Larcenous Lady (7 page)

“You’ll love Rome. So you didn’t see the ladies then?”

“They wasn’t there. The duchess would love it though.”

“Yes,” Belami agreed, and glanced at his watch. Five-thirty, and still no word from Deirdre. It was beginning to look very much as though she had made a cake of him. A jolt of anger stabbed him. “Well, Pronto, what shall we do this evening? I wonder if there are any good wakes we could take you to. It’ll be hard to top the catacombs.”

“Deirdre didn’t send you a note?”

“I haven’t heard from her,” he answered offhandedly. “What do you say we go to the opera tonight? If you start soaking now you might be clean in time.”

“Charney won’t spring for tickets to the opera.”

“I’m not going to see Charney. Madame duChêne is singing this evening. I’m a great admirer of hers.”

“Opera singing, eh?” Pronto asked. “Believe I’ll pass. I’ll drop around at the Licorne and see what Elvira has in mind. Let you know what Deirdre’s up to,” he added.

“All right,” Belami answered, well pleased with the plan.

He knew by the glazed eye of his friend that Pronto was woolgathering. He thought it was the incomparable Elvira that caused that moonstruck look, till Pronto spoke to disillusion him. “Millions of dead bodies, all done up in herringbone and x’s and parallel lines. It’d be a shame for you to come all the way to Paris and not see the sewers. But be careful of the rats. Place is swarming with ‘em. Shifty-eyed rascals. Reminded me of Charney.”

The gentlemen went their separate ways. Madame duChêne proved to be rather more buxom and more piercing of voice than Belami liked. He left at the first intermission and went back to his hotel. Pronto was there, pacing the lobby. He ran forward. “Disaster, Dick!” he exclaimed. “They’ve gone. Elvira, Deirdre, Charney—the lot of them. They sneaked out at the crack of dawn this morning. Left no forwarding address, no notes for us, nothing.”

Belami was stunned. “But they just got here! They’ve only changed hotels.”

“Leave the Licorne when Charney had found just what she wanted? There’s nothing cheaper in the decent part of town. No, she only left that dump to go to Italy—or back to England.”

“You’re sure there was no note left for me?”

“I asked—three times. The clerk was beginning to think I was up to something. There was only one message left all morning, and it was for a Mr. Plunkett. They’ve shabbed off, Dick. I didn’t think Elvira would serve me such a turn.”

“Plunkett?” Belami asked. A quick frown pleated his brow. “Plunkett might be an alias for Captain Styger.”

“If it is, there ain’t much news for him. I read the note. The clerk let me have a peek at it for a half crown. It said ‘Change of plans. Leaving immediately. Claude.’ I thought for a minute it was from Elvira, till I saw the signature. Her name ain’t Claude. Mine ain’t Plunkett, so there you are.”

“So Plunkett was planning to meet someone at the Licorne. I wonder if he’s staying at Montmartre.”

“Don’t see that it matters to us.”

Pronto listened with very little interest to Belami’s suspicions regarding Styger-Plunkett. “All based on a bit of spilt brandy. Pretty slim stuff.”

“Agreed, but I shall have Réal go to the Licorne and see if the note’s been picked up, and, if possible, discover who wrote it. It’s obviously someone staying at the Licorne.”

Pronto shook his head. “Someone who
was
staying at the Licorne. ‘Change of plans. Leaving immediately.’ Claude left the note early this morning. He’s your man. No mystery there.”

“His last name’s a mystery.”

“I’ll leave it to you, my friend. I’m more interested in finding Elvira. I’ll stick around a day till Réal finds out where they went. If they’ve left Paris, I’m off to Rome.”

“Venice,” Belami countered.

“Italy.”

Réal was sent for and came to meet his master in the lobby. “You require the carriage?” he asked in a thin voice. He had met a very charming French seamstress and was on his way to pick her up.

“No, Réal, but I’d like you to run around to the Licorne and make a few inquiries for me.” Belami outlined his questions.

“Sacrebleu!”
Réal scowled, but duty had its way. “I go at once, melord.”

He scampered around the corner and made the inquiries. Belami was still in the lobby when he returned. “The maid who packs the trunks, she hears talking of Venice, not another hotel in Paris. The note for Monsieur Plunkett, it is picked up by a red-faced man tonight. There was no Claude staying at the hotel. No gentleman of the initial C, first name or last.”

