Cinderella Six Feet Under(93)

“And you have known the prince for many years?”

“Ten years. Perhaps more. We met in Rome. When he arrived in Paris several months ago, he looked me up.”

“I’m told Prince Rupprecht plans to make a grand announcement tomorrow evening, at the ball. Some believe he intends to announce a bride.”

“A bride! Prince Rupprecht is a sworn bachelor. And if he changed that and did take a wife, why, I would pity the poor lady who had become so entangled.”

“Oh? I’m acquainted with more than one lady who would be delighted to marry Prince Rupprecht. He is titled, wealthy, handsome.”

“You think him . . . handsome?” Griffe sagged. “Oui, I suppose he is. But he will never marry. Mark my words.”

“Why not?”

“He is . . . discontented with ladies.”

Ophelia frowned. “At the ballet, it seemed—I mean, according to my niece—that he rather enjoyed the dancers.”

“I cannot think, Madame Brand, why you are so anxious to learn of the prince’s marital prospects. Does Mademoiselle Stonewall wish to know?”

“No, no. You see, my youngest niece, Abigail, wrote to me and inquired about the prince. She is the prettiest of the Stonewall sisters, and her mama has high hopes that she will make a great match in Europe someday.”

“Ah! Mademoiselle Stonewall’s sister? Je comprends.” Griffe brightened. “Write to your niece Abigail and tell her that she should not give Prince Rupprecht another thought.” He lowered his voice. “He is a scoundrel. A cad. If Abigail is anything like you and Mademoiselle Stonewall, then she is a petite beauty. But for the prince, that is not enough. He is tired of ladies. He would tire of her, for no lady is ever perfect enough for him. He imagines he is like the Prince Charming, searching for his Cinderella, but she will never be found. He grows impatient. He searches high and low. But every lady has a flaw—too short, too tall, too fat, too thin. Big feet, small feet. A crooked tooth. A donkey’s laugh. Non, Prince Rupprecht will never find a bride. And, eh! He does not deserve to.”

Ophelia stared at Griffe. “Cinderella? Did the prince say he is searching for Cinderella?”

“Oui, although I cannot think why a grown man has his head in a muddle over a child’s fairy story.”

How could she have been so blind? Prince Rupprecht was the murderer. He tired of ladies. He went through them like racehorses, it seemed. And what did people do with old racehorses who couldn’t cut it anymore?

They shot them.





28




The ma?tre d’h?tel led Gabriel out to H?tel Meurice’s lobby, with its marble floors and white-and-gold pillars. Gabriel wasn’t certain if leaving Miss Flax and Griffe was a relief or a danger—because it was obvious that Miss Flax was attempting to get his goat by flirting with the chap. Griffe appeared ready to propose marriage to Mrs. Brand, Miss Stonewall, or both.

Gabriel couldn’t complain. After all, he had his understanding (of sorts) with Miss Ivy Banks. Not that it had been the memory of Miss Banks kissing him that had kept him up half the night.

A handsome, olive-complexioned young gentleman stood against a wall, holding a bowler hat in his hands. A young nun stood beside him.

“This is the gentleman who summoned me?” Gabriel asked the ma?tre d’h?tel in French.

The ma?tre d’h?tel nodded and glided away.

“Well I’ll be!” the nun shouted. “Professor Penrose! It really is you! What’s happened to your ear?”

“Miss Bright! Good heavens! Are you all right?”

“Fine as frog hair.” She grinned.

“But why are you got up like a nun?”

“I was with the nuns. At the Pensionnat Sainte Estelle.”

Sainte Estelle. Gabriel’s breath caught. Sybille Pinet’s landlady had said Sybille had come from a convent that had been named something to do with stars—and Estelle meant star. “Is that a convent orphanage?” he asked Prue.

“They’ve got a school, but it ain’t an orphanage. The students there got families, it sounded like.”

Gabriel cursed his own stupidity. He’d only gotten a list of all the convent orphanages in Paris, but Sybille hadn’t been an orphan when she’d entered the school.

“Lord Harrington,” the young man said in a refined Scottish accent.

Gabriel turned to him. “Good morning, Monsieur—?”