The Songbird's Seduction (37 page)

“Your grandfather sent me.”

“Never mind him, Ptolemy. You only need to stand before the judge on Monday and apologize. Say you were sadly influenced by the bad company you’d fallen in with—”

“Bad company?”

Her lips pursed into a tight line of exasperation. “This girl you were chasing about with, Ptolemy. This
actress
.” There was no hurt in her eyes, just exasperation and a sort of long-suffering acceptance. In the same situation, he couldn’t imagine Lucy reacting in any way but passionately. Passionately angry.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Was I?”

“Yes. And I must say, Ptolemy, it indicates a decided lack of sobriety. A decided lack. Doesn’t it, Lionel?”

Lionel, silently standing in the background wearing an odd expression that somehow managed to convey both glee and disillusion, gave a curt nod.

“What is
he
doing here?”

“He is here to provide the benefit of his sound advice.”

“Advice about what?”

Once more he’d exasperated her. “Whatever comes up. What is wrong with you, Ptolemy?”

“Sorry.”

She sniffed. “After you apologize to the judge, should anyone look into the matter of your arrest, they would only find out that
a rural French policeman had made a mistake and that the case had been summarily dismissed.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Ptolemy. Please. What does that matter? You are this close”—she lowered her voice and raised an elegantly gloved hand, holding her forefinger and thumb a half inch apart—“to losing the Blidderphenk professorship. Do you understand that? Now, can we
please
leave this place?”

Though they’d been conversing in English, the police captain had been watching the exchange from his chair with avid interest. But at Cornelia’s words he got heavily to his feet. “I agree. Fascinating as this has been, I would like to enjoy my breakfast in peace. Until Monday.”

Cornelia either didn’t have the grace or the imagination to look embarrassed. With a regal tilt of her head, she led the way out of the office, Lionel springing forward to open the door for her.

“Why is it that you are here, Lionel?” Archie asked, abruptly stopping at the bottom of the steps.

“To, ahem, to support Miss Litchfield.” He turned brick red.

My God, why hadn’t he seen it before? “Ahuh.”

He turned to the lawyer. “And have you earned even a penny of the fee you are undoubtedly charging by the hour, Tuttiddle?”

“Miss Litchfield has arranged matters so adroitly there hasn’t been any need for me to step in,” the lawyer said admiringly. “Though I will, of course, be submitting my bill based on time I’ve made myself accessible.”

Cornelia sighed heavily. “If there isn’t anything else, I’d like to remove to the hotel.”

“There is something else,” said Archie. “Did you read the telegram I sent?”

She raised her eyes heavenward. “Yes. I didn’t pay it much attention. All you did was rhapsodize about the world being too
magnificent or fascinating or some such thing to explore from behind a desk and that you thought you ought to withdraw from consideration for the Blidderphenk professorship.”

“What did you think?”

She stopped walking and spun around and now, finally, there was a flash of real anger in her fine, blue eyes. “Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it self-indulgent nonsense. It might have been written by some overly sentimental, quixotic and impetuous
boy
. It was . . . off-putting.”

He stared at her, feeling as though someone had just shown him the obvious answer to a problem he’d thought impossible to solve. “Then why did you come?” he asked, though he thought he already knew the answer.

She scowled.

“I already told you,” she said, “Father’s reputation.” It took a few heartbeats for her to remember to add, “as well as your career.”

He’d been right. He wanted to kiss her.

“Despite everything, Ptolemy, I assume you will act rationally once you’ve returned home.”

Home
? Yes. He needed to go home.

“Now, are you coming or not?” she asked, clearly having had enough of the conversation.

“Yes, yes. Of course. What time is it?”

She looked at her wristwatch. “It’s eight thirty.”

He started past her and heard her release a sigh of relief. But once in front of the hotel he didn’t enter, he kept walking right past it. Cornelia scurried to catch up. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to buy a train ticket.”

“We don’t need to do that now. We can purchase them on Monday.”

“I won’t be here Monday.”

“What? Are you mad?”

“Possibly.”

Now, for the first time, she looked truly bewildered and maybe a little frightened; no, more like unnerved, like the world was turning upside down and she hadn’t even known it was tilting. He knew the feeling. Luckily, Lionel would be there to catch her. Still, Archie was fond of her. She’d have made a crackerjack Blidderphenk professor.

He turned and came back to her, taking one of her hands between both of his. It lay there limply as she stared up at him. “Dear Cornelia. I can’t thank you enough for helping me understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That I’m an overly romantic, quixotic, impetuous man. Or should be.”

“Ptolemy, listen to yourself.
Look
at yourself.” She pointed to his reflection in the window of the store they’d stopped in front of. “Disheveled and unshaven and wild-eyed. I swear I don’t recognize you!”

He didn’t need to look. He knew what he’d see. “I know. That’s the problem, isn’t it? That, and that for the first time since I was lad I finally recognize myself.

“This is who I am and I like this person a good deal more than the one you think so highly of. Too highly, truth be told. I would have made an awful Blidderphenk professor and I’m definitely not someone you’d want to marry.”

“
Marry?
” she stammered. “I would not presume—”

“I know, God bless you. Be happy, Cornelia.” He looked beyond Cornelia to where Lionel stood shuffling, looking decidedly dog-in-the-mangerish. “
Bon chance
, Lionel.”

He grabbed Cornelia by the shoulders and pulled her close, bussing her soundly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, startled.

“For
not
recognizing me,” he said and started past her.

“But where are you going?” she called after him. “What about the judge?”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to wait for his apology. I’m going home.”

