Chapter Six
If only he hadn’t been assigned to the French Riviera.
The last time Arthur had visited, elderly English invalids swathed in unseasonal furs and sun-worshipping Corinthians had outnumbered French in the grand hotels. They seemed to think it a more exclusive version of Cornwall, purely for its propensity toward sunshine.
Venice, for instance, would be far more intriguing.
He would see canals and palazzos and…Madeline.
He shook his head, as if the action might dissolve the image of long blonde locks and a knowing smile.
It was ridiculous. He didn’t tend to spend long periods of time contemplating Venetian architecture, but ever since Madeline told him she was going there, he’d had visions of the sun setting over the Basilica di San Marco and of the pastel colored palazzos that lined the Canal Grande.
Madeline’s presence was certainly not something he welcomed. And Madeline certainly viewed him with skepticism.
She’d convinced her uncle to tell him he was ruining her prospects for a good match, because she could no longer abide Arthur’s company.
He sighed. The conversation with Sir Seymour had been distinctly unpleasant.
He’d halted his search after his conversation with the baronet. He’d accepted an offer from Admiral Fitzroy the next day to work for him on special projects for the Alien Agency.
The agency liked his ability to speak in an American accent, and they’d sent him off to the West Indies soon after, where he’d posed as an American merchant.
He’d experienced the delights of other women, naturally. Even the West Indies had scores of bored women, nervous about the spread of the Napoleonic Wars, and eager to embrace life, even if that meant being unfaithful to their husbands.
Arthur had never again sought to court anyone.
Bonaparte had offered an easy respite. The man’s habit of waging war had kept Arthur safely away from London’s ballrooms and house parties.
He’d sometimes wondered if Madeline had regretted her youthful action, but she’d been cold to him when he visited her townhouse, and yesterday she’d still been in full mourning for her late husband. Evidently she had not married Lord Mulbourne merely for his title and fortune.
He’d always supposed the man to have been an unlikely match. The baron had been older than Madeline, and Arthur had allowed himself to imagine that she’d chosen him simply for his wealth and his estate’s proximity toward her family in Yorkshire.
He sighed.
Evidently he’d been mistaken.
She seemed to have found even conversing with Arthur to be despicable.
Finely attired gentlemen with speckled hair spoke English as they inched along the promenade, clomping their canes onto the pavement in a manner that was not strictly fashionable.
Yes, Arthur was certainly on the French Riviera. Dying English people had made it popular at the end of the last century, and new dying people were once again making it popular. Perhaps the most elderly were constrained to sumptuous balcony rooms, but their younger family members and caretakers spent the evenings in festivity, awaiting their inheritances.
How had they forgotten about the war so quickly? Shouldn’t one have some misgivings about giving one’s coin to the country that had so gleefully slaughtered one’s fellow countrymen?
Clearly most Englishmen had other concerns with which to occupy themselves.
He visited the governmental office in Antibes. Lavender shutters decorated the windows in a show of coziness he suspected was utterly misleading.
A guard showed him to the office, and a man behind an elaborate gold painted desk with the thin, scarcely robust legs common in the French style of the last century, rose to greet him.
“My lord,” the man exclaimed, clearly pleased.
“Comte Beaulieu.” Arthur bowed and scrutinized the man with whom he’d be working.
Comte Beaulieu had a red face, the sort only obtained by a hearty consumption of wine and brandy, and common in the middle-aged men of his age who’d survived the war. He wore a uniform, as if the golden tassels that hung from his epaulets conferred him greater gravity.
Some dictionaries and law books lined the bookcase. All the dictionaries were of languages of countries Bonaparte had either invaded or planned to invade, though Arthur wondered if that was coincidental, given the lack of discretion Bonaparte had given as to which direction he should expand his border.
“It is wonderful to have you here,” said the comte. “Though you might find your time here is short. We were worried an attempt might be made on my wife’s bracelet after the thefts on the jewels in that collection. But truly, we certainly did not think England would send someone here. Much less a marquess.”
Arthur almost smiled. Ever since Louis XVI’s brother had returned to the throne, France had abandoned all pretense at liberalism. It seemed difficult to believe that Parisian salons had once found merit in the enlightenment.
“The English government wanted to assure you that we take seriously any indication that the thief might have been one of our citizens,” Arthur said.
