“So Monsieur Villefort harbors a poisoner, does he?” mused Monte Cristo, successfully keeping his satisfaction to himself.
“It appears so. But there is even more.” Now Maximilien looked wholly dejected. “Not long after the physician was there to examine the woman’s body, Mademoiselle Valentine was with her grandfather—Monsieur Noirtier, who is Monsieur Villefort’s father and an old Bonapartist, who cannot speak or move—and she delivered a glass of lemonade to him. Before he could partake of it, the old man’s devoted servant, who was feeling weary and thirsty, took it himself to drink. He became ill, and went into frightful convulsions and expired on the spot.”
Monte Cristo looked grave. “So there have been three murders—poisonings—in Monsieur Villefort’s home in less than a week. Based on what you have told me, it appears that Mademoiselle Valentine must be the culprit—for she has the most to gain from the deaths of her maternal grandparents, who were very wealthy, and her grandfather, Monsieur Noirtier, who also, I understand, has made her his heir.”
“But no, it could not be V—Mademoiselle Valentine!” exclaimed Maximilien. “I-I do not believe she would do such a thing, for I-I met her at the Morcerfs’ dinner party, which you also attended.”
Monte Cristo raised one eyebrow. “Maximilien, my dearest friend, one can never be certain of a woman, the depths of her loyalty—or how far she will go in betrayal. That is one thing I have learned overwell. And it is said, and I believe it to be true, that the sins of the father will be visited upon his children. I am not altogether certain that Monsieur Villefort, for all of his power and social standing, is the fine and honest man he makes himself out to be. Perhaps his inclinations have merely manifested themselves in his daughter.”
“I do not believe that is so. Mademoiselle Valentine loves her
grandpère
more than anyone in the world,” Maximilien said. “She would not poison him.”
Monte Cristo chose not to comment on Maximilien’s supposed knowledge of Mademoiselle Valentine’s affections; instead, he looked kindly at his friend. “I hope that you will keep me apprised of anything that might trouble you, my friend . . . but at this time, I sense only your kindness and misery toward three innocent people and their deaths.”
Maximilien nodded, his face still grim. “Indeed, that is so. But”—he looked Monte Cristo straight in the eye, steadily and intensely—“there may be a time in which I find I may need more than a sympathetic ear, Your Excellency.”
Monte Cristo leaned toward him, closing his fingers firmly around the young man’s muscular arm. “And you can be certain, Maximilien, that if you ever come to me for assistance for any reason, for anything, I will move heaven and earth to help you. I give you my word, on my life. You have only to ask.”
Perhaps there might have been a tear that glistened in his friend’s eyes. Perhaps not. Regardless, Morrel’s next words served to startle Monte Cristo so much that he almost jerked in his seat. “There has only been one other person I’ve known—besides my father, of course—who has been so kind and so generous to me and my family. I do not even know who he is, only his name: Lord Wilmore. My sister, Julie, and I have long thought that this man, who saved my father from certain ruin and suicide by forgiving a huge debt just at the moment of disaster, is none other than an old friend of ours: Edmond Dantès, who disappeared more than twenty years ago. I hope you will take this in the manner in which it is intended—that is, as a compliment, sir—but you remind me very much of him.”
For a moment, Monte Cristo couldn’t speak. He felt his face drain of warmth, and knew that it must have gone pale. But he quickly recovered, and replied in an uneven voice, “I will indeed take it as the greatest of compliments.”
So it was true.
Mercédès couldn’t keep her gaze from returning to the box across the stage from her, where Monte Cristo sat with an incredibly beautiful, young, exotic woman. Even when the play began, and her attention should have transferred to the actors only a short distance away, she kept looking over at them. They were easy to see, for although the stage lights had been illuminated with the commencement of the show, the other lamps throughout the theater remained lit as well.
So that was why he’d left Mercédès in such a state. This was what he had waiting for him. A woman half his age, half
her
age. Taut and firm and gloriously beautiful.
Mercédès had attended the theater tonight dressed in her boldest, most daring gown of bloodred, in the company of Albert, Fernand, and three of her husband’s business associates— all men, none of whom were married. She’d heard that Monte Cristo meant to attend, and she wanted to give him something to look at.