Saint-Girons’s only bank had a small, windowless anteroom furnished with a round table and leather-upholstered chairs reserved for the use of its clients, should they feel the need for privacy in their financial dealings with bank officials. Around this table now sat three of the four surviving members of the siege of Patnimba and Bernard DuPaul, Junior, the son and namesake of the now deceased banker who’d inherited the task set before them from his father.

Sitting a little distance from the table, along the perimeter of the room, was a gallery of relatives. They had been adjured by Monsieur DuPaul to bear in mind the solemnity of the proceedings, a comment occasioned by Señora Oliveria’s squeal of delight upon seeing the size of the pouch the security guard had brought in and set in the center of the table.

Lucy sat between Margery and Bernice. Their interest had long since begun to wane. In fact, Margery had dozed off a half hour earlier and was snoring gently. They had been sequestered in this room all afternoon as various lawyers and bank officials brought
in stacks of legal documents to be explained and signed. They’d been there so long, in fact, that afternoon tea had been brought in through the discreetly curtained door leading to the bank’s public areas. But now, finally, the grand finale was in sight.

“Let me summarize,” said Monsieur DuPaul in perfectly accented English. It turned out he had been attached to a French bank in London for decades, only returning to France to retire after his father had died. “As you have already been informed, the individual stones have been assessed by four of France’s most reputable gemologists. After conferring with one another they have assigned a value to each.

“As agreed upon, my bank is going to arrange for the immediate sale of the stones. After the deduction of our nominal fee, the money realized will be divided into four equal shares, two of which, of course, will be assigned to Miss Litton. Earlier today, in anticipation of this sale, a sum of roughly one hundred thousand English pounds was deposited into individual accounts in your names.”

Señora Oliveria stifled another giggle.

“Now I imagine you would like to see the gems.”

“I don’t suppose it much matters,” said Lavinia, looking from one to the other of her fellow siege survivors.

“Not really. But I should like to see if my memory holds up to the reality,” Señor Silva said. Oliveria nodded.

Lucy nudged Margery in the ribs. “Wake up. It’s the final act.”

Margery shifted upright in his seat as DuPaul carefully untied the leather pouch and then, with an unexpected touch of showmanship, upended it. Beneath the soft illumination of old-fashioned gaslight dozens of rubies spilled out in a glimmering cascade, a crimson Milky Way winking and sparkling across the deep blue baize-lined table.

“Voila!”

The only sounds were hushed gasps followed by a long moment of silence.

“Yes,” Señor Silva said. “That’s pretty much how I remembered them.” He rose heavily to his feet, aided by a quick helping hand from a grandson who jumped forward from his chair, and looked around. “Mesdames et Messieurs, let us adjoin to the tavern. The drinks are on me!”

Light, excited laughter and agreement answered his invitation as all those in attendance, including Bernice and Margery, rose and followed Señor Silva. Bernard DuPaul began carefully counting the rubies into piles of ten with a flat silver wand. Lavinia was the last to get up, her gaze soft in reflection. Lucy waited for her near the curtains.

As he saw Lavinia rise, DuPaul paused. “But, Miss Litton, surely you’ll want the letter.”

She regarded him quizzically. “Letter? What letter?”

“I thought you knew. There’s a letter in here, too, addressed to you.”

She sat back down. “From whom?”

“I don’t know. The letter is sealed.” He reached into the leather pouch and withdrew a small envelope, the excellent quality paper turned ivory with age. “I supposed you would know.”

He turned it over. A strong but elegant hand had written
Miss Lavinia Litton
across the center. He rose and brought it to her, bowing as he retreated.

The color rose and fled her face in quick succession. Her hand fluttered at the base of her throat.

“What is it, Aunt Lavinia?” Lucy asked in concern.

“I’m not sure.”

Having finished counting the rubies, DuPaul swept the gems back into the leather pouch. “I will leave you to your memories, Miss Litton.” He nodded at Lucy. “Miss Eastlake.”

Lucy waited until he was gone before taking the chair next to Lavinia. “Do you know who wrote it?”

“I believe I do. Yes.”

“Would you rather just burn it?” Lucy asked. She heard the curtain move, the clerks coming to clear the dishes, no doubt. “Please wait,” she called to them. “We’ll just be a few minutes.”

She softly touched the back of her great-aunt’s hand. “Lavinia?”

Lavinia shook her head. “No. No. It’s all long ago now and I’m curious.” She reached for the wand DuPaul had left behind and slid it beneath the sealed flap, slicing it neatly open, and blew into the envelope. She turned it upside down. A single sheet of paper glided out. She eyed it as though it might turn into a snake and bite her. Then, taking a deep breath, she picked it up and opened it. Her gaze fell to the signature.

“I was right,” she murmured. She scanned the contents quickly, a frown furrowing the space between her brows, and then she abruptly held it out toward Lucy. “I’m afraid my eyesight is not what it used to be and the light in here is fading. Would you be so kind as to read it to me?”

Doubtfully, Lucy took it. “Are you sure? It might be of a personal nature.”

“It assuredly is,” Lavinia replied with a gentle smile. “But it also references two very young people who no longer exist. Whatever was said to Lavinia Litton, age eighteen, no longer matters except as a point of historic interest. Rather like the geological record.”

By heaven, Lucy believed her great-aunt Lavinia had just made a joke. At Lucy’s expression Lavinia’s smiled broadened. “There. That was just the thing. I feel quite up to hearing whatever it is that letter contains. Read on, Lucy.”

So Lucy read.

My dear Miss Litton, my own Lavinia,

You cannot imagine such pleasure as I take in writing what I cannot say: that in my heart, you are and will ever be my own, my dearest, my beloved Lavinia. I write these words in the fragile hope
that someday you will read them and that in the coming years I will be able to take some comfort in imagining that in one respect at least I was able to speak my heart and that perhaps you heard me.