seemed to calm down.
“No, I prefer intelligent men. Like Armand,” she went on in a gentler voice. “Or you.”
She tilted her head back slightly, studying Clayton through narrowed eyes, and an ethereal smile played on her lips as she gauged the effect of her words on him. Clayton tried to prevent any emotion from registering on his face. After a few moments’ silence, the countess gave a derisive smile, as though she found his efforts to resist her amusing. So hypnotic was her gaze that the inspector had to remind himself that no matter how much he wanted to taste her lips, she was not what she seemed, and their encounter could not end pleasantly. He stepped away from Valerie and walked over to the portrait hanging over the white marble mantelpiece, underneath which two plush armchairs languished. Staring at the ironical smile with which the countess surveyed the world from the canvas, he told himself it was time for the game to commence.
“Tell me about him. Tell me about Armand.”
The countess gave a soft laugh behind him.
“About Armand? Why, Inspector, I assure you, you have much to learn about the art of seduction. Asking a woman to tell you about another man is hardly appropriate.”
“I’m not sure I agree, Countess. Nothing defines a woman better than the men who have loved her. So tell me about him,” he demanded with deliberate brusqueness. “He painted this portrait, didn’t he?”
There was a silence, during which Clayton could imagine the bewilderment on the countess’s face. After a few moments, her voice rang out.