Page 29 of A Ruse of Shadows
Penelope glanced at the clock—exactly half an hour had passed. She’d been allowed the minimum stipulated in the agreement and not a minute more.
She stepped into the hall. A loud peal came from the front door.
“Who’s that?” the woman asked Penelope, suspicion in her voice.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” answered Penelope in all honesty.
The bell clanged again, followed by a boisterous voice. “Anyone home? Open the door! Come quickly, Aunt Watson. Let’s do abisou-bisouand then I must be off to Paris. Paris proper, that is. You lied in your letter—this isn’t Paris at all! There isn’t a single café concert nearby!”
Who was the clown? Wait,AuntWatson?
The man who had let Penelope in earlier appeared just as perplexed. He peered out of a narrow window. “Looks like an English toff.”
The unannounced caller certainly sounded like an English toff.
A fist pounded upon the door—a big, meaty fist, by the solidwhompsit produced. “Come, come, Aunt Watson. I won’t be young forever, so I must make hay while my youth shines. You can come with, if you promise to behave. Not sure I trust your promise, though, you naughty old gal.”
Penelope’s eyes almost fell out of their sockets. Aunt Jo had not deliberately concealed her past from Penelope, so Penelope had always known about her days in the theater and her protectors. But she’d never heard anyone refer openly to the woman who raised her as “you naughty old gal,” let alone someone who was obviously around Penelope’s age.
The mercenary by the door yanked it open, but before he could ask questions, a big blond Adonis pushed past him and said, “Quick, my man, bring in my luggage. I’ll just say hello to Aunt Watson and be gone.”
The mercenary was not about to do his bidding until he saw the carriage full of young men on the circular drive outside, one of whom, a native speaker of French, demanded to know what was taking so long.
“Une minute. Je reviens!” called the man to his mates in an Englishman’s standard public school French.
He turned around, his attention settling on Penelope. “Why, hello! You must be Miss Redmayne. You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Bobby Fontainebleu, and my father courted Aunt Watson for a while about fifteen, sixteen years ago.”
The surname rang a bell. Aunt Jo had indeed taken a lover at some point after the duke, her last protector, had passed away, but before she’d married Dr. Watson.
“I was all set to have her as my wonderful stepmamma, but she married someone else and broke my heart,” continued young Fontainebleu, whipping off his hat and using it to fan himself. “All the same, we kept in touch. And when she said she was in Paris, I knew I must come and stay with her for a few days. Anyway, I sent a cable about a week ago. Did it go astray?”
Don’t worry, Miss Charlotte had said to Penelope, just before she began her most recent return journey to England.I’ll think of something.I won’t let you shoulder this problem alone.
Had she sent young Fontainebleu?
Penelope glanced at the silver salver on the console table near the door, which usually held correspondence but was now completely empty. “I’m—I’m sure I don’t know anything about your telegram, sir, but it’s been a bit of a madhouse here. Aunt Jo had to go back to London all of a sudden and—”
“What? She’s not here?”
“No—”
“Well, then, I’d better not let my friends wait. We’ve a whole day planned in Paris. Don’t expect me back before three in the morning, and don’t expect me sober. You and I will catch up when I wake up tomorrow.À demain, ma cherie.”
He turned to leave, only to turn around and kiss her on the cheeks, an astonishingly correct Frenchla bisein a whiff of bay rum aftershave. And then he, a tall, broadly built man, somehow flounced out to the waiting vehicle, which then raced off toward the excitement of Paris proper.
Leaving Penelope—and the mercenaries, too—to gape at the disappearing carriage in slack-jawed amazement.
?Mrs. Watson was ready for a stiff drink.
To be sure, since yesterday afternoon she had been inside more pubs than she cared to count. But she’d stuck to either soda water or ginger ale—and not too much of either to avoid visiting the water closet more frequently than necessary.
“Cheer up, this might be the one,” said Lawson.
Her groom and coachman looked nothing like his usual self. Instead, he was now a man of humble birth who had become well-heeled late in life and didn’t want to waste a single moment not being nouveau riche and self-indulgent.
His jacket had too many gold buttons. He wore not one but three watch fobs. And a golden serpent wrapped around his walking stick, its head curving to form the handle.
Mrs. Watson stared at the snake’s green eyes and massaged her temple. “I hope you’re right, old boy. I do hope so.”
