Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

“Even then?” Murcheson teased. “Are you growing fond of the French, Baroness?”

“I’ve grown exceedingly fond of their food and wine, sir.”

“Ah, understandable.”

“I confess I’m disappointed. I thought perhaps I’d come up with a new direction of enquiry, but apparently—”

Dexter tapped Charlotte’s arm, getting her attention and handing her the opera glasses he’d been using for the duration of her conversation. He pointed not to the stage, however, but to the first box just above it on the opposite side of the theater.

“Look who’s here.”

She looked through the device, puzzled, and fiddled with the focus knobs until the image popped up, sharp and clear, and she saw the man’s face: it was Roland Dubois.

THE CRUSH AT the interval wasn’t any bother to Dexter, but he could tell it was no joy for Charlotte. She nearly disappeared in the crowd several times before he latched onto her hand firmly and instructed her to walk behind him.

Thus aligned, they beat a path to the other side of the lobby where special opera programs and books of historical interest about the Palais Garnier were sold.

Charlotte excused herself and dashed for the doors that led to the necessary—after making a quip about it being lucky she already knew where they were—while Dexter and Murcheson kept a wary eye on the crowd.

“Monsieur Murcheson,” an oily voice intruded.

Just as Murcheson had suggested he might, Dubois had found them. Murcheson believed he would push for a meeting with Dexter, ostensibly in hopes of luring his business interest away from Murcheson. The real reason, Murcheson predicted, could be far more sinister. As Coeur de Fer had been working for Dubois and had clearly identified Charlotte as a person of interest, Dubois must know Dexter and Charlotte were in possession of the recovered plans. He might even suspect that Dexter’s role was in some way related to the doomsday substance. Dexter and Charlotte would both be at risk as long as Dubois thought they knew something about the explosive, and the increased scrutiny from Dubois might impede Dexter’s ability to accomplish all he still needed to in Le Havre.

“Dubois,” Murcheson deigned to answer, his tone suddenly dripping with aristocratic hauteur. Dexter was quite impressed with the transformation. “Allow me to introduce Baron Hardison. Lord Hardison, Roland Dubois. M’sieur Dubois makes steam cars and so forth.”

Dexter accepted the handshake Dubois offered, suppressing a grimace at the soft clamminess of that hand.

“The Makesmith Baron,” Dubois drawled. He said it like it was an insult, a title of shame, but Dexter only nodded. “Here to strike a deal with my adversary?”

“I’m on my honeymoon, actually,” Dexter corrected him, unable to resist adopting a hint of Murcheson’s disdain.

“So I’ve heard. Congratulations. When will you be returning to the American Dominions, then?”

Another insult, with the clear implication that Dubois hoped it was soon. Dexter ignored the hand Murcheson placed on his arm in warning. He was a businessman, after all. He had dealt with men like Dubois too many times before, and he wouldn’t let himself be drawn.

“We’re fortunate enough to be at our leisure here, with no particular deadline for our return. The climate is quite pleasant, and I gather Lady Hardison has a great deal of shopping still to do. Apparently there are substantial qualitative differences between the shopping opportunities in Paris and those in New York.”

Dubois’s smarmy smile made Dexter glad for Murcheson’s restraining hand. Something about the man made him want to cuff him sharply on the side of the head.

“We must meet then, during your long stay. Discuss business? I believe we may have some mutual acquaintances. Other than Monsieur Murcheson, of course.”

“Ah. Well, no promises, old chap. My schedule is already rather full and after all, it is my honeymoon.” Dexter tried as hard as he could to inject the suggestion that even to ask had been wildly inappropriate of Dubois; he suspected he didn’t do it nearly as well as Murcheson could have, however. Perhaps he had just spent too long working to shed that aristocratic demeanor. Or perhaps he just wasn’t cut out for spying.

Charlotte, however, obviously was. Her headache-inducing persona was firmly back in place as she reattached herself to his arm like a limpet. Murcheson had advised her to appear as harmless and as brainless as she possibly could to divert any suspicion Dubois might have about her real purpose for visiting France, on the off chance Coeur de Fer hadn’t already spoiled that angle for her.

“Dexter,” she pouted, “you’re not talking business at the opera , are you? Oh, hello there.”

“My wife, Lady Hardison. Monsieur Dubois,” said Dexter.

“ Enchanté , madame.”

Instead of taking Charlotte’s hand in the polite lady’s version of a handshake she was obviously offering, Dubois pulled her gloved fingers to his lips and kissed them as though he relished the act.

Charlotte’s other hand dug into Dexter’s arm like a claw, but her facial expression never flickered.

“Ooo, how continental !” she simpered at Dubois. “So charming !”

“Your husband says you are enjoying Paris. Perhaps he and I can meet one day while you are occupied in enriching the city’s coffers, non ?”

“Oh!” Charlotte cried with a giggle at the end, “ No , actually! Isn’t that funny, you said non meaning doesn’t that sound nice , but my response actually was no ! It’s our honeymoon, you see. I’m afraid he couldn’t possibly . I simply can’t spare him!”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be a long meeting, cupcake,” Dexter said thoughtfully, just to watch her at work a little longer.

Somehow, Charlotte managed to keep smiling and simpering as she began flaying him with tiny verbal knives. “You’ve taken such a great many meetings with Mr. Murcheson already, darling . One might almost think you weren’t on your honeymoon at all. Isn’t that so silly ? If you spend too much time on all your business I’m liable to forget it’s our honeymoon too , and then where will we be?”

Certainly not in the same bed , she somehow managed to imply. Her eyelashes seemed to have grown half an inch or so, expressly for the purpose of batting. Had he been a henpecked husband in truth, Dexter thought he might be in serious trouble. “Of course, darling, but as we’re in Europa anyway and the opportunity to meet with—”

“Ah!” Charlotte said, a dainty little cry of distress. Her fingers pressed to her temple in a tasteful display of genteel agony.

“Lady Hardison, are you quite well?” Murcheson asked, leaning in like a considerate grandfather.

“Oh dear. I’m terribly sorry. I’m suddenly feeling quite overcome!”

“Darling, perhaps we should return to the hotel.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we ought to do,” Charlotte agreed. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, as though she might faint at any minute.

Dexter caught a lapse on Murcheson’s part; the man couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the swooning bride. For his part he was struck by the utter absurdity, all of them standing there pretending they didn’t know what the others were about. It was not just theatre, it was farce. Suddenly he was sick to death of the whole ridiculous thing.

“You must take my car,” Murcheson offered. “Plenty of time in the second act for my driver to see you home and return for me.”

“Oh, how very kind,” Charlotte said, drooping picturesquely against Dexter’s arm.