The Dress Thief (51 page)

‘Never a great idea to lie about a regiment,’ Verrian said. ‘Too many records.’

The comte acknowledged it. ‘Alix, I met your mother the day I killed your grandfather. She came running upstairs to his studio, no idea what
she was about to see. I was too slow to stop her entering the room, but I stopped her throwing herself down beside his corpse, treading in his blood. It was I who told her he was dead. Danielle was conveniently accused of the murder, which drew the attention from me. Through manipulations and bribes, my mother got her released. By the same methods, I was washed clean of my deed. But I knew little
Mathilda would never get over the horror inflicted on her. So I provided for her, and later I provided for you.’

Alix whispered, ‘You watched my mother grow up?’

‘I did. And if you wish it, I’ll tell you all about her. All about
us.’

‘But you never knew my father at all?’

‘Never met him.’

Alix struggled to her feet. ‘You’re worse than a liar. You’re a cheat. You could have told me everything
I most wanted to know – no, I don’t want your stories now. How would I know if you were telling the truth?’

‘I lied to protect you. As today proves, knowledge can be dangerous.’

‘So can ignorance.’ Verrian said it quietly and nobody responded.

Alix walked over to Verrian, who pulled himself straight as if he thought she was going to hit him. She felt a tremor pass through him as she put her
arms around him and laid her head on his chest. ‘You saw through him. You made me come here and listen. I don’t know if I hate you or love you.’

Verrian seemed in no hurry to ask which, or to break the embrace. After a while he said, ‘Monsieur le Comte, tell me if I’m wrong, but everyone who might bear witness to Alfred Lutzman’s death is either dead or in this room. True?’

‘True,’ Jean-Yves
confirmed.

‘Then if everyone agrees the matter is closed, everybody can walk away from here free.’

‘Why should he?’ Alix tore herself from Verrian and pointed at Bonnet. ‘He’s tried to push the blame on to others, but I know he attacked me – twice – and left Mémé for dead. I know
he broke into the flat … he had a key.’ She bared her teeth at Bonnet. ‘You stole my key at Mother Richelieu’s café!
I thought it was a pickpocket but it was you, grubbing around in my bag!’

Bonnet got up fast but Verrian moved faster and his blade crossed the painter’s neck. He said softly, ‘You’re a parasite, Bonnet, and you could spend the rest of your life in prison being kicked by bigger parasites. D’you want that, Madame?’ he asked Danielle, but she was fiddling with her gloves so he put the question
to Alix.

Alix pictured the endless sequence of police interviews and court hearings if they made this official. ‘No. I want him to leave Rue Jacob, go away for ever. I never want to see him again. But I need to know why he hurt Mémé. Why he … ? Just tell me, Bonnet.’

Bonnet looked down and said in a low, thick voice, ‘I never meant to hurt anyone. I came to St-Sulpice that night, you’re right,
and let myself in with your key. I supposed you’d both be in bed, asleep. I didn’t expect Danielle to come home so late and make herself hot milk, or you to be out on the town with your man.’ He sent Alix a look that was almost resentful.

She stared stonily back.

‘I needed money.’ He made a helpless gesture. ‘That is all. I needed money.’

‘But you nearly throttled me! You split Mémé’s scalp
open.’

‘It was a mistake. Things sometimes get out of hand.’

‘Did you break in to steal?’ Alix asked. ‘Was it really only
about money?’

‘You’d told me your rent was going up, and I guessed you’d be stowing francs away. Like me, you never had a bank account. I searched your living room, your bedrooms, all the places people put money. I turned Danielle’s workbox upside down. Even pulled the pictures
off the wall. All I found were a few lousy centimes. You were poorer than I was!’

‘You searched while my grandmother lay bleeding.’

‘I was desperate!’ Bonnet made a plea with his hands. ‘All the money I ever got went to pay those robbers who own the gambling clubs on the Butte. You’ve no idea how it feels to be a slave to the roulette wheel, to owe people everywhere –’

‘Spare us.’ Verrian pulled
Bonnet up off his seat and turned him towards the door. Alix thought he was about to hurl the man down the stairs. But he checked himself and turned Bonnet back to face the comte. ‘Make your peace with this gentleman. Never again to blackmail or speak ill of him. Say it.’

Bonnet muttered a response. Verrian opened the door and shoved him out. ‘Two hours to clear out of Rue Jacob. Hope we never
come after you.’

Verrian left the door open and cool air rushed into the room.

The comte waited until the click of the street door told them that Bonnet was gone. ‘And so the soul of a blackmailer is laid bare.’ To Danielle he said gently, ‘One last time, Madame: did you tell that man the facts of your husband’s death?’

Danielle gave Verrian a twinkle. ‘He asked me that before.’

‘Perhaps you
need to answer him.’

Danielle obediently wriggled in her chair so she was facing de Charembourg. ‘Yes, I told Bonnet.’

The comte closed his eyes. ‘Why did you not say so?’

Danielle considered a moment. ‘Because when I told him, we were on the boat crossing the English sea.
Ach
, the waves, the rolling side to side. I was so sick he gave me schnapps to cure my stomach. That is when I told him.
I had drunk too much and we were in bed and, what was it, your business?’

‘When we sat by the river, the night I found you again, I told you what I did in Spain. Now I want to know what you got up to in Paris.’

They were in the Apricot Suite, the larger of Lord Calford’s two suites at the Polonaise, in a drawing room decorated like a country-house conservatory. Bowls of peach-pink roses bled their fragrance. They
sat either side of a table, Verrian watchful, Alix trying to digest the last few hours. The meeting on Rue du Sentier had not ended politely.