“The clerk didn’t get a look at Claude?”

“He don’t see who leaves the note,” Réal said curtly.

Belami recognized by the symptoms that Réal had a tryst and said, “Thanks, Réal. You’re free to join your lady now. I hope I haven’t interfered too much with your plans.”

“Lady?” Réal asked, eyes wide in contradiction.

“Female—the redhead you were talking to at the Louvre this afternoon.
Très jolie.
Enjoy yourself—use the carriage if you want to impress her.”

“I have no plans for the evening, me,” Réal insisted.
“Mais si
you are positive you are finished with duties, I drive over and see Notre Dame by moonlight,” he said piously.
“Ma mère
in Canada will have a letter full of these descriptions.”

“Good lord, do you have a mother? Run along then. The redhead will love Notre Dame by moonlight.
Bon soir.”

Réal was gone in a flash. Belami went at a slower pace to his room. Paris, city of romance. Réal had found a woman. Pronto was in love. And here was he, jilted, abandoned. He might as well have spent the day in the sewers with Pronto for all the enjoyment he’d had. If Réal were correct—and Réal was always correct—the party had gone on to Venice. At least Deirdre had told him the truth. Why had Elvira told Pronto Rome was their destination? Trying to get rid of him, no doubt.

He thought of the Jalbert gang, of the various groups who had checked out of the Licorne this morning, and found he had indeed built bricks without straw. It was perfectly normal that a few of the Jalbert coins had turned up in Paris. Most English came to Paris via Dover. The three coins at Montmartre were mere accidents. If Styger had been in on it, there would have been some of the counterfeit money at the Licorne, and none was reported. Why waste time when every day was taking Deirdre farther from him?

He stretched out on his bed with his eyes closed, picturing himself and Deirdre floating down the canal in a gondola. Yes, they’d set out for Venice tomorrow.

Chapter Five

Deirdre found Venice as beautiful as Dick had told her it would be. What charmed her more than the rest—more than the canals and the islands joined by bridges, more than the beautiful old buildings and the gondolas—was its greenery after the sere fields of northern France and the snow of Switzerland.

When they got into the gondola at Mestre for the last short lap of their journey, a sense of peace entered her heart. The gentle swaying of the boat after the jostling of the carriage, the fresh breeze from the water, and the spiring cypress trees all conspired to enchant her. Then they passed a small island and before her lay a fairyland of azure water on which gondolas moved effortlessly, like water beetles on a pond. From the sea soared the towers and domes of Venice, gold-plated by the lowering sun.

Even the duchess, who had come with the intention of being disappointed, admitted it was “a pleasant change.” The hotel chosen was the Léon Bianco, on the banks of the Grand Canal. It too was a pleasant change, being less decrepit than other hostelries patronized. It was late by the time they were settled in and had ordered dinner. Deirdre was too realistic to expect any evening activity other than reading her guidebook while the duchess slept.

When her eyes became tired, she closed the book and went to the window, high above the Grand Canal, to gaze down on the evening activities of Venice. Gondolas glided like humpbacked whales over the black water. When she opened her window, she could hear the haunting echo of Italian melodies gently wafting on the air. There would be lovers in those romantic boats, going to rendezvous. Would she ever be joining them?

It was beginning to look very much as though she would not. Dick should have overtaken them before now. Tomorrow her aunt meant to register with the British consul, Mr. Richard Hoppner. They would learn then whether Lord Belami had already arrived, and if so, where he was staying. If this failed, she had one more clue to follow. On their honeymoon, they were to have stayed with the Conte and Contessa Ginnasi. The conte, a friend of the late Lord Belami, had made the offer through Dick’s mother. Their palazzo was on the Grand Canal—one of those old gray stone buildings she was looking at now, with water lapping around its mossy foundations. And if Dick wasn’t with them, she would have to assume he hadn’t followed her after all.

Why would he not? Elvira had left him a note explaining their hasty departure. He would understand why she couldn’t return belowstairs at the Licorne. Of course he’d come. Out in the black velvet shadows beyond the window a doleful bell chimed. Deirdre closed the window, lest the noise disturb her aunt’s sleep.

The next morning there was too much novelty in the scenery to be actually depressed, even when Mr. Hoppner had no word on Lord Belami. There was the fascination of going everywhere by boat, sailing under the omnipresent arched bridges, and of looking at the foreigners, always with an eye alert for Dick. The Suttons had decided against going to the British consul with the duchess. Mrs. Sutton said, very properly in the duchess’s opinion, that those formalities were only for the nobility. She and the girls would go shopping. They were famous shoppers. In every new town, they had to con the shops.

