Cinderella Six Feet Under(38)

The combination of a guilty conscience and acute excitement would require at least two full glasses of port to still them.

The guilt was a simple matter. He had lied to Miss Flax. It was for her own good, though, and he’d not seen any pain in her eyes at the news of his understanding—well, his understanding of sorts—with Miss Ivy Banks. He had been foolish to suppose Miss Flax had any interest in his attachments.

The excitement was an altogether separate affair.

Cinderella’s stomacher. Gabriel had never seen it illustrated. Who would bother to illustrate what was believed to be a detail from a wicked stepsister’s gown? Still, he could quite easily envision it. Although delicate, it would possess an unnatural weight, and the glints from those diamonds would pierce the eye. It would be intricate, too, with a pattern that seduced one into deeper and deeper labyrinths of luster.

Gabriel took a deep swallow of port. The stomacher must be the relic Lady Cruthlach had spoken of. It had even been made, perhaps, by the mysterious woman called Fairy Godmother. But the stomacher was not hidden somewhere in the Malbert mansion, as Lady Cruthlach believed. No, it had vanished off Sybille Pinet’s corpse in the foul hands of a murderer. And he, Gabriel, would find it.





12




“Good morning, Professor Penrose,” Miss Flax said, settling into the carriage seat.

“Good morning, Miss Flax. The rain has stopped, for now at least.”

The carriage moved forward. The solicitor’s office would be the first stop.

“Oh, indeed. Nice to have a break in the rain.”

There. Gabriel adjusted his spectacles. This was better. Polite. Formal. None of that bickering and bantering. He’d been right to mention Miss Ivy Banks last night because now, for perhaps the first time since Gabriel had met Miss Flax, he was able to enjoy a placid conscience. No more fretting about their discordant stations in life. He could even observe her, this morning attired in her own plain cloak and bonnet, her cheeks smooth and rosy, without even the faintest stirring of desire. Yes. Miss Ivy Banks was the solution to the problem.

The Avenue des Champs-élysées was broad, with rows of bare chestnut trees and buildings of pale stone and fanciful wrought iron. In the third-story reception room of Monsieur T. S. Cherrien (Avocat), a toad of a secretary manned a mahogany desk. “Might I be of assistance?” he asked in French.

Gabriel introduced himself as Lord Harrington and said that he wished to speak with Monsieur Cherrien.

The secretary looked at Miss Flax in her simple attire. He twitched a faint, knowing smile. “A settlement, perhaps?” he said in English.

Miss Flax sucked in an affronted gasp.

“No,” Gabriel said coldly. “I—we—wish to speak with Monsieur Cherrien regarding the disappearance of the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau.”

“We believe she is one of Monsieur Cherrien’s clients,” Miss Flax said.

“We never discuss our clients, monsieur et mademoiselle. And I regret to say that Monsieur Cherrien is at present occupied, and I expect that he will be occupied for many, many, many hours. Please do make an appointment.” The secretary spread open an appointment book and flicked through several pages—mostly empty pages. “Ah. He does have an available time on the fifteenth of January.”

“January,” Gabriel said. “This is November.”

The secretary looked up. “Do you wish for the appointment, or no?”

Miss Flax leaned over the desk and, cheeks flaming, said, “I have a mind to go straight into Monsieur Cherrien’s office this minute.”

“You will be sadly disappointed. He keeps the door locked. Shall I summon the police?”

“Good morning, monsieur.” Gabriel led Miss Flax out of the office.

“Stonewalled,” Miss Flax said, as they went down the stairs.

“We’ll go to see Madame Fayette, the couturière, next, but it occurs to me that you ought to have a cozy chat with Malbert later. Perhaps he’ll divulge something about Henrietta wishing to divorce him.”

“Malbert is about as liable to divulge secrets as a suet pudding. But I reckon it’s worth an attempt.”

*

Maison Fayette was a mile or two away, in a fancy shopping street called Rue de la Paix. Marble pillars flanked its carved door, and sparkling windows on either side displayed nothing but mauve velvet draperies.

“A waiter at my hotel told me fantastical tales of Madame Fayette,” Penrose said. He pressed the doorbell. “Evidently she is a sorceress with needle and thread, and he said that ladies swear she works magic on their figures.”