Rhona de Charembourg had sought her husband’s arm, though there was nothing wifely in her grip. ‘This has been enlightening, my dear husband,’ she said with false amusement, ‘but one question remains. We’re all gasping to know –’ she gestured to Alix –
‘is this your daughter?’

Alix tried to shout, ‘No!’ but all that came out was a distorted squeak.

‘Do you wish me to say, Alix?’ the comte asked her.

She shook her head. She wouldn’t let him replace John
Gower. Nobody was going to reduce John Gower to a footnote in her life.

‘In that case,’ the comte continued in a flat voice, ‘I shall say nothing.’

Rhona made a noise of disgust. ‘Whatever
she is, your attentions have done her no favours. Education without breeding – she’s Serge Martel’s prostitute.’

The comte had bundled his wife away. Verrian had flagged down taxis to take Mémé and Celestia back to Rue Jacob, and Beryl Theakston home. He secured a separate taxi for himself and Alix. They’d said nothing much since. Rhona de Charembourg’s words sat in the room with them.

Alix
muttered, ‘I need a bath.’

Verrian got up. ‘I’ll show you where.’

She’d never before seen a bathtub with gold-plated taps. When Verrian turned on the hot water, it gushed a steaming jet.

‘You have first go,’ he said. ‘Unless you’d like to share. I’m still waiting to hear if you love or hate me.’

She escaped into the bedroom adjoining the bathroom. In front of the dressing table mirror, she
unpinned her hat and used the hotel’s hairbrush set. Verrian watched her. She knew he wanted her, knew how much he wanted her, but Rhona’s comment must surely have torpedoed his respect for her. ‘Prostitute’ was not a word to brush under the carpet. Not to a man. She’d learned a lot about male nature in the last year.

Male desire had the hunter’s gaze. It fixed on the object. A
woman could tell
how much she was wanted by checking if the flame guttered or burned steady. Alix took off her jacket then sat down at the dressing table. Pushing her skirt to mid-thigh, she unhooked a stocking.

She knew Verrian was transfixed. Why was she doing this … a game, to punish him for manipulating her? Or to prove Rhona’s horrible words were true? Or escape a conversation she dreaded … her year with
Serge?

She rolled off her stocking, unhooked the second and rolled it down, taking her time. She heard Verrian’s breathing change and glanced through her lashes. He hadn’t moved from the doorway. He took her look as an invitation and came to her chair, taking the stocking out of her hand. He put it to his face. ‘Jasmine.’

‘I always massage in jasmine oil after a bath.’

A groan escaped him.
‘Every day in Spain, I thought of you. Your voice. And your legs.’ He knelt to run his lips along her calf, over her knee to the tender flesh each side. ‘Thoughts of loving you were my escape. You, waiting in Paris, took the place of water, sleep, food and reason.’

‘How could you remember my legs? You never saw them.’

‘Well …’ Amusement glimmered, though it didn’t dilute desire. How could it
when his lips were moving by degrees to the inside of her thigh? ‘Occasionally you came out in something slinky and legs were implied.’

All she wanted to do was wind her arms around his neck, but that word ‘prostitute’ wouldn’t shift. He mustn’t think her a
pushover, or they’d never get rid of it. She stood and presented her back. ‘Unbutton my waistband.’ He made a poor job of it and she teased,
‘You haven’t had much practice.’

‘The buttons are too large for the loops.’

‘No, they’re not. They’re designed not to gape.’

‘Then they’re working.’

When he’d undone them, she slithered out of the skirt, out of her slip, shivering as Verrian’s lips made butterfly touches to her spine and shoulder blades. For twenty heartbeats she stood in satin and lace, leaning into him as he caressed the
back of her neck.

‘Thank God I found you again. Thank you for waiting.’

It took every particle of resolution to pull away and say, ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Verrian. Perhaps you would like to make love to your rifle, or your Spanish friends. I’m going to have my bath.’

Ignoring the harrowed protest that fell from his lips, she stalked to the bathroom and locked the door. Testing the temperature
of the water, she gave herself marks out of ten. If her aim was to strip all the love from her life, then ten.

They were coming to the end of a long lunch at a restaurant on Place Pigalle. Alix was nervous. They’d invited Rosa to join them, and let her choose the venue, and by ill luck she’d picked Serge Martel’s favourite eating place.

Blissfully unaware of Alix’s discomfort, Rosa raised her brandy glass and told Alix how much better she was looking.
‘Last time I saw you, you were bleary-eyed from too much you-know-who.’ Not noticing that Verrian’s expression iced over, she winked. ‘Up all hours, then comes home smelling like a Turkish harem.’

‘Leave Alix her dignity.’ Verrian lit cigarettes for them and ordered coffee. The glitter in his eye told Alix this was her last chance. He showed it by saying, ‘Alix, I heard you tell Celestia that
you might not keep your business going much longer. I may need to go home to London and don’t want to leave her and Pepe in the lurch.’

Alix inhaled cigarette smoke. ‘I’m trying to stay open until Christmas. Then who knows?’

‘Aw, no, ducks.’ Rosa raised her cigarette holder in protest. ‘You can scrape through, surely?’

‘Not on the clientele I have. If I’m to survive, I need to plan a spring–summer
show that erases all memory of last summer’s disaster, but I have no money to fund it. You can’t be in this business with no cash.’

‘I’m on, if you want me.’

Alix blew out smoke. ‘I can’t design any more, Rosa. I look at blank paper and it laughs back at me.’

‘Know what you need? Bit of fun.’

No doubt Rosa meant ‘a sex life’. Alix agreed – if only she could get over her terrors. She hadn’t
realised until Verrian’s lips were touching her thigh how deeply Serge Martel had scarred her. She wanted Verrian, and there was Serge, etched in her brain. The more she pushed Verrian away, the more Serge invaded and the more rigid she became. The power games were over. She was just frightened.