CHAPTER 21
Snap Finds a Home
After Quenton's release and fulfillment of his delayed appointment with the King, he put his horse on the first southbound ferry leaving Paris, despite his attorneys' pleas to remain. His initial dislike for the city had deepened to outright aversion, and he cherished his liberty better than he did his fleeting popularity. In his opinion, the public approval garnered by the King's favor was only artificial; the newspapers would make of his restoration what they could. They had stirred old scandal about Henri's downfall, but now they were making Quenton's reinstatement the latest sensation.
Quenton passed by people gathering to meet him, blinded to their accolades by his singular intent to return to England for Alix, but Benoit and L'Argan immediately argued against his plan, fearful that he would never get beyond Calais without recrimination. "How would it look," L'Argan had bargained convincingly, "if you take your renewed status to London before the ink is dry on the King's decree? Are you French or English?"
"You'll be followed," Benoit agreed. "If the secret police don't like what they find, you might not be allowed to return." When Quenton had argued, L'Argan had trumped him.
"How easily you forget about prison. Whatever enemies you've invoked might have abated for the moment, but until our investigation of its source is complete, how can anyone be certain?"
"You should wait," Benoit added. "If you return to Limoges to redouble your worth, the King will look upon his concession favorably. Don't forget that paying taxes fills his coffers, and in the meantime, opportunity is everything."
QUENTON HAD CHANGED HIS FERRY for a barge on the outskirts of the city and made better time traveling south. He parted ways with the river at Orleans but was too eager to reach home to remain. After dinner and a few hours in a hotel, he was on the road to Limousin before the sun had time to crest the horizon. It was a wearying ride, but Chiron's enthusiasm made up for Quenton's fatigue with sufficient verve to clatter into the yard.
"Monseigneur, bienvenue chez vous!" Marcel burst through the door with a laugh.
Quenton ignored his obeisance and clasped forearms to embrace the majordomo. "Marcel, my God, it's a relief to be home!" He laughed then, with the dizzying realization that his restoration was complete.
With a grin, Marcel clapped his hands and rubbed them together, returning to business. "Helis, lights in the north salon! Tatienne, get to the kitchen! Milord, Chef Simon hopes that a filet and Dauphine baked potatoes might be acceptable for a light dinner."
"If he suggested slop, it'd be far better than what I've been eating."
His rejoinder lifted the majordomo's eyebrows in surprise. "Should I relay your response?"
"No1" Quenton laughed. "Filet will be a most welcome change."
"Of course, Lord Marquis," Marcel replied, as he headed to the bell rope. "But first I have arranged a bath."
NICHOLAS CLIMBED THE STAIRS to his room, relieved to be home. For the first night in recent memory, his only plan for the evening was to spend it quietly. It was too much to hope that the impostor would deign to share it without holding fast to her jaded act as Lily. He could only wonder what it would be like if she would just be herself. He looked at her closed door across the hall as he entered his own. How easy it would be to knock on it, even if only to say hello.
Albert looked up as Nicholas entered the dressing room, and gave a final tug to the paisley bow tie he had fixed around the terrier's neck. "Good eve, milord; I've been expecting you." Nicholas unhooked his timepiece and unbuttoned his waistcoat. "Since when do dogs sit on tables?"
"I bathed him when we first arrived home," Frisk replied, reaching for the towel to swab the lowboy after the dog jumped down. As if understanding their conversation, the terrier approached Nicholas and sat at his feet, cocking his head quizzically.
"He's a hardy lad," Nicholas admitted, pulling the stickpins from his tie, "but doesn't he belong somewhere besides my dressing room?"
Albert clattered the steamer heating towels for the evening shave. "I daresay he's only here because I gave him a few biscuits."
"At least he needn't worry about starving, but he may yet prove to be a nuisance," Nicholas said as he unbuttoned his shirt.
Albert hastily beckoned to the dog and put him out. "Did you learn anything new from Sir Poole this afternoon?"
"Hardly," Nicholas answered, peeling out of his shirt while Frisk came to help. "It's always the same mumbo jumbo about who said what, but at least Terrence had a credible lead from Burton's butler."
"You mean Daniel Clive?"
"The very same; do you know him?"
"We chat now and then, but it's not as if we meet for tea. My experience with Mr. Clive is limited to his rounds when he's out walking Lady Burton's spaniel, or mayhap the odd run-in downtown."
"More's the pity; apparently, Clive bumped into Quincy at the bank about the same time that he disappeared."
"At the bank? Why would a coachman have business at the bank?"
"Precisely," Nicholas responded, loath to share his uncertain impression of Quincy's being more than an ordinary servant until he had collaboration from a reputable source.
"Mr. Clive may've been mistaken."
"Except that Quincy's in this up to his bloody neck." Nicholas stepped out of his trousers and headed for his waiting bath. "So far, the interview's inconclusive. He couldn't be certain the man was Quincy Hill. Clive had finished Reggie's business, and a man resembling Quincy held the door. He didn't seem to notice Clive, and upon further questioning, the butler admitted his acquaintance was limited to seeing Quincy in the neighborhood. He remarked more on the quality of his suit and ebony cane than on anything else."
Rain smeared the bathroom window. Nicholas stepped into the tub of heated water with relief. After holding his breath and sinking to the bottom for a count of 120, he surfaced for a breath of air, suddenly remembering that Quincy's cane had matched the description. "I don't suppose you might learn when milady's next outing will be."
"Funny you should mention it, milord. Jenny was quite pleased this evening when the errand boy brought a message confirming a fitting tomorrow at one thirty."
"Good. It's high time to get to the bottom of this. There is bound to be some concrete evidence somewhere, and the best place to begin is with the impostor's drawings that she keeps in the desk."
ALIX RECOGNIZED THE TERRIER'S WARMTH when he licked her nose, breaking the darkness of her dream. She fled the suffocating nightmare of the laundry chute and opened her eyes to the shadowed room. "Qu'est-ce que tu fais?" Then she amended the question, realizing the dog did not understand French: "What are you doing?" He wiggled his stubby tail in response. "Did I wake you? Merci for returning the favor." Unrolling from her cramped, creeping-through-the-laundr y-chute position, she stretched in the satin sheets. The mantel clock in the sitting room chimed a lonely hour of two. "When we're at home, we'll be getting up soon." She stifled a reluctant yawn and rolled over to push her pillow into shape, hoping for sleep.
Alix counted the seconds in her mind to match the minute hand. "This is impossible." Throwing aside the bedcovers in defeat, she shivered and fumbled for her dressing go