CHAPTER 16
Winston Confession
The gentle trilling of evening replaced the shimmering of cicadas. Quenton blew a puff of smoke at mosquitoes hovering in the balmy twilight and sipped his bourbon. Crimson clouds stretched in the azure distance as the evening awoke without promise of stars and the feeble moon hid from a change of weather.
If his ride home had been lackluster, it was not due to his Friesian saddle horse, for Chiron had pranced along the road with typical savoir faire. Quenton had returned across the bridge wearing the same suit of clothes that he had donned in the morning, when his life still bore some normalcy. The garments were not as crisp as they had been, but neither was Quenton's thinking. His usual preoccupation with his life's resurrection had dissolved in his recognition that the process had renewed something sinister.
The letter did not appear threatening; in fact, it was so innocuous looking that he had not even realized what it was until he had opened it to read it, without an inkling of its meaning. That was when he had realized the letter was meant not for him but for his brother. Stunned, he had examined the envelope, but there was no mistake. The address read: L'Honorable Marquis Henri Saint-Descoteau», au» bons soins de Fontenot Porcelaine, Limoges Haute-Vienne, Limousin. There was no confusion except on the part of the sender, although why someone would think to find Henri alive at Fontenot Porcelaine was as great a mystery as the letter, which was not even signed. One might expect it to carry cryptic or crucial information, but it was no more than a mundane message from someone who thought signing his name was superfluous.
Quenton had mulled over its contents during lunch at Georges, and when Moises Benoit had come into the restaurant, Quenton had put the opportunity to use by inviting his attorney to join him. Although Benoit's legal practice was far from Paris, it did not mean that the fellow was a third-rate poseur. So far, Quenton trusted the man's keen grasp of his precarious situation. Weeks had passed without a visit from the authorities who Quenton had anticipated would throw him out of his house.
"You shouldn't do anything," Moises had counseled over peach tart and coffee. "There's no reason to react. You go about your business, just like everyone else."
"You're suggesting I ignore this, but how? Who'd think my brother is still alive?"
"So what if anyone does," Moises shrugged. "It's just an old colleague who's mistakenly assumed the rumors of your brother's death are as exaggerated as yours were." He waved the subject away. "What matters more is that you're not dead, and as a French citizen, you're protected by a constitution that guarantees you not only civil liberties but the same inalienable rights as everybody else."
"The reason for my concern-"
"Of course, it's for your niece, is it not? This is one of the reasons you didn't bring her along with you; am I wrong? Now, take my advice and let it go. Whatever you do, you don't want this to end up in the newspapers. There's no sense in resurrecting those old charges, especially when your niece arrives. You see why it's better just to burn this letter. Get rid of it now, before someone wonders why you're keeping it."
"You're right, of course," Quenton had agreed then, but later, alone in his office at Fontenot, he had been unable to dispose of it. He had finally replaced it in his pocket, determined to discard it later.
Now, as he had come outside to enjoy his cigar, he could not quite touch a flame to the paper. Ordinarily, he did not consider himself a superstitious man, nor did he harbor a desire to cling to the past. Yet he was undeniably gratified to see his brother's name written on a letter, as if the horrible deeds of that day had vanished, leaving Henri alive and the future whole. Soon Alix would be where she belonged, and considering respectable suitors for her hand. The approving of a husband should have been Henri's job, but it was somehow as if the letter were a missive passing that torch. After she was settled, Quenton could focus on a family of his own. The idea of children's voices echoing through the silences of Chenes Noir filled him with anticipation.
His laughter surprised him and hushed the evening serenade, leaving the musical fountain to fill the silence. What would he do about Henri's letter? Its unwarranted appearance was a trick without meaning. Whatever its sender imagined by its conception, Quenton would not rush back to England to live in fear. He knew he should destroy it but kept it instead, as a talisman for the future.
WHEN FRISK'S QUESTIONING of Jenny Smith predictably fell flat, Nicholas summoned Percival, determined to learn the truth about the woman impersonating Lily. He strode through the library doors to find the butler shelving books at the far end of the room. "I say, Winston, am I late?"
Percival placed the volume in his hand and turned with a bow. "Good afternoon, milord. I was a bit early, so I decided to put away a few books," he explained as he came to join Nicholas.
"I take no more offense at keeping things organized than the next man," Nicholas replied. He positioned the wing chair opposite his desk and then walked around to his own. "Please sit down."
"Thank you." The butler waited until Nicholas was settled before taking a seat. "Am I to presume this is about the dog milady brought home today?"
Nicholas immediately found Winston's ignorance promising. If he were to sack Percival, it would involve getting rid of the man's entire family, and their tenure with the household exceeded two generations. "You didn't know about the dog?"
"I beg your pardon for asking, milord, but how could I, if she only just brought it home?"
"Apparently, it's been following her for days."
Winston hesitated thoughtfully. "Ah, I thought I heard a dog when I knocked on her door . . . I beg your pardon, milord."
Nicholas clasped his hands together on the desktop blotter. "I would've thought she'd confide in you." Winston's surprise was evident. "Me?"
Nicholas pushed away from his desk and rose to pace. "Yes, why not?"
"Forgive me, milord-but why would she?"
"Perhaps the pithier question is, why would she not?" Percival blinked at him blankly and then looked around the room with a stupefied frown that was hard to mistake.
Either he was a good enough actor to be onstage, or Nicholas might be assured that his butler was not part of Lily's conspiracy. Still, he had to be certain. He went to stare into the fireplace, to allow the butler a moment of reflection. If Winston were going to confess to his part, now would be the time to do so.
"Milord, I'm afraid I don't quite know what to say."
"Say anything you'd like, but it'd be better if you started with the details surrounding how she came here."
"You mean, when did she arrive?"
Nicholas turned from the fire to see that the butler's incredulity was fixed in place. "Yes, you do know whom I'm referencing, don't you?" He noticed that the library doors were still open, and went to close them for privacy's sake. "The impostor," he clarified, when