He might think being sent hundreds of miles away to investigate a theft that had not yet occurred was one of the more ridiculous requests he’d had, but Comte Beaulieu did not require his unofficial opinion.
Arthur rather thought his title had no ability on his work, especially since he would never have become a marquess had another branch of the family not died.
He attempted to dismiss the notion that his presence was a formality, a sign of goodwill between once warring nations that also could have been achieved with a donation to a charity or a statue representing one of France’s overtly idealistic symbols. Compared to a statue, he was rather more easily transported and did not need to be chiseled from some weighty stone better kept on a cliff.
He settled into an armchair. “I was told your wife intends to wear the bracelet at a ball tomorrow evening.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you think that wise?”
Comte Beaulieu frowned. “We French are brave. We will not be scared by events that happen elsewhere.”
“Yet you contacted the British government…”
“I thought they should be aware of the matter. I am glad they took it with the seriousness it deserves.”
Arthur nodded.
“Besides,” the comte continued. “No French woman can be asked to not look her very best. My wife is very pretty. Très belle.”
“Yes, I met her once.”
The comte’s expression changed. “You are married yourself?”
“Er—no.”
“It is odd you chose this case to work on.”
“I was assigned to it.”
The comte frowned, as if he suspected Arthur of wanting to cuckold him, despite the fact he’d only once met his wife before.
“The comtesse is traveling to Paris after that. So you see you will likely not have to stay long. You may enjoy the Côte d’Azur.” The man beamed with the peculiar confidence of a person who believed his home to be the prettiest place in the world.
“Ah,” Arthur said. “I thought you meant my English intelligence would ensure I would catch any criminal soon.”
“Absurd.” The smug look on Comte Beaulieu’s face vanished, and Arthur did his best to not smile too widely. “If you leave, it will be because any thief will be intimidated by the superior skills my men possess at guarding.”
“You are confident the jewels will draw the thief’s interest?” Arthur asked.
“Naturellement,” Comte Beaulieu stammered. “The bracelet is wonderful. It’s French.”
Arthur frowned. “That’s not what I learned about it. In my research it was clear the art came from Venice, as did the others which are missing from the set. Is that not—?”
The comte waved his hand in a gesture Arthur supposed was supposed to connote irritation. “French. Italian. Does it matter?”
“It may to the thief.”
“Nonsense. The jewels are in France. They show our good taste. They’ve been here for fifteen years. Not an insignificant period of time.”
“Indeed,” Arthur agreed.
Fifteen years of waiting for the war to end to be reunited with one’s family heirlooms, only to find they would never be returned, was enough to make certain people angry.
He sighed. Or perhaps the jewels were nice enough to attract any thief’s notice, not merely one incensed that the set had been taken from its homeland.
That was more likely.
It was a pity Madeline had not had any insight to offer him.
Still, anyone could see that jewels would be worth a fortune. Unlike a painting or sculpture, jewels could be cut and reset, and were not dependent on a viewer’s sentimentality to determine its value.
“Do you have a list of guests?”
Comte Beaulieu handed him a list. “You may study it. Though I doubt the person will walk in through the front door. That would be ludicrous.”
Arthur nodded. “You must install guards on the roof. The thief in London entered that way. One of our men found a greatcoat there.”
“Then we know the thief is a man.”
“It would seem so,” Arthur agreed. “Though it is not impossible for a woman to wear a greatcoat.”
He smiled to himself. His sister Louisa had done worse.
“We’re looking for a burglar. A man with some muscles. Desperate likely.” Comte Beaulieu glared at him. “Perhaps Italian as you say, but I say likely English. One of those veterans who roam the British countryside. Someone bitter at no longer being allowed to slaughter Frenchmen.”
Arthur stiffened but refused to enter an argument with the comte. This was about preserving the peace. “Remember, the thief might choose an alternative mode of entry.”
“Thieves aren’t clever.” The comte waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. “They’re the vilest of human beings. I’m going to personally ensure the thief will be behind bars for a very long time.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. Murderers tended to hold the rank of vilest human beings in his mind. “I take it the French will not approve the Costantini’s request for the return of the jewels stolen by members of the French army.”
“Naturally not.” The Frenchman narrowed his eyes in Arthur’s direction, as if Arthur’s mere presence might rival that of the robber in despicability.
Arthur was glad when he took his leave of Comte Beaulieu.