Cinderella Six Feet Under(75)

*

This time, Madame Fayette’s maid told them that her mistress was awake and expecting them.

Madame Fayette’s entry foyer was a little, airy space done up in shades of lemon and periwinkle. The maid led Ophelia and Penrose down a narrow, lofty corridor scented with dried lavender and into a light-filled parlor. Oil paintings, framed sketches, and watercolors filled the walls, and side tables and shelves displayed busts and baubles. Yellow roses overflowed from crystal vases. An ornate brass birdcage stood on a stand. Inside, a canary hopped.

“Good morning,” Madame Fayette said. She wore a gown of green silk with more ruffles than a flustered goose. She poured coffee from a graceful silver pot, and her diamond bracelet sparkled. “Lord Harrington and—?”

“Mrs. Brand, my American aunt.”

“Ah, indeed?”

Ophelia watched Madame Fayette closely. If she knew that Miss Stonewall and Mrs. Brand were frauds, and if she was the one who’d enlisted the lawyer to put the screws on Penrose, she didn’t show it. Maybe she hadn’t sent that boxed gown addressed to Madame Brand, after all. But if she hadn’t, who had? Funny, too, that Josie had said Madame Fayette was suffering from fatigue, because she appeared rosy and well-rested.

“Please, do sit,” Madame Fayette said. “I was most surprised when my maid told me that you called at such an early hour but I must admit, my curiosity is piqued. Coffee?”

“Thank you,” Penrose said.

Ophelia nodded. She’d made up her mind to let the professor do the talking. All of the talking. No point in giving her disguise away.

They sat. Madame Fayette passed cups of coffee and gestured to the cream and sugar. “Does this concern Miss Stonewall’s garments, Lord Harrington? Josie has not been herself as of late—she is the seamstress who finished those gowns—so I do apologize if the garments were not sewn to your young cousin’s taste.”

That was rich. Madame Fayette lolling about in splendor while poor Josie worked her fingers to the bone?

“It is to do with murder,” Penrose said. He was staring at a watercolor painting on the wall. “And a young lady called Prudence Bright who was taken against her will from H?tel Malbert this morning.”

“Taken?” Madame Fayette touched her throat. Her diamond bracelet slid towards her elbow. “Who is the girl, precisely?”

Penrose began to describe Prue’s disappearance.

Ophelia stopped breathing. Mercy. That bracelet, with its braided design and thick crust of diamonds, had seemed familiar before, when Madame Fayette had taken her measurements at Maison Fayette. And now Ophelia knew why: the last time she’d seen that bracelet it had been on Henrietta’s wrist, back in New York. It had been a gift from one of her gentleman suitors.

“Excuse me, madame,” Ophelia said, interrupting Penrose’s ramblings. “I can’t help admiring your bracelet.”

They all looked at the bracelet.

“Where did you get it?” Ophelia asked.

Madame Fayette laughed, but her eyes were hard. “You Americans and your simply charming informal—”

“That bracelet belonged to the Marquise Henrietta. You do know her, and she was one of your customers. Why did you lie about it when I asked you?”

“I never said that I did not know the marquise. I merely refrained from engaging in gossip. Either way, this is not her bracelet—what a fantastical suggestion! It is mine. I have owned it for years. And, do you not mean to say, Madame Brand, why did I lie to Mademoiselle Stonewall?”

A heavy silence. Penrose scratched his temple.

“I shall not even attempt to understand the meaning of your various and absurd disguises, Madame or Mademoiselle Whoever-you-are,” Madame Fayette said.

“How did you know?” Ophelia asked.

“I measured you. Every inch of you. I recognize the turn of your wrist and the set of your shoulders. And you, Lord Harrington. I cannot begin to fathom why a gentleman of your standing would consort with this—this actress thing—”

“Now see here,” Penrose said.

“—but I am somewhat intrigued as to why the two of you have undertaken to play at officers of the police.” Madame Fayette picked up a little silver handbell and jingled it.

With her left hand.

Madame Fayette was a southpaw!

“If, that is,” Madame Fayette said, “you are able to explain your charade before my maid arrives to show you out.”