Apparently, he didn’t even notice her, for he spent the entire time chatting and laughing with the woman, leaning toward her as they shared some intimate conversation or amusement.
Her thoughts, which could not be focused on the play, turned to Georges, Count Salieux. What could have been quite a conundrum—for how was she to cut things off with him permanently after what had occurred in her own garden?—had turned out to be no problem at all. She’d heard through Albert that Georges had left on a sudden, long holiday to visit relatives in Italy.
She hadn’t known he
had
relatives in Italy, which suggested that perhaps he’d left for some other reason—and she thought perhaps she might know what it was.
Regardless, his absence solved her problem, and allowed her to focus on the one at hand. She glanced across the stage toward Monte Cristo’s box and found that he was looking at her. A thrill ran through her body, warming her face and spiraling in her stomach. Their eyes met and clashed for a long moment as Mercédès refused to look away . . . and at the same time, thought to herself:
What next?
What was his plan?
From across the way, he gave her a bare nod, with no emotion attached to it—neither insolence, nor respect, nor cordiality; just a bare movement of the chin—and then turned his attention back to the play.
Had he simply planned to seduce her into a quivering puddle of arousal and then leave her unclothed and stranded during the dinner party? Why? To assert his control over her? To attempt to humiliate her? In either case, he hadn’t completely succeeded.
Was that the extent of his plans for revenge? Were his goals now met?
Mercédès wanted to confront him, she wanted to grab his solid shoulders and shake the man to find out why . . . how . . . where he’d been all these years. Why he hadn’t come back to her . . . and when he had, why he did so now, in this way.
This cold, unfeeling way.
A little shiver caught her by surprise, and Monsieur Hardegree, a Londoner visiting Paris, must have felt her shudder. He was immediately solicitous, and reached to drape her cashmere shawl more closely around her. His gloved hands brushed her bare shoulders, and she smiled her thanks at him, taking care to keep any hint of seduction from her eyes.
She settled back in her seat and felt someone’s attention on her, but when she looked over, Monte Cristo wasn’t even facing her. His back was to the theater, and he seemed to be speaking to someone behind him. But at that angle, his profile . . . it made her heart squeeze with pain. Edmond . . . it was so clearly Edmond, she wanted to cry.
But then he turned back, and it was Monte Cristo again, his demeanor harsh, rigid, elegant.
Mercédès thought for a moment. What did
she
want?
She wanted Edmond Dantès back. She always had.
She’d leave Fernand and his fine house and pots of money and salacious ways in an instant if she could have Edmond again. She’d live in a hovel, or on his ship, or wherever he wanted to live.
But Edmond, whatever had happened to him, was gone . . . and the man called the Count of Monte Cristo no longer resembled—except in a most superficial manner, in the barest of hints and the faintest of impressions—the man she loved.
And thus, as she thought about it, Mercédès felt less and less kindly toward him. Less and less regretful for the love they might have shared, for the years lost, the plans destroyed, the empty life she’d lived.
For if this was how he came back into her life—in mystery and coldness, and with vengeance—she wasn’t certain she could love the man he’d become.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the play’s intermission, and Mercédès accepted Monsieur Hardegree as her escort to the ladies’ retiring room. Perhaps she thought she might have the occasion to see Monte Cristo as they walked along the promenade crowded with other members of society, all of them equally hoping to see and be seen. But, alas, she had not caught even a glimpse of the elegant figure of Monte Cristo, in his crisp white shirt, black frog coat, and gold-patterned cravat and shirtwaist, by the time she and Monsieur Hardegree reached their destination.
“I shall await your pleasure, my lady,” he said in his delightfully British French, giving her an exact little bow.
Mercédès walked toward the room reserved for the ladies, and passed the largest, darkest man she’d ever seen, standing by the door. His bald head gleamed in the lamplight, and he wore a gold hoop in one ear, reminding her suddenly of Sinbad.
