Chapter 49
Hero was in her dressing room, vigorously brushing her carriage dress in an attempt to rid it of yesterday’s dust—and ruefully mourning the loss of her abigail—when she heard the knocker bang at the distant front door. Turning her head, she caught the vaguely familiar timbre of a Frenchman’s voice drifting up from the entry hall below. A moment later came the sound of a housemaid running up the stairs.
“A Monsieur Antoine de Longchamps-Montendre to see you, my lady,” said the girl, dropping a curtsy. “Jacques told him that monsieur le vicomte is out and that he didn’t think you were receiving, but . . .” She sucked in a quick breath, obviously winded by her rapid climb.
Hero set aside the brush. “I’ll be right down.”
She found Angélique’s aristocratic husband standing beside the fire laid on the parlor’s old-fashioned hearth. He was dressed in an elegantly cut long-tailed double-breasted coat with a wide-collared red waistcoat and loose-fitting buff-colored Cossack trousers inspired by the uniforms of the Russians who’d so recently occupied Paris. He’d been staring down at the fire with one hand resting on the mantel, but at her entrance he dropped his hand and turned with a smile.
“Lady Devlin,” he said, sweeping her a courtly bow, “my apologies for intruding upon your Sunday.”
“That’s quite all right.” Hero stretched out a hand to indicate the tapestry-covered settee. “Please, won’t you have a seat?”
“Merci.” He adjusted the tails of his coat as he sat, a quickly disguised expression of contempt flitting across his handsome, fine-boned features as he took in the worn upholstery.
“May I offer you some refreshment? Your wife tells me you acquired a taste for tea while you were living in England. Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”
“Thank you, but I am fine.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “To be frank, I wasn’t certain I’d find you still in Paris. So many of the English are leaving.”
“True,” she said, faintly smiling as she settled in the chair beside the fire. “But we see no reason to do so.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do I take it Lord Devlin remains intent on uncovering the identity of Dama Cappello’s killer?”
“He is, yes. Why do you ask?”
“I gather he thinks her death may have something to do with the Charlemagne Talisman.” Something of Hero’s surprise at his words must have shown on her face, because he added, “Lord Devlin’s inquiries into the amulet have been rather extensive.”
“We don’t actually know yet,” said Hero, folding her hands together in her lap. “But I wonder, do you have any idea why Sophia Cappello stopped at Malmaison on her way back from the south of France?”
“Did she do so? How . . . odd.” His features showed mild surprise, which may or may not have been genuine. He was very, very good at playing these kinds of games. But then, so was Hero.
“Odd, indeed.” She leaned forward slightly as if inviting a confidence. “Tell me, monsieur, do you believe in the power of the amulet?”
He appeared to find the question faintly ridiculous. “It contains fragments of the True Cross. Of course it is powerful.”
“Yes, of course.” Privately, Hero suspected there were enough fragments of the True Cross scattered across Christendom to build a small chapel, but she kept that thought to herself.
“And his lordship has yet to find any trace of it?” said the Frenchman.
“No. None.” Hero settled back in her chair. “And how is your wife, monsieur? I know she has been sadly grieved by Sophia Cappello’s death.”
“She mourns her, of course; the woman was like a second mother to her. But Angélique is resilient.”
“I am relieved to hear it.” Was it the young woman’s grief, Hero wondered, that kept Angélique from accompanying her husband on this rather transparent fishing expedition, or something else entirely?
The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I understand that Eugène-François Vidocq is assisting Lord Devlin in his search for the killer.”
“He is, yes.”
De Longchamps-Montendre gave a faint shake of his head. “Quite a change of fortune for a onetime cheval de retour.”
“A what?”
“That’s what they call a man who has been recaptured after escaping from the galleys—a cheval de retour. They’re double ironed, you know. They say Vidocq still has the scars from the fetters on his wrists and ankles—and around his neck from the iron collar.”
“The gallerians wear iron collars?”
“They do, yes. I see you think such punishments harsh, but I fear it’s all terribly necessary. These men are invariably brutes, and Vidocq is no exception. He was a chaffeur, you know.” The Frenchman cocked his head in inquiry. “You’ve heard of the chaffeurs?”
“I have not, no.”
De Longchamps-Montendre breathed a troubled sigh. “Fortunately, they’re now little more than an ugly memory—just one of many from the days of the Revolution. But when it comes to Vidocq, Lord Devlin would do well to remember always with whom he is dealing.”
“You think Vidocq might do Devlin harm?”
“Let us say simply that he is not a man to be trusted.”
The Frenchman stayed talking a few minutes more, then rose to take his leave. “Again, my apologies for interrupting your Sunday, my lady,” he said with another of his magnificent courtly bows. “And please believe me when I say that if you or Lord Devlin requires any assistance in your quest to uncover Dama Cappello’s killer, you must not hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” said Hero, rising with him. “I’ll be certain to pass your message along.”
“So why did he come?” asked Devlin when he returned to the Place Dauphine a few minutes later.
Hero walked over to the silver tray that rested on a table near the door and poured two glasses of wine. “Ostensibly? To inquire into your investigation and offer any assistance we may require. In reality? I suspect because he knew of our visit to Malmaison and was hoping to learn something of the talisman’s whereabouts.” She frowned, then said, “Or perhaps that’s simply what he wanted me to think. He’s very clever, that man. His real intent might have been to sow seeds of distrust about Vidocq. Have you ever heard of the chaffeurs?”
Devlin reached to take the glass she held out to him. “I have, yes. Why?”
“Who were they?”
“A band of particularly nasty brigands who operated in northern France during the darkest days of the Revolution. They acquired the name from their habit of attacking isolated farmhouses and slowly roasting the unfortunate inhabitants over an open fire until they gave up their hidden valuables.”
“Good Lord,” whispered Hero.
“Why do you ask?” he said again.
She took a long, slow swallow of her wine. “De Longchamps-Montendre claims Eugène-François Vidocq was one.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You wouldn’t? And now he’s head of a division of the French secret police?”
“ ‘Every valley shall be raised up, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight,’ ” Devlin quoted, his lips twisting into a wry smile.
“I don’t think that’s what that particular verse is referring to.”
“Isn’t it?”
Hero recklessly drained her wine and went to pour a second glass. “And did you learn anything from the erstwhile Queen of Holland?”
“Only that she also knew of our visit to Malmaison.”
“Which means she knew of Sophie’s visit there, as well.”
“It is rather suggestive.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “Oh, and I also discovered how Napoléon managed to hire the ships he used to sail away from Elba.”
She looked over at him. “How?”
“The Duke of Wellington paid for them.”