The Paris Game (18 page)

Madelaine had a croissant and some fruit on a plate when he returned to the sitting room. An empty coffee cup sat on the sofa beside her. He set his bags by the door.

“I’ll let Edwards know to give the maids an extra hour before they come to clean,” he said, crossing the room to perch on the arm of the sofa.

“When will you be back next?” Madelaine asked, setting her plate aside.

“In a few weeks, possibly.” Marc shrugged. “Nothing’s set.”

His phone buzzed insistently against the table.

“It’s been ringing since you got in the shower,” Madelaine said. “I didn’t want to answer it, but whomever it is, they’re persistent.” She passed him the phone and he glanced at the number.

It wasn’t Sera. He let out a breath and answered.

“Perron.”

“One’s not enough. You owe me.” Bates nearly shouted the words into the phone.

“We discussed this already,” Marc said calmly. “It’s done.” Bates’ next words were a slew of invective and Marc hung up. Madelaine stared at him.

“Who was that?”

“The rare dissatisfied customer,” he replied, getting to his feet. Madelaine rose and followed him to the door.

“Call me?” she asked, sidling close. He gave her a deep kiss.

“When I find out my schedule,” he allowed. “À bientôt, ma petite. Let Edwards know when you leave.”

One last kiss goodbye and he left. He ran into Edwards in the hall and relayed his instructions.

After he checked out, one of the doormen flagged down a black cab. He had just enough time to drop his luggage at St. Pancras before his appointment. Fournier had made contact with the baroness at an estate sale and he’d mentioned that she had a houseful of antiques and art to sell. Marc knew he could easily convince the elderly dowager to part with her treasures. This was the part of his job he enjoyed. If he didn’t have to worry about the rest, he thought that he actually might be content with the family business.

Marc lifted the delicate china tea cup to his lips to taste the lukewarm and overly sugared tea as the elderly baroness spoke earnestly of the provenance of her father’s antique bed-frame with its beautiful lathed posts and carved headboard. The diamond tennis bracelet gleamed on her wrist as she held her cup and saucer.

“The scene on the headboard was taken from an old Italian tapestry that one of my ancestors—I believe it was my five-times great grandfather—brought back with him after his Tour.” The baroness smiled, obviously nostalgic. Marc set down his cup.

“Do you still have the tapestry? I would love to see it.”

The baroness shook her head sadly. A lock of fine white hair escaped from her hairpins. “I used to love looking at that tapestry, Mr. Perron. It was enchanting, even as it started to crumble with age and ill-use. My grandmother ordered it packed away, and when we found it a few years later in the attic, it had been badly moth-eaten.”

Marc was almost certain that he could see tears forming in the corners of her eyes. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.

“Madame, I think you ought to keep the bed, as it holds such sentimental value for you. It may not make much at auction, and I would hate for you to have to make that sacrifice.” He had carefully examined the frame when he first arrived and he knew that it was unlikely to garner many bids. So far this meeting had hardly been worth his time, but Fournier had assured him of the woman’s excess of antiques and her need for funds to keep up her estate.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Perron.” She gave him a grateful smile and dabbed at her eyes with a soft, lace-edged handkerchief. “Perhaps some of the other furniture or art might interest you more. I’ve had my butler, Cyril, assist me in moving some of the items from the attic, which you have seen, but if you have time, we could go up after tea and look at the rest.”

“I do have some time before I have to be back at St. Pancras,” he agreed, observing that she was finishing the last of her cup of tea. “If you’re ready, Madame?” Marc rose to his feet and extended a hand to the baroness. She blushed like a schoolgirl as she took it and rose from her faded brocade settee, putting her hand through the arm Marc offered her. They walked slowly through the manse as Marc kept his steps in time with hers.

“Your manners are exquisite, Mr. Perron. Such a rarity these days.” She patted his arm. “I remember when all the young men used to have such courtesy.”

Marc smiled and let her ramble on about her memories of debutante balls and midnight suppers, where she had dined with aristocrats, diplomats and even the Prime Minister. Her story lasted until they reached the final flight of stairs and she needed the air more for breathing than talking. She stopped and indicated a door under the eaves.

“Through there,” she said between breaths, “is the last of it.”

Marc pushed open the door and led the baroness through to the still-cluttered attic. She found herself a seat on a sheet-covered armchair.

“Look as you please. I’ll stay here and rest up for the downward journey.”

Marc took his time wandering through the attic room, looking carefully under every sheet. His phone buzzed as he was lifting the drop cloth on a rickety old set of wicker chairs with worn arms. It was the number for the firm.

“Oui?”

“Monsieur, you’ll never guess who came to visit today.” Fournier was in a gossipy mood.

“Le président de la République?” Marc asked dryly. He glanced at his watch.

“Non, even better.”

“Fournier, I’m standing in the middle of the baroness’s attic and I have a train to catch, so please just get to the point, if you have one.”

He heard Fournier’s sigh and could picture his dejected look.

“Fine, fine, as you wish, monsieur. There was a lovely young woman who stopped by to visit you, and she was very disappointed that you were not here.”

“Does this young woman have a name, Fournier?” Marc pulled the drop cloth back up over the chairs with one hand.

“Sophie Harper. She’s quite lovely and very polite. Aurore was trying to convince her to apply for an internship in the firm once she found out that Mademoiselle Harper was an art student. Personally I think that Aurore just wants to have another woman around—”

“Did she have a message for me?” Marc interrupted.

“Nothing specific, just that she hoped she’d see you when you returned. She left her number with Aurore.”

