Claudette paced the floor in her parlor, absolutely furious. Furious. Never had Edmund treated her with such disdain as he had last night. Oh, she supposed he’d been himself when they danced, if not a bit aloof, which she assumed had to do with her finding him returned to Paris without notification, just like a naughty puppy with his tail between his legs. But to disregard an open invitation to her room went far beyond anything he’d ever done before. In all the years she’d known him, he’d never denied her the pleasures of the bedroom. Discovering, after a thorough search of the ballroom at one o’clock in the morning, that he’d left with his wife at just past midnight had completely enraged her. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, and had arrived back at her suite just before eight that morning, surprising her entire staff with her untimely appearance as they all stared at her with open mouths.
True, she undoubtedly looked a fright, as her expertly pinned coiffure had come loose during her coach ride home, and she still wore her ball gown, now wrinkled. But then she had every right to be upset! First she learns that Edmund returned to Paris unannounced, and then she finds the two of them alone on the balcony, of all places, sharing their own little tête-à-tête as if there were no one else on earth! If she had never been jealous of Olivia before last night, nothing compared to the surge of emotions that coursed through her upon finding Edmund beside her, bodies nearly touching, heads tipped together as they engaged in intimate discussion. She’d never seen Edmund so clearly enraptured by anything Olivia had to say, and the second she came upon them by moonlight, she fought the urge to rip the little minx to shreds with her perfectly painted nails. Or better yet, walk to Edmund’s side and kiss him soundly in front of Olivia’s pretty, innocent eyes, laying claim to him, letting her know at last that the man she thought she married was, in point of fact, already taken and had been for years. But, alas, good breeding reigned and she’d restrained herself to the best of her ability, reminding herself with gleeful satisfaction that Edmund might be pretending with Olivia, but it would be her bed he’d be lying in come dawn. His ignoring her demand for a late-night sexual interlude had been the final blow.
Now, after what she could only view as a purposeful, spiteful avoidance of her, she didn’t know what to do. She needed to talk to him, to learn exactly how much had been accomplished in Grasse before Olivia found him, and then just exactly what transpired between the two of them in the days leading up to last evening’s fiasco. His explanation of staying in his faux wife’s good graces and returning to Paris with her made sense, and yet…it didn’t. Edmund never did anything without her consent, or at the very least informing her, especially something as vital and delicate as this. More importantly, she knew, just knew, that he couldn’t possibly be finished courting the Govance heiress.
After hours of careful consideration, she decided she had no choice but to confront him at Nivan, where he likely was at the moment, curled up in her bed. God, she didn’t know what to do without telling Olivia everything, without admitting her part in this incredible fraud. Oh, she wanted to, but then what? Where would that leave her? Very probably imprisoned, a situation in which she simply refused to find herself. Still, Olivia would need to prove fault on her part, and Olivia certainly still believed that she and Edmund were married or she wouldn’t have been so cordial last night, or quite so attached to him.
But for now she could think of only one thing to do, and that was to see Edmund and make certain he hadn’t decided on his own to bed darling, little Olivia. And the only way she could be sure of that was to catch them off guard, together, in her niece’s apartments.
That resolution in mind, she grabbed her parasol from the coatrack by the front door and swiftly headed for Nivan.
The storefront looked deceptively vacant upon her arrival. Normand stood at his usual post by the front display case, tallying receipts or some other such business. He looked up when the door opened, then fairly gaped at her, as surprised as her staff, apparently, at seeing her wide-awake and moving about the city before luncheon.
Planting a smug smile on her face, she said, “I’m here to visit the happy couple.”
He immediately clamped his mouth shut and closed the black receipt book. After glancing around quickly to make certain they were alone, he walked out from behind the glass case and came toward her.
“Madame Comtesse, how lovely you look today,” he said, honoring her presence with a slight bow.
She scoffed, knowing she looked horrendous from lack of sleep and no morning toilette, though she had no time to argue his ridiculous comment. Closing her parasol with some fuss, she replied, “I know my way to her apartments, Normand.”