When Deirdre and her aunt returned to the hotel, Mrs. Sutton was glowing with pleasure. “You must let me take you to the Merceria this afternoon, your grace. The Pantheon Bazaar in London is nothing to it, I promise you. It’s the shopping district here, just under that clock tower in Saint Mark’s Square. Such bargains in silks and cottons! And gloves—the finest kid, going for an old song.”

“I’ve put my finger through my evening gloves,” the duchess admitted. Both finger and thumb had been peeking out for a whole season, till the leather was worn away with trying to patch it. “Deirdre would like some new ribbons, I daresay. Yes, we’ll go with you,” the duchess allowed graciously.

Over lunch, Mrs. Sutton seemed excited. “I’m afraid you’ll think I’m extravagant.” She blushed. “A beautiful pearl in a jewelry shop window caught my attention. It’s a teardrop pearl, very unusual, and very large. About the size of an acorn—a little smaller in width. I mean to buy it for Elvira’s twenty-first birthday. I promised her something special, but the occasion passed and so I owe her a treat.”

“What are they asking for it?” the duchess demanded.

“A thousand pounds,” Mrs. Sutton said.

The duchess choked on her coffee and turned quite livid. “Are you insane?” she demanded. “What on earth would someone like you want with such a thing? A clergyman’s widow, spending a fortune on jewelry.”

Mrs. Sutton was accustomed to these slurs on her social standing. “My uncle from India left me a considerable sum of money,” she said.

“Hmph.” So that explained how the silly woman could afford to jaunt all over Europe in a private post chaise. Odd she hadn’t mentioned it before now. “You ought to put it in consuls or real estate,” the duchess advised.

“I’ve already done that. Uncle McMaster left me a veritable fortune.”

No further objections came to mind, so the duchess decided she’d go along and have a look at this pearl as big as an acorn. If it were a real bargain, she’d buy it herself.

In the gondola, Deirdre scanned the waters for a sight of Dick. “Still looking for him?” Elvira asked.

“Yes. I wonder if he got the note in Paris?”

“I told the desk clerk twice that if Lord Belami didn’t pick it up, he should send it on to the Hotel d’Orleans. He’ll come,” Elvira said, and patted her arm.

Lucy, as usual, was in the sulks. Deirdre thought her sister’s getting such a valuable jewel might account for it this time and decided to drop her a hint. “Will Lucy be getting a present, too?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes, when she’s twenty-one.”

“She’s a little put out. As your mama has plenty of money, would it not be thoughtful to buy some trinket for Lucy, too?”

“Indeed it would! You have the heart of an angel to think of it.” Elvira smiled.

“What are you two whispering about?” Lucy demanded.

“Goose!” Elvira chided. “Why must you always think we’re talking about you? I swear the child’s as jealous as though I were her beau.”

But Deirdre could understand the younger girl’s feelings. Since she and the duchess had joined up with the Suttons, Elvira had developed a close friendship with herself. Elvira occasionally suggested they “sneak off” on Lucy. They had long discussions on men and love and marriage—discussions that Elvira felt were a trifle warm for her little sister.

“I heard Deirdre say ‘Lucy,’“ Lucy announced.

“If you must know then,” Elvira told her, “we were discussing a present for you. I mean to ask Mama to buy you a pearl, too. Now are you satisfied? You’ve spoiled my surprise.”

“Oh, Elvira!” Lucy exclaimed, and threw her arms around her sister. “Do you really mean it? Am I to get a teardrop pearl, too?” Her blue eyes sparkled with joy.

“I doubt they’ll have two. Your mama said it was quite unusual,” Deirdre pointed out. Lucy’s smile faded.

“No, I insist Lucy have one just like mine. If they don’t have two, I shan’t take it,” Elvira said firmly.

They disembarked at Saint Mark’s Square, and Mrs. Sutton hastened them all along to the Merceria, with hardly a glance at the magnificent architecture all around. Cathedrals and towers soared into the blue sky above, and in the square, pigeons strutted about as though it belonged solely to them.

“There is the shop, Casa Cerboni,” Mrs. Sutton said, pointing to a small storefront. “It’s right in the window.”