“Send the number to my phone and I’ll call her when I have time,” Marc instructed. “And call Dawson at Sotheby’s and give him the information for the baroness. I won’t have time to catalogue everything while I’m here, but there should be a few pieces suitable for auction.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

Marc slipped his phone back in his pocket, a pleased smile on his face. Mentioning auction houses and internships the other night had been a stroke of genius. Of course he’d be happy to spend more time with Sophie, under the guise of evaluating her knowledge of art. Sera didn’t have a chance of winning.

“So who is this young woman?” the baroness called from her seat. Marc chuckled.

“An art history student I met last week,” he replied. “Were you eavesdropping?”

He heard the baroness laugh and he came around a draped mirror to face her.

“Of course I was. It gets rather dull here, with just Cyril and the staff.” She smiled. “Is this young thing your girlfriend? I’m assuming not. Actually, I’m rather surprised that you’re still unmarried, Mr. Perron. Don’t these Parisian girls know what a catch you are?”

“I haven’t let myself be caught.” He winked at her.

“Then I do have a chance,” the baroness teased. “I always wanted a young boy toy. Will you let this young lady catch you?”

Marc laughed. “Perhaps I’ll catch her instead.”

The baroness seemed satisfied with his answer. “Good.”

“I have time to look at a couple more items and then I’ll have to get a taxi back to St. Pancras,” Marc said as he stepped around the mirror. He moved over to a large piece looming to one side and pulled the dust cloths off a beautiful old wardrobe that still maintained a sense of grace in its old age, much like the baroness herself. He opened one door and then the other. Aside from the faint smell of mothballs, the piece was intact. He pulled out his phone and took several photos for reference. The wardrobe might not fetch much at auction, but he knew that several of his clients had an eye for such pieces.

As he backed up to frame his last photo, he bumped against the hard edge of a table under a drop cloth. He took the last photo of the wardrobe’s exterior, slipping the phone back into the pocket of his blazer. He tugged the cloth off the table. Mahogany wood glimmered in the dim light, but his gaze was drawn by the Phrygian marble tabletop, purple with greyish crystalline streaks. He took out his phone again. It wasn’t a large table—it may have been one of a pair once upon a time—but it was over two hundred years old with no discernible flaws. He returned to the baroness after taking photos from every angle.

“Madame, you have some treasures up here you’ve kept hidden away.” He smiled. “Do you know the provenance of the marble-topped side table?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I could dig out the old records. I think it was purchased at auction some time ago. Why, is it valuable?”

“With more information to verify its age and origins, you could expect
₤60,000 at auction.”

“That’s incredible.” The baroness clapped her hands together. “And to think that it’s been up here all this time.”

“I can’t guarantee the price until I know its history,” Marc told her, helping her to her feet. “With your permission, I’d like to send a local colleague of mine to look into it further.”

“Have your man call and we shall arrange a suitable time.” The baroness clung to his arm as they walked and it was apparent she was tiring. “We’ll just make a turn here,” she indicated a hallway stretching along the second floor, “as I should rest. It’s hard for me to go up all those steps.”

“Of course, Madame.” Marc escorted the baroness to her door. “Should I send up anyone to assist you?”

“No, thank you. But do let Cyril know I’ll be resting, will you?”

Marc gave her a nod that was very nearly a bow. “It has been a pleasure, Madame.”

She gave him an indulgent smile. “Oh to be young again,” she said wistfully. “Good afternoon, Mr. Perron.”

Marc waited until her door had closed before he strode swiftly down the hallway and back to the main floor. He found Cyril clearing the remainder of their tea from the parlor. When Cyril saw the baroness was absent, he nodded to himself.

“She’s resting?” he inquired.

“Yes, and she asked me to let you know. Also, my local consultant will be calling in the next few days to arrange a full appraisal of a table in the attic and to catalogue anything else that could be of value at auction. I expect the baroness will have the table put up for sale, though we’ll need to know its history.”

“She’ll want to look at the old records later then,” Cyril remarked. “I’ll make sure to lay them out in the study for her.” He set down the tray he’d been polishing. “Shall I show you out, sir?”

“No thank you, Cyril. I’ll show myself out.”

Marc left the manse and flagged down a taxi. He checked his watch. He had just over an hour before he had to be at the train but he was eager to return to Paris. Sophie waited, as did Sera. He leaned forward.

“St. Pancras,” he told the driver. It would be an easier journey home, not having to worry about the chance of security discovering the Degas. He tapped his fingers against the seat of the black cab. Something had to be done about Bates. The man wasn’t nearly as trustworthy as Royale had made him out to be.

His phone buzzed again with a call from Bates, but he ignored it.

Mechanical problems with the train delayed Marc’s return to Paris, so he entered Le Chat Rouge only an hour or two before closing. While he’d been waiting, he thought about seeing Sera again, hearing her sing. Even if she didn’t want him, he could listen to her, pretend she was still his. Except it was too late; her set would have finished over an hour earlier.

No one manned the door and he slipped in unnoticed until he reached the bar.

“What can I get you?” Edouard braced his hands on the bar. His tie was slightly crooked and his black waistcoat had a dusty smudge along one edge.

“Whiskey, neat.”

“You missed the music,” Edouard remarked, reaching for a tumbler on the shelf behind him. “Sera was fantastic.”

“Is she here?” Marc leaned on the bar, one foot on the low brass rail that ran the length at the bottom. Edouard set his drink on the bar and Marc pulled out his wallet, laying a bill on the polished wood.

“She’s sitting down near the stage.”

Marc started away, but then stopped when Edouard continued.

“But she’s not alone.”

“Anyone I know?” he asked casually.

“He’s not a regular. I’ve only seen him come round in the last couple of weeks.” Edouard took his time putting away the clean glasses. “I think they’re a couple.”

“Really?” Marc took a sip of his whiskey, watching Edouard shift on his feet. The alcohol didn’t take the edge off and he had to concentrate on keeping his body relaxed, his fingers loose around the glass. “Now I’m curious.”