“Oh, of course, madame,” he muttered, popping up onto his toes, his hands clasped behind him. “But you’ll not find her there, I’m afraid.”
Claudette started, staring at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He gave her a half shrug. “She isn’t here. When I arrived this morning, Madame Carlisle was on her way out.”
“Out?” Her eyes narrowed with malicious intent. “Out to do what? Where?”
He frowned deeply. “I’ve no idea, though she was quite plainly in a hurry. And she had baggage brought down and carried a large valise.”
Claudette’s brows drew together. “Baggage? And what time was that, dear Normand?” she asked too sweetly.
“Oh, about…nine or so.”
“Nine,” she repeated flatly. When he offered nothing else, she asked, exasperated, “So her husband is upstairs alone?”
He shook his head. “No, actually, he left just after she did.”
She missed him? No longer wishing to hide her annoyance, she threw her hands wide, knocking the glass display case with her parasol. “Well, don’t make me wait, where did they go?”
He gaped at her in feigned shock, then placed one palm wide on his expensive linen shirt. “Madame Comtesse, surely you realize it is not my place to ask.”
Claudette felt her face flush with renewed anger. She could think of no greater satisfaction than to strangle the information out of him. Little ant. But before she dared begin a tirade of vile comments, the door behind her swung wide as two large ladies entered, clearly a mother and daughter, talking and laughing between them, disrupting her delicate interrogation.
Normand applied a charming expression to his face and quickly turned his attention to them. “Madame et Mademoiselle Tanquay. How wonderful to see you this bright morning. I will be with you shortly.”
She didn’t have time for this. “Normand—”
“Madame Comtesse,” he interrupted, rotating back to her, “may I speak with you for a moment in the salon?”
Claudette’s mouth opened a fraction in surprise, then she caught herself and smiled satisfactorily, realizing that he finally might actually have some useful information to share. “Of course,” she replied, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, then turning her back on him to lead the way.
He followed closely behind her, and as soon as they entered the semiprivate sitting room, she turned on him again, her bearing composed, her expression hard with impatience. “What do you have for me, Normand?” she demanded curtly.
He took his time, rubbing his jaw with his palm as he glanced over his shoulder, peeking around the partially drawn red drapes to check on his customers, now engrossed in the little sachets of various scents on the shelf behind the display case as they sniffed and chattered.
Claudette waited, her irritation growing, knowing his reluctance to engage her was purposeful as he made her anticipate the information—for which he would no doubt expect a reward. She truly despised him.
At last, he gave her his full attention. “I know something…” he drawled, his voice lowered.
“Of course you do,” she snapped. “You couldn’t possibly think I’d step back into this ugly red salon for champagne and seasonal scent sampling with you.”
That snide remark didn’t daunt him at all. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “I’ll need to be compensated, naturally.”
Normand the ant. So predictable. “What is it?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and took a step closer to her. “I particularly like that diamond bracelet you’re wearing.”
She followed his gaze to her left wrist where, in all its glory, dangled twenty karats of exquisite stones, purchased for her by her first husband some fifteen years ago. It was by far her best piece of jewelry, worn to only the finest occasions, as last night’s ball was supposed to be. His suggestion, his apparent belief that she’d even consider giving it to him, appalled her beyond description.
“You can’t be serious,” she seethed in astonishment. “You have clearly lost your mind, Normand, if you think I’d stand here and give you diamonds—these diamonds—for little bits of old news.”
He sighed with exaggeration, shaking his head as he glanced down to the tips of his shiny black shoes, rubbing one back and forth across the carpet.
“I think, madame, that I might reconsider if I were you. The…uh…information that I alone possess is quite probably worth it.” He looked back into her eyes. “At least to you.”
For the first time since she’d known the man, he actually gave her pause. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so arrogant, so sure that he held her under his command, at least for the moment.
“What is your point, Normand?” she asked very carefully, making it clear by her gravely soft voice and rigid stance that she wasn’t to be toyed with any longer.