Inside the little room, women sat about and chattered, adjusted their gowns, and fussed with hair, and a few even dabbed rouge on their cheeks and lips. The antechamber was long and narrow, with gold-and-green brocade curtains pulled back to reveal a long mirror above an equally long and narrow table. Six plump chairs were arranged around two low square tables, and every surface was covered with vases of peonies and roses, filling the air with their sweet perfume as if to battle with those other smells of dusting powder, eau de toilette, feminine perspiration, and the results of the small, enclosed stalls beyond this gathering room. There was barely room for more than one woman, with her wide skirts, to walk along the gallery-like chamber
There was Mademoiselle Goutage, applying white powder to cover the spots on her bosom, and Mademoiselle LeFritier using kohl to line her eyes and color her lashes. Since her skin was pale and her lashes blond, it made quite a difference in her appearance—especially when it rubbed off under her eyes, giving her an exhausted look. Madam Foufant greeted Mercédès warmly, and they chatted for a moment before the other woman patted one last curl into its spot and replaced her gloves. As madam took her leave, Mercédès turned and noticed one of the doors of the private stalls in the next room opening.
A young woman came out, and Mercédès recognized her instantly as Monte Cristo’s companion. Up close, the woman was even more breathtaking, and for a moment, Mercédès felt herself flush with despair and jealousy. She turned away from the woman—who was really no more than a girl—and turned her attention to her own reflection in the long, gilt-edged mirror. With trembling hands, Mercédès poked at her thick, dark hair and tried not to look at the other woman, who had come forward to also stand before the looking glass.
But then their eyes met in the reflection, and the young woman paused, holding Mercédès’ gaze, and said, “Good evening.” Her voice was husky and pleasantly accented. She gave a little nod, and Mercédès was struck again, horribly, with how exquisite she was: olive skin, tip-tilted eyes, thick, dark lashes that would never need kohl, blue-black hair just as heavy and shiny as her own locks, smooth skin and a long neck.
Mercédès was not one for rudeness, regardless of what position the young woman might have in her former lover’s life or bed, however gorgeous she might be. Whoever she was, she was likely innocent of anything Monte Cristo had planned or had done. And besides . . . Mercédès thought she recognized a bit of nervousness in the young woman’s eyes. “Good evening, mademoiselle,” she replied with a regal nod, but returned to her own ministrations.
The young woman continued to glance at her under the guise of fixing her own hair. Mercédès noticed that the chatter had quieted in the room, and a few of the other women were staring at the girl—she looked as if she might be Greek—while whispering behind cupped hands. Ignoring them, and the girl, Mercédès adjusted her bodice to make sure it cut just across the tops of her areolas and no lower, and that the bows on her short sleeves were still lined up straight.
Meanwhile, the ebb of conversation seemed to be over, and whispers and low comments began to filter through the room more loudly. And then one comment rose above the others, settling over the room like a crack of sudden summer thunder.
“The retiring room for servants
and slaves
is down below. In the cellar.”
Mercédès happened to catch the expression on the girl’s face as she blanched. Confusion and hurt splashed across it, but she pretended to continue her primping as if she hadn’t heard.
“If I had a slave, I would have her press my gown. Perhaps there is one nearby who might be able to assist,” came another catty voice.
The young girl’s hand trembled slightly as she reached to adjust the long strand of sapphires that hung from her ear, and her mouth twitched with quickly subdued misery.
Mercédès turned from her stance at the mirror. “I hardly think,” she said, her flinty gaze skipping over the young mademoiselles who’d been gossiping, “that the Count of Monte Cristo would squire a slave to the theater. And if he did,” she added when one of the little snips dared to open her mouth, “I do not expect that he would dress and bejewel her in a manner more elegantly than any other young woman here.”
The other girls—for they were young, just as young as this Greek one—all closed their mouths. Red spots appeared on some of their cheeks, and Mademoiselle LeFritier had the grace to look away and flee from the room without any further comments. It was just as well, for Mercédès was well-acquainted with her mother, and Madam LeFritier was a lovely, polite woman who would be horrified at her daughter’s behavior.
In front of the other girls, Mercédès turned to the Greek girl and said, “I am Comtesse de Morcerf, and I have had the pleasure of hosting the Count of Monte Cristo at my home.”