Cinderella Six Feet Under(112)

“He has his pride. Can’t blame him for that.” It was also true that if a lady was responsible for breaking her own heart, she really had no right to complain. “Sybille’s killer has been brought to justice. That is the most important thing. And we’ve found your mother.”

“Don’t sound so glum about it, darling,” Henrietta said, sailing down the steps behind them. She wore a smart traveling costume and a plumed hat, and her eyes darted about from guest to guest. Tallying up their titles and economic wherewithal, no doubt. “Go on. Look at that ruby on your finger. Doesn’t that cheer you up?”

No. It did not.

“Hey!” Prue said. “Ain’t that Seraphina Smythe? Over there. Getting into that wagon-looking thing.”

“Goodness. I fancied she was a prim and proper English rose,” Henrietta said, squinting. “Whatever is she doing in that rattletrap?”

It was Seraphina. But she’d removed her spectacles, and her cheeks were flushed. Driving off in a hay wagon with—

“Henri,” Prue said. She whistled. “I’ll be. That’s why the carriageway gate was always open. On account of Seraphina and Henri and their amorous rendezvous.”

“Prue!” Ophelia said.

“What? I’m learning French.”

“What about the lost key?”

“I reckon Beatrice really did lose it at the market. Don’t know how she could see straight half the time, what with all that wine she glugs.”

They were helped up into Griffe’s carriage by a coachman. Griffe bounded down the steps and climbed into the coach, all smiles.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Mademoiselle Stonewall, how lovely you look this morning. I am most glad to convey your friends to Paris. The friend of Mademoiselle Stonewall is the friend of mine, eh?”

This was going to be an awfully long journey.

They set off.

About half an hour later, Griffe was snoring with his head thrown back against the seat, mouth open.

Prue piped up. “Ma, I’ve got something to tell you. I ain’t going back to America with you.”

“I had no intention of going back to America, sugarplum. The grass is so much greener here in Europe. The gentlemen are more innocent, somehow.”

Not wise to Henrietta’s tricks, more like.

“I’m going to be a nun, Ma.”

Henrietta burst out laughing.

“It ain’t funny.”

“What about that young gentleman, Dalziel? He’s smitten with you.”

“I’m through with fellers. I already mailed off a good-bye letter to Hansel this morning.”

“You did?” Ophelia said.

“Who is Hansel? Sounds like a peasant,” Henrietta said.

“I’ll say good-bye to Dalziel when we get to Paris,” Prue said. “I couldn’t do it last night on account of he was in a stew trying to help Lord and Lady Cruthlach find their stolen spell book.”

“It was stolen?” Ophelia asked.

“Right out of their chateau chamber last night.”

Professor Penrose would be mighty interested in that. Come to think of it, maybe he had stolen the spell book himself . . . but Ophelia realized she ought never think of the professor again.

“After I break the news to Dalziel,” Prue said, “I’m shutting myself away.”

“What has gotten into you, Prudence?” Henrietta turned to Ophelia. “Prudence never made a peep as a baby. I put her in a drawer in the corner of my dressing room—”

“A drawer?” Ophelia said.

“Well, of course I cracked it. And it was filled with old bits of costumes and such, and she would sleep through everything. Such a little bonbon.” Her eyes went hard, and she poked Prue with the toe of her shoe. “Allow Mommy to take care of things, all right?”

Prue sighed.

Griffe snorted himself awake. “Quelle heure est-il?”

“Count,” Ophelia said. “I’ve got something important to tell you.”

“Eh?”

“Don’t you dare muddle up my plans,” Henrietta hissed in Ophelia’s ear. Henrietta smiled sweetly at Griffe.

Griffe beamed at Ophelia. “I have been meaning to say, Mademoiselle Stonewall, I do hope your delightful aunt, Madame Brand, might come to our wedding. I have just had a dream of her, all in white.”