He tossed a look over his shoulder again, stalling. Then he leaned toward her and murmured, “I believe I’d like the bracelet first.”
She absolutely could not believe his audacity. Tipping her head to the side, she sneered. “Tell me where they are, where they went, and I’ll consider it.”
He snickered and scratched his side whiskers. “Oh, Madame Comtesse, I know so much more than that.”
Again he’d startled her, and she blinked quickly, looking him up and down, her features contorted in disbelieving disgust.
“The bracelet?” he said again, holding his hand out, palm up.
She wanted to kill him—but not before she found out what details he actually held; his self-satisfied grin alone expressed the urgency about what he knew, which in itself told her much. He never would have demanded anything of such great personal value to her without good reason. Normand might be a sorry little bastard, but he wasn’t stupid.
Tossing her parasol on the velveteen sofa behind her, she practically ripped the diamonds from her wrist. “You know I’ll get it back,” she warned with a scathing glare. “I’ll have you arrested for theft.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” he countered at once, amiably. “I’ll have it picked apart and sold in pieces before noon. I have…acquaintances, shall we say, who do that. For a small fee, of course.”
She hated him. She really did. Nostrils flaring, her face tight with rage, she threw the bracelet at him hard, hitting him in the chest, where he caught it easily with one hand.
“Tell me,” she demanded through clenched teeth, squeezing her hands into fists at her sides.
He waited, purposely defying her as he raised the jewels up for inspection, each diamond reflecting rays of sunlight from a nearby window as he twisted it around with his thumb and forefinger.
“Normand, I swear to you—”
He snapped his palm over the bracelet and grinned. “Perhaps you’d like to sit.”
She leaned into him. “Tell me now, you little toad, or so help me I’ll stab you in the throat with my parasol and leave you here to bleed to death on this ugly red carpet.”
That threat didn’t even make him blink. He continued to smile at her as he said matter-of-factly, “I’d be willing to bet this lovely piece of jewelry that they’re both on their way to Grasse.”
She gasped, gaping at him. “That’s it?”
“Noooo…”
Claudette was ready to explode, her temper made worse because he knew it.
“Now think, Madame Comtesse,” he continued very quietly, his eyes narrowing as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his morning suit. “Why do you think they’d travel to Grasse?”
Something troubling started gnawing at her, deep in her gut, making her waver, a notion as yet undefined. “Why do you think they’re going there, Normand?” she returned, her voice deadly tight.
He inhaled deeply and bopped up on his toes again. “I think they’re on their way to confront the man they believe is Olivia’s husband who is now in the process of attempting to swindle Brigitte Marcotte of Govance.”
Claudette just stared at him, then shook her head in tiny movements, thoroughly confused. And then, like a clap of nearby thunder, the truth sliced through her and she jumped back from him, wide-eyed and stunned beyond all thought, caught up in a storm of pure disbelief.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered as the room started to spin before her.
With an agreeable air, Normand asked, “Would you like to sit now?”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Her legs gave way beneath her and she tripped on the hem of her skirt as she backed up a step, falling onto the sofa, her derriere plopping down on her expensive parasol without notice.
It took several long, painful seconds for her to come to terms with such a staggering and potentially perilous development. She just stared at the carpeting, shaking as she began to perspire from head to foot, began to understand what had taken place without her knowledge, without her insight, began to understand what would soon be happening in Grasse, as she sat here blindly ignorant, piecing together the horrible truth.
Samson was here. Sam had come to France, secretly, at Olivia’s bidding, or maybe even with her. She had gone in search of her wayward husband, not in Grasse as assumed, but in England, alone, and had come home with Sam instead.
Samson and Olivia.
Holy Mother of God.
Her gaze slowly drifted up to Normand, who stood exactly as he had before, bopping up and down on his toes, a smug little grin on his despicable mouth.
“You knew,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “I guessed.”
Never had she felt such a mixture of base emotions pass through her in a moment’s time—confusion, frustration, fear, and pure rage. Mostly rage, directed at herself for being so completely dense to the facts staring her straight in the face for the last several days.
She should have guessed the ruse as Normand had, and faster. She should have known. All the telltale signs were there—Sam’s excellent dancing, his shorter hair, when Edmund was so vain about keeping it a certain length, his aloofness toward her even as she flirted, then her witnessing the shared intimate moment between him and her niece on the balcony. God, and she’d invited him to her room! No wonder he fled. She no doubt looked a fool to everybody, and Samson had certainly enjoyed her idiocy most of all.
“When?” she managed to croak out. “How did you know?”
“Monsieur? Le parfum, s’il vous plaît?”
Normand whirled around at the interruption, as startled by the two ladies behind him as she was.
An irrational fury seized her. “He’s engaged,” she articulated, her deep, anger-filled voice penetrating the walls.
Both women gawked at her. Then Normand stepped in to resurrect the encounter. “Give me just a moment, ladies, please? Choose any scent or item you like and for your patience I will honor you both by subtracting half of the sale price.”
They didn’t exactly thank him for his generosity, but they didn’t flee, either. Claudette ignored them as they hesitated for a few seconds, then turned and walked back toward the display cases, whispering between them.
Normand looked down at her again, his expression flat with annoyance, eyes narrowed.
She ignored that, too. “How did you guess?” she asked again, her sensibilities starting to return.
He sighed. “First, because he called her Livi—”
“Edmund despises names of endearment,” she cut in, clutching her rumpled skirt with both hands.
“Yes. I know,” Normand maintained, his tone cool. “That drew my suspicions immediately. But there was also something a bit more…subtle between them.”
“What?” she pressed, brows furrowed.
He grinned slyly, enjoying the moment for all it was worth. “There was the way he stared at her.”
“Stared at her?”
Gleefully, he leaned toward her and divulged, “I’d say he’s enthralled by her. As Olivia is by him.”
She felt heat suffuse her face, sweat bead on her upper lip, her heart begin to race.
This cannot be happening.
For the first time in her life Claudette thought she might actually faint. The red salon seemed to whirl around her in a crimson eddy, nauseating her, making her feel dizzy in the stuffy heat, in her suddenly squeezing stays and heavy, drooping gown.
She closed her eyes, inhaling as deeply as she could, then again, attempting to focus, to gain control of her senses and thoughts, to come to terms with everything this unexpected revelation could mean for her, and even for Edmund. For both of them as a couple. Everything had changed, and she needed to concentrate, to make some wise decisions now that Sam was involved and Olivia no doubt knew much of their scheme, if not all of it. Everything had changed, and she couldn’t possibly consider her options here, with the little ant leering at her.
With great aplomb she raised her lashes to gaze at Normand once more. He still watched her, though more with careful curiosity than with his former impertinence. She smiled at him wryly, her confidence returning. Then she slowly stood to meet the level of his bold gaze with her own, smoothing her skirts, and then her hair off her forehead, still beaded with perspiration.
“Well,” she said blandly, “I suppose I’ll need to prepare for a trip to Grasse.”
He smirked, bouncing up again on his toes. “I’m sure Monsieur Carlisle will be pleased to see you.”
She raised a brow. “I’m sure that he will.”
“And I have patrons who need my attention,” he carried on. “Then I’ll see someone about selling the diamonds.”
He’d said that out of pure spite, reminding her again what it cost her to be given details putting her one step ahead of them all. Frankly, it was a small price to pay for the edge—Samson and dear, sweet, little Olivia weren’t aware of what she knew.
Claudette reached behind her and grabbed her parasol. Then in two steps she was upon him. “Enjoy the money you make from my bracelet, Normand. I’m sure you’ll spend it wisely.”
He nodded once. “I’m sure that I will, Madame Comtesse. I wish you a safe and fruitful journey.”
With great joy, she rammed her parasol onto the top of his shoe, pressing down hard on his toes. “You’re a bastard, Normand.”
And then she moved past him, ignoring his sharp intake of breath and reddening face as she strode with head held high through Nivan